#msr fic

[actual-changeling]

hurt/comfort paired with s6 angst always has me coming back to a new untitled document. well, here we go again. too tired to keep myself from posting, so i'm throwing it into the void. part 2? maybe?? sorry for any mistakes, wayyyyy past being able to coherently edit this

edit: thank you to everyone who's been kind on this post <3 it helps a lot and i really appreciate it

— — —

Mulder's anger followed them all the way back to the office, and after hours of wrapping up the case and filling out paperwork, she's about done with it. He didn't say a word at the scene, nor on the drive back, but she can hear him inhaling behind her now.

"What the hell, Scully."

Not a question, not really, and for a second she considers simply ignoring him. There's not much left to do here for her, it's a matter of stuffing files into her bag and getting out as fast as humanly possible—she knows him, though. Knows he won't just let it rest, knows he isn't asking a question as much as starting a fight.

"I did my job," she tells him, back to the door and busy sorting through the mess on the desk. No one was shot, no one was seriously hurt, and everyone's walking away from it with minimal damage. Considering the circumstances, she performed a damn miracle. Yet all he cares about—

"You were reckless, what the hell were you thinking, offering yourself up like that?"

Mulder is pacing now, and she knows the expression on his face without turning around, knows the tension coiling in his shoulders, knows that he doesn't care about what she was thinking. All he can see is her and the gun pointed at her head.

Despite that, she sighs, palms pressed to the wood, nails biting into it, and tries to explain it anyway.

"She was scared, I wasn't; it's as simple as that. Did you even notice her? How terrified she was?"

Because she did. Everyone was staring at the guy with the gun, the woman pressed to his chest as a human shield was little more than a secondary goal. Save her, sure, but more importantly, get him.

Scully has seen hostages die, collateral damage written off as a minor mistake to be avoided next time, and this time, she could actually do something about it.

"What?"

"Melinda. Melinda Scott, that's her name. Or was she nothing but a nameless hostage to you? Unfortunate collateral?"

Her nails are going to leave marks, knuckles fading until they're white as bone. If she looks at him now, she's going to lose whatever remains of her self-control, and it won't be pretty.

Behind her, he stops walking, his gaze burning holes into her back.

"Of course I care about her, you're just—"

"—more important than her? Is that it? I. Did. My. Job. And I did it well. This is your problem, stop trying to make it mine."

Scully expects him to bite back, to argue, to push and push and push until she breaks, like he tends to do lately. Instead, she hears him take a deep breath, then another, and some of the tension leaves her, too, until her palms lie flat against the desk again.

This is new.

"Look, I'm not—I don't know. Can we just drop it and pretend we never fought about it?"

No. "Fine, sure," she sighs, rolling her eyes. "Whatever."

With mildly aching joints, she returns to gathering the paperwork she wants to take home, managing to compile a neat stack before he starts talking again. She grabs her bag from the floor, still pointedly not looking at him, and fits them inside with minimal creasing; almost free. Unfortunately, Mulder remains between her and the door.

"You're angry with me," he says slowly, "more so than usual."

Straightening up, Scully closes the clasp and hangs her bag across her shoulder, already digging for the car keys in her left coat pocket.

"Go home, Mulder."

When she finally turns around, she tries her damnedest to look beside him into the hallway, but he easily steps into her line of sight. Tilting her head back to meet his eyes is instinct, a reflex tuned so finely that not doing it is like holding her breath, and she's all out of air.

Worry and confusion are covering the remains of his quickly fading anger, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from pushing right past him.

"You willingly put yourself in danger, that's all. That's why I'm upset. What I don't get is why you're...," he stops, lifts his hand and then drops it again just as quickly. "Angry."

God, she just wants to go home. In the corner of her eye, she catches him moving his hand again, but he's quick to abort that attempt when her jaw tightens, her head moving side to side exactly once. At least he still knows how to read her. How easily she could lose herself in him again, one moment of distraction, and she's gone.

"We have a dangerous job, Mulder. Stop trying to tell me how to do it."

Impatience is giving her voice an edge, the undercurrent of rage neither new nor different than usual. Today, he just happened to notice it right when she did not want him to. She cannot remember the last time he looked at her this softly. It makes her want to run.

"Dangerous is one thing, you were reckless. Scully, you could have gotten yourself killed."

His genuine concern activates her fight-or-flight instinct in a way she did not foresee nor planned for, and she blames what comes out of her mouth next on a primal desperation to get away. Away from this room, his feelings, the eyes she is drowning in, the potential of her mask cracking and leaving her bare.

It's the truth, but that doesn't matter.

"Actually, what tends to almost get me killed is you."

