It was what it was. For months he had been inching them further north. And it turns out that most anyone would take the blood money, let alone two struggling farmers nearly forced to sell the family land. Nearly but for the blood money. The Van de Kamps sold the baby instead.
And it wasn’t their fault. It was what Mulder wanted, after all. He practiced in the car: His mother surrendered him under extreme duress. You will receive cash wires quarterly. He showed them proof. Mulder in the first day after William’s birth, holding a fuzzy-headed bundle the same shade and pattern of the baby blanket Will used even still. Though Mulder would have given it to them, William’s new old parents didn’t ask for evidence beyond the photo. (The birth certificate. The parentage report.) Perhaps they feared the little stranger who turned the mobile over his crib with a blink of blue eyes. Who lifted an oatmeal-coated spoon out of the kitchen sink and across the room into his fat fist.
Fic: The Law of Large Numbers
The X-Files (Dana Scully/Fox Mulder, William)
“For Mom,” Mulder said, and the chunk he gave William was too big for her mouth. Scully caught most of it before it hit the floor, and William smacked caked hands together as Mulder kissed off the jello that smeared on her chin. “Mmm,” he said, and took seconds, and that’s how Scully wound up at the sink once the house had gone quiet, rubbing a William-sized splotch of strawberry-jello-stained cake off the front of her blouse.
I had a snow day today and wrote this in 24 hours because @lokisgame dared me to. It’s post-season 9 AU, Scully and Mulder and William holed up in a small house somewhere outside of Pittsburgh, and William turns three years old. There’s cake and jello shenanigans; some trials of being a parent; no angst to be found, just a whole lot of love.
This is so random but do you happen to know what episode that "you've seen it haven't you?" And Mulder pulls out an ugly drawn picture of an off brand Sasquatch
If it’s off-brand Sasquatch, it’s gotta be Jersey Devil, season one. AKA hot vagrant!Mulder who totally has a life spends a night in the drunk tank and is “obsessed with his work.”
How fucking annoying is it when you feel so restless with creative energy but you can’t decide what to do with it and when you finally try to create something it comes out shit so you just give up and sit there being all creatively annoyed and jittery.
1 - Decision Making Fatigue is a thing.
--> Make a list of possibilities.
--> Use a random number generator to pick something off the list.
--> If you hate the idea cross it off and generate a new number.
--> Continue until you either find a project or cross off the whole list.
--> If you cross off the whole list pick a random short story prompt, write for five minutes, and call it a good work day.
2. Yeah, of course your rough draft sucks. It’s supposed to.
--> Let it suck.
--> You can fix it in edits.
3. When you’re stressed you aren’t unbiased about your work.
--> Don’t judge your work while your are actively working on it.
--> Remember to drink water, take your meds/vitamins, eat something, and get sleep.
--> Double-check to make sure the restless creative energy is not displaced emotional worries over something else. If it is, displace with intention and let the worries go into your work. You shouldn’t keep stress in your head, put it on a page, or canvas, or in a carving, or a meal, or something. Get it out and let it go.
4. No work is ever wasted.
--> All time spent planning and creating is useful in some way.
--> Failure means you tried, which is good.
--> Try again. Fail harder. Fail better.
--> Keep going until you like what you’re making.
5. Love yourself enough to allow yourself to not be perfect.
--> Seriously.
--> If this is a struggle I highly recommend seeing a doctor or therapist about depression.
--> Because you are dang lovable, my friend. You rock. You do great things. I’m proud of you.
[Major Crimes, Shandy, Andy POV, rated T (language); post-ep for 5x07, “Moral Hazard”]
“…and then she agreed!” On the other side of the line, Provenza leaves a long silence at the end of his victory statement. He’s waiting for congratulations, or something, wholly ignorant that Andy’s attention is focused on the open cupboard in front of him. “So I’m off the hook,” is his delayed prompt.
“Good for you, I guess.” There are no decent, late-night snack options in this kitchen. Just bird food, as far as Andy can see. We gotta stop getting distracted before dinner.
“What do you mean, ‘you guess?’”
“I mean it’s kind of a compliment, that your wife wants you around more, isn’t it?” He leaves the God knows the rest of us don’t silent as he rummages deeper into the cabinet. A promising, colorful box had caught his eye, but his reach shows it holds nothing more than vitamin drink mix. “For the love of God,” he mutters, fighting the urge to spike the package to the floor.
“What?”
“Nothing.” After shoving the drink mix back into its spot, Andy runs his hand over his hair, considering the negotiation it’s gonna take to get a junk food stash in the new house. Once they find a new house. “Congrats on never retiring. Again. Or still.”
“Thank you.” Provenza seems genuinely happy about all this, and it’s been too long of a day to give him shit about it. “And now that that’s out of the way, I can focus on the fact that Liz is about to be out of my hair. Forever.”
There are a couple things Andy hopes to do with the rest of his night. Listening to a tired rant about the many former Mrs. Provenzas isn’t on the list. “Okay, great. Have fun celebrating.”
“Wh— but—” Provenza huffs a sigh. “Like you’re busy?”
