Look...I love her

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Look...I love her
Hi!! I’m the anon that has bothered you about Simple before. I definitely have not forgotten about, but no pressure! Whenever you choose to gift us with the next chapter is great!!!
I’ve had this message for so long… thank you anon, and I’m sorry this took so long, but here you go. 💛
Simple
Chapter 5
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4
PG-13 | 2k wds | pre-XF AU | MSR, Melissa/Samantha
A/N: I’m not sure if taking a break helped my writing at all—it still felt like pulling teeth to get any words on the page, but I did put them there, so… here? Sorry.
—
January, 1990 - Stanford
She was down to the wire now, and the pressure was on. Surrounded by books, diagrams, and piles of notes in a cocoon of preparation for her second licensing exam, Dana had barely made time to eat for weeks. Studying was both necessary and the only thing keeping her mind off of the deep, lonely ache inside her. In bed at night, she oscillated between feeling crushed by the weight of the uncertain future, which seemed to press her down into the mattress… and the light fluttering of hope, the pulse of joy and desire when she thought of Fox Mulder. She imagined him as he’d been on that last morning, touching her face, his eyes searching hers, the solid feel of his hips between her knees. Her mind was a storm of medical facts and the interrupting image of his face in her memory, lowering to touch his lips to hers as he made love to her on her sister’s guest bed.
Then, inevitably, she would think of the residencies she might be offered in St. Louis or Albany. She thought of the fact that long-distance relationships rarely worked out, in the end. She thought of Fox getting tired of late-night phone calls, and of all the other women who were right there in D.C. already. She thought of Daniel, who had found her twice now at the hospital, pulled her into an alcove, and dropped less than subtle hints that he thought she should stay with him.
(“You’re a brilliant doctor, Dana. Just imagine what it could be like, the two of us.”)
She’d been firm, but he’d dogged her about why, and she couldn’t answer. She thought of his teenage daughter, of his wife who’d done nothing to deserve this, of the sharp jealousy she’d heard in his voice the day she’d broken things off. (“Is there someone else?”)
“Damnit,” Dana mumbled when she caught a mistake in her work. She erased, blew away the pink-gray shavings, scribbled another string of names and symbols. She appreciated the clarity of the answers on these tests: there was right and wrong, true and false. Nothing like the foggy, dark path toward her future, which she could not see.
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agent mulder meant a lot to me okay he was brooding and handsome and obsessed with an uptight yet sexy redhead
But we might be waiting a while to see her.
Hell 👏 fucking 👏 yes 👏
folie imposée | wc: 1410 | ao3
prompt from @o6666666: 31. I found you grasping to hold onto me
i.
When she fires at the shape climbing the wall she thinks, fumbling for something normal, of how Mulder has always had a gift for shadow puppets. But Mulder’s hands are tied.
This isn’t exactly right, if she’s being honest. She only thinks of the shadow puppets later, driving him home as he sleeps in the passenger seat. She is only a scientist when her gun is in its holster.
So: When she fires at the shape climbing the wall what she really thinks is He was right, which sounds suspiciously like Of course, which is less a conscious thought than a feeling. Like the click of the right prescription in an eye exam. Like seeing a zombie behind a hospital desk.
“Scully,” Mulder rasps. “Get away from the window.”
“It’s gone, Mulder.”
“Just get back.”
He’s straining, struggling against his restraints to reach her. She unhooks the belt across his chest and he grasps for her, pulling at the straps around his wrists. When she takes his arm in her hands his skin burns hot and pink, rubbed raw by cheap canvas.
She could play his scrapes on a turntable and the vinyl would sing a slow tragedy, a myth reborn in jazz. Cassandra the cursed prophet, reincarnated as a boy who believes in aliens.
She loosens the strap and he slips his hand out, grabbing her cheek. “Did it get you?”
“No,” she says, but she leans closer anyway, until her nose is inches from his, and lets him look into her eyes. He wraps fevered fingers around the back of her neck, brushing back her hair.
“No Alaskan ice worms, either,” she breathes.
He smiles. Mulder, with his split lip and bruised chin.
She crosses to the other side of the bed and frees his other hand, the swollen knuckles that should really still be taped. She should put his hand back on ice, her cursed boy. She should lock him away, and herself with him.
“Scully—” he starts.
“Hang on.” She pushes him forward by the shoulder and studies the back of his neck. He waits.
