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cecilysass · 2 years

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The Boy on the Beach (6/16)

Read on AO3 | Tagging@today-in-fic

Chapter 6: This Boy’s Too Young To Be Singing The Blues

The soundtrack for this chapter is Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, by Elton John, from his 1973 album of the same name, which was released October 1973. For the week starting November 24, 1973, this song was #9 on the Billboard charts.

November 25, 1973 Falmouth, Massachusetts

Scully arrived in Cape Cod on a frigid November day in nothing but a sundress and a sweater, with a scarf and hat she managed to scrounge up left behind on the bus in Manhattan. She was fiercely cold, and she had very little money left.

Gazing around the town of Falmouth, holding tight to the strap of her duffel bag to fight off her body’s alarming involuntary shivering, she felt herself in the grip of a tunnel vision, a singular mindedness that didn’t always come naturally.

Not to her, anyway.

Focus is the gift of not feeling like you have a choice.

Truthfully, she had only been to Martha’s Vineyard once with Mulder, and he had handled the ferry arrangements, and that was in the 1990s anyway. She couldn’t remember much about taking the ferry from Woods Hole, Falmouth, or really if it even had been Falmouth, although the man at the Greyhound station in Boston assured her that was the easiest and most direct way.

The town before her looked utterly unfamiliar. In its broadest strokes it looked like a place out of time, like a location from Moby Dick, like if you squinted it could have been another century. But this was a little melodramatic. There was plenty of evidence of the twentieth century around her: kitschy aluminum Christmas decorations in store windows, oversized seventies cars sailing like ocean liners down the streets. And there were a surprising number of 1973 people milling about, too – tourists, she supposed, still lingering on the Sunday of the holiday weekend.

She spotted a bookstore, a narrow, weathered brick building a few blocks from the harbor. Coming closer, she decided it looked plausibly like it might sell maps or have a kindly shopkeeper willing to give directions. At very least it would be a place to warm herself up for a minute or two.

Inside, the store was dark, musty and crowded, packed high to the ceiling with all manner of reading material, highbrow and lowbrow. It smelled like history and cigarettes. There was an Elton John song playing on the radio somewhere in the back. The shopkeeper, a gruff man with an aggressive Massachusetts accent and a lit cigarette in his mouth—a habit that struck Scully as rather dangerous, given his highly flammable surroundings, was busy helping some tourists find books on Nantucket. So Scully searched out the map aisle herself, cupping her elbows, relieved to be out of the cold for a moment.

She turned the corner and stumbled over a disorganized stack of cookbooks, knocking a few over. As she leaned over to pick them up, she saw in her peripheral vision—with her law enforcement eye—a boy on an aisle near the door looking around surreptitiously. When he was convinced no one saw him, he stuck something under his coat and casually started to walk out.

Her eyes locked on the back of his very familiar head.

With precision focus, she followed him out the door, back into the cold. He was several paces ahead of her, moving quickly.

“Hey,” she called. “Hey.”

The boy turned and looked at Scully with deep suspicious green eyes.

“You … stole something,” she said, feeling strangely calm, meeting his stare.

“I didn’t—” He began his denial. Then, taking in the expression on her face more carefully and completely, he stopped, set his shoulders, and shrugged. “Yeah. I did.”

“What did you steal?” Scully tilted her head. She couldn’t keep the curiosity from her voice.

He reached into his pea coat and pulled out a carefully folded magazine, handed it to her, only slightly sheepishly. Playboy, November 1973.

Scully huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh.

“Jesus, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. She put a hand on her head. “You barely seem pubescent.”

“I’m pubescent,” he said defensively, narrowing his eyes at her.

His voice was high, but with a bit of a crackle. He was considerably shorter, but not short. Apparently she had not traveled quite far enough back to learn what it would be like to be taller than him, as they were now, more or less, the same height. (If anything, he was already a little taller.) His shoulders were narrow, bony, a boy’s shoulders; this was one significant difference between him and his adult self. His face was softer, rounder, smoother, but she would have recognized it anywhere — and she had. His hair was shaggy and long, side parted and swept over his forehead, the style of the time.

“Is this … have you done this a lot?” she asked, gesturing to the magazine. She meant shoplifting, but he interpreted her question differently.

He shrugged. “I’m told the nude body is a very normal thing for a growing boy to be curious about.”

Scully resisted the urge to roll her eyes, handing him back the magazine. “True enough, although I don’t condone petty larceny for any reason,” she said.

“They don’t sell this kind of magazine to 12-year olds,” he pointed out reasonably. “What do you suggest I do?”

Scully opened and closed her mouth, at a real loss for words. Advice about his pre-adolescent pornography acquisition was beyond her responsibilities as his partner, she decided.

“I don’t suppose you’re the kind of hippie lady who is open minded enough to—?”

“Whatever the appalling end of that question is,“ Scully said curtly. “No. Absolutely not.” He was standing in the street, but not going anywhere. She sat down on the curb, looking him over.

He looked back at her, too, his expression openly curious.

Precocious, obnoxious, far too curious. You should have seen this coming.

“You’re not going to turn me in, then?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I just have to think for a moment.”

Scully could see him studying her.

“So… do you think it’s morally wrong to look at naked pictures in magazines?” he asked, giving her a sideways look. There was a suspiciously familiar quality to his voice. Like he was trying to bait her into an argument. “Are you some kind of Christian? Or maybe into women’s lib?”

“I would say I’m both, actually,” said Scully evenly. “But so long as everyone working for the magazine is getting paid well and treated respectfully, no, I don’t really have a moral problem with it.”

The boy seemed surprised by her frank answer. He glanced down at the cover model with a slight scowl, as though considering the idea of her pay and her treatment for the first time.

Scully continued, more to herself than to him. “I admit, though, that seeing you steal that magazine has me thinking my own thoughts.”

The boy looked blankly up from his magazine. “Like?”

“Like that adult sexuality can be such a long, depressing, exhausting project,” Scully sighed heavily, looking at her dirty fingernails. “A person is stealing magazines at 12, and then what? Then he’s hiding his movies at 38.”

He has actual relationships with adult women, but how many? For how long? How good? Are the pictures just easier in the end? Are human relationships just too much trouble, too much risk, too much pain? Might the traumatic things that happen to him when he is in the beginning of his sexual development permanently impact his experience of real relationships? Is that why he tells himself he can’t even try?

“You say weird things. For an adult,” he said, sitting next to her on the curb. “Especially to a kid.”

“I’m usually considered a sensible person, actually,” she said, hugging her knees, shivering. “At least I used to be.”

“At 38, I’ll be married to someone who looks like Raquel Welch and we’ll be very happy and rich and have good-looking and smart kids and live in a nice house in the suburbs, so I don’t think whatever you just said will apply to me,” he said, a note of unease.

Somberly, Scully picked up a piece of seashell sitting on the street. She tried not to think about how similar that boyish daydream was to Mulder’s brain surgery vision of suburban life. How Diana Fowley had an unmistakable 1990s Raquel Welch look. So consistent, she thought. He’s consistent. I’m the inconsistency.

“And what will you do for a living?” she asked, watching him closely, rolling the seashell over in her fingers.

“Hmmm,” he said. “Not 100% decided yet. The possibilities are endless. I could play for the Yankees. Or I might be an astronaut. Or an author. Or a doctor.”

“A doctor? Really?” She turned, her eyes widened in a degree of surprise that did not really make sense aimed at a child she had just met. “What kind of doctor?”

“Whatever the best and smartest kind is. A surgeon?”

She laughed. For a moment, she grappled with the impulse to tell him she was a doctor, but this was a bad idea. For one, she hadn’t yet decided what to tell him about who she was, why she was here, and this all required more strategy than random impulsive revelations.

And she also knew that she didn’t exactly give off the impression of being a doctor right now. In 1973, there were relatively few female doctors, and they probably didn’t tend to wear grubby out-of-season flower child maxi sundresses and ratty oversized sweaters. She didn’t know if he would believe her, and she didn’t know if she could stomach that kind of sexism aimed at her from Mulder. Even this chubby-cheeked, junior-high, Nixon administration version of Mulder.

“I‘m going to take the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard today,” Scully told him. “I need new clothes first. Something warmer. Do you know a place to get them?”

The boy looked at her outfit critically. “Like a secondhand store? Or a head shop? There are a few places, but this is Cape Cod. You should go to Boston.”

“No, no,” she shook her head. “I need a fancier place. Like … a place where your mom might shop.”

The boy looked doubtful. Scully observed the details of his own outfit: a tailored pea coat, wide leg jeans. She imagined Teena Mulder selecting the expensive wool turtleneck sweater he wore. He looked like a prep school brochure.

“There’s a place in Falmouth she sometimes goes,” he said. “It’s called Miss Watson’s. But if you buy something there, you won’t look anything like you look now.”

Scully didn’t plan to actually buy anything at all. She planned to take advantage of the 1970s lack of anti-shoplifting technology. But she couldn’t very well say that to him, not after her little don’t-steal-pornography lesson.

“That’s all right,” she said, gazing thoughtfully into the distance. “I‘m going to change my look.”

“Why are you going to Martha’s Vineyard?”

He said it casually, but Scully’s eyes locked on him at once. He had not mentioned being from Chilmark, nor needing to catch the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard himself. He also hadn’t said what he was doing in Falmouth. She found this youthful guardedness interesting.

“I’ve never been there before,” she said. “They tell me it’s a nice place to visit.”

He nodded, scowling for just a fraction of a second. “They do say that,” he said cryptically, standing up and dusting himself off. “Well. Okay. It was … nice talking to you, stranger lady.”

“Yeah,” Scully said, again at a loss for words.

“Good luck changing your look. Sorry about the uh, shoplifting.”

He raised his hand in an awkward wave, and, spinning around, he turned to dart away down the street.

***

Her instinct was to never leave the boy’s side, not for an instant. But that wasn’t very practical. She needed to make this wardrobe change happen on her own, and she needed to think over what exactly she would tell him.

Besides, she would be able to find him again, wouldn’t she? In all likelihood he was taking the next ferry to Martha’s Vineyard himself, since the one after that was hours later. If all else failed — well, she knew where he lived.

So she watched him walk down the street.

Moving her fists into the sleeves of her sweater to warm her freezing hands, she turned to cross the street, to find this clothing shop.

But she couldn’t stop herself. She turned around to find him again, to allow herself to observe him again walking down the block. He zig-zagged haphazardly past people on the sidewalk, running his hand through his hair, looking ridiculously like a miniature version of his adult self, thinking through some complicated idea, paying little attention to his surroundings.

Abruptly, he stopped, glanced over in her direction. She quickly looked away, pretending to look for street signs.

Let him go, she told herself. You’ll find him again soon.

The pleasant exterior of Miss Watson’s Boutique had what Scully supposed were classy Christmas decorations in 1973 – fake evergreen boughs, plastic red and golden ribbons.

Another version of Scully – a younger version, even just a few years younger – probably would have felt more guilt about her plan to steal clothing from this small, unsuspecting store.

