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It’s 2023. Scully isn’t head of the Bureau, but Mulder and Scully have a good life together, with their daughter. Until a certain villain pops back up…

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

New fic!! It’s good I promise!

#fanfic #msr #the x files #txf #msr fanfic #xfiles fic #xf fanfic #mulder and scully #case fic

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4.02 home // 10.04 home again

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A Christmas Mistake

Author: @rosethornhill

For: @ceruleanmilieu

Story: “A Christmas Mistake” Mulder tries to make it up to Scully when she misses Christmas with her mom. Will she forgive him?

Link Here

#XFSecretSanta2019 9/28

Link to art here

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X-Files photoshoot

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Prompt 47 😉

Prompt #47: “Dogs don’t wear clothes!”

Mulder loves to dress up Daggoo and Scully hates it (it is known). Here’s a little origin story for that, just for you, Alyse. xo

When he opens the door, she’s standing there, holding a tiny ball of fur. He’s confused for a moment, but only because she hasn’t been here in months.

Then he remembers: the dog. The tiny dog she’d stolen from the shelter. The one he’d agreed to keep for her because her apartment wouldn’t allow it.

“Hi,” she smiles, a bit nervous.

“Hi,” he smiles back, his surprise at her presence evident.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all,” he says. He’s always happy to see her.

He holds the door open, but she doesn’t step foot inside. She sets the dog down and it scampers into the living room, sniffing every corner, barking happily.

Mulder scratches his ear. “Is it…”

“He, Mulder. It’s a he.”

“He… house trained?” he corrects himself, allowing the impact of this huge decision he’d made in a split second to hit him. He’s fully committed to this relatively small thing, this actually huge thing. He will not let her down, not ever again.

“He seems to be,” she shrugs. “For the twenty four hours or so he stayed at my place he didn’t have a single accident.”

“Ah,” Mulder sighs with relief. “A good boy, then.” He remembers Queequeg, who was not such a good boy.

“He’s a very good boy,” she parrots, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards in spite of herself.

Scully picks up a box next to her on the porch and holds it out to him. “I bought a bunch of toys and stuff for him. I don’t want him chewing on your shoes or the furniture.”

He looks at her thoughtfully. It’s a Freudian slip, surely. Why would she care what happens to furniture she no longer sits on? Sleeps on? Lives on?

“Okay,” Mulder says, taking the box.

“I just took him to the vet and he’s up to date on all his shots. And there’s a bed and a bunch of dog food in the car, if you wouldn’t mind…” she gestures to her car and he nods, setting the box down just inside the doorway. He glances back inside the house where the dog is already snuggled into the couch, breathing softly. Could he really be asleep already?

Mulder follows Scully out to the Explorer and hoists two heavy bags of dog food out of the back. She pulls out the dog bed and closes the hatchback. They walk back to the house and he sets the bags on the porch. Birds titter cheerfully in the dogwoods and it doesn’t feel right; he can’t believe she’s just going to turn around and leave him again, go to some place that isn’t here. Some place that isn’t home.

“Thank you, Mulder, for doing this,” she says gratefully. “If it ever becomes too much please let me know and I’ll re-home him.”

He looks at her, shaking his head. Maybe Scully can’t stay but her dog isn’t going anywhere.

“He is home.”

She gives him a tiny smile, but he still sees those eyes that he’s been seeing over the past few months; the sad ones. Her beautiful eyes shouldn’t look that way. He knows he’s responsible, at least partly. He wishes he could stop hating himself for it.

His hand reaches up, more out of habit than anything, to touch her face, her cheek. He wants to tell her you are home, too. Anytime you want to come home, Scully, I’ll be ready.

She closes her eyes and allows it but makes no move to reciprocate. After a couple seconds he pulls his hand away, the moment over.

“You want to come in?” he asks, unwilling to believe she’s ready to drive away. “Help me set this stuff up?”

She nods and agrees, and he hopes it’s more out of desire than obligation.

When she crosses the threshold and enters his space he feels it in his bones. It’s powerful, almost corporeal: the feeling she belongs here.

Daggoo is, in fact, already fast asleep on the couch.

“So he’s… a sleeper, I see,” Mulder laughs.

“He fell asleep at the vet, too. Right in the middle of the exam. I think he might suffer from narcolepsy.”

“Canine narcolepsy, huh?” Mulder grins.

“Let’s add it to the stack of files in the office,” she chuckles. She sits on the couch awkwardly, her hands on her lap. He’s noticed this lately, about her demeanor. She keeps her hands close to her body, where they’re safe. Maybe it’s how she stays safe around him.

Mulder lifts the box of doggy stuff over to the coffee table. Daggoo doesn’t stir.

“Leash, bowls, poop baggies…” he lists off the items as he removes them from the box. “Where are his clothes?”

Scully blinks. “Clothes?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mulder says playfully, as if the absence of dog clothing is among the world’s worst offenses.