A low blow. A low fucking blow, but it works. Mulder flinches like he's been hit, somehow managing to hold her gaze even as he scrambles to get the guilt seeping out of him under control. Collateral damage.

She lets it sit for a second, allows it to burn on her tongue like acid, and then she goes home.

[sculderand-mully]

looking for more trans x-files fanfics pls send them my way

[leiascully]

Can you write a smut piece inspired by one of those incorrect texts? The one that is of Scully: “missionary so we can continue our argument from before” // Mulder: “doggy so you can watch the PowerPoint I made showing you how you’re wrong”

Here's something! I might write more of the sexy part later :) Vaguely Revival-flavored.

They're still arguing about the details of the case when they get home. Scully shrugs off her coat and hangs it on the rack before she follows Mulder into the study. He tosses his jacket over the back of the couch and she rolls her eyes.

"I'm just saying, Mulder, that there's no conclusive evidence that your serial killer is supernatural in any way," she says.

"No conclusive evidence according to you," he counters. "Seemed like the sheriff was more than willing to draw some conclusions."

"The sheriff would have accepted any explanation that closed the case and got us out of town," she says, undoing the top button of her shirt.

"I don't disagree," he tells her, shuffling through some papers to find a cord underneath, "but I do disagree with your characterization of the evidence." He glances at her, notices her buttons, and pauses. "And what are you doing?"

"Winning this argument," she says. She finishes the buttons and drags her shirt off. Mulder's eyes are on her cleavage, because of course they are. "Sit down and I'll be happy to explain to you exactly why your evidence was insufficient while I enjoy myself." She pops open the clasp of her trousers.

"Oh, it's my evidence now, huh?" he asks. "Counterpoint: bend over the desk and I'll be happy to explain to you why my evidence is more than sufficient to convict our suspect, who, by the way, is able to sublimate. Of course, a scientist like you understands that mean he shifts his state of matter from solid to gaseous without passing through a liquid phase."

"I'm sure you have a whole presentation prepared," she says with a snort.

"What do you think I was doing on the plane home?" He grins, plugging his laptop into a projector, which whirs as he turns it on. A hazy rectangle appears on the sheet he hung over the window.

"Fine," she says. "You can show me your slides, if you fuck me while you do it." She lets her trousers drop to the floor and steps out of them. She leaves her heels on. "Then, when I remain unconvinced, I'll present my case, because no human being can sublimate, Mulder, the energy required would be phenomenal."

His fingers are busy with his shirt buttons. "So I make my argument, and then you make yours?"

"That's the plan." She studies him. She's really started to appreciate the sleek silhouette of his trousers. They leave so little to the imagination when it comes to the bulge growing underneath them.

He strips off his shirt and then his undershirt. "In no way taking advantage of the fact that your tits bouncing right in front of my face as you ride me might derail my train of thought ever so slightly?"

"Slightly?" She raises one eyebrow.

"A county-wide event," he amends. "Possibly a state-level emergency, when it comes to derailment. Disaster declarations from the governor. Mysterious liquids spilling everywhere."

"I expect it to be catastrophic," she says. "No survivors."

"Good," he tells her. "That's how I like my sexual encounters."

She rests her elbows on the desk, her ass in the air. "Let's see this presentation, Agent Mulder."

His fingers are rubbing along her folds, parting them, spreading her wetness up and down. She sucks in her breath as he grazes her clit. "You know I always give you what you want, Agent Scully."

"Yeah," she breathes. "You do."

[sentientsky]

tiny little msr s6 angst drabble i wrote a couple years ago and never posted <3

There’s a game she used to play as a child, in the basement of the church, when the Sundays seemed to stagger on endlessly. You begin by lacing your fingers together, thumbs pressed in parallel. Here’s the church and here’s the steeple. You then turned your wrists and opened your palms. Open the doors and see all the people. 

A church. A steeple. A holy ground made of flesh and bone. And Scully—for all her prayers and scuffed knees and adamantine hymns whispered into the hushing dark—is a cathedral made empty. The sermon leaves the mount, the congregation slips behind the altar to a place she can’t follow. 

Her father. Jack. Melissa. Emily. 

And now Mulder. Not dead, but hollowed out somehow—Orpheus peering into the mouth of Tartarus and deciding it’s not worth it. That she’s not worth it. 

Five years of his shoulder brushing hers, of phone calls and close calls and his mouth pressed against her temple like a prayer. 

She’s trembling already, and when the light finds purchase on their clasped hands, Scully would swear there’s blood in her mouth. She wills Mulder to look at her, to see her. 

But they’re standing in a room that she can’t reach, a porous barrier made solid. Mulder has drawn a line in the sand that she can’t cross.