But Dana Scully the time traveler only felt twinges. There might be a way to compensate the store later. For now, her survival—and the survival of the Mulder children—were the priority. Standing outside the shop, three words slipped unbidden into her mind.

For the mission.

She had to do it for this cursed mission that was his, but now hers. Had … always been hers? Was she the loyal disciple after all? Scully felt herself rebelling instantly against that thought, her stomach churning, her brain mounting counterarguments. But there was no time to be wading through all of this.

She blinked. Focus. Single minded.

She slipped inside the store and heard the tinkle of a bell, but no one greeted her. The store was bustling with sets of mothers and daughters of various ages there to shop for winter wear, and only one beleaguered saleslady, who kept running to the back to find more options.

Scully walked around, taking in the festive holly green wool pant suit on a faceless mannequin. She sniffed, wrinkling her nose. Why did absolutely everything smell like cigarette smoke in 1973?

No one in the store seemed to look in her direction at all.

She approached a stack of turtleneck sweaters, feeling the fabric with her fingers, and checking the labels for size.

With considerably more finesse than young Fox Mulder, she carefully lifted one, rolled it up, and placed it directly into her duffel bag. She looked casually around. Again, no one looked at her.

There were wool wide-leg pants hanging on a display rack near the front window of the store. Scully eyeballed them discreetly to find her size. At that moment, a woman and her teen daughter were conveniently arguing over a dress at the other end of the store. From the window, she could see shoppers walking up and down the streets of Falmouth, but they were lost in their own troubles. Scully rolled up a pair of pants swiftly and placed them in her bag. There were some socks on an adjacent table; she impulsively grabbed a few pairs, too. She hoped they would fit under her 1999 boots, and that the boots would not be too anachronistic with the outfit.

Across the aisle, she spotted a blue-gray wool pea coat with a pointed collar on a hanger. It was not unlike the one the boy was wearing, and it seemed like it would be a necessity in that gusting wind. But it was heavy and bulky, and she doubted she could just roll it into the duffel bag.

So instead, she slipped it on over her dress, and she wrapped her scarf directly over it. Risky. Hopefully, no one would notice, and they would assume she wore the coat in. Sometimes a bold move paid off.

Her heart thumping in her chest, she walked over to a rack of clothing near the front entrance of the store. She pretended to look it over, and then made a show of casually glancing outside, like she was looking for someone she was meeting. Calming her nerves, she began to walk towards the entrance.

“Ma’am.”

Scully froze where she was. She heard her breathing become more rapid. Her mind began working out her options. One thing was for sure: she would not be stuck in some Cape Cod jail cell on the evening of November 27th.

“Ma’am, is this … yours?” A woman in her 30s, a customer, was pinching the body cam with her fingers, holding it away from her body, giving the device a strange look. She had a toddler at her side, a sweet-eyed little girl with golden curls.

“Oh,” Scully said, feeling herself exhale. “That’s mine. Yes. Thank you.” It must have fallen out somehow when she stuffed the pants in the bag. She took the body cam from the woman’s hands, hastily placing it back in the bag. That was a sloppy mistake, one she would have badly regretted if she lost the camera.

“What is that thing, if you don’t mind my asking? Some kind of binoculars?” the woman asked, pursing her lips. She had neatly styled blonde hair, a burgundy sweater dress, pearls. Her daughter had a pink bow. They could have been featured in a magazine spread.

“Yes,” Scully improvised. “Sort of. It’s observation equipment. I’m a birdwatcher.”

She hoped that seemed plausible to the woman, who just nodded politely. Scully realized that it didn’t look enough like a 1973 camera to be recognizable as one by sight. That was potentially helpful. It could be useful at some point to pass it off as binoculars.

“Ahh. Good luck with your birdwatching,” the woman said, somewhat skeptically, taking her daughter’s hand. “I wouldn’t think it’s a great season for that, most birds going south for the winter and all.”

Scully just smiled wanly and scurried again towards the door. No one seemed to have noticed that she had magically acquired a new coat, which seemed almost too good to be true. Behind her, she could hear the blonde woman resuming asking a question about when the 1974 spring dresses could be arriving.

Scully felt a jarring gust of wind smack her in the face as she walked outside. With no pause, she began to walk straight and steadily away from the shop.

A childhood’s worth of Catholic guilt hit her, too. Here she was, someone who thought seriously about becoming a mother—and she could shoplift and lie so easily, with so little hesitation! What would that mother in the store say about her, if she knew she had been stealing this coat?

Try to go back later and pay them something if it makes you feel better, Scully tried to soothe her unsettled conscience. You’re not a thief. You’re doing whatever it takes to protect the innocent.

The outside air was already biting through the too-thin dress at her legs, but the coat was protecting her upper body. She dug her hands into the deep pockets, snuggling into the satin lining. The extra layer was going to help. She had done what she needed to. She didn’t have time for the luxury of guilt.

She sped down the sidewalk, past the shops. It was wise to put as much space as possible between her and Miss Watson’s. She might as well go try to seek out the ferry building; maybe there would be some sheltered place to sit.

She had made it about half a block when she became aware that someone had fallen in lock step to her left, walking directly next to her, matching her in pace.

“Do you know what you are?” the boy asked, looking over at her, his voice accusing.

Scully’s head whipped over to him, surprised. “Where did you come from?”

“From my mommy and daddy’s love for one another,” he answered sweetly. “Do you know what you are?”

“No,” Scully sighed. “What am I?”

“A hypocrite,” the boy said. He pointed his finger at her, and it pointed directly at the coat. “A pretty big hypocrite, actually.”

Scully stopped walking and turned to look at him. He was scowling.

“Because that coat you’re wearing – and all that other stuff you put in your bag at Miss Watson’s – is a lot more expensive than a Playboy magazine,” he continued. “I believe you used the term petty larceny.”

“How do you know what I did in the store?”

“I watched you from across the street,” he said, defiantly. “Through the window. You didn’t see me. I was careful.”

“You’re right. I didn’t see you.” Scully paused. “Why did you watch me?”

His scowl intensified. “Because … something is off with you.”

“Off?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Off. You look at me like you know me. You talk to me like you know me. But I don’t know you — or I don’t think I do, anyway.”

Scully sighed heavily, nodded her head. She resumed walking again at her brisk pace, and he followed after her. “That’s true,” she said. “You don��t know me.”

“Where are you going right now?”

“To Woods Hole, to the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard.”

“But why? Why Martha’s Vineyard? Why are you going there?” he pressed, suspiciously.

“I told you. I’m a tourist,” she said, biting her lip a little.

“I don’t believe you,” he said.

“Why not?”

“A tourist comes to Martha’s Vineyard by herself, in November, the Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend, no clothes for the weather?”

Scully flashed him an impressed look. “You’re good at that, you know. It’s … interesting.”

“Good at what? Interesting why?” He did a little double step to keep up with her. “Are you selling drugs? Are you a prostitute? Are you an art thief?”

“An art thief?” Scully said. “Is there a big art theft problem on Martha’s Vineyard, Mulder?”

The boy’s eyes went very round. Scully realized her error and inwardly cursed. Conversation with this child had become too easy too quickly. So many sloppy mistakes.

“Okay,” he said, and his voice sounded scared now, and much younger. “Now see. That’s what I mean. That’s just weird.”

“I know – I know it is,” she said, soothingly. “And I can explain it, I promise.”

“How do you know my name?” he said slowly. “And why would you call me that? That’s not my first name.”

“I know,” she admitted.

“You know?”

“I do,” she said.

Scully stared back at the boy. The muscles in his face were drawn and taut, and he looked afraid. But there was that other quality there, too: the little brightness in his eyes she knew from his facial expressions as an adult. The curiosity.

“I can tell you more, but not here,” she said. “On the ferry, maybe.”

“How do you know I’m taking the ferry?” His eyebrows furrowed.

Scully paused to more carefully select the right words. As she did, he gave her an exaggerated sideways look. “Are you … my ferry godmother?” he asked.

Scully stared incredulously. “My God, I can’t believe you’ve always been like this,” she said.

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

“Listen,” she said. “I know that I’m a stranger. You really shouldn’t trust me. You shouldn’t even be talking to me. But I have to ask you to listen to me, because what I have to tell you is important.”

He kicked at a loose pebble on the sidewalk. He looked up at her, and his voice had a darker inflection. “But you’re not … exactly a stranger, are you?” he said. “You’re not acting like it.”

“No,” she agreed softly. “Not exactly.”

Something in his face relaxed. “I have to make another stop before I catch the ferry,” he said. “You can tell me there, if you want.”

***

He wouldn’t tell her where they were going. A disconcertingly familiar feeling. She followed him through the streets of Falmouth, staring at the back of his unnervingly low head, until they stopped at a wide white wooden building set off the road with a painted sign out front. She could faintly hear the tinkle of music from the street.

“Falmouth School of Dance?” Scully said, perplexed, eyeing the sign as they walked in the front gate. “You have a lesson?”

“Nope,” the boy said. He checked his wristwatch. “But we wait out here for ten minutes or so until the rehearsal inside is done.”

Scully walked right past him, up the mossy stone walk. As she got closer, the music became more clear, and she recognized it: the Waltz of the Snowflakes, from The Nutcracker Suite. The building was an old Cape Cod style house converted into a makeshift dance studio, with children’s shoes piled up outside and flyers for performances plastered all over the outside of the door.

There was a large picture window facing the street. Inside, Scully could see moving shadows, fingers being extended, legs hopping. Girls in leotards were gathering into a V-shaped formation, their arms in perfect circles. They began moving forward as the music’s chorus sang, slightly wobbling snowflakes.

Scully leaned a little closer to the window. Her eyes began to run over the faces of the ballerinas, searching. At last, her gaze locked on one. Tall for her age. Brown braids pinned on top of her head.

Yes. It was.

Even though she should have been prepared for this moment, and she knew it was coming, it affected her. She felt herself start to tremble.

She turned back to the boy, keeping her voice as casual as possible. “Your sister?”

He narrowed his eyes again. “So you know I have a sister.”

“Is she why you’re in Falmouth?”

“Yeah. Her dance class is supposed to perform the Nutcracker in a week,” he said. “They only have three more rehearsals. They’re terrible, so they need all the practice they can get.”

“You bring her here on the ferry for rehearsals?” It was a bit of a trip, Scully knew, from Chilmark.

“It’s not much trouble,” he shrugged, his tone almost defensive. “She dances; I commit petty larceny. Everyone wins.”

Scully was quiet, thinking about how in the 1999 world she came from, Samantha never got to perform in the Nutcracker recital. Mulder had never mentioned this detail to her, maybe because it wasn’t directly relevant to the evening of the abduction. Or maybe it was too sad.

It seemed relevant to Mulder the man, thought Scully. He took his sister to rehearsals in another town, all by himself, for a recital she never performed in.

Without even realizing she was doing it, she found her hand reaching into the duffel bag, past the rolled-up stolen pants, for the body cam. She glanced at the boy, who was watching her with an intent expression, but she decided there wasn’t any point hiding it. His explanations had to start somewhere.

She pulled the camera out, gripped it between her hands, framed the sign “Falmouth School of Dance” in her sights, and pressed the button.

Whir and click.