“Mulder, dogs don’t wear clothes,” she says with an air of exhaustion that reminds him of the olden days. The way she used to be.

“Yes, Scully, they do,” he insists.

“This one doesn’t.” She glances in Daggoo’s direction, the dog snoring softly. Her hand reaches out to softly stroke his back.

“Hey,” Mulder says, slighted. “He’s my dog, too, now, isn’t he?”

She narrows her eyes and gives him a small smile. “Yes.”

“Okay, so if I want to buy him a sweater, I’m allowed, right?”

She sets her jaw. “I suppose so.”

“All right, then,” he says in that well it’s settled tone he likes to use when she can’t prove him wrong. “And later, Daggoo and I are going to head to the city to pick out his new wardrobe.”

“You’re doing this just to annoy me, aren’t you?” she asks.

“It’s definitely within the realm of possibility.”

She shakes her head, can’t help but smile. He sits down next to her and pets the dog, not because he wants to, necessarily, but because this is what he’s resorted to: finding excuses to get his hands near Scully. Sure enough, his hand bumps into hers and thankfully, charitably, she doesn’t recoil.

“This kind of feels like a custody battle,” she jokes.

He grins. “Not a battle. A difference of opinion,” he clarifies. The only battle he’s ever waged with regard to Scully is the one he’s currently fighting to get her back.

She helps him find a good place for the doggy dishes, the bed, the other items. Only a few minutes pass but it feels like every second is precious; every second she’s here counts as progress.

“I’d better get going,” she says when they’ve run out of tasks to accomplish. He wonders if she’s always felt this way; that he only wants her around to help him do something. He knows it isn’t true, not really, but in his darker moments he tends to self-reflect. He hasn’t been used to doing that, at least not before she left him.

“You don’t have to go,” he protests, perhaps a bit more desperately than his deeply rooted masculinity would typically allow. “I mean… you can stay. A little longer. If you want to.”

Her smile is genuine and warm, but still sad. “I’d like to, but I should really go.” She gives no reason.

He feels another little piece of his heart detach, fly across the room and adhere to hers. It hurts watching her walk out the door, just as much as it did the first time.

“Scully,” he says suddenly. She stops, turns around, her hand on the knob.

“Hm?”

His mouth drops open, hangs there like a flytrap. He wants to say so much but everything about her body language indicates she’s not ready to hear it.

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye to Daggoo?” he finds himself saying, stupidly. She glances over to the sleeping pup, who at that very moment lets out a snore as if to punctuate his disinterest.

She lets go of the doorknob and steps over to Mulder, looking him right in the eye. Without a word, she closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his midsection and holds him tightly. Her head nestles beneath his chin and she takes a deep breath, exhaling contentedly.

“Thank you,” she whispers again.

He hasn’t held her this way, really held her, in so long. He’s afraid to let go.

They stand together in the middle of the silent house, the ticking of the clock and the dripping of the leaky kitchen faucet he hasn’t had the will to fix in weeks the only sounds. He smells her hair because he must; his senses are flooded with Scully and he misses her with an anguish he can’t program, categorize or easily reference.

After what feels like minutes she releases him, and if only for a moment he sees his Scully, the old Scully in her eyes. The one he used to make happy, at least fairly.

“See you tomorrow, Mulder,” she says. “I know you’re terrible with that new phone of yours but send me pictures, okay?”

“I will,” he nods. It’s all he can do for her. “I promise.”

She leaves the house again, and takes that little piece of his heart with her. But the scent of her on his shirt remains, which will get him through a few more days. And the dog, too, which will get him through the rest of them.

As many days as it takes to get her to stay.

rosethornhill

I love it!! Thank you!

foreheadfucking

Still not over her grabbing his shirt and begging. I don’t know why this affects me the way it does. Maybe it’s the Irish Catholic upbringing that Scully and I share, where outward displays of emotion are discouraged. Maybe it’s because Maggie has always reminded me so much of my own mother, and some part of me is rebelling against the very idea… For me, this may as well be a sex scene because I can’t remember a time where we’ve seen her display this kind of unbridled emotion and vulnerability in front of him before. She’s always trying to hold back, or get away somehow so he doesn’t see her. We’ve seen him be all flavors of vulnerable in front of her. But not her in front of him. But even for the most reserved of us, there are moments in our lives where we are reduced to a childlike state. And here, Mulder is bearing witness to one of them. They’ve had a sexual relationship, so he’s probably seen some version of this before, but we haven’t. Not with the two of them, right in front of our eyes. This is what Mulder and Scully look like in 2016. This is a mature relationship with a deep, rich, and complex history. A relationship with an uncertain future, yes, but also an undeniable past. An unbroken trust, and an attachment that well and truly lives and breathes, defying whatever forces came between them in the interstitial spaces in that “little house.” Bereft of her mother, she literally clings to the only secure attachment she has left in the world. Then, watching them roll her mother away, she becomes overwhelmed. She cannot take one more second of it. In that moment, she’ll do anything to mitigate the pain for even a moment. She knows what to do, but he’s the gatekeeper. There is no work without Mulder. They’ve taken her mother away and she’s desperate for any way out of this nightmare. So she begs. Like a child, abandoned. Then, some sense comes to her. She remembers that if she walks away, he’ll have no choice but to follow her. She’d been in his place a thousand times, imploring him to go home, and ultimately following him anyway. She knew he’d come.