Really, it’s a liminal sort of space—the distance between two heartbeats (the time it takes to break one of them). She breathes in, and the only thing holding her up is inertia. A body in motion remains in motion, remains steady and unshaking until she can find a way back to her car. Until the sun goes down and the sentinel guard of her heart can lay down its shield and she can let herself break. Just a little bit. Just until the light of the morning cuts through the glass and drags her forward. Towards Mulder, always towards Mulder—some cosmic force, a gravitational pull that always calibrates to the iron in his blood. 

[dartmoorpixie]

When She Wakes Up - Chapter Seven - That pain-in-the-ass husband. ✦ ݁˖

Rating: E | Wordcount: 19,343 | C. 7/?

Read on AO3! Pleease. Tagging @today-in-fic <3

cw: very heavy emotions, discussions of comas & life-threatening conditions.

‘Jeez, did they print out the entire internet?’ Scully whispered, though she wasn’t sure why she’d bothered.

Mulder couldn’t suppress a grin as her shoulder nudged his and the contact sent a thrill through him.

‘Hey, no, no no! You don’t get our free grunt work and get to talk behind our backs. If she’s making jokes, share them with the class!’

Scully rolled her eyes and twisted her fingers at her lips, flinging the imaginary key over her shoulder.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, there’s nobody there,’ Mulder said smugly.

‘Jerk..’ Frohike muttered as he hefted up another ream of paper and dropped it in front of them.

‘So.. not to sound ungrateful, but what exactly am I looking at?’ Mulder asked with wide eyes.

‘This is… everything,’ Langly said seriously, his hands on his hips as they all took a moment to stare at the mammoth task ahead.

‘Everything..?’

‘We ran a programme, it trawled the net and pulled up anything, medical journals, personal blogs, any page that mentioned a specific set of keywords. Then, we just hit print, it was going all night. No stone unturned,’ he said with a shrug.

‘No stone,’ Mulder exhaled slowly, then pushed it into a low whistle.

‘We’re gonna charge you for the paper though,’ Frohike added as he elbowed past.

‘What about Scully?’ Mulder asked, his voice sounding whinier than he would have liked.

‘For her, it’s on the house, you’ve used up more than your share of our free stuff.’

‘You’re just pissed you can’t see her,’ he grumbled in return and Scully shoved him.

‘You can do it the old-fashioned way, too, Mulder, we won’t judge.’ Byers cut in, gesturing towards a pile of dusty old books they’d stacked in the corner.

‘Thanks. I’ll hit the books and you guys start skimming the mountain. You know what you’re looking for?’

‘Coma patient, apparitions, miracles?’

‘What are we waiting for?’ He asked, smacking his hand on his thigh and standing.

‘And what will the lovely lady be doing?’

‘She, uh, can’t touch anything..’ Mulder said, an apology on his lips as he shot her a look.

‘Nothing?’ Frohike asked.

Mulder didn’t feel like explaining that she could touch precisely one thing and it was his body, so he just shook his head tightly.

‘Scully…’ Frohike blindly addressed the room, his voice a little loud.

‘She can hear you, man, she’s in a coma, not deaf,’ Mulder said with a scoff.

‘Tell him I said thanks,’ Scully said.

‘She says thanks,’ Mulder repeated and they all shared a small smile before taking up their own stations.

Stacks of paper shifted between sides of tired bodies and Mulder sifted through a pile of books until some title seemed vaguely helpful.

Scully watched Mulder carefully as she tired of waiting for him to turn pages that he was still studying, his thumb brushing at the corners as he muttered under his breath.

Her head rolled from side to side, trying to clear the frustration and impatience away with a familiar movement.

His lips were moving silently and the plump lower one glistened as his tongue occasionally darted out to run along it. His forehead was pulled taut and she could see tension running in little lines underneath his skin, beneath stubble that she had never observed this closely before. She was sure that she had never stared at anyone’s skin like this before and she felt herself lean even closer under the guise of reading more of the book rested on his bent knees.

‘You never wear your glasses anymore,’ she said softly without thinking, then quickly straightened up when she heard the rasp of her voice.

‘I, uh.. my eyes are pretty tired.’ He went to reach for them self consciously and she stilled him, the tips of her fingers buzzing against his hand.

He tugged away and pulled his glasses off so he could rub at his eyes, as though he had forgotten about the discomfort until she had brought it up. He groaned quietly as his head pressed back against the wall.

‘What are you two whispering about over there?’ A grumble came from across the room behind stacks of research that were still towering stubbornly above all their heads.

Mulder chuckled but ignored the comment and reached across the grab Scully’s hand.