“What – what was that?” the boy said, his voice awed. “Did you take a picture?”

“I think so,” she said, slipping the camera back into her bag. “It might not be working.”

“That was a camera? What kind of camera was that?”

“It’s a camera designed to send images back to a lab in Berkeley, California,” she said. “It’s actually supposed to be worn on my head, but, well, it just attracts too much attention.”

The boy blinked. “Are you a spy?”

“No,” she said. “But let’s start there. I’m an F.B.I. agent. My name is Special Agent Dana Scully.”

“An F.B.I. agent,” the boy repeated.

“I don’t have my badge,” she said. “I wish I did. I do have my weapon, but it’s not safe to show it to you here.”

“They have woman F.B.I. agents?” the boy asked.

Scully sank onto a weather-worn wooden bench. “I think the first female F.B.I. agents were in 1972, actually. Didn’t Hoover die relatively recently? He was the one who opposed letting women become special agents.”

The boy, looking at her silently, walked to the bench and sat down on the other side. He folded his hands on his lap. “All right,” he said. “You’re an F.B.I. agent. But you don’t know if you’re one of the first female agents, or even if J. Edgar Hoover died recently.”

Scully bit her lip, again considering her next words.

“Does this have to do with my father’s work?” the boy said, his voice becoming very serious.

She looked at him sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“I – I just wondered,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Do you work with my father?”

“No,” she said. She took a breath. “I work with you.”

“No offense,” he said. “But unless you’re my second period science lab partner Eddie in disguise, I don’t think that’s true.”

“I work with you years from now, when you’re an adult,” Scully struggled to make her voice sound as rational and measured as possible. “I’ve traveled back in time to this year, which isn’t my own time period, through some means – well, it was an accident, and I’m not exactly sure how it happened. But since I’m here, I want to protect you and your sister from an event that I know is going to happen Tuesday night. And the reason I know this event happens Tuesday night is because you told me about it, but years from now, when you’re a man.”

He stared at her, as still as a statue for a moment. “That’s not a very believable story.”

“No,” Scully admitted. “I know it’s not. It’s a ridiculous story. But it’s the truth, and it’s the reason I know you. And … the adult version of you I know would be open to believing it.”

“Most scientists say time travel isn’t practically possible,” he said.

Scully’s mouth opened, and then she laughed, a tinge of bitterness. “Yes,” she said. “I know. I’ve told you something like that before.”

“You’ve told me that?” the boy said.

“I really have.”

“In the — future?”

“Your future, my past,” she said.

“So according to you … I’ll work for the F.B.I.? I’ll be an F.B.I. agent?” the boy said, wrinkling his brow.

Scully paused. “That’s how I know you. We’re partners at the F.B.I., both of us agents. But I don’t know if …” She took a steadying breath. “If I’m successful in stopping this event I want to stop, I honestly don’t know if you’ll choose to join the F.B.I. or not. It might change how you see things. So… it might not be your future, I suppose.”

“That’s a paradox,” the boy pointed out. “If you change my future, and we never meet, then how would you ever know to travel back in time and change my future?”

“I don’t know,” Scully answered simply. “I’m not sure what the time travel mechanism is. But I know I have to try to stop … this event.”

That gave him pause. “This event you’re talking about … it’s that bad?”

“Yes.” Scully said, unable to meet his eyes. “But it’s not going to happen,” she continued, gently, “because I’m here this time.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth? Why should I trust you?”

“You already know something is wrong. Something related to your father’s work,” Scully guessed. “Don’t you? I think you do. This thing that happens … it is connected to that.”

The boy’s green eyes shifted away uneasily. He said nothing in response to that, and his gaze landed down at his feet.

“You’re Fox William Mulder,” Scully tried. “Birthdate October 13, 1961. Sister Samantha, mother Teena and father William.”

“Anyone could know that,” the boy scoffed.

Scully wracked her brain. So much of her more intimate knowledge of Mulder was more recent.

“All right,” she said hesitantly. “Let me think of what else you’ve told me. Your favorite TV show is The Magician. You like Elvis?” She was quiet for a moment. “You always wanted a peg leg, I think. Or maybe you just told me that for comic effect.”

The boy looked sharply at her. “That’s actually true,” he admitted, after a beat. “The peg leg. Although it seems like a weird thing for me to tell my partner at the F.B.I. when I’m grown up.”

“Yeah, well–” Scully began, a biting witticism about his weirdness on the tip of her tongue. But she stopped herself. This wasn’t adult Mulder. “Yeah. It was.”

A beat. “Are we partners … like on the TV show The Avengers?”

Scully tried to remember the 1960s show, which she only watched occasionally in reruns with her brothers. “Aren’t those characters British spies?” Scully said. “We’re not spies.”

“They're man and woman partners, too,” the boy said, biting his full lip for a moment. “They fight bad guys. He’s really smart, and she wears this … tight black catsuit and has a gun, and they’re always saying these funny one-liners to each other. I don’t know—it seems pretty exciting.”

His eyes were bright and eager. Scully was charmed—and a little sobered. He was only a child, she thought. How could she ever explain to him what their lives were like?

“Yes,” she said. “We’re like that, more or less. Except the catsuit.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Hmm.”

“And I’m really smart, too,” Scully added, as an afterthought.

His eyes refocused to the treeline in the distance, right before the road curved to the shore. She sensed something settling and clicking within him, pieces falling into place in his mind, a process that was comfortingly familiar to her.

“I think I believe you,” he said softly. He was still for a moment, considering. “It doesn’t really make sense, but for some reason, I think you’re telling the truth.”

Scully swallowed. Relief flooded over her. “I’m so glad, Mulder,” she breathed, using his last name again without thinking. “It makes things … simpler.” But not simple, she thought. Still not at all simple.

He nodded. “So,” he said, turning to face her on the bench and regarding her seriously. “Tell me then.”

“Tell you?” Scully repeated.

“Yeah,” he said. “Tell me everything about our mission.”

#x files fanfic #the x files #xfiles fanfic

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dollycas · 7 months

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The Exchange: After The Firm (The Firm Series) by John Grisham #Review @JohnGrisham @doubledaybooks

The Exchange: After The Firm (The Firm Series) Legal Thriller 2nd in Series Setting - New York/Libya/Italy Doubleday (October 17, 2023) Hardcover ‏ : ‎ 352 pages ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 0385548958 ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0385548953 Kindle ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0BYHPHG1L

What became of Mitch and Abby McDeere after they exposed the crimes of Memphis law firm Bendini, Lambert & Locke and fled the country? The answer is in The Exchange, the riveting sequel to The Firm, the blockbuster thriller that launched the career of America’s favorite storyteller. It is now fifteen years later, and Mitch and Abby are living in Manhattan, where Mitch is a partner at the largest law firm in the world. When a mentor in Rome asks him for a favor that will take him far from home, Mitch finds himself at the center of a sinister plot that has worldwide implications—and once again endangers his colleagues, friends, and family. Mitch has become a master at staying one step ahead of his adversaries, but this time there’s nowhere to hide. Dollycas's Thoughts I read the book The Firm in 1991 when it was released and have watched the film starring Tom Cruise, Jeanne Tripplehorn, and many other big Hollywood names several times. I will admit I always wanted to know what happened to Mitch and Abby so I was thrilled to see that John Grisham was working on a sequel and that it was going to be released this year. I was excited when the book was offered to me to review. It is now 15 years later. Mitch is now a partner at Scully and Pershing, one of the largest law firms in the world. Abby is working for a publisher editing cookbooks and getting to know many high-profile chefs. They have 8-year-old twin boys. The McDeere's have made a home in Manhattan and have pretty much put what happened 15 years ago in Memphis behind them. Mitch has been asked to take over a case from his mentor who is having health issues. It means a lot of traveling a long way from home but Mitch finally agrees. While the case is complicated Mitch never imagined that he, his family, his friends, and his colleagues would all be in danger again. Mitch has gotten out of terrifying situations before but this time he may not be so lucky. As soon as I started reading I was visualizing Tom Cruise and Jeanne Tripplehorn and quickly got invested in their lives all over again. There is a very large cast of characters but I truthfully had no trouble keeping all the characters straight because they were diverse and interesting. The connections all made sense and the circumstances always pierced through making each memorable. Characters from the previous book are mentioned but other than Mitch and Abby only one was actually visited in this book. The case Mitch takes on is for a contractor in Turkey for a bridge they built in Libya. Mitch's mentor Luca asked him to take his daughter along as an associate. Giovanna is a capable lawyer so he agrees to the request. They make plans to visit the bridge so they can decide how to proceed with the case but things become dire when he can't travel with her and she goes missing before she reaches to bridge. What follows is a heart-pounding race to save her. The evil they face, the measures they need to go through with no guarantees was sometimes very hard to read but knowing that part of the world is so volatile Mr. Grishman could have pulled the story from real headlines. I did have to slow down my reading pace to catch all the nuance of the story and peel through all the layers. The story is intense and the plot is tight. Never having visited any of the many places Mitch traveled I appreciated the author's detailed descriptions. It was easy to see each in my mind, it was like watching a movie. A movie I hope comes to fruition. I saw Mr. Grisham on The View earlier this week where he stated for a movie to happen Tom has to be on board. I hope he has sent him a copy of the book. The Exchange is full of suspense and more thrilling moments than I can count. With a slow build to pull you in it soon becomes impossible to put the book down. While the current story wraps up within the pages the bad guys are still out there. Are Mitch and Abby really safe? I wonder if Mr. Grisham has more in store for them. Please be aware the book does contain some very graphic events.

Your Escape Into A Good Book Travel Agent About the Author John Grisham is the author of numerous #1 bestsellers, which have been translated into nearly fifty languages. His recent books include The Boys from Biloxi, The Judge’s List, Sooley, and his third Jake Brigance novel, A Time for Mercy, which is being developed by HBO as a limited series. Grisham is a two-time winner of the Harper Lee Prize for Legal Fiction and was honored with the Library of Congress Creative Achievement Award for Fiction. When he’s not writing, Grisham serves on the board of directors of the Innocence Project and of Centurion Ministries, two national organizations dedicated to exonerating those who have been wrongfully convicted. Much of his fiction explores deep-seated problems in our criminal justice system. Grisham lives on a farm in central Virginia.

Also by John Grisham

Find More Books by John Grisham Here. Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. Receiving a complimentary copy in no way reflected my review of this book. Read the full article

#Doubleday #Italy #JohnGrisham #LegalThriller #Libya #NewYork #suspense

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wikiuntamed · 9 months

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On this day in Wikipedia: Wednesday, 2nd August

Welcome, أهلا وسهلا, Willkommen, Velkommen 🤗 What does @Wikipedia say about 2nd August through the years 🏛️📜🗓️?

2nd August 2022 🗓️ : Death - Vin Scully Vin Scully, American sportscaster and game show host (b. 1927) "Vincent Edward Scully (November 29, 1927 – August 2, 2022) was an American sportscaster who was the play-by-play announcer for the Brooklyn / Los Angeles Dodgers, beginning in 1950 and ending in 2016. He is considered by many to be the greatest baseball broadcaster of all time.Scully's tenure with..."

