#msr angst

[thatonerubberduck]

I woke up at 5:30 this morning with the idea for this edit, wrote it down in my notes app, and promptly fell back to sleep. ANYWAYS, did someone say more MSR?

[actual-changeling]

I'm trying to get back into writing, and my small "attempt" turned into whatever this is. So much longer than planned, but the late season 6 angst mixed with hurt/comfort is irresistible, set some time after One Son.

I'd say it's the usual bittersweet they're-getting-their-shit-together in the most fucked up and co-dependent way possible because that's all those two know how to do.

Suuuuper rusty, so if anything sounds clunky, that's why.

—-—-—

Scully watches him lock his motel room door behind him, one hand holding her much-needed coffee, the other the car keys. She's leaning against the car despite the metal being cold enough to bite ever bare patch of skin, and the morning chill fights its way through her coat. Neither of them raises their voice in greeting.

They're still a little awkward around each other, their conversations stilted and silent where they used to flow, and when he does get talking and ends up mentioning her, well—it doesn't help. Maybe if he'd actually ask her about her own life, showed even a sliver of the interest he has in the case, Scully would be more forgiving.

He doesn't, though, so she isn't.

The crunching gravel pulls her from her thoughts, and Mulder buttons up his coat just as he stops in front of her. Thirty minutes of unplanned free-time she'd used to get breakfast for herself, followed by another five of standing in the cold as he collected his things.

Now, he looks down at her, and the seconds pass as she tries to make sense of his expression, and his non-existent patience runs out before her brain has a chance to catch up.

"The keys, Scully," he tells her with a distant hint of annoyance.

Her jaw tightens and so does her grip on the car keys he is now reaching for, as if she's disrupting his plans by wanting to drive their rental car of the week to the newest crime scene.

Right, so that's what they're doing today. After a short night in an uncomfortable bed, she's in no mood to play around.

"No. I'm driving. Get in."

Scully steps away from the car and tries to pull the door open, but she's stopped by his hand quickly pushing against it, holding it closed.

"Mulder," she says quietly, a warning. Not the first one she's ever given him, either, more like the thirtieth. Everything is a negotiation with him these days, a fucking argument he needs to win, because after months of Diana Fowley stroking his ego every chance she got, it has become rather fragile.

Scully looks at him, tries to summon a spark of amity, and sands down the jutting edges of her voice; just this once, she promises herself, she'll give an inch. (She always breaks it in the end.)

"Mulder, we talked about this."

Slowly, his hand falls away, and he takes a step back, having the decency to look somewhat ashamed and no longer impatient. The tiny amount of satisfaction it gives her is a drop in a leaking bucket.

"Sorry," he mumbles under his breath, finally moving over to the passenger side. "Force of habit."

At least he sounds like he actually means it, which in itself is progress. While he gets into the car, she turns away for a minute, facing the almost empty parking lot. It is too early for anyone else to be up and about, not that there are many other people staying at this particular motel anyway. Another middle-of-nowhere, barely justified case, yet she'd be lying if she said she didn't miss it.

She exhales, long and heavy, and the wind prickles on her cheeks and whirls leaves around her feet. It's almost a soft touch, the beginning of fall hiding within layers and layers of fog-covered trees—almost peaceful enough to make up for the cold. One last sip of coffee, and she joins Mulder in the car that's already warmed up from her breakfast trip, though not enough to prevent another layer of condensation on the windshield. She puts the keys in the ignition and closes the door, shutting out the world.

Silently, they sit, waiting for the view to clear, and with a barely audible sigh, she places her coffee in the cupholder and reaches behind his seat to pull out a second one, followed by a brown paper bag.

"Breakfast," she tells him and unceremoniously drops the latter in his lap.

God, she didn't even consciously decide to get his usual order, just added it on to her own as she always does. It would be harder to intentionally forget about him than it is to remember, even with the heavy weight that settles in her chest whenever he crosses her mind.

"Thank you," he responds, sounding surprised, "you didn't have to-"

"I know." Scully struggles to keep her eyes trained on the steering wheel and fails, and she hates how the tension in her shoulders drains under his gaze. The warmth he radiates is so familiar, her body responds to it whether she wants to or not; she distantly remembers a flickering collection of all the nights she fell asleep against him on a stake-out. Too many to keep track of. Too many to pretend none of it ever happened.

Slowly, his hand creeps towards hers, and she cautiously watches him in her periphery, but once he breaches the invisible line separating their sides, she immediately reaches for the keys in the ignition. It doesn't stop him from trying a verbal approach.

"Listen, about-"

"It's around twenty minutes to the scene," she quickly intervenes.

And here we go again, Scully thinks to herself. Loving him is easy, natural in a way that used to scare the hell out of her, but liking him? Trusting him to move back in behind her walls and stay there? Everything but.

Both of them are re-learning how to be their usual selves around each other, how to be friends, and god, does she miss her best friend.

"The Sheriff said he'd drop by later," Mulder responds, joining her on the usual playing field, "though I have no idea what keeps him that busy."