‘Scully are you ok? Do you feel tired?’

She looked at him for a drawn out moment, squinting as she considered his question. It shouldn’t be difficult to answer, it was normally a yes or no question, but all of her insides felt murky, clouded and unsettled.

‘It’s not…’ She shook her head, searching her brain for how she really felt. ‘It’s not a tiredness per say, it’s more of a.. there’s an ache,’ she said, hovering a hand over the centre of her chest and his eyes flicked down with a frown.

‘Y’know, if this situation wasn’t so gut-wrenchingly frightening, it would be fascinating,’ he said with a little awe in his voice, eyes tracking slowly back up to her face.

‘I suppose. And I suppose it happened to the two people who spend their life chasing this sort of thing,’ she said with a weak attempt at a laugh.

‘Yeah. We kinda asked for this.’ He wrapped his fingers around the hand she’d dropped from her chest and brought it up to his lips. He didn’t care how it looked, he needed to feel the cool promise of her skin, if only for a moment.

[cowboyslikedean]

msr crack fic idea where mulder goes out of his way one year (c. 1998 ish) to send mrs scully a holiday card and is VERY confused when she calls him asking if everything is okay between him and dana. when he asks scully about it she goes bright red and picks up the card her mom sent her this year from the mantle, and the last two years from the hall cupboard - all addressed to “Dana & Fox”. she reveals that in an effort to stop her mother from setting her up with every slightly eligible catholic bachelor in her parish, she simply. stopped protesting when people insinuated that THEY were together. she never said they WERE, just stopped saying that they weren’t. so, you see, giving her mother a card addressed only from him may have. slightly broken the facade. it is at this point he realises that the many times he has seen maggie scully in person in the last two years have, well, not broken the facade.

[autumnalexfiles]

Merry Whumpmas (X-Files Edition) (4431 words) by autumnalexfiles Chapters: 6/31 Fandom: The X-Files Summary: A series of short X-Files/MSR drabbles and ficlets based on Tumblr user @whumpishprompts 'Merry Whumpmas' prompts for the month of December.

🩵 tagging @today-in-fic 🩵

Chapter 6: Nowhere To Go (read on AO3 ->)

They haven’t spoken for miles. 

The argument hadn’t even been about anything in particular, rather an almost inevitable release of tension after nearly four days of chasing a case that had turned out not to be an X-File at all – just an ugly, brutal, human kind of horror. The worst kind.

Mulder had pushed. Scully had pushed back. He’d said something she knew he regretted as soon as it left his mouth, and she’d snapped right back with something she knows she really regrets now. 

By the time they hit the Beltway, the windshield wipers can barely keep up with the falling snow. Scully stares out the passenger side window, watching the blur of lights through the worsening conditions, her jaw tight.

Muder pulls up in front of her building and breaks the silence first.

"We’re here,” he says curtly, looking straight ahead.

Scully nods, fingers already reaching for the door handle and stepping out into the biting cold. She retrieves her overnight bag from the backseat, and before she has a chance to lean in and say a polite goodnight or thanks for the ride or drive safe, the wind catches the car door and slams it shut. She winces, knowing that Mulder has likely interpreted that as a deliberate act, and she can’t blame him. She looks at the ground, feeling chagrined. 

They probably both could have handled that better.

Bracing herself against the wind, Scully pulls her coat tighter, adjusts her bag, and starts up the walkway toward her building. She makes it halfway there before she slips on a patch of ice and goes down – hard. 

For a second she sits there in the snow, slightly stunned. It takes a few seconds before the pain catches up to her. She’s rolled her ankle – a sprain, she realizes with immediate clinical certainty. Her hip and elbow, which took the brunt of her fall, will undoubtedly be bruised by tomorrow, and her ankle is probably already swelling in her boot.

Instinctively, she turns toward the road just in time to see the taillights of Mulder's car disappearing around the corner. Of course. When have they ever had good timing?

Scully’s chin wobbles involuntarily. She presses her lips together and carefully pushes herself up, cursing under her breath as she tries to put weight on her ankle. She’s suddenly freezing, the wind whipping at her face, the snow finding its way into the gaps of her clothing. Mercifully, she manages to make it into her building without slipping again, and limps her way up to her apartment.

There’s a note taped on her front door – rarely a good sign. She reads it once, twice, and then laughs, a hollow, dry sound in the cold hallway.

ATTN RESIDENTS: BUILDING HEATING SYSTEM DOWN. EXPECTED REPAIR BY MONDAY AM. APOLOGIES FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.

It’s Friday night. Of course, this is how the week from hell would end. Of course, this would be her weekend.