The skin is unbroken. His brain, his fine brain—of course.
In the car she will think of shadow puppets, of how good he is at projecting a story in the dark. Of how that’s not, exactly, what happened here.
“Where are your clothes?”
He points. “Drawer.”
She retrieves his suit, so artlessly folded, and sets it on the bed.
“I’ll close this curtain so you can change,” she says. “I’ll be right here. But you should hurry.”
Mulder nods and starts to stand. He’s barely on his feet for a second before he blinks and tumbles back onto the bed.
She stops drawing the curtain. “Mulder?”
“Dizzy,” he says, screwing his eyes shut. “She gave me something. Nurse Zombie.”
She touches his forehead and he opens his eyes to study her thumb. No fever. She checks his chart.
“Just a sedative,” she confirms. “Enough to discredit you.”
“Why?” He bunches the sheet in his hand. “They didn’t think I’d be alive by morning.”
Get him out of here. It’s primal: feeling, not thought. Get out, get him out.
She kneels on cold linoleum to slip his socks onto his feet and tie his shoes. She tucks Mulder’s wrinkled suit under her left elbow, bends down, and fits her right arm around his back.
“Come on. We’re leaving.”
Mulder leans on her, stumbling into the hallway in his G-man shoes and hospital-issued scrubs.
“This is against protocol,” the nurse says from behind the desk, with a robotic voice and color in her cheeks. I saw her face, Scully reminds herself. I saw it.
She keeps walking, dragging Mulder along with her. They stop for no one.
ii.
Folie imposée: a sub-classification of folie à deux in which a dominant person (known as the ‘primary,’ ‘inducer,’ or ‘principal’) initially forms a delusional belief and imposes it on another person or persons (the ‘secondary,’ ‘acceptor,’ or ‘associate’), with the assumption that the secondary person might not have become deluded if left to their own devices.
Which is to say that she probably would not have shot at a monster on a patient’s wall had she chosen to practice medicine.
iii.
She drives him to her place, tucks him into her bed. When she takes off his shoes she remembers being in Catechism, practicing how Mary poured perfume on Jesus’ feet.
Is it worship or penance, what she has with him? Her primary. Her inducer.
She’s stuck on this: that she wouldn’t do one autopsy, and it almost killed him.
(She would have done Mulder’s autopsy. She would have sewn him up, left the morgue, walked to her mother’s. Would have left the morgue and walked until she bled. Wouldn’t have left. Would have sewn herself up inside him.)
But she wouldn’t cut into Backus, couldn’t give credence to his delusions without admitting Mulder shared them. Too soon after almost starting a national security incident to justify her faith in her partner. Keep it professional, Agent Scully. Sweep it under the rug, free him from a hostage situation, take him home. Take off his shoes. No, no.
iv.
The first documented case of folie à deux, in 19th-century France, involved a young married couple with a persecution complex. They believed people were breaking into their home and wearing their shoes.
v.
Mulder gasps awake in Scully’s bed, knows it’s her bed before he opens his eyes. Light from the street lamp outside cuts across the rug. A grayscale nightmare crackles to static at the edge of his vision.
He kicks his way out of the sheets and finds his wrists are doctored, wrapped in loose bandages and greasy with ointment. Scully. He pictures her balanced on the edge of the mattress with his hand in hers. What has he done to her?
You have to believe me, he said, and the universe finished the sentence: or I’ll die. Dress my wounds forever and ever amen, Scully, it’s in your contract.
There’s a drawer in her dresser with an extra overnight bag, his bag, tucked into one side. He tears off the scrubs and changes into sweatpants.
In the living room he can barely make out Scully, curled up on the couch under a blanket with the Pincus file spread across her hip. He’s considering whether to wake her, to offer the bed for the rest of the night, when he collides with a vase on a side table.
Scully jolts, fumbling for her gun.
“It’s me,” he hisses, palms up. “It’s me.”
“Mulder?” She switches on a lamp. “What time is it?”
It’s 5:35. They both squint at the clock, question answered.
“Are you okay?” she asks. He nods dully. He’s an escapee of the psych ward, marked for death by a rogue monster and his undead army, and possibly unemployed. He’s fine.
When he doesn’t elaborate, she shakes her head and laughs the ghost of a laugh.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says. “I was just thinking. Hiding in the light.”
