This is a list of all my TXF fic. Since I never actually posted this when these were going around, uh, here it is now? I am vaguely afraid that after tonight I will be too angry to ever post it.
- Word counts are approximate.
- POV is marked when there's only one point of view.
- Ratings are, as always, subjective. The worst things you're likely to find in my fics are the F-bomb and some innuendo.
There is a special bonus horror feature at the bottom of the list 😬
Before the internet/my whole heart collapses tonight, HERE WE GO
All over the place (stories spanning multiple seasons)
if the fates allow // wc: 4000 // pov: Mulder // fluff & angst & christmas // T
if i am hopeful // wc: 6000 // pov: Scully // episode tags // T
the son you always had // wc: 9700 // pov: William // angst, kidfic, AU // T
Season 2
things you said (while we were driving) // wc: 600 // pov: Scully // episode tag (Red Museum) // G
Season 3
Impossible If // wc: 1700 // pov: Mulder // episode tag (Wetwired) // G
*Just for One Dance // wc: 3400 // pov: Mulder // the dumbest fluff // T
Season 5
every day // wc: 400 // pov: Scully // episode tag (Redux II) // G
Fault Lines // wc: 1700 // pov: Scully // episode tag (Detour) // G
save yourself // wc: 600 // pov: Mulder // angst // G
the movie version // wc: 1300 // pov: Mulder // angst // T + TW for self-harm to be on the safe side
Season 10
Pumpkin Spice and Everything Nice // wc: 500 // pov: Scully // fluff // G
The Origin of the Universe // wc: 2600 // pov: Scully // angst // T
The Sea That Has Become Known // wc: 3200 // angst // T
Post-Season 10 (all AU before the finale)
Cubs in Seven // wc: 500 // pov: Mulder // fluff // G
*something old/something new // wc: 1300 // pov: Mulder // fluff // T
*A Pretty Good Investigator // wc: 8000 // kidfic, an actual plot kind of? // T
Season 11
beochaoineadh // wc: 2100 // angst // G
Sufficiently AU as to be out of the timeline
untitled // wc: 500 // “Scully moved to Utah” AU // G
then the bomb // wc: 32000 // apocalypse-fic, kidfic // strong T for violence
radio nowhere // wc: 38000 // apocalypse-fic, kidfic, sequel to "then the bomb" // strong T for violence
SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE
Sooooo a while back I mentioned that I’d found a childhood fic on Gossamer. I was 11, and this fic is a horror show. It has SO MANY ellipses. Also it is a songfic of a song written by my next-door neighbor, though I deny that for some reason?!?! I feel like the song was inspired by “One Sweet Day”, which we listened to A LOT in the mid-90s. We had, like, an interpretive dance for it. Also I love that my pen name was “Calista Johnston”, because that is the fakest shit I’ve ever heard. (Sorry if that’s your name.) Anyway it’s here, and I’m dead now.
edit: added a * for stories that (IIRC) never made it onto Tumblr
You guys I just gave away (via a Facebook free box group, natch) a pile of old X-Files magazines, newspaper clippings etc to a young person who seemed so excited to have them. I could not be more thrilled. The next generation is here
thinking a lot of about all of the dystopian stories I've written and read, as ICE sprays tear gas next to elementary school playgrounds, beats up my neighbors, arrests our alderpeople. helicopters circling. I live under the flight path for the airport so I like to sit on my roof and track the planes. the helicopters all say n/a n/a n/a, their destinations secret (to go zip-tie more pajama-clad children?). the beaches are quiet. the streets are quiet, until they're not. my neighbors write "find courage" on the sidewalk in rainbow chalk and I am trying, we are all trying.
years ago, last time, I wrote "it's not going to happen fast" and I think back then I believed that.
it's an eighty-five degree day in october and I am sitting on my roof, I am counting my blessings, I am remembering the wisdom of Julian of Norwich. all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well, and for a long time I thought it was a promise but now I think it was a command.
stay safe. protect your students, protect your neighbors. find courage. all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
I am a daughter of immigrants. I am a teacher, I am a writer. I am queer, I am Christian, I am always in mourning and I am always in hope. I am holding all of these things at once.
I’m United Methodist, a denomination with a strong tradition of sacred music, and that music has shaped me — continues to shape me. As a kid my favorite hymn was “This Is My Song,” to the tune better known as “Finlandia.” It was originally a poem by Lloyd Stone; the version in many hymnals, including my own, includes an additional verse by pioneering Methodist theologian Georgia Harkness. While she is an important part of the history of my church, it’s not her verse, I think, that most speaks to us.