When she blindly grabs her coffee cup, her knuckles brush against the back of his hand as he does the same. A brief spark of warmth, like a match striking its box, close to burning but not quite lit up just yet.

It's still there when she places it back down, and without thinking, she reaches for it.

Their fingers tangle, their palms press together, and when she pulls away, he lingers, squeezing her hand until she's gone again.

[sentientsky]

Gracie Abrams, "I Love You, I'm Sorry" // season 5-6 angst in The X-Files

i’m wrong again, wrong again

[do-you-think-im-spoopy]

[take-it-on-the-run]

A Pearl

Fox Mulder x Dana Scully

No matter how desperately he hung onto her cross around his neck, praying to a God he didn’t believe in, she was still there—sleeping, so gently, despite the devices hooked on and through her.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags: ANGST, loss, not comfortless, but not exactly outwardly comforting, set in season 2's coma arc, implied depression, Mulder and Scully both need hugs, mentions of hospitals, comas and medical devices, brief mention of killing and death

Characters: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Margaret Scully, Melissa Scully, Duane Barry (mentioned)

Read it on AO3!

Taglist: @somethingsomethingcranberries, @sst4r-ddu5t, @ghostlyaccurate, @butterclove

Want to join (or leave) the taglist? Click here!

A/N: Mitski Title! Thank you for checking this fic out, as it's my first MSR/TXF-related writing! This idea mainly came from a post talking about how Mulder not taking off Scully's necklace before he gave it back would've been feral, and I completely agree. Set in Scully's S2 coma/post-abduction arc, Mulder is just a sap who can't help but be in love with Scully. Unbeta'd, every mistake is mine, and I hope you enjoy!

MSR Masterlist | The X-Files Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Dana.

He liked that name.

It thundered against his mind constantly, pruning memories drenched in sadness.

It fit her well. He’d searched it out in a book of baby names and their meanings while sitting in a waiting room during one of their first cases.

Wise. Generous. Brave. A pearl.

Maybe, years and years down the line, he’d give his daughter the same name.

He wouldn’t have the heart to tell this hypothetical girl’s mother where the name came from. That, while he was at the FBI, he had a partner he would kill and die for. Because of his inability to let sleeping dogs lie, she was attacked in her home, kidnapped, and never woke up from the coma she was found in.

He could lie and say it was a family name.

But that wasn’t a lie.

She was family.

No matter how desperately he hung onto her cross around his neck, praying to a God he didn’t believe in, she was still there—sleeping, so gently, despite the devices hooked on and through her.

He could barely look at her without wanting to sob, the guilt and rage rushing to him all at once.

If he’d only picked up his phone.

Now, every time it rings, he jumps. He doesn’t mean to, and it gets him more looks than before, but he can’t help it. He cranked the ringer after he missed her call. He wasn’t going to miss anyone’s call ever again.

When he first saw Mrs. Scully and Melissa perched over her for the first time, he could barely get his feet to move. He was shocked he was allowed back into the hospital after the scene he caused when he first came.

All of the bitter sleepless nights he spent thinking of her had come to a rolling boil, sputtering out of the pot as he tugged his shoes on. Sleep-deprived, unshaven, and clutching her cross on his neck, he shot up the highway at Mach speeds, only to get carried out by two security guards as he screamed obscenities and threats at the hospital staff.

Remaining cemented to the ground, he watched her family mourn. Mrs. Scully was holding Dana’s hand, resting her head against her gently rising chest as she muttered prayers under her breath. Melissa’s eyes were closed, and her hands hovered above her sister’s body, moving slowly. Her family, however different in their beliefs, had come to her side, praying in the way each of them knew how.

If either noticed he was wearing her necklace, they didn’t mention it. He’d tried giving it back to Mrs. Scully earlier, but she told him to keep it for when he could give it back.

When he thinks of those weeks he spent searching for her, finding Duane Barry on the mountain, and nearly killing him on the spot, all he can feel is an empty hole where his emotions should be.

If there was justice in the world, Duane would’ve served his sentence with a bullet to the skull the moment they met. If there was justice, he wouldn’t have had to hear that the ventilation she was on wouldn’t likely support her much longer.

He was invited to stay and discuss the matter at hand, but he knew his heart would collapse in on itself if he even thought about it.

He drove home slowly, cruising through different side streets he’d never taken. His apartment was always within reach, but he could barely bring himself to turn into his parking spot. The longer he drove, the longer he could delay the inevitable.

His resignation letter sat askew on his desk, matching the rest of his living space that had been ransacked by the Cancer Man’s men. Skinner refused the letter and told him it was no use giving up on the bureau now.

Mulder didn’t tell him there was no use in the bureau without his partner. Even when Skinner reopened the X-files, he couldn’t get himself to go through them as he had when she was at his side.

Slinging himself on his couch, he could smell the days without showering or sleeping radiating off him, but he could barely get his suit jacket off, let alone drag himself to the shower.