“I am, actually.” On the bottom shelf, half-hidden between a box of Total and a pouch of dried apricots, a can of mixed nuts saves the day. Andy pulls it out and eases the door closed.
“With what?”
Any good partnership has its ground rules. Theirs has a recent addition: that Provenza wants to hear nothing (or “NOTH-innnnng,” as he’d said) about Andy’s relationship with Sharon. With that in mind, Andy pops a few almonds and talks around the truth: “Look at the clock and take a guess.”
A hard breath crosses the line. “Don’t be disgusting, Flynn. And you’re the one who picked up.”
Andy bites back a reminder of the bullet that hit Provenza’s kevlar five hours ago. He also doesn’t bother explaining how a sane person might put that and a late night phone call together into a serious assumption. More talking would only draw out the complaining. Instead, he shakes his head, says, “Now I’m hanging up,” and follows through. What a pain in the ass.
The call had been good for one thing — it was a push to get out of bed, which he wouldn’t have done otherwise. Now he doesn’t have to worry about his stomach growling in the middle of the night. With his snack in hand, Andy turns off the kitchen lights and heads back to the bedroom, navigating the dark condo and its many toe-stubbing hazards with practiced steps.
After a packed day, he’s sure there’s no better feeling in the world than sliding back under the covers and curling up next to the woman he loves. It’s late enough that he can’t even feel sappy about it. It’s just a fact, and it only gets more true when the corners of her mouth lift as he settles in. “Hey Sharon?”
“Hm?”
“We need to do some planning ahead on the food front.” He presses his lips to her cheek, softening his next words: “Your pantry is depressing.”
For someone who’d been giving a decent impression of being asleep, she doesn’t miss a beat. “I seem to recall you being in a hurry to get home tonight.” Her eyes open into a distant stare, maybe tripping over saying ‘home’ like that. She has nothing to be embarrassed about — his home is where she is, now, and he’s flat-out told her so. But old habits die hard. Either way, she rolls her head toward him and adds, “Otherwise we could’ve stopped for dinner on the way.”
“Oh.” Andy remembers it differently, considering the high-caliber flirting she wielded on their walk to the parking garage. But that’s not worth arguing now. He angles away just long enough to grab the can he’d left on the nightstand, then settles it onto the sheets between them. Sharon’s stare lands heavy on him as he fishes a Brazil nut out of the mix.
“I know you’re not eating in my bed.”
She’s using that voice, the warning tone, the too-sweet note that comes out right before she starts yelling. Good thing he’s learned how to defuse it. At home, anyway. It’s only a matter of sticking his bottom lip out a little and working some sadness into his eyes when he looks down at her.
Her own stare narrows, and she mutters, “You’re pitiful,” but she leaves it at that. In fact, she reaches into the can for herself, grabs a few almonds. Her nose wrinkles. “You’re not picking out all the cashews, are you?”
“I’d never leave you cashew-less, babe.”
A gentle laugh puffs over her lips. “So you were foraging, that’s why you were gone so long.”
“Foraging,” he echoes on a grin. “That, and Provenza called. Besides, I thought you were asleep.”
“Just barely.” She crunches through the almonds before she asks, “Is he okay?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s great.” Andy pulls out a cashew but, given his promise, tosses it back and settles for a hazelnut instead. “Got his retirement problem figured out and everything.”
Sharon pushes up onto her elbows. “Retirement?!”
It says a lot about the last few years that she’d get that freaked out at the thought of Provenza retiring. While she’s naked in bed with Andy, no less. He’s tempted to say as much, but he doesn’t want to leave her hanging. “Yeah, as in the problem of Patrice wanting him to retire.”
“Oh.” She moves to lay back down but pauses, plucks the cashew he’d saved, and pops it into her mouth before snuggling back under the covers. She chews thoughtfully, then asks, “She gave up on that?”
“I guess.”
A low hum lifts from her throat. “That’s too bad.”
Andy frowns, thinking back over the last few minutes. “You think so?”
“Well, from a professional standpoint, I benefit from having him stay, of course.” Sharon lifts her shoulder. “But Patrice just wants to spend more time with her husband. I can’t fault her for that.”
There’s a heaviness in her words, one that tells Andy it’s time to put his snack away. After moving the can back to the nightstand, he settles on his side, facing her. For some dumb reason, he finds himself wanting to defend Provenza. “I don’t think he sees it like that.”
“I know.”
Her quick, flat response quickens his pulse. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to be with her, it’s just that he’s been a cop for so long that he can’t imagine himself not being one.”
“Andy, I know. I understand.” Sharon’s voice is soft, now. Her fingers circle his wrist and she tugs his arm to rest over her hips. “God knows if anyone fully understands both sides of it, it’s me.”
He can’t help but take a little offense at that. “Or me.”
After all, it was Sharon who got as far as interviewing for another job — a fucking awesome job that would’ve meant a front-row seat to all the football she could ever want to watch — before she decided she couldn’t leave the LAPD. She might not be as obvious about it, but she’s as tied to the badge as any of the rest of them. Andy’s never heard her as much as reference a future where she isn’t working. Up until now, he hadn’t had a reason to unpack that.
