Gethsemane Cut Scene: Scully offers to stay the night
In a cut/re-write, Mulder is told that Roach did abduct his sister as depicted in 'Paper Hearts'. Seeing how upset he is, Scully offers to stay with Mulder but he refuses.
Mulder pulled the car into the gravel lot and cut the engine. In front of them was a long wood building, painted a light blue. Over the entrance was an olde-tymey sign that said “O’Hurley’s General Store,” and on every conceivable surface on the rest of the building, it listed its wares: Glassware, Hardware, Furniture, Yard Goods. Hats, Music, Dolls. Housewares, Toys. Guns, Knives, Tools.
Scully threw him a skeptical look. “Did you…forget to pack something?” she asked.
Mulder put his seat back and settled in. “No,” he said. “We’re here on surveillance.”
Scully balked. “Surveillance?”
Mulder nodded. “I think our suspect shops here.”
“I wasn’t aware we had a suspect.”
Mulder turned to her. “We talked about this. The witch.”
“You’re right, Mulder, we did talk about this.” Scully could hear the whining in her own voice and did her best to level it. “Just because there was a pentagram found near the body doesn’t mean it was a ritual sacrifice. I explained this to the Sheriff as well.”
“It wasn’t just the pentagram, Scully. There was salt on the scene. Incense. All items used in ritual consecration practices.”
“t was the kitchen of a college student, Mulder. Salt and incense are pretty much par for the course.”
“Your autopsy showed he was killed with a sharp knife, ‘likely with a curved blade,’” he invoked a line directly from her report.
“…and that means witch?”
Mulder smiled at her. “The boline is a white-handled, curved, ritual knife, used mainly for the cutting of herbs and inscribing candles.”
Scully leaned back begrudgingly in her own seat. He wasn’t going to let this go.
“Fine. Our suspect is a witch. Why would he or she be shopping here?”
Mulder reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded up flier for the store they were parked in front of. Scully pursued the list.
“Cast iron,” she read off. “Enamelware. Dinner bells.”
Mulder nodded enthusiastically. “Candles,” he said. “Coffins. Frogs.” He pointed at the words painted on the side of the building. “Plus dolls. Dry goods. Knives.”
Scully turned to look at him.
“One stop shop for your modern day witch,” he said with a smile.
Scully looked back down at the advertisement, feeling her irritation give way to bemusement. “Who in the world drops into a general store to pick up a steam engine?” she said.
“Probably the same person who goes in for an anvil.”
She graced him with a grin.
“They sell ‘notions?’” She had to admit to being at least a little bit charmed.
Mulder bent his head to peer through the windshield at the store. “I really want to go in.”
Scully unbuckled her seatbelt. “So let’s go in.”
His eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Open your door before I change my mind.”
Mulder whipped off his own seatbelt and was out the door before Scully had a chance to button her coat.
She followed him up the gravel walkway, the stones crunching crisply under their feet. “I’ll bet you twenty bucks it smells weird in there,” she said.
“There’s no way I take that bet,” he replied, smiling. He trotted up the steps and held open the door for her and she shuffled in and turned to him, tapping her nose. His smile grew wider.
Scully then paused, five steps in, taken aback by the sight before her.
“Jesus,” she said. “I’ve never seen so much crap in one place.”
”Isn’t it great?” Mulder beamed.
A saleswoman appeared from behind a behemoth stack of crockery.
“Can I help you find anything?” she asked.
Mulder looked poised to say something she would probably wish he wouldn’t, so she decided to carry the mantle herself.
“Any chance you have a cauldron?” Scully asked.
“Absolutely!” The woman said