Image licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0? by Unknown authorUnknown author

2nd August 2017 🗓️ : Death - Judith Jones Judith Jones, American literary and cookbook editor (b. 1924) "Judith Jones (née Bailey; March 10, 1924 – August 2, 2017) was an American writer and editor, best known for having rescued The Diary of Anne Frank from the reject pile. Jones also championed Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. She retired as senior editor and vice president at Alfred..."

2nd August 2013 🗓️ : Death - Alla Kushnir Alla Kushnir, Russian–Israeli chess player (b. 1941) "Alla Shulimovna Kushnir (Hebrew: אלה שולימובנה קושניר; Russian: Алла Шулимовна Кушнир; 11 August 1941 – 2 August 2013) was a Soviet-born Israeli chess player. She was awarded the FIDE titles of Woman International Master (WIM) in 1962 and Woman Grandmaster (WGM) in 1976. In 2017, she was inducted..."

Image licensed under CC0? by W. Punt for Anefo

2nd August 1973 🗓️ : Event - Summerland disaster A flash fire killed 50 people at a leisure centre in Douglas, Isle of Man. "The Summerland disaster occurred when a fire spread through the Summerland leisure centre in Douglas on the Isle of Man on the night of 2 August 1973. Fifty people were killed and 80 seriously injured. The scale of the fire has been compared to those seen during the Blitz. ..."

Image licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0? by Stuart Taylor

2nd August 1923 🗓️ : Event - Calvin Coolidge Calvin Coolidge became the 30th president of the United States after Warren G. Harding suffered a fatal heart attack. "Calvin Coolidge (born John Calvin Coolidge Jr.; ; July 4, 1872 – January 5, 1933) was an American attorney and politician who served as the 30th president of the United States from 1923 to 1929. Born in Vermont, Coolidge was a Republican lawyer from New England who climbed the ladder of..."

Image by Notman Studio, Boston. Restoration by User:Adam Cuerden

2nd August 1823 🗓️ : Death - Lazare Carnot Lazare Carnot, French mathematician, general, and politician, president of the National Convention (b. 1753) "Lazare Nicolas Marguerite Carnot (French pronunciation: [lazaʁ nikɔla maʁɡəʁit kaʁno]; 13 May 1753 – 2 August 1823) was a French mathematician, physicist, politician and a leading member of the Committee of Public Safety during the French Revolution. His military reforms, which included the..."

Image by Louis-Léopold Boilly

2nd August 🗓️ : Holiday - Christian feast day: Peter Faber "Peter Faber, SJ (French: Pierre Lefevre or Favre, Latin: Petrus Faver) (13 April 1506 – 1 August 1546) was a Jesuit priest and theologian, who was also a co-founder of the Society of Jesus, along with Ignatius of Loyola and Francis Xavier. Pope Francis announced his canonization in 2013. ..."

Image by The original uploader was Bwag at German Wikipedia.

#OnThisDayInWikiHistory #WikiUntamed #WikiWonders #WhereNext

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direnightshade · 2 years

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Thank you for the tag, @daisybabey! ♥ Tag games are my fave.

Favorite color: Orange

Currently reading: Currently I'm stuck on manga, so I'm in the middle of reading Attack on Titan: No Regrets

Last song: POLTERGEIST! by Corpse ft. OmenXIII

Last series: God Eater

Last movie: Jackass Forever

Sweet, spicy, or savory: Typically savory.

Coffee or tea: Tea

Three ships: These are all gonna be anime and for that I do not apologize. Mikasa x Eren, Tengen x all his wives, Light x Misa

First-ever ship: Scully and Mulder. First ever and still to this day, my fave ship.

Currently working on: A bunch of cross stitching projects, currently. Still writing though, just not as frequently as before.

Favorite piece of clothing: My Vans x House of Terror The Shining high tops.

Comfort food: There's a vegan mac and cheese recipe from one of Hot For Food's cookbooks that I make all the time. I always add hot sauce to it, but yeah. Definitely a fave comfort food for sure.

Favorite time of year: Autumn

Favorite fanfiction: Oof, a tough one. I don't have one that trumps all others which I know sounds like a cop-out, but it's the truth. So anyways, here's a list of ones I go back and re-read: - Literally all of @clydesducktape's Draluram Series. - What Would Your Boyfriend Think by @leatherboundbirate - @mariesackler's Sofie and Sackler Series. - Alone With You by @sacklerscumrag - Stuck in the Mud by @desiraypark (all of her Sackler x OC content, tbh) - Home by @quiteanabyss

If you're reading this and want to take part, consider this me tagging you!

#tag game #about me #personal

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lilydalexf · 3 years

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Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Vickie Moseley

Vickie Moseley has 252 stories at Gossamer, some of which have also made their way to AO3. She has obviously contributed a ton to the fandom over the years! I’ve recced some of my favorites of her stories here before, including Giving Thanks, Stunned, and a bunch of post-eps for particular episodes, including “Firewalker” and “Pine Bluff Variant.” Big thanks to Vickie for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

Not really. Well, actually, it has always surprised me that anyone would read my stories even during the heyday of the series, but that’s my self-consciousness talking. That people are discovering The X-Files is not at all surprising and that they are stumbling on fan fic is a natural extension and I find that wonderful. My husband and I never watched Grimm when it was on network TV and we’re currently going through that series, so it’s the streaming-on-demand-there-isn’t-anything-new-on-TV times we find ourselves.

What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it?

Friendships. I have a group of women that I’ve been friends with for over 20 years. Until this year we gathered in person every year. We are in contact on Facebook messenger all the time and a conversation will start up just out of thin air when we haven’t conversed for months! It’s been wonderful knowing these women from all parts of the country (and the world for that matter).

And strangely enough, medical research. My writing tended to focus on ‘injured Mulder’ (or Mulder Torture as we termed it) and I also liked reading that in fan fic. Two years ago this managed to help me in real life. My husband experienced a bilateral pneumothorax (both lungs collapsed spontaneously). One of my favorite stories that I have read and reread is “Short of Breath” by the incomparable dee_ayy. She did some serious research while writing that story and it’s all in that fan fiction. I’m not saying it’s the same as a medical degree, but I knew what was happening, why the doctors where performing certain procedures and it really eased my mind as we went through the whole experience. I never would have known what was going on if I hadn’t read that story so many times.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

Email was the ‘social media’ for the day. That, and newsfeeds. There were two newsfeeds in the beginning: the official FOX website had a message board, and there was one on ‘alt.tv’ which was an internet newsfeed where fans posted spoilers and discussed episodes. The alt.tv newsfeed got tired of the fan fic writers posting stories so a separate newsfeed was formed just for fan fic. EMXC, which was an AOL mailing list, was invite only and somewhat exclusive at first, but opened up to everyone. When the old OSU (Ohio State University) mailing list turned into Gossamer and Ephemeral, the fandom, and fan fic just skyrocketed.

But what you lived for the most, as a writer, was actual feedback. Emails from people all over who read your story. It was nice to get a quick ‘Hey, read this and really like it!’ but the wonderful emails, the ones you kept in folders on your inbox, were the ones that went into detail, sometimes critical, sometimes grammar related, but always showing where you could improve, or where you touched someone. Every friend I have from the fandom started as feedback, either to me or from me. I’m on AO3 and I appreciate ‘kudos’ but I really love getting comments.

What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

Confidence in my writing. I learned a lot from other writers. Constructive feedback was a gift! I may never write the great American novel but I don’t think I’m afraid to give it a shot after all my years in fan fic.

What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show?

They had me at ‘aliens’. I’m a sucker for UFO shows. Was front row center at Close Encounters of the Third Kind, read many of the UFO standards, still watch Ancient Aliens on History Channel. I was waiting for The X-Files based on the tiny blurb in the 1993 Fall Preview Guide from TV Guide.

What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

I kinda got fired from a job I loved and couldn’t go back into that arena for a long time. I was so depressed I was cleaning out my kitchen cabinets. My husband ‘gave’ me the internet for my birthday just to get me out of the dumps. I went straight to ‘yahoo’ and typed in X Files. After reading all the character bios I saw a ‘hyperlink’ (yes, that’s what we called them in 1995) to something called ‘fan fiction’. It was the OSU tree directory of about 100 fan fiction stories. I was instantly hooked.

What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom?

I still love the show and all the fans I run across. I was not happy with S8 or S9 but I did watch The Truth. I was on Haven for a while during the reboots (S10 and S11) but it wasn’t the same. I’ve got all the seasons on DVD or blu ray and both movies. When I hear from fans, I’m so happy to connect but I don’t go out and look for new stories anymore.

Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

None. My heart belongs to Mulder ;)

Who are some of your favorite fictional characters? Why?

Captain Kirk, Spock, Captain Picard, Will Riker, Luke, Han, Leia, Poe, Rae, Kylo at the end. I like strong characters but it’s OK if they have flaws. I’d like to see more strong female leads in science fiction (Gammora and Nebula are favs of mine, too). I love Brea Larson’s portrayal of Captain Marvel!

Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

Sure. When the Pandemic hit we started going through the series for maybe the 20th time. It’s nice to watch them on a larger TV screen. Kim Manners was a genius with lighting and showing just enough of the ‘monster’. I suspect he will be better appreciated in the future than he was at the time he was alive.

Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

I still go back and read my favorites from XF. I read Blood Ties by Dawn about once a year, the whole series. I go back and read the Virtual Season X seasons. We had some really good stories in those years.

Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

Too many to list! Dawn, of course. Susan Proto (I co-wrote with her), Sally Bahnsen, dee_ayy, Suzanne Bickerstaff’s Magician Series was the first (and only) fantasy I ever truly liked! I loved all my co-writers and there are plenty of writers that I wish we’d gotten around to collaborating.

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

I’m proud of Out of the Cold because it’s Mulder before Scully. I’m partial to the Flight Into Egypt series because I like ‘righting’ what I thought Carter got wrong in the end.

Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

I keep trying! I’m working (have been working for almost a decade now) on a Flight Into Egypt story set at Christmas. Each fall I drag it out of mothballs, write a paragraph or two and get busy doing Christmas stuff. Funny, but it was easier to find time to write when I was a working mom of 6 than as a retired grandma of 3.

Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work?

I’m putting together a cookbook for my kids and grandkids of all our family recipes. It’s not just the recipes, but the stories behind them. It’s a WIP (work in progress).

Where do you get ideas for stories?

I had a book, just a cheap paperback of unexplained events—all true stories, supposedly—that I got a lot of ideas from. Or, like Carter, I would see something in the news and it would turn into a story. One time I had a dream about our Pur water filter and it turned into a fan fic.

What's the story behind your pen name?

My older sister named me because my Mom and Dad let her. I never used a pen name. That’s my real name, you can google me and find out all about me. I used to have a wiki page or so my kids told me.

Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

My kids used to tell their friends that ‘Mom is famous on the internet’ as a joke. Most of my friends know. My other life is in politics and the two lives usually don’t cross but once on a campaign I was asked by a reporter if I was the ‘same’ Vickie Moseley who writes fan fiction. If I had lied, that would have been the story—that I lied about this hobby of mine. Like it was something to be ashamed of or I was ashamed of my writing. So instead of ducking the question I said ‘yeah, have you read any of my stuff?’ Fan fiction was not mentioned in the finished article.