He waits, expectant. She bites her lip.
“Coffee?” she asks.
And he nods again, like she’s pumping air into his lungs.
vi.
She leans against the kitchen counter in the orange glow of the early dawn, watching the coffee drip into the pot. He sits at the table, a plain turquoise mug in his hands. They wait.
“Are these the same grounds you got in Maine?” he asks.
She nods, proudly. She says, “I’m rationing.”
“Oh,” he remembers. “Thanks for the, um—” He motions at his wrist, spinning his finger around it like a bandage.
“They’re not too tight?”
“Just right, Goldilocks,” he declares with a flourish. “I’ll be all healed up by the time they slap the cuffs on me.”
Scully frowns. “Mulder, for what? The hospital couldn’t hold you. That nurse is out of this time zone by now, along with everyone else in Pincus’ orbit.”
“The Bureau, then.”
“I have a meeting with Skinner this morning.” She straightens her shoulders. “You’ll be found fit for duty.”
“What are you going to tell him?” he asks.
She studies her mug, tracing the rim with her fingernail. “I don’t know.”
The red light on the coffee pot blinks. The rising sun lands directly on her face.
“Scully?” he risks. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
She looks at him, lips parted. The room ignites like it’s been lit from within.
“Scully?”
“I saw what you saw.”
“Here you have a guy who’s affecting the weather because he’s repressing his true feelings. And who better to help him than two people whose emotions are repressed and never express their feelings for each other?” -Jeffrey Bell, writer, The Rain King, premiered January 10, 1999
Watch Sex Education on Netflix
why? straight-gay best friends being the main focus of the show… it’s what we deserve
even though the show is set in the present day, they’ve decided to go with the 70s aesthetic vibe which looks just astonishing + the soundtrack slaps
from iconic scenes
through powerful scenes
through random moments that end up being touching
to… well
[jennifer lawrence voice] gay rights!
the reason behind the father being hesitant and (at first) not really supportive of his gay son using make-up and dressing up is that he’s genuinely scared and worried something will happen to him outside because he loves him… truly a father-gay son dynamic we needed to see
Jackson Marchetti. Feminist icon. Abs. Excellence. Does his best. Lesbian moms. Charming. What’s there not to love? Let him breathe, Netflix.
“I love her!” be more specific
the hero of the show actually being an awkward guy and a very likeable character
this non-problematic legend being out there, loving math and making sure his partner is genuinely sexually pleased
the only two openly gay guys at school are not friends but gay solidarity still exists
Mean Girls 2.0 being really mean but we still stan these vegan icons
literally no one giving a fuck that the gay guy is in the boys changing room… looks like it’s finally 2019
and I mean… Gillian Anderson… hello
YES
YES
YES
Netflix made an adorable X-Files fanvid!
https://www.facebook.com/netflixus/videos/10153418312933870/
This is absolutely iconic
Letters
Note: This is the first fic I've had the nerve to publish, and I want to give the HUGEST of thank-yous to @gaycrouton for being my unofficial beta; her advice is just as wonderful as her writing, and she's just generally the absolute best.
Summary: Letters never sent.
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She is gone. He is floundering in a dark lake of endless questions, paddling uselessly against a current of conspiracies. He is afraid that soon his limbs will give out and he will drown.
It feels like yesterday that she was alongside him, keeping him afloat with her facts, her science, her unyielding trust even beneath layers of doubt and skepticism. Yesterday feels like an eternity.
He does not know if he will ever see her again. A dark piece of him wonders if perhaps it would be safer, easier to presume her dead. If she were never to come back to him, at least he would be prepared.
But if he gives in to this perverse doubt, the ghost of his life preserver will disappear and his lungs will fill with that cold, dark water.
So he writes her letters.
He hasn’t done that since he was sixteen and his mother found his letters to Sam while she was cleaning his room. She had said nothing, but that night he saw her stoking a quiet inferno in their fireplace and he knew that those tentative branches of hope were the tinder for the flames.
But now, he leaves Scully offerings on his hearth, begging her to come home.
In a cruel twist of fate, many of the things he says to her are things he had said to Sam. He tells her that in her absence, he speaks to no one. He apologizes for every single time he has been cruel or dismissive towards her, wishing that he could go back in time and make every moment spent with her a happy one. He promises that he will never stop trying to find her, and that when he does bring her back, he will give her everything she deserves.