She’s quiet for a long moment, pulling in and releasing a long breath before she says, “You’re right.”
And where, exactly, does that leave them? Maybe in no less of a sad state than Provenza, piecing their joined life together from whatever moments they can scavenge between one case and the next. But at least they’re both clear on what it means. More importantly — and he’s been thankful for it all along — they mostly share the same stupid, brutal schedule. That’s more than half the battle of dating, as a homicide detective. Finding a house will only help, keeping Andy from having to juggle a long commute with the other demands on his time.
Sharon’s fingers thread into the hair at the nape of his neck, breaking his train of thought. “I never thought I’d say this, after everything, but you and I working together is a luxury, by comparison.”
“It’s not nice, reading a guy’s mind like that.” When she laughs, Andy leans into her and mumbles, “Everyone thinks we’re crazy, you know.”
He means it as a joke because it is; one of many they hold between them. But it’s also true. Take Taylor and his awkward-ass advice, acting like his opinion should have any effect on them. Fuck that guy. They’re doing just fine as it is.
“Oh,” Sharon sighs, though a trace of humor carries on the sound. “I am well aware of that.” Her fingers trace a lacy pattern on his scalp. “Good thing I long ago stopped caring what ‘everyone’ has to say.”
“No kidding.”
That might stand as an end to the conversation, but the bones of it, what they were really talking about, poke through Andy’s efforts to fall asleep. Before Sharon can drift off, he half-sits, drawing her attention. “I love you more than the LAPD.”
Out of his mouth, this doesn’t quite hit his target, especially given the way her brow lifts and her lips twist, a silent reminder of the many things he hates about their department. He shakes his head, tries again. “I mean, I love you more than I love being a cop. If it comes to that.”
The bare light filtering through the curtains is just bright enough to see Sharon’s throat dipping, her eyes going watery. She pulls a quick breath and hums faintly, telling Andy he got his point across. He’s happy to settle back in, let her curl up around him, and have it stand at that. But she surprises him, forming thick words against his shoulder.
“I could never ask you to give it up.”
He watches the ceiling fan turn, letting this sink into him. The truth of it weighs on his sinuses. He couldn’t ask her to give it up, either. He might encourage, like he did with the NFL, but he’d never demand.
Even so, Andy has a solid example of what stubbornness means in this context, and it’s been worming into his gut all night. “Provenza has it in his head that he has to die on duty.” Sharon tenses against him, until he explains, “Not in a shootout, or anything like that. Just while he’s working, doing whatever.” Based on the bulk of their working hours, it’d be: “Paperwork, probably.” He shakes his head. “Seems like a waste.”
“It does.”
“But I can see where it’s easier to imagine that than the alternative. I mean, I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I wasn’t working.” When a quiet snort carries Sharon’s disagreement to his ears, he frowns. “What?”
Silence meets his question, long enough that he’d give up on an answer if he was talking to anyone else. Then she clears her throat. “You want a house with a pool and a yard for a garden. You want to take the boys to Disneyland, to the Jersey Shore, to Spring Training in Arizona. You want to visit every major league park, Ireland, Prague, Tuscany,” she gestures vaguely, “that place with the ridiculous donuts—”
“Portland,” he says, though she wasn’t waiting for him to fill in the blank.
“—the bed and breakfast in Cambria you keep mentioning…” She takes a breath, but she isn’t done. “Then there’s all those involved recipes you bookmark, that you say you’ll make someday, when you have the time; the cabinet in your garage you claim to want to sand down and paint; the list of books you want to read, it never gets shorter. And you keep talking about getting,” she breaks off on a resigned sigh, “a dog, which would just be cruel given the way we live now.” When her list finally reaches its end, Sharon pats his chest. “I think you’d manage.”
Sounds like she’s been keeping better track of Andy’s somedays than he has. “Well when you put it that way…” He trails off, accepting her very long point. But, at the same time, he sees a big gap in it. “And where will you be, while I’m traveling and gardening and cooking?”
“Well,” she sniffs a little, if he isn’t mistaken. “I wouldn’t want you to get lonely, would I?”
Huh. Andy lets that possibility wash over him. Maybe the idea of having to do it solo is why it’s been so hard for him to dream up a life after the LAPD. It’s kind of a game changer to know he can look at it another way, imagining a post-work life for two.
And he does know that, even if they haven’t put it in writing, or in vows. Yet. Maybe someday…
There’s that word again.
A lot of his somedays have to wait, thanks to the time he doesn’t have right now. This one’s just waiting on his courage. It’s getting easier to picture every day.
In the meantime, he pulls Sharon closer. “I hope not.”
Her breaths have gotten longer, her eyes are closed, but she says, “Andy?”
“Yeah?”
“My snacks are in the cabinet above the fridge.” Her palm draws a lazy circle on his chest. “If I didn’t hide them, they’d be gone in a day.”
“Oh, thank God,” he mumbles into her hair. “I was starting to wonder about you.”
That’s one less conversation they’ll need to have, one less compromise they need to make. He drifts to sleep on a fresh version of the same realization he’s had at least a hundred times before.