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XF12: Episode 5 LIVE NOW!

By @rosethornhill

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

davidduchovnydefensesquad

Without the coat.

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Untethered

So I impromptu wrote a fic based on @fightthefuture1998′s astute screencaps in this post (that I saw from @baronessblixen). It’s a Post-Orison fic, so take that with a grain of salt. Tagging @today-in-fic and @peacenik0.

—

It is too loud and too quiet all at once. She hears every sound like a pin prick: the shutter of the crime scene photographer’s camera, the scribbling of notes on worn pockets pads, the pitying sucking of teeth and clicking of tongues. Low whistles and professionally obscured coughs.

She thinks she hears a faucet dripping somewhere.

But it’s too quiet, like that liminal space after a storm before the birds start singing again, before nature is unpaused. It is unnatural. The murmurs of officers, the shuffling of feet, it all drones low, hazy, persistent and disruptive to her frequency. It resonates somewhere beyond the pin pricks, so that the rest of the noise is swallowed whole.

She thinks she feels her heartbeat in her ears.

Nothing smells right. Her home doesn’t have a smell, not to her. Sometimes, for only a moment, when she opens the door after a long trip, she catches what other people must smell when they enter her home. She could never begin to name it, no hints of this or that, but it is distinct. It is hers. Now her home reeks of blood (her blood. His blood). It is drenched in fear, cold sweat, mortal dread.

The faucet drips again, cuts through the resonant static.

Tea. She wants tea. Piping hot, her fingers curled around the mug, her terrycloth robe soft against her skin. Clean, smooth skin after a bubble––

No. No, she won’t ever take another bubble bath.

Someone needs to fix that fucking faucet.

This is her home. Her space. It is where she breaks her bread, where she lays her head to sleep

If I should die before I wake…

If only she could curl up under the covers. Pile them high, pull every blanket she has around the house and bury herself beneath them in her bed.

But her bed is not an option. Her bedroom is a crime scene. She almost died in her bedroom, she has killed in her bedroom, she walked over broken glass as the shards dug into her screaming skin to save her own life in her goddamn bedroom.

The world is burning and before she realizes it, she in standing in front of the wicker ottoman in her alcove. Where she keeps those blankets, the ones she’d pile high, the ones she’d bury herself in in the comfort and safety of a bed that doesn’t exist anymore.

She opens the ottoman, marvels for the first time at the ribbon holding the lid on; soft and pretty, taut and strong. She unfolds the first blanket she sees and wraps it around her shoulders.

It smells like her, like her home, like her world is not burning.

Numb and straining with effort, she crosses the threshold of an unfamiliar terrain shrouded in a precious piece of home.

admiralty-xfd

season 12 master post

All the episodes for X-Files Season 12 are up! Thank you to everyone who read them and for those of you who haven’t, what are you waiting for?!

@admiralty-xfd @slippinmickeys @rosethornhill

EPISODE ONE: “NOVAM DOMUM”

Season premiere. Scully and Mulder are back together with a new baby on the way. But just as they’ve settled again into their home, some old adversaries - the Peacocks- reappear, searching for a home of their own.

EPISODE TWO: “BROOD PARASITE”

As Mulder and Scully settle into their new lives and jobs, the paranormal comes to them—in more ways than one.

EPISODE THREE: “AGE IN RELATION TO PREGNANCY”

Mulder and Scully go undercover to face their greatest X-File yet: whatever is going on in the White House.

EPISODE FOUR: “THE OTHER SIDE OF FICTION”

Mulder and Scully. Scully and Mulder. In this, and every lifetime. (There be SMUT here)

EPISODE FIVE: “HARLEQUIN”

Are clowns haunting Mulder and Scully, or is Mulder’s darkness coming back?

EPISODE SIX: “UNSERE FREIHEIT”

Season finale. An old friend contacts Mulder and Scully with information that could lead them back to their son. Scully goes into labor.

Tagging peeps for a boost: @gaycrouton @peacenik0 @baronessblixen @storybycorey @suitablyaggrieved @fragilevixenfic @rationalcashew @reasonandfaithinharmony @today-in-fic @mulderitsme @mulder-even-if @monikafilefan @spookydarlablack @piper-scully @settle-down-frohike @defnotmeyoyoyo @danceswithcybermen @xfilesfanficexchange if I forgot you I’m sorry I still need coffee