Many of the letters are delicate and wrinkled with his dried tears, but he does not care. All that matters is that his fragile hope finds its way into the universe, so that perhaps she will feel it and return.
And she does.
But the homecoming is bittersweet, marred by the uncertainty of her survival. He knows that he needs to do more, that simply transcribing the feelings was not enough.
And so, when he rushes home to change and shower after days of agonized vigil, he seizes the sheaf of papers piled on his hearth without giving a second thought to the grief-blurred ink. When he returns to her side, he reads for hours, until his voice cracks and his eyes run dry.
Even after she wakes up, he will not burn these letters. He files them away carefully, hoping that someday he will find the courage to read them to her again.
~~~
She can feel the life draining from her, faster every day. The red rivulets dripping grotesquely from her nose grow more vivid, while the brass of her hair and the flush of her cheeks dull.
As her color fades, his intensifies. She can see his eyes burning bright with anger, with the need to fix it.
She wants to tell him to stop looking. She needs him to know that it isn’t his fault. She doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life fighting for a lost cause, and she sure as hell doesn’t want to do it without him by her side.
But every time she opens her mouth to ask him to just spend time with her, he flinches in anticipation. In anticipation of what, she cannot say for certain. Perhaps he is waiting for her to ice him out, or perhaps he is afraid that she will finally tell him that she is in agony.
She supposes that, in a few months, the reason won’t matter.
What matters now is that regardless of what she says, it will shatter him.
So she writes him letters.
She fills a book with the words she wishes she had the courage to say out loud. Her normally neat cursive trembles as the words trip over themselves to enter the universe, begging to be heard by someone, anyone.
She tells him everything he doesn’t know about her, because she doesn’t want him to have more questions than he already does when she’s gone. She apologizes for her unrelenting skepticism and her reluctance to profess her fears and her loves. She tells him that as much as the universe has screwed her over, she would relive it all again if it meant keeping him.
In the end, it reads like an epic, tragic love story.
She prays to God that he never finds it.
~~~
His mind is on fire, burning with a thousand tomes of others’ thoughts.
He cannot drown the voices out, no matter how he screams over their incessant crescendo. Nobody can hear him.
Can or will?
He supposes it doesn’t matter. The only person he wants to talk to is barred from his side, perhaps due to others’ fear that she will be the one to hear him.
He talks to her anyway. When the cacophony of betrayal becomes too unbearable, he writes her hundreds of thousands of letters in his head. Often, they are rambling and aimless, containing countless phrases playing on a loop in his mind. Sometimes, however, they say exactly what he needs them to.
He apologizes for doubting her, for betraying her trust. He tells her that he knows he is unworthy of that trust, that he knows he will never deserve her. Most importantly, however, he tells her that he will try. He will try to win her trust again. He will try to be good enough for her, in all her brilliance. And goddammit, he will try to tell her he loves her in the way she deserves.
He swears to himself that these words will not go unheard.
But then the noise deafens him, and he dreams.
He dreams of the life he had never dared to imagine. He dreams of happiness and white picket fences, of calm and quiet.
He knows that something is not quite right. When Diana is gone, he sits down at his desk and drafts letters to an unknown recipient, hoping that they will be able to tell him why something is always tugging at the back of his mind. When he is on the beach, the tug intensifies, yanking him towards the truth, but every time he feels he can reach out and touch it, he is violently jerked from the beach, waking up once more in the life he had never quite wanted.
Finally, she wakes him up, her bright eyes piercing through the disconcerting haze of manufactured happiness. She fixes him, like always. He goes home and sits down to write the words so that he can tell her properly. But there is still a deep hurt in her eyes which sinks its claws into his heart and crackles along his nerve endings every time he picks up the pen. Suddenly, he is terrified of giving the words life, fearing that they may only hurt her more.
The words remain unwritten.
~~~
He is gone.
He was everywhere.
And he is gone.
She cannot reconcile these facts in her mind. A world without him is illogical. It is impossible, when he was her world.
She buys a new journal and tries to make sense of the paradox. She begs him to come home and when the life inside her becomes impossible to ignore, she tells him the stakes.
Many of the letters are written in fury, usually at the cruelty of this new reality, but sometimes at him. She tells him that he is not allowed to ditch her now, not when she is carrying his child. On some days she is so angry that she tells him she will never forgive him for leaving her like this.