The version that I sang, that most of us know, goes like this:
This is my song, O God of all the nations,
a song of peace for lands afar and mine;
this is my home, the country where my heart is;
here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine:
but other hearts in other lands are beating
with hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.
My country's skies are bluer than the ocean,
and sunlight beams on cloverleaf and pine;
but other lands have sunlight too, and clover,
and skies are everywhere as blue as mine:
O hear my song, thou God of all the nations,
a song of peace for their land and for mine.
I’ve been thinking about this hymn a lot lately. A lot, a lot. To imagine a God bound by borders is obscene; it has always seemed a sin to impose upon God our own smallness, and we — we have become so terribly small. This song envisions better for all of us. It sings to the vastness in the human spirit, the hollow places waiting to be filled.
It is Ash Wednesday and I am praying to the God of the expanse, of the great wild unknown. Stars and stardust, the long road, the cathedrals whose architects never saw their completion. It is Ash Wednesday and so much is ashes, and there is nothing we can do but plant anew and find out what grows.
not to be "comment on fanfic even if they are oooold"
But I just read a pretty good fic published in 2014-2015 (you know, roughly TEN YEARS AGO) and I was like, damn this is so cool, I have to leave a comment, even if you know, they probably wont see it...
Important heads up to younger or newer fans: AO3 sends comments and kudos digests to e-mail addresses. We don't have to check an AO3-specific inbox nor look at specific fics to see comments. I can log out of AO3 tomorrow and ten or twenty years from now I will still get e-mails from AO3 containing comments -- and once I've read it, well, it's not difficult to log back in and reply.
Also if you are like "oh I don't know if this person is still active" (not that that really matters, as mentioned above) you can click on the creator's name and see what else they've done. Very possibly they're still posting and have another decade worth of fic you can enjoy.
this was supposed to have a bunch more parts, but then I broke my leg and my wrist, and so this is all I got done for Robin Hood day: my theory about why Marian is literate
---
As soon as he hears her footsteps, he sighs. Whenever the Sheriff is away on business, they have a houseguest: his little daughter, Marian. Two years younger than him, and endlessly infuriating.
“What are you doing?” she asks, as she does about three thousand times per day.
“Writing,” he says, refusing to look up from his work. At eleven, he feels very worldly and important whenever he has lessons to do — at least for the first ten minutes. Then he gets distracted and runs off to do something else until his father or his tutor swats him back to the desk.
Marian comes up right behind him, staring down over his shoulder. Again: infuriating. “What does it say?”
He traces the line with his stylus. He likes the way the letters sink into the wax; he likes it even better when he’s done for the day and can smooth them away. “Omnia vincit amor,” he reads.
She frowns at him.
“It’s Latin,” he says.
“Oh. That’s boring.” Frankly, he agrees. Nothing worse than copying lines of poetry in Latin, no matter how grown-up it makes him feel.
Robin knows from long experience that she won’t leave him alone until she has something to mull over, so he takes up his stylus again and writes something else below his required lines.
“What’s that, then?”
He gives her a grin. “It says Marian.” He points at the first letter. “This letter makes the ‘m’ sound. And then ‘aah’ after that, and again at the end — you see?”
“Hmm,” she says, but she looks decidedly more pleased. She reaches across him to trace the shape of the letter M with her finger, then gives him a nudge. “When will I learn to do this?”
A knot forms in his stomach. He thinks it might be shame. “Well,” he says slowly, “I suppose you won’t.”
She frowns at him. “Why not?”
“Because you are a girl.” It sounds awful coming out of his mouth. He knows it’s true, and he’s never even questioned it before this very moment, but now it seems impossible. When has being a girl ever stopped Marian from anything?
“That’s stupid,” she informs him, right on cue. She flounces down next to him on the bench, smoothing her skirts across her knees, and plucks the quill from his hand. “If no one else will teach me, I suppose that you will have to.”
He snatches the pen back. “I can’t, Marian, my tutor will be here in an hour—”
“Then it’s good that I’m a quick learner,” she says with finality, and he can’t argue with that. He hands her the stylus and forms her fingers around it in the way he was shown by his own tutor, years ago.