Is there a place online (tumblr, twitter, AO3, etc.) where people can find you and/or your stories now?

I’m on AO3 but only a partial list. My website is still up thanks to Mimic.

Is there anything else you'd like to share with fans of X-Files fic?

Back when I started writing (1995) it was a sort of commune. We all loved reading fan fiction, we didn’t want the story to end with the credits. So if you wanted to read, you were encouraged to write, too, so that others had stories to read and share. It was a cooperative arrangement very much like the old Literary Societies back in the 19th Century. I really miss that, so I hope that on some level that is still going on.

(Posted by Lilydale on November 10, 2020)

#new post #old school x #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #xf fanfic author interviews #vickie moseley

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atths--twice · 4 years

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Protective Covering

Day three of prompt/ask of a story. Today is a story about where the aprons both Mulder and Scully owned, came from. A tweet led to a discussion, which led to this fic. I hope you enjoy it.

Mulder sat on his couch, his stomach rumbling with hunger. He had been off work since he came back from Bermuda. Bruised ribs, a slight concussion, and scrapes and bruises on odd spots of his body kept him home and resting.

Scully had checked in on him, bringing food and staying for a little while every couple of days. Still working on the background checks, she complained about it to him when she came over, rolling her eyes and sighing a lot.

She was out of town for the next few days. Her brothers were both in town and the entire family had made plans to go to Connecticut for Thanksgiving weekend. He was happy for her to get away for awhile and hoped she was having a good time.

His stomach growled again and he sighed as he glanced toward the kitchen, knowing the only thing he would find in there to eat was two cans of chicken noodle soup and some orange juice; which was most likely expired.

The thought of getting up and going out for something made him groan. The hour was far too late anyway and his desire to leave was more than minimal. And ordering in… well, he could only eat so much pizza and Chinese food.

Sighing again, he surfed through the channels, finding nothing of interest, until he landed on a cooking show. Setting the remote down, he rested his hands in his lap.

The woman on the screen was preparing a chicken with roasted potatoes. His mouth began to water as she started to describe the spices she was using and demonstrated how to cut the potatoes.

As the food was set in the oven, she took out ingredients for a strawberry shortcake and he audibly groaned as she whipped cream. He could practically taste the sugar and vanilla on his tongue.

His stomach growled again and he pushed himself from the couch, stumbling heavily into the kitchen and opening the cupboards, hoping some food had magically appeared.

Of course it had not, and he was forced to eat the chicken noodle soup, sighing repeatedly as he did, the meal a poor substitute compared to the one he had seen on TV.

Putting the spoon in his bowl, he sighed. The meal not satisfying, he got up and searched the cupboards in more depth. Finding a box of Pop Tarts way in the back, along with a single bottle of ketchup, he sighed again.

Placing his bowl in the sink, he grabbed a pack of Pop Tarts and headed to bed. Tomorrow morning, he would go to the store before it closed for the holiday, and buy some much needed staples. Perhaps he would even buy some items to make himself an actual meal every now and then.

Standing in a cookware store, he looked around, overwhelmed by the choices in front of him. Pots and pans, different cooking dishes, and types of utensils. Shaking his head, he walked past them and looked through a few cookbooks, finding simple recipes he could follow without screwing them up.

Deciding on one, he tracked down a sales associate. Showing her a few of the recipes and asking what she would recommend for a beginner like him. She laughed and led him back to the cooking dishes and utensils. As she explained how to use them, he listened intently.

Thanking her for her help, he took all of his items and headed to the register. Stopping as he passed some aprons, he doubled back. Laughing as he looked at them, he made an impulse decision, aprons not an item he had planned to purchase. Grabbing both aprons, he continued to the register.

When he arrived at the store, he took the cookbook in with him, to see what he would need to create the recipe. As he walked through the door, he heard Christmas music playing, and he shook his head, the holiday arriving earlier every year.

He pushed the shopping cart around the store, filling it with his regular items before adding chicken, vegetables, and spices he would need for the recipes he planned to try.

Two trips to and from the car, and he had everything sitting on the table. Staring at it all, he sighed. It was more food than he had ever had in the apartment. Ever. Sighing again, he began to put it all away.

Once he was finished, he opened a bag of sunflower seeds and sat down at the table with the cookbook. Reading the step-by-step instructions on how to make the chicken and potato dish, he nodded, ready to try it out. Clearing away the pile of sunflower shells, he stood up and walked into the kitchen.

He washed the potatoes, cut them as directed, and placed them in a bowl. Pouring olive oil on top of them, he added the spices, and mixed them up. He washed the green casserole dish he had purchased, and dried it. Greasing the bottom with a little bit of olive oil, he placed the seasoned chicken breasts in the middle of it, pouring the potatoes around them.

Staring at the dish, he shrugged as he opened the oven door and set the dish inside. Cleaning up the mess he had made, he periodically checked the oven, sure he had done something to make the dish incorrectly. But soon, the apartment was filled with a delicious aroma of spices, and his mouth began to water. When the timer sounded, he picked up his newly purchased oven mitts and pulled the dish from the oven.

It bubbled and sizzled, and he closed his eyes and he took a deep breath, breathing in the delicious smell. Setting it down, he took off the oven mitts and smiled as he stared at the meal he had created.

“Well goddamn,” he said quietly.

Letting it cool, a few minutes later, he filled his plate and took a small bite. Raising his eyebrows, he nodded as he chewed a larger bite of chicken and potato.

“Well goddamn,” he said again with a smile.

_______________

Thanksgiving day, he went for a run and upon returning, he found he had missed a call from Scully. Not wanting to bother her, he did not call back, but smiled as he listened to her greeting, checking in on him and telling him happy Thanksgiving.

Walking into the kitchen for some water, he looked at the apron he bought for her, and the one for himself, and he laughed softly. He was sure she was going to absolutely hate it, but would also get a kick out of it.

He made a decision as he stepped into the shower. When she came back, he was going to surprise her with a home cooked meal and the gift of her apron, an early Christmas gift.

Over the next couple of days, he tried a couple more simple and small recipes, surprising himself with his ability.

As he cleaned up his most recent mess, he looked at his watch. He knew Scully was due to come home that day, but he was not exactly sure of the time. Putting the dishes away, he walked into the living room, intent on calling her.

But then his cell phone rang with information from an unknown informant who worked at area 51. All other thoughts left his mind as excitement coursed through him.

Hanging up, he called Scully, grinning from ear to ear the entire time.

“Scully.”

“Hey Scully, it’s me. How do you feel about taking a little trip?” he said, already walking into his room to grab a bag and pack some clothes. He heard her heavy sigh and he paused, realizing he should have asked how her holiday was and how she was doing, but the chance to go meet the informant had taken precedent.

“Nice to hear from you too, Mulder,” she said and he could practically hear her roll her eyes. “Fine, Mulder. Where are we going?” He smiled, as he continued grabbing some clothes and placing them in his bag.

____________________

The trip to Nevada was a bust, although some strange unexplainable things happened while they were gone. His apartment was clean, like really clean. And his bedroom… the boxes he had been moving around before he was injured, had begun to pile up, leaving only a path to the bathroom, had been cleared and put away.

A new bedroom set had appeared out of nowhere and the mirrors on the ceiling… they had added to some interesting moments when he was alone in bed. No one fessed up to doing it when he asked the Gunmen. He did not mention the mirrors, knowing the questions Frohike would ask.

The strange occurrences aside, they were back to the boring scut work placed on them by Kersh. They were bogged down with background checks, and even flew out to small towns, to talk to people who did not want to speak to them. He understood their irritation, as he himself did not want to be there.

They stayed in crappy motels or took red eye flights back home, both of them tired and annoyed with the assignments. Dragging himself home, he did not have the time to make any food, which eventually was thrown out, as it had collected mildew in the fridge as did the fruit on the counter. He looked longingly at the casserole dish, remembering the taste of the meals he had made.

Christmas was fast approaching and he knew Scully would have plans with her family. He wanted to have her over for dinner before she did, offering a home cooked meal as a thank you for putting up with him the last few months. He knew he was more difficult to be around and she had put up with a lot from him.

A lot.

Plans were made for her to come over on Saturday the 19th. He purchased the food that he would need, the same chicken and potato meal he had made first, along with some wine.

Donning his apron, he put the meal together and placed it in the oven. About 25 minutes in, when it was beginning to fill the apartment with its delicious aroma with the wine open and breathing, he heard her knock at the door.

Stepping over to let her inside, he smiled as he opened the door. Whatever she was going to say died on her lips as she looked at the apron he wore.

“Wh… what?” She said her eyebrows going up.

“Step inside and you’ll see that what the apron says is true; Something Smells GOOD,” he said, extending his arm to bring her inside with a smile. She sighed, but allowed him to pull her in and help remove her coat.

“It does smell good in here,” she said, staring at his apron and then at him. “Have you seriously been cooking? Really?” He grinned with a nod. She stared at him in disbelief and he motioned to the kitchen.

She walked into the kitchen and he followed, wanting to see her expression. As she looked around, at the knives, cutting Board, and oven mitts, she raised her eyebrows, smiling in surprise.

“Impressed?” he asked, and she looked at his apron again and nodded with a smile. “Wine?” He poured them each a glass and they sat at the table as they waited for the food to finish cooking.

“So, you’ve become a chef the past few weeks? Mulder, you just keep opening like a flower,” she teased and he chuckled as he took a drink.

“Not exactly a chef, but I have learned to cook a few dishes.”

“How many have you burned?” she said, her eyebrow up, the wine glass and her lips. He raised his eyebrows and she smiled.

“Agent Scully, you wound me,” he said, a hand on his heart. She laughed and he went to her.

They continued to talk about nothing as they waited for the dinner to be ready. When the timer went off, she followed him into the kitchen to watch him take the dish from the oven.

“Well, well,” she said, crossing her arms. “It actually looks edible.” He looked at her with an expression of mock hurt and she laughed.

When it had cooled down, he served up their meal and brought it to her as she sat at the table. He nervously waited and watched as she took her first bite. Surprise, shock, and happiness crossed her face. She smiled and he nodded as he began to eat.

When they had finished and the last bit of wine was all that remained, she stared at him and he knew a question was formulating in her mind. She sighed as she glanced down at his apron again and then she laughed softly.

“That apron, Mulder…” She looked at him and he looked down at it. “What gives?”

“An impulse purchase and false advertising if I had failed, so I had something to aspire to,” he explained and she raised her eyebrows in appreciation. “Plus, you know, it protects my clothes from the day when I will inevitably spill something on it, as aprons do.” He smiled at her with a wink and she chuckled with a nod as they finished their wine.

When she stood a few minutes later, claiming it was late and she should be going, he stood with her.

“Scully, I know this has been a rough time for us. I wanted to say thanks, and this meal seemed like a great way to do it. So thanks… for putting up with me, going along on the off the book trips, and for just being there.”