Scully tosses her bag on her bed, and doesn’t bother to unpack. Instead, she changes into sweatpants and a cozy sweater, and pulls on the thickest socks she owns. Her ankle throbs as she limps to her linen closet and retrieves two thick blankets, then hobbles over to her freezer for an ice pack, before settling on the couch.

With her ankle propped up on a cushion, the ice pack tucked against the throbbing joint, Scully wraps herself in both blankets, and turns the television on to some black-and-white movie she barely pays attention to. She has to turn the volume up twice to hear the dialogue over the storm hammering against her windows, and still her focus is elsewhere. 

It’s not the first argument they’ve had that’s left her feeling like shit, and it probably won’t be the last. But this one is getting under her skin – not even the words that were exchanged, just how…unnecessary it all was. Clearly what they’d seen over the last few days had upset them both, so why couldn’t they have just…talked about it? Why can’t they ever just talk about the heavy things?

She knows the answer. It’s just not something they do. She resents that more than the stupid fight itself.

With each gust of wind outside Scully can feel the draft creeping through her windows. She shivers, and pulls the blankets tighter. Despite the layers, she hasn’t warmed up since taking a tumble in the snow. The ice pack isn’t helping matters one bit.

Scully is considering hobbling her way back over to the kitchen to put on the kettle when the lights flicker once – twice – and then go out entirely. The picture on the television shrinks and disappears, the hum of her fridge fizzles into silence, and she’s left in a sudden, absolute darkness. 

All at once she feels impossibly small and alone in the shadows. Her living room window rattles in its frame, and her chin wobbles again.

She’s not going to cry. She’s not going to cry. 

Her throat tightens. Her eyes prickle with tears, and she sniffles.

She’s not going to cry because her power went out. She’s not going to cry because her ankle hurts. And she’s not going to cry because she had a ridiculously unnecessary fight with Mulder. 

She’s going to cry because of...all of it

She gives herself three minutes. Three minutes to sob silently into the safety of her non-judgemental fortress of blankets before she shakes her head, wipes her eyes and her nose, and forces herself to take a deep, steadying breath. She fumbles for her cell phone, her fingers clumsy and cold as she dials the number of the one person she’s still irrationally pissed off at, but the one person she wants more than anything in the world. The one person who could possibly make things better right now.

Mulder answers on the first ring.

“Scully? Everything okay?” His voice is wary and slightly guarded.

She opens her mouth, and what comes out is smaller and more honest than she expects. 

“Not…not exactly.”

There’s a subtle shift in his tone toward that quiet alertness she knows so well.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Scully sniffles and wipes her nose with the blanket again, fighting back more tears.

“I’m...I slipped on the ice when I got out of the car. Twisted my ankle. It’s not…it’s not broken, but it’s bad.” She pauses, and then the rest pours out of her unguarded. “And my building just lost power, the heat’s been broken – it’s been down for a few days, I think. I’m freezing, and I just…” She trails off into a shaky laugh that ends up halfway to a sob, and continues. “I don’t want to be alone in the cold and the dark, Mulder. Not after this week. My mother’s out of town, and I don’t know where I...I have nowhere to go.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. She can picture him sitting on his sofa, arms crossed, still pissed about the way they left things, and for a second she fears the worst, expects a flat, cold, 'gee, that’s too bad’ in response, when – 

“Say no more,” Mulder declares, his voice low and decisive. “I’m coming to get you. I’ve got power, heat, and a bag of frozen peas in my freezer that have seen me through more injuries than I care to remember.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to…impose.”

“Scully,” he murmurs, “you could never impose. I’m on my way.”

She closes her eyes and nods, and lets the familiar warmth of his voice settle over her like a third blanket.

“No, that’s…I can drive. It’s fine, I can—”

“Scully,” Mulder cuts in firmly, “you just told me your ankle is busted. You’re obviously in no shape to drive. The roads are awful, so let me come get you before it gets worse out there.”

Scully closes her eyes, tears falling silently as the tension eases out of her shoulders. There’s rustling on the other end of the line – she can picture him tossing on his coat in one fluid motion, his phone pressed tightly against his shoulder – and the slam of his apartment door.

“Okay,” she whispers into the darkness. "Okay."

“Okay,” he echoes. 

"Mulder? I'm...I..." Scully trails off. It's not often she's at a loss for words, but she doesn't know how to say what she wants to say. What she needs to say. 

"I know," Mulder replies, and the way he says it assures he of just that: He does know. "Hold tight, Scully," he continues. "I’m on my way.”

[sleepingthruchem]

Everyone wish me luck I’m starting my first series long x files fic, we’ll see if I stick with it!

Link here!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/83748421/chapters/220769306

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