Marian says, “Here we are. What letter comes first?”
online communities are so strange because people slip away so easily. you can be on here for years, folding people you've never met into the fabric of your daily life, and then they disappear, leaving only ghost posts scattered across tumblr behind. or their blog stays dormant, for weeks, months, years, until you're only still following them because you remember that they love sunflowers or they were kind to you when they didn't have to be or the last thing they posted was sad and raw and you still worry about them sometimes.
and sometimes they come back when you least expect it, years later, even, and there's this sudden rush of relief like there you are, there you are, even though you barely knew each other.
there's a strange kind of love to it. i don't know you and i want to hold your hand across miles and time zones and oceans. i can still see the imprint of you in this community you left. you don't anyone will notice or care when you're gone, but we notice and we care and we wish you well.
i hope you're all okay out there. i hope the sun is shining on your face and you are breathing deeply. i miss you.
for @txf-fic-chicks-blog, on their anniversary! see the rest of the anniversary fics here
Just as Scully is finishing her second cup of coffee, Mulder stomps through the front door. She hears his boots hit the floor and then watches him stride into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He adds a bouquet of rather carelessly picked wildflowers — rhododendrons, mostly, probably from the bit of their property near the road, where they’ve run riot all week.
“Happy anniversary, Scully,” he says, depositing the makeshift vase next to her coffee mug.
She drinks the rest of it in one gulp. Scully appreciates, at least, that he is still full of surprises. “Okay,” she says. “The anniversary of what, exactly?”
He sits down next to her and props his feet up on the dining room table. She hates that, she loves him; she’s made an art form of ignoring his bad behavior. At least he took his boots off first.
“Thirty years ago today, you walked into my office.”
That feels impossible, but she can’t argue with the math, so she picks something else to fight about. “We’re calling that an anniversary?”
His grin is slow, easy. “Well, we never got married.”
“Still.” She purses her lips. “Thirty years.”
When she looks at him, she still sees the man who sat in that basement office thirty years ago. No one tells you this: that in your eyes, the people you love will never really age. In every moment he is every version of himself she’s ever known.
What a gift, to know someone so well.
“There’s something else,” he says. He stands up and heads toward the stairs.
As always, she follows him. “If it’s a cow slideshow, I’m leaving.”
But he stops outside the door to the spare room, which was Mulder’s writing room for a while, and which these days hosts the very occasional human guest and a rotating assortment of rodents that she can’t quite bring herself to kill. It feels unsporting to build a house in the middle of nowhere and then complain about the animals who were there first.
“Close your eyes,” he says, and she obliges.
The door creaks, and his heavy footsteps move away from her. She hears the lamp click on.
“Open,” he says.
Scully takes a few steps into the room. The spare bed’s made up more neatly than usual. There’s a new rug, and an armchair that she thought had been relegated to the basement.
And underneath the open window, with a view out to the horizon, there’s a desk. Parsons-style, practical and unshowy, with a lovely grain. There are framed pictures of her mother, of her nieces and nephews, even Bill. And there’s a standard-issue nameplate that says DR. DANA SCULLY in that standard-issue font.
He’s still smiling but he looks a little nervous, too, and it’s impossible to overstate how endearing she finds that, after all this time. “I heard you wanted one of these.”
“Took you long enough,” she deadpans, because even after all this time, sincerity doesn’t come easily to either of them.
Mulder looks over his handiwork, clearly pleased. “Better late than never.”
She crosses to him and wraps her arms around his waist. Better late than never should be emblazoned on their family crest.
It’s still the earliest part of spring, but the breeze that comes in through the window is warm and fragrant. He rests his chin on top of her head. “Thirty years,” he says, and she feels his voice down to her toes.
Scully smiles against his chest. “It’s not the worst way to spend a life.”
“We’ll see how you feel about that in another thirty.”
And she pulls him just a little closer. “I’ll be there.”
Hi philes, it’s been a long time! Far too long if you ask us.
Would you believe that 7 years ago today we posted our first recommendation? In celebration of our 7 year anniversary, we reached out to a few old friends and asked them to write a little something anniversary-themed for what we are calling, The Anniversary Collection. And hooboy did they come through! The collection will be updated throughout the day as more stories are added.
Thank you writers for collaborating, for joining forces with us to bring a solid list of new recommendations!
Thank you readers for still being here, for still showing us love even long after we stopped being active. We appreciate the messages of love and support over all of this time.
Any fun memories you care to share from that comic con?
Truthfully, comic cons just aren’t my thing. But I regretted not going to the 2016 Wizard World that David & Gillian were at. And I had a feeling this one would be one of their last joint cons & I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. Meeting them both was a blur (thankfully I have photo proof it happened), standing in line to quickly talk with Gillian while she signed my art was nerve-wracking, and the panel was just eh. But...
The best part of the weekend was finally meeting so many Tumblr mutuals that I had admired from afar including @kateyes224, @sunflowerseedsandscience, @startwreck, Puppet Mulder, @all-these-ghosts, @albanyparkavenue, @perplexistan, @datanullyx, and @contrivedcoincidences6.
So, though I have a large photo of me with David & Gillian stored away somewhere and Gillian’s autograph on my art hanging on my wall, the best memories & truest treasure from that weekend were the friendships I gained.