“Since when have we been completely “on the books” with our trips?” she asked with a smile, as she grabbed her coat and put it on, buttoning it up and staring at him.

“True. To a point,” he said with a shrug. “Still, thank you.” He touched her shoulder and she nodded.

“Well you’re welcome, Mulder,” she said, opening the door. “Thank you for the meal, which was very good, and especially for the fun that the apron brought to the evening.” She smirked and he laughed as she stepped into the hall and turned around with a smile.

“Good night, Mulder.”

“Night, Scully,” he replied and she chuckled softly, walking to the elevator.

Stepping back inside, he closed the door and took off his apron. He laid it over his arm as he picked up the plates and glasses. He hung up the apron and washed the dishes. Turning off the kitchen light, he grinned as he glanced at the apron.

__________________

“Now, um I know we said we weren’t going to exchange gifts, but, uh… I got you a little something,” he said, holding up her gift.

“Mulder,” she said.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Well, I got you a little something too.” She held up her gift and he happily exchanged with her. They grinned at each other and ran to the couch to open them.

As she untied the bows, meticulous even in how she opened gifts, he paused, wanting to watch her as she opened it. Catching his eye as a ribbon was set down, she raised her eyebrows, silently asking him a question.

“I just… hope you like it,” he said with a smile.

“Now I’m a little nervous,” she said as she ripped off the paper. He smiled as she looked down as the paper fell away.

“What… What is this?” She took the top off the plastic tube and pulled out what was inside. Unrolling it, she turned it around and laughed.

“Mulder…” was all she could say before she stood up, placed it over her head, and turned toward him. “This is hilarious.”

He grinned as she stood wearing the black apron that was similar to his own white one. Except hers was slightly different as it read “Something Smells Goo-ood” in big, white block letters.

“You bought us matching aprons?” she giggled as she looked at him and he shrugged with a smile. “Mulder, this was not at all what I had pictured would be inside of that gift. Oh my God! Open yours!”

She laughed and clapped as she sat down beside him. the apron strings billowing behind her. “Open it!”

He grinned and opened it, tearing the wrapping paper, and throwing it on the coffee table. Flipping it over, he laughed as he looked at the title of the video tape she bought for him.

“Cooking is Easy,” he read out loud and she laughed, grabbing his arm. He looked at her and he laughed again.

“I thought it was funny, but now it’s even better,” she laughed as she gestured to the apron. “I mean, this is either really funny or I’m just super tired.” She pulled the apron out and looked at it, laughing again. She looked at him and he winked as he stood up and walked over to the VCR. He opened the tape she bought, pushed it inside, and turned on the television.

He joined her on the couch as he grabbed the remote. Turning up the volume, they sat together as an overly happy woman began to explain how easy cooking could be.

Scully giggled beside him and he glanced at her with a smile as she wore his silly gift. She moved a little closer to him and put her head on his shoulder, as she mocked the happy tone of the woman on screen.

“This video is so much better than I had imagined,” she laughed. “I’ll have to have you come over for dinner now, Mulder. My apron has something to prove.”

She yawned with a little moan, shifting her head on his shoulder. He smiled as she did, happy that she had not hated the gift at all. In fact, she seemed to enjoy it.

He glanced over at the window and saw that the promise of a white Christmas had arrived. Smiling at the drastically different way the evening could have ended, he rested his head on hers, closing his eyes as he let the happy cheery voice on the video, explaining how to add water to a pot, lull them both to sleep.

#xf fanfic #msr #fluff #happy fluff #cooking a thank you meal #learning to cook #thanksgiving #christmas

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nagdabbit · 4 years

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lamp-bright rind Food Masterlist

Hello! I am Daggs! I write things and stuff!

Currently, I write a fic over on Ao3 called lamp-bright rind where everything is soft and I work out my feelings on an unsuspecting Billy Hargrove, because that’s just what’s happening while I’m stuck at home.

I thought it might be fun (and because I reeeeeaaallllllyy need something else to take up time, I’m going bonkers here) to like make a master list of all the recipe/food references in the fic? Because it’s a lot. My roommates can’t get out to get ingredients to feed me and I’m going through withdrawal. And, also, I really fucking love food. I can’t cook for shit, but I can eat like a mother fucker.

So with each chapter I’m gonna update this with where I got the recipes and link to them if they’re online or if my roommates let me give out their recipes that I have stolen (with permission, of course!). I’ll put a link at the top of each chapter, too. So. Here we go!

Chapter 1

This is a recipe from one of my roommates--henceforth known as Roommate Senior--and it is the most comfort food ass shit, y’all. I DO NOT have permission to give out the entire recipe for the sauce, only the ingredients that are included in the chapter. There are a few bits that I had to leave out, but not including them won’t actually ruin the dish, or so she says. Senior also does something else to her trofie because she’s just Like That. But, homemade trofie is my favourite pasta, y’all.

Here is a recipe from Italian Food Forever if you wanna give it a go. If you don’t feel like making your own pasta, because that shit takes time, The Chef recommends getting gnocchi. Something soft and starchy, basically. She also recommends: Delallo Roasted Red Peppers in Olive Oil. It’s a pretty common brand, apparently.

Chapter 2

1. This is my grandma’s Chicken Noodle Soup. So this is what we always had at Christmas time because it makes A Whole Ass Lot. And looking back, I think I definitely underestimated the amount of water/broth needed. This is one of three (3) things I can actually, competently cook IRL. Which explains why I work out as much as I do, because Reames noodles, y’all.

2. Jasmine Tea Panna Cotta from Madeline Effect. Never had it but, 1) Shiiiit is it pretty; 2) I love jasmine tea; and, 3) I fucking love plums, y’all.

3. Popcorn Ice Cream with Caramelized Popcorn and Black Pepper from page 263-5 of the NOPI cookbook by Yotam Ottolenghi and Ramael Scully. My other roommate--henceforth known as Roommate Junior--made this once and I just. I don’t even like popcorn, and I still think about that. The recipe itself isn’t online anywhere that I can find in full, but here is an Eat You Books link for the basic ingredients.

4. Raspberry Tart. This is a lesson in bookmarks. I SWEAR TO GOD, this came from Felicity Spector’s instagram, probably very far back. You’re gonna see her name pop up a lot on this list because I just love her instagram. So anyway. I have a very vivid memory of seeing a small little raspberry tart with pillowy clouds of whipped lemon verbena ganache. I know I saw it SOMEWHERE, but now I cannot find it. Learn from me. Bookmark your shit when you find it.

Chapter 3

A lot of the food I’m gonna mention is in reference to my favourite restaurant. It’s called Bourbon & Baker and my aunt takes me every time I visit. I don’t even care how long the drive there is, I’m there for the foooooooood (and her puppy, but that’s not the point). Funnily enough, the used to have a sister location in Chicago! Anyway, this is kind of what I’m basing Billy & Robin’s restaurant off of.

Currently, because of the You Know What, the menu on their site is pared down for To Go orders only, but I’m gonna use an old one I still have on my phone to give you an idea of the kind of food they serve, but also because I’m going through withdrawal.

1. Brussel sprouts. This, for the reason mentioned in the fic (blight), was removed from their menu before the last time I went, so this is gonna be mostly from memory: Roasted brussel sprouts (they were chopped p small and roasted til crispy), with toasted pecans, with a maple, brown sugar and balsamic vinegar glaze, and topped with shaved parm. Christ I miss those. Senior does a pretty good remix, but I think about those all the time.

2. Lamb Belly Tacos. So fucking goooooood. For size reference, it’s two street-style sized tacos. From the menu: Poblano chimichurri, crispy lamb belly, flour tortillas, Cojita cheese, pickled red onion, sunflower shoots, lime-mint tzatziki, cashew crumble.

3. Duck Tacos. This is a go-to for me. Like, if they take it off the menu, I will riot. From the menu: Citrus chile marinade, chargrilled, flour tortillas, Manchego cheese, spicy green-onion hoisin sauce, arugula, heirloom tomato relish.

4. Smoked Salmon. Here’s the trick. Get the salmon, keep 1-2 of the toasted breadsticks and use them to sop up the last of the Duck Taco juice. That’s the money. From the menu: Dill cream cheese, fried avocado, caper-red onion relish, lemon balsamic, arugula, toasted baguette.

5. The Waffle Thing. Okay. This is another thing they took off the menu before my last visit and I nearly DID riot. It sounds like there wasn’t nearly enough demand for it, which is a shame because it’s hecking incredible. From memory: a stack of orange zest waffles (1/4 wedges, so it was just one small/medium waffle divided and stacked) with sweet mascarpone, crispy prosciutto, maple syrup and a gooey ball of dates and pistachios.

6. “shrimp--” This was gonna be Shrimp & Grits. From the menu: Andouille grits, spinach collard greens, gulf chrimp, Cajun BBQ cashew cream.

ALSO on the menu this chapter, GRILLED CHEESES.

1. THE SOUP. I based it on this Smoky Tomato Soup from two peas & their pod.

2. Red Rock Cheddar & Gruyere. This is kinda based on the grilled cheese from B&B, except I just really like sourdough more than brioche. But that’s me. Red Rock Cheddar is a very specific kind of cheddar. It’s SUPER orange and also a blue cheese? It’s great. Creamy cheddar-like taste, but a hint of blue. Here’s a little thing about it if you’re curious.

3. Pumpernickel, ham, cheese. It’s basically this recipe from Finlandia Cheese, only Junior made it with pumpernickel once and it fucked me up. So good.

4. Onion, Mayo, Gouda. This is a Senior recipe. The closest IRL I can find is this from redbook mag. She, because she is just Like That, does something extra to her onions, but she confirmed that this recipe would be close enough to taste p good. Just switch in gouda for the cheese and put mayo INSIDE the sammich. I saw that some people put in on the outside instead of butter, and y’all need jesus. *shudder*

5. Toad in the hole. A midwest staple, but here is a recipe from Taste of Home if your family isn’t into dying early from a heart attack. In my head, Billy cooked the egg over hard, or at least NOT gooey, but that’s just for the mess. Obv it would be over easy/sunny in the restaurant. Obvs.

And there we have it! All the food from the first three chapters. Join me next time for more Daggs Loves Food and Really Misses Fresh Veggies, JFC.

Now, how should I tag this.

#stranger things fanfiction #billy/steve #fic: lamp-bright rind #lamp-bright rind #lamp bright rind

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frangipanidownunder · 5 years

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Fox Mulder’s Guide to Building a Pool: part 1

A/N This is in answer to an anon prompt: Mulder builds a pool in the yard. It ran away from me so I’ll post it in two parts.

This is set post IWTB and assumes Season 10 didn’t happen. Because it shouldn’t have, am I right? Angsty to start with.

Summer He started one night, when the moon hung low and the stars were pegged out haphazardly in the midnight sky. His mind and his heart hadn’t stopped racing for hours, as though he were filled with cosmic energy. Outside, in flannel and old jeans, scuffed and muddied boots, he picked up the old shovel propped against the side of the rickety shed and dug until his fingers froze around the splintered handle, until the blisters on his palms burst, until the disquiet in his gut diffused.