But then she remembers who he is and what he is to her, and she apologizes for her anger and tells him she loves him and that she will move heaven and earth to bring him home.
And then…
Then…
Then.
Then he is dead, and she screams until her throat is raw and cries until her eyes run dry.
She does not, cannot, and will not understand.
But that doesn’t change the fact that he is dead.
She comes home, numb, and burns the letters.
~~~
They do not celebrate Christmas their first year on the run. Seeing the lines to visit Santa is like salt in a fresh wound. They are their own family, but a broken one nonetheless.
Instead, they celebrate New Year’s Eve. They watch the ball drop on the motel television, and she kisses him at midnight. They pull away seven minutes into the new year, cheeks glittering with tears. He gives her a sad smile, and she cups his face in her hands, thumbing away the evidence of his quiet grief.
“Hey,” she says softly, “the world still hasn’t ended.”
He chuckles and leans his forehead against hers. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
She kisses him tenderly, then turns to rummage through her duffel bag. “I have something for you.”
He grins and pulls a leather folder from under the bed. “Still haven’t stopped reading my mind, have you?”
She sees what he is holding and laughs. “No, I suppose I haven’t.” With a grin matching his, she hands him a small leather-bound journal. Inside it are the hundreds of letters she has written to him since he came back to life, telling him about their son, trying to work out ways to bring their family together once more. Grief and pain are spattered across the pages, but her love permeates even the darkest blots of ink.
He looks up from the first letter, tears already beginning to blur the ink. He is smiling, though, as he shakes his head in wonder. “Scully….”
She raises an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth curling up, and he laughs. “I...here, you’ll see.” He hands her the folder and she opens it slowly, bemusement creasing the space between her brows.
In it are the letters he had written her when she was abducted, but there are new letters now, too. These are the letters he has written to her since he came back to life. Most of them are apologies: for not being there to see their son grow, for putting her for so much grief, for being cruel to her because it felt easier to distance himself from her in case he never came back. Most of all, he apologizes because he wants to spend every second of his life with her, and he has already wasted too much time.
She stares down at the fragile pages and laughs shakily. “I guess you haven’t stopped reading mine, either.” When she looks up, her eyes are shining with love and tears, and he guides her by the small of her back to the bed, where they sit side by side and begin to read each other’s letters.
Together.
Throwback to that time I took a quiz to find out which Star Wars character I was and I got Han's tauntaun....
The two best goddamn comedies on television are coming back TOMORROW and I am NOT READY
I feel like the natural conclusion of Jake's character arc is for him to find a way to reform the penal system.
I have a friend who went mountain-climbing with some of his frat brothers over winter break, and when they reached the top they told him to "yell something manly."
So this kid takes a deep breath and screams, "I LOVE MY MOM!!!!"
One word prompt (because you're just so dang good at them): dust
Awww, that’s so sweet! Thank you, I’m really exited to use them to experiment with my writing! I’m so glad you’re liking them!
He didn’t really even have time to dust the cobwebs off his flirting skills before he was trying to use them on Scully. He didn’t even take the time to consider the possibility that maybe he shouldn’t in the first place.
A suspect they’d apprehended was aggressive, he was angry, he was clearly an idiot. Mulder could think of any justification as to why someone could ever possibly say something so obviously, ludicrously wrong about Scully.
“Ugly fucking bitch.”
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little rough with the suspect as soon as the man shot the words at Scully like a dart of venom poised at her heart. Mulder was too busy to take out the dart before the poison spread, but now, as they were walking back to their car after handing the perp over, he could see she was infected. That the words ugly, fucking, and bitch were building a temporary home at the forefront of her mind.
His desire to say something, anything, was just so blinding, like looking into a light dead on and seeing the silhouette of the figure imprinted on everything you tried to look at afterwards. Blink. The downward tug of her lip. Blink. The way she wasn’t meeting his eye. Blink. Her little nonverbal responses to him. Blink. The way she tugged self consciously on her skirt. Blink. The subtle way she was trying to catch her side profile in reflective surfaces they passed. Blink. The way she was fixing her hair as if she was trying to hide herself. Blink. He needed to say something.
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I feel like the Brooklyn Nine-Nine costuming department really missed out on the opportunity to make Hitchcock and Scully not wear ties because they're not really integrated members of the team
Lauren Lopez is a Permanent Mood™