Crushing his body against the worn leather, staring blankly at the disconnected television, he could almost close his eyes and pretend he was in a motel with her again. He tuned the sound of his radiator running to become the soft snoring she would always insist didn’t happen, the wind batting against the windows as her tossing against the lumpy motel beds they frequented, and the pounding of his heart as hers.

Barely a year as partners, and yet he would break, bend, and bleed just to hear her say his name one last time.

She’d only called him by his first name once, while they were on an off-the-books stakeout. He told her to call him Mulder, and that he even forced his parents to call him by their last name.

Every time he heard it, he was suddenly twelve years old, watching his sister scream out his name as he stood still and couldn’t do a thing to protect her like he promised he always would.

But when she said it, he was no longer trapped in his memories. He was just Fox.

If she said his name enough, maybe he wouldn’t hate it as much as he did.

His phone rang, sending his heart to flutter like a bird in a cage. He knew he should answer it, but his body was clinging to the couch harder than gravity was clinging to Earth.

“Mulder.” He answered flatly, stretching his body off the edge of his couch to hold the phone to his ear.

Electricity shot up his spine and down his legs, slinging up to his feet before Mrs. Scully could finish what she was saying. Life bubbled into him as he dropped the phone in its dock.

Mulder’s feet echoed in the sterile hospital hallway as he walked, his steps slow, almost mechanical, every inch of him unwilling to face what he knew was waiting for him behind that door. But he had no choice.

He didn’t want to see her like this again. He didn’t want to walk into that room where she was tethered to life by machines, her body so small and fragile, and the world outside buzzing with life while she remained suspended in an unnerving limbo. But she was there. And he had to be there too.

Her family had gathered around her. Her mother, her sister—the ones who had the right to be there first. But it was his presence that had been permitted, allowed to enter into that sacred space where the woman he had spent endless nights sleeping beside was now lying in a hospital bed.

He stepped through the door, and there she was.

Dana Scully. Her name felt so wrong, so small, in this sterile, whitewashed room. She looked almost ethereal in her hospital gown, pale, the skin of her face so sunken, and yet, there was something about her that still made his heart ache—still made him wonder how he ever got so lucky, or cursed, to be in her orbit. Her lips, usually full with that determined set, were now parted slightly as she lay motionless beneath the rhythmic beeping of the machines keeping her tethered to this world. The familiar weight of her presence was missing, but the quiet strength still lingered there, just out of reach.

“Hello Fox,” Mrs. Scully said, not moving as her hand laced with her daughter’s.

“Not Fox—Mulder.” Her cracked lips quirked as she quipped at her mother. She gently turned to face him, raising her eyes to his.

In the second she corrected her mother, hearing her say his name was enough to make his throat tighten. She looked over her shoulder at her family, and without a word, they silently left the room.

She was alive and awake in front of him, and as drained as he was, he wanted to scream thanks to her God. Her hand reached out to him, and for the first time in the matter of Dana Scully, he hesitated.

She was here because of him.

“Scully…” he trailed, fighting the urge to let her first name slip out. He took her hand in his, so cold comparatively, and brought her knuckles to his lips. She didn’t do anything to stop him, and he felt her stare drop to her necklace hanging on his neck.

“You kept it,” she whispered, bordering on a question, as she touched it to his chest. He felt his face flush as her delicate fingers played with the pendant, watching her twist and turn it.

“Yeah,” he croaked, looping his hands behind his head to unclasp it, “your mom—Mrs. Scully—told me to keep it ‘till I could give it back to you.” He gathered it in his hands, offering to put it on her, “Here, let me.”

It looked better fit on her, dainty and gilded against her throat, proclaiming her differing beliefs in the mysteries of the world and the myth of creation. It was as if her faith in God had taken him to the ends of his limits and then pushed him even further for the sake of her name.

He’d never called her by her first name. Dana. It had always felt too soft, too familiar, too fragile. She was always Scully. And it wasn’t just a title; it was a shield, a boundary they had created together, a wall that kept everything unspoken but understood. To call her Dana would have been to acknowledge a vulnerability neither of them could afford to expose.

For a long time, he thought about the meaning of her name. Dana. A pearl. A symbol of something precious, something rare, something born of pressure and pain, and yet, something more beautiful than anything else. She had always been that to him. Something he could never hold in his hands but could only try to protect from the world that wanted to break her.

But she had never needed to hear him say that. She had always known. She was a pearl, too beautiful for him to touch in the way that he longed to, too precious to be made vulnerable by his words, a testament to the definition of her name. And so he had kept it inside. The ‘Dana’ he had never called her. The pearl he had never acknowledged aloud.

[missblomfield]

the cancer arc

 «He said that the men behind this hoax... behind these lies... gave me this disease to make you believe»

[emmapills]

I focus on the pain, for it’s the only thing that’s real

MSR | Post S9 | Rated M

It’s their first time having sex in over two years, and Scully is still harboring guilt over William.

Thank you so much @danascully77 for the beta as always!!!

AO3 Link

@today-in-fic

[alieninatrenchcoat]

This is my first official post :) Based on younger Mulder and Scully in a scenario I would have loved to see played out.