It was supposed to be a vegetable patch but by the time the dawn broke through, he realised it was in the wrong spot – shaded by the house and in the area of the land where the ground was rubbly and dry. The fertile patch was on the other side of the property, where the trees shed their leaves and mulched the earth naturally.

If there was anything Mulder was known for, it was his tenacity. Scully once told him he’d use a backhoe to dig for the truth. Well now he’d dug a ditch with a shovel and he was going to make something of it. As he massaged the pain from each knuckle he surveyed his night’s work. The sun’s rays hit the turned earth like laser beams, and he had an epiphany. A swimming pool. He was building a swimming pool. A white whale, the truth or a swimming pool. What did it matter as long as it was something he believed in? And just for a moment, in that warm spotlight, the dried out flower of hope bloomed in his chest.

The summer was long, dry and hot. So hot the tarmac melted on the roads, his tomato plants frizzled to brown and he lost his appetite for everything bar an ice-cold beer on the verandah after a day of digging. His routine was solid, despite the meteorological obstructions. He rose early, napped during the day, and worked through mosquito-filled twilights. In his downtime, he googled construction methods, materials, liners, water collection, filtration. On most days, he imagined himself ploughing through the water on warm evenings and chilly mornings, muscles burning, lungs protesting, body thrumming. On good days, he imagined Scully sitting under a shade umbrella sipping lemonade and reluctantly agreeing to take a dip with him, her lithe body pressed against his as they waltzed through the water together. On really good days, he imagined William paddling about in water wings, and squealing as daddy jumped in too close and made a big splish-splosh.

Scully arrived one afternoon, late. She hadn’t visited in a while, he hadn’t made his customary Sunday night call for…he couldn’t actually remember and when he saw the thunderous look on her face, he realised he hadn’t charged his phone for days.

“Didn’t you check your messages, Mulder? I lost count of how many I left. Your machine probably reached its limit.”

Rubbing the back of his neck with a towel, he looked over at the flashing red light and a pang of guilt twinged under his ribs. “I’ve been busy, Scully.” He thought she’d be pleased. That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? To get him out of his office and back into the real world. Whatever that meant. They’d both seen the real world with its edges peeled back and its slimy, slithering insides exposed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to prod that beast anymore. She’d already turned away from that darkness and found her shining light under the fluorescent gaze of God in Our Lady of Sorrows.

She looked him up and down with doctor’s eyes. The cold blue gaze causing a shiver to creep down his spine and he had to look away. Her ability to see right through him, past his calloused skin and into the sinewy mass of his body always unsteadied him. She was appraising his physical health and his mental wellbeing. He straightened his shoulders, brushed a clump of mud from his sleeve and offered her a drink.

“Chilled water will be fine,” she said. “I’m driving.”

Well, he knew that. How else would she get here? But more importantly, where else did she have to be. She was dressed sharply, not for the hospital. Something about the lower neckline and the softer palette made his brain wander places he didn’t want to go.

“I’m sorry if I’ve put you out,” he said, emptying ice into the glass and wondering where he put that lemon.

“It’s no bother, Mulder, to come here. You should know that. It’s just that I get…”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said, and not so long ago he would have laid a hand over her shoulder or collected her hand in his. Instead, he looked at her and smiled, trying to soften that cool scrutiny. “I’m doing okay.” He didn’t add despite you leaving.

She looked down at her shoes – shiny beige courts with a high heel. He could see her reflection in them. The mouth closing in relief, or maybe irritation. She chuffed. “If you’re going to tell me you’re a big boy, Mulder…”

Palms up in surrender, he shook his head, cracked open a soda.

“Mulder, you shouldn’t drink…”

“I know about the dangers of too much sugar, Scully, I’m a big boy.”

He showed her his work. She trod carefully over the dry earth, held her cross as she surveyed. He had a sudden longing to see her in a white vest dampened with sweat, cuffed denim shorts, heavy work boots, digging alongside him.

“And this is going to be a pool?”

“Can’t you see it? Long lazy evenings dipping our toes, sipping gin cocktails as we swat away bugs, brisk morning swims to shuck off those pains au chocolat?” He saw her then, zinc strips over her cheeks and shoulders, straw hat pulled over a lazy ponytail, sunglasses perched on her nose, lowering herself in.

“Mulder, I don’t…”

His chest burnt, like his lungs had crumpled in the storm of a wildfire. He took the handle of the shovel and chopped at the edge of the hole.

“It’s a nice spot,” she said, after a moment gazing out to the horizon. “It’ll be quite something.”

“When I finish,” he added.

Fall

Amber leaves danced on a shimmying breeze, some floating to the ground in theatrical zig-zags. On the other side of the house, the digging was complete. He’d hired an excavator in the end, his knees and back creaking for weeks to remind him of his advancing years and his inability to do everything alone. He’d hired a contractor to remove the dirt and ordered the steel bars for the frame. Scully came by more of

en, intrigued, as she put it, to see how the pool project was coming along. She called to say she was coming Sunday afternoon and would he mind if she stayed a bit longer? He spent all Friday in a mania of dusting and filing and wiping down surfaces. Nesting, they called it. He patted his belly and shook his head. He was becoming quite ridiculous; DIYing and getting giddy when his ex promised to drop by.

In the cupboard next to the stove, he found a stack of old cookbooks, dogeared pages and horrific images of antiquated dishes like jellied salads and ham and banana hollandaise that viewed more like one of Scully’s X-Files autopsies. Amongst them was a treasured find. Betty Crocker’s New Picture Cookbook – a book his mother had used religiously. Grease marks and flour crusted over the pages of cakes. He zipped out to the supermarket and picked up the ingredients he would need and set about baking.

His cake was a simple vanilla sponge but he enjoyed the science of the task, the weights and measures, the timing, the temperature control – the very precision of it all. As he watched it rise, he recalled childhood birthdays, where his mother toiled away for hours icing, sculpting edges, piping, creating dreams. There were castles and race-cars and trains and poodles. Parties were ended with the ceremonial cutting and handing out of slices to guests. He had always felt special those days. But after Samantha’s abduction, she stopped the tradition. She bought shop-baked cakes, refused him parties, spent his birthday barely tolerating the day and Samantha’s sipping brandy.

By the time Scully arrived, tea was steeping, the table was set with tea-cups and saucers, side plates, and the iced cake stood on an elegant glass platter that held it above the timber surface.

“What’s all this?” she asked, hanging her bag off the back of the chair. “Is the Queen coming over?”

He poured her tea. The colour of it in the white porcelain cup reminded him of her hair against the pillow slip of their bed. “I hope not. She only likes Black Forest Gateau and you didn’t leave any jars of maraschinos.” She laughed softly, just like she would laugh with him during cosy evenings on the couch, rolling her fingers over his bicep, planting sweet kisses along his jawline. Back when it was just them against the world. Not them against the world and then each other.

“The colour is like those Caribbean island beaches,” she said, dotting her finger into the icing on her slice. “Azure.”

Her tongue licked at the sweet blue paste and he wanted to say he chose it because it was like her eyes, that that was what he missed so hard, so deeply, he wanted to say that he was sorry. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her, this simple act of eating that had him enthralled. God, he loved having her over from him, setting her plate just right, pouring the exact amount of granola, spooning whatever yoghurt she was into over the cereal, slicing banana while reading the newspaper. He couldn’t say anything though. All the best words lumped in his throat, as though they were overbeaten and curdled.

Instead, he said, “When Samantha was six, mom made her this cake with blue jello on the top that was supposed to be a swimming pool. I don’t know, I just had this mad rush of nostalgia, finding all those cookbooks and remembering how good it used to be.” He looked up and she was staring at him. “Back then, back home.”

“How’s it going?” she replied, changing the mood in three words. “The pool?”

It was windy again and leaves tumbled across the yard, collected in the gutter, in the drains, against the fences.

“It’s protected from the wind on that side, so I won’t have to keep cleaning out the foliage. The pump should be in soon. Then I’ll organise for the concrete pour, before the weather really turns.”

Her hands were stuffed in her jacket pockets, and she’d hunched her shoulders against the chill. He should phone the concreters tomorrow. Get it done. The tip of her nose turned pink.

“Let’s go back inside,” he said.

“Why concrete, Mulder? Why not fibre glass or a vinyl liner?”

He shrugged as she walked past him and his eyes settled on her hair, falling down her back, unkempt from the wind. She smoothed it down, rubbed her hands together, sat back at her seat and took another slice of cake.

“With a more solid foundation,” he said, “it should last longer.”

#txf fanfic #my fanfiction #fictober #msr angst #to be continued

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gaycrouton · 4 years

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Getting to Know You! I was tagged by @scullys-laughter and @postmodernpromartheus💗

Top 5 Ships:

1) Mulder and Scully (The X-Files)

2) Carol and Daryl (The Walking Dead)

3) Jean and Jakob (Sex Education)

4) Angela and Dwight (The Office)

5) Monk and Natalie (Monk)

Last Song:

Idioteque by Radiohead

Last Movie:

Emma (2020)

Currently Reading:

Fanfic:Culmination by @admiralty-xfd

Fiction: The Home-Maker by Dorothy Canfield

Non Fiction: Antoni’s Cookbook from Queer Eye

What food are you craving right now:

Not a food, but Diet Dr. Pepper lolol

Tagging: @admiralty-xfd @peacenik0 @absolutetosh @slippinmickeys @viceversawrites

#i love these things!#thank you for the tag!

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huntersprayer · 4 years

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@xkatarite: ‘ cats are very pickupable and i think that was a really good choice on their part. ’ (~Ethan)

Ersken looks over from where he’s sitting, the uncommon Seattle sunlight filtering through the skylight as he flips through his newest cookbook acquisition. from where he’s sprawled, he can see Scully curled around the other’s hand almost adorably & it brings a small smile to his lips. ‘ that one especially, ’ he warns with teasing candor. ‘ she’ll very much never let you put her DOWN now that she knows you’ll carry her like that. spoiled thing, that one. all of them, really. ’

#xkatarite #getting harder & harder to keep the words to myself || answered asks #(v.) melancholy waters // main.#five shots of espresso & a bullet || interactions #q.

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leiascully · 5 years

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Could you write some things that make 2019 Scully happy?

Her daughter and her son. Her husband. Her stolen dog.

Queer Eye on Netflix. It does make her cry, though.

Audiobooks and podcasts for when she’s nursing. She likes to listen to the true crime ones, even though it’s a little too much like work and she worries the tiniest amount that it will traumatize her little one.

She’s taken up baking bread and she finds it really soothing. She has several bread cookbooks that she’s baking her way through.

Drinking the occasional glass of wine curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace with Mulder.

Unraveling the newest iteration of global conspiracy.

Working on her book about cryptobiology.

Cherry blossoms by the Potomac.

The proliferation of food delivery and the incredible variety of restaurants in DC.

Stationery stores. She likes to buy journals even though she knows she won’t use them. The paper feels nice under her fingers.

The fact that they have enough money that she could quit her job if she wanted. She doesn’t want to quit. She just likes the option.

The idea that some day she won’t have to be stressing out about preschool admissions and she can move on to high school or college admissions.

Bath bombs from Lush. While she couldn’t take baths after the birth, everything else from Lush. The way Mulder looks at her when she smooths a face mask on. The way her lotion smells on him.

The quietness of the country at night.

#my fic sort of

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tatooedlaura-blog · 6 years

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The Madness of Punch

the series read as follows:

Superman … Monday … Cheezy Pouffs … Bacon … Stumbling … Trail Mix … Punch … Friday … Preparation … Uncle Mudler … Normal … Backseat … Mudler-sense … The FBI … Unthinkable … Patience … Elephant Jokes … Cooking … Rickety Tables … Mr. Skimmer … Bert and Ernie … Midnight Confessions … The Moon … Bright Sunshine … Graying Skies … Darkened Night … Possibilities … A Thing with You … Humming and Thrumming ... Warped Cosmology

@today-in-fic

____________

MRI taken, fish fed, email answered, thumbs twiddled, Mulder phoned, brain picked by aforementioned phone call, groceries shopped for and mother retrieved, they headed to the appointment.

An hour later, they settled in the car, quiet for a moment before Maggie spoke ...

amusement lacing every word that followed, “so, basically, you have polyps in your sinuses and vigorous sex will break the blood vessels in your nasal cavity?”

This was possibly worse than when she innocently asked her mother, after hearing Bill talking to one of his friends, what 69’ing was, “I should have left you in the car.”

“Oh, no, dear. Then I would have nothing to share at the card party Thursday.”

“Don’t make me make you walk home.”

Maggie moved her hand to Scully’s arm, squeezing it tightly, “honey, believe me when I say I am overjoyed to hear that the worse things you have are fatty growths and too much sex.” Moving on, she clicked her seatbelt, “now, do you think we have time for milkshakes before you need to leave for the airport?”

Key in ignition, dignity thrown out the window, Scully grinned the grin of someone with fatty growths and too much sex, “plenty of time.”

&&&&&&&&&&

Mulder collapsed into guffawing giggles that left him gasping for air, “oh … good … God … shit, I can’t breathe … I would have given almost anything to have seen that.”

She shoved his feet over to make room so she could sit on the already creaking bed, “it was an experience but who really cares as long as that’s what it is. I’ll get the polyps taken care of when we get back and we’ll just have to have less vessel-breaking sex in the future.”

This sent him right back into laughter the likes of which finally had her putting her hand over his mouth, trying to get him to shut up given it was after 11pm local time and they were going to get thrown out of the dump that was ‘MeadowLodge Suits: Drive up, sleep in, get out’ if they didn’t quiet down. Yawning while she waited for him to calm, “by the way, I like that you didn’t even attempt to get two rooms, then lie about sharing.”

“Skinner isn’t an idiot. He’ll keep it quiet though and Dennis down in billing has been asking about us for years so he’ll shut up as well. Why waste money when we don’t have to?”

“Then why didn’t we stay at a better hotel with all this money we’re going to save?”

Mulder looked around the aesthetically unappealing mustard yellow décor, “what? You don’t like this?”

Moving to pull on pajamas, “just once, you’re going to let me book the hotel.” Once dressed, Mulder watching intently the whole 30 second process, she returned to the bed, “give me the five minute rundown, please.”

&&&&&&&&&

Case done by the following Monday afternoon, Skinner shipped them to Wyoming, mosquitoes the size of Scully eating her alive while they tramped the outskirts of Yellowstone, looking for a bank robber attempting to hide in the woods. At least this time, Mulder didn’t mention a nice trip to the forest.

As an aside, they traveled over the Old Faithful and shared a pizza in view of the geyser, Mulder, for what it was worth, snapping a picture of the top of the spout so he could show people how tall it was. Scully looked at him until he cracked, “what? I want to see just how many people give me that look before they either laugh me into oblivion or gently correct me in what they hope is the nicest voice possible.”

“You’re special, Mulder, you know that?”

Ringing his arm around her neck, he smiled as he kissed her temple, “just ‘cause I’ve got you.”

&&&&&&&&&

And suddenly it was the end of July, Skinner finally letting them home after varying degrees of cases and assholes and scary type fellows. Walking into Mulder’s apartment, he dropped their bags to the ground and turned to her, “it’s Thursday, Scully.”

“It is Thursday.”

“You know what Thursday is.”

“The day after Wednesday, last I checked.”

He could give her the Look like nobody’s business and she loved it, “I need some Punch.”

Shaking her head, she moved towards the bathroom, “call Mom and see when the festivities are happening.”

And he did and it was good.

In less than an hour, after a quick shower together and some general fooling around, which they had chosen not to do while on cases, they pulled up to Maggie’s, Mulder rushing up the walk and inside, leaving Scully behind to lock the car and be amused.

She found him breathing deeply the scent of homemade cooking and motherly love, grinning like the proverbial idiot. Maggie was already walking slowly towards the pair, boots gone, braces on, crutches present. Mulder hugged her the moment he could, Scully following soon after, “how are the ankles?”

Looking at her daughter, “it feels strange and I’m nervous without the boots but the end is in sight and that’s something.”

All moving into the kitchen, the ladies greeted them as if returning from a three-month long expedition, Betty going as far as declaring how much they’ve grown since they last saw them. Scully hugged her, “Mulder needs punch.”

With a grin, “we already have two glasses ready and places for you at the table.”

Mulder studied the seating arrangement, “why are we not next to each other?”

Janet, piping in as she shuffled Roswell cards courtesy of Mulder’s kitschy souvenir binge on vacation, “because, from what I recall, the punch makes her floppy and we need someone who can handle their liquor to catch her.” Pointing the deck at him, “that, my friend, is not you.”

He really couldn’t argue.

&&&&&&&&&&

Scully was asleep on the table by 9:18pm, head resting comfortably on the wood surface, the game happening around her, Lillian tucking her hair out of the way whenever it drifted across the playing area.

Mulder, on the other hand, somehow managed to hold total punch annihilation at bay even though total inebriation still occurred, his plan of one gulp of water for every two sips of punch failing miserably. His tongue was blue as midnight, which he continually shared roughly every 5 minutes and Betty, beside him, had to keep gently nudging his cards closer to his chest so the entire table, at least, couldn’t see them. When that round had finished, she turned to him, “Fox, would you like some more pie?”

With an enthusiastic nod, he moved to get it himself but Maggie held his arm while Betty retrieved the dessert. Thanking everyone at the table for their part in pie presentation, he took his first bite, waving his fork in Maggie’s direction, “she makes the best pies.”

Maggie caught the fork before it went in her eye, returning it and the attached hand to the table, “Janet made this one.”

“Then Janet makes the best pies, too.” Another bite later, “Scully doesn’t like pie. I don’t understand. I mean, she keeps trying pies but she just doesn’t like them. I’ve tried her with apple pie and cherry pie and peach pie and pumpkin pie and chocolate pie and I mean, my God, the amount of pie I’ve wasted on that woman is astounding. Peanut butter pie and blueberry pie and every time, she just takes a bite and looks like she’s gonna die and then slides it over to me to finish.” Turning towards Maggie again with the fork, “what did you do to her as a child? Did you force feed her rhubard pie or mincemeat or something? How could you raise a kid who doesn’t like pie?” Maggie tried to answer, defend her dessert choices for the past 34 years but never got past taking in a breath before he plowed ahead, re-addressing the table, Scully’s prone head and the air in general, “I love pie. Any kind of pie. My sister Sam used to make pretend pie and she always knew I’d eat it ‘cause she called it pie. She’d serve it up in her tea set, make me sit in that damn little chair and scoop up forkfuls of fake pie. At least she’d serve fake ice tea with it so that was something. She would line up her stuffed animals and dolls and just go down the line, feeding everybody pretend pie and pretend cookies and fake cake … once she made a pretend pot roast for us but then took it away ‘cause she said she’d accidently burned it and it tasted funny.” Taking a deeper swig of his Punch, “she stopped having her tea parties about a year before she disappeared but even on that last day, that afternoon, before we had the fight about the TV and before she floated in the air, she made a real pie for me … she made it with Oreos she’d smashed up and pressed into a pie pan and put frosting on as filling. She cut it and served it and brought me a glass of ice tea and told me she’d make me real pies from now on because she was going to be a chef and learn how to make all the pies for real so she’d always have something I’d like to eat.”

The table, right down the line, Maggie, Janet, Lillian, Betty, Ellie and Ruth, all had to fight various stages of sighs and sympathy, all wanting to hug Mulder tightly, all wanting to make the life of their Fox better.

He didn’t notice any of it, fork feeding himself another mouthful, “I think she would have been a good cook. She loved reading cookbooks. She’d get up on a stool when our mother was gone and study the buttons and dials on the stove, look inside the oven, make me come explain to her how the gas to the burners worked. She is irritating as hell sometimes but for a little sister, she’s not too bad.”

No one corrected his present tense usage for his long-gone sibling but Ellie quietly scooted his cup away as he continued, “I think that when Scully and I have a kid, I’ll buy her a tea set and explain the stove to her, feed her all kinds of pretend pie and see if maybe she wants to be a chef.” Aiming for the third time at an astonished Maggie, “you’ll have to teach her how to make meatloaf and pie and lasagna but,” swinging the fork around to Betty, “you will not be teaching her how to make the Punch. You will make the Punch and I will drink the Punch but even when she gets to be 40 or 80 years old, she will never be old enough to see the Punch.”

Looking around at the women, he grinned a blue-tooth smile, “why are we not playing? Did I win?” Glancing from the fork in his hand to the near empty plate in front of him, “I like pie.”

Twenty minutes later and after another piece of pie, sans diatribe, Mulder gave into annihilation, entire body dropping slowly against Betty, his last words being, “I should get Scully home to bed.”

Betty, supporting his dead weight admirably, gestured for assistance and soon, FoxNDana were both snoring peacefully on the table. Maggie took them both in, her glance sliding between, then to her cohorts, “how should we get them somewhere to sleep for the night?”

Studying the situation, Ellie suggested they start with Mulder. It took all of them to get him up, move him, pull down the sheets on the adjacent bedroom, lay him down, set an hopefully unnecessary wastebasket by the side of the mattress, be amused by his arm searching for Scully.

Returning to the kitchen, they expected to move Scully next but instead, found her sitting up in her chair, tears evident on her cheeks, the saddest look on her face they’d ever seen. Maggie held still on her crutches, “Dana?”

Scully sniffed hard, swiping her cheeks but not answering until Maggie asked when she’d woken up, if everything was okay, to which she finally responded, “I woke up when you asked him if he wanted pie.”

The ladies had a concrete-enough, vague notion of Scully’s personal life, complete with abduction, infertility and gunshot scars to collectively and quietly gather bags and shoes, calling hushed goodbyes while Scully sat there, guilt-laden at having chased away her mother’s friends with her insanity. Once the front door shut and Maggie returned to her, Scully waited for the inevitable, ‘what’s wrong’ but instead received a gently hand to her back and a quiet, “did you know he wanted to have a daughter with you?”

#msr #samantha #the truth behind the punch #diatribes about pie #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #My writing #Life part 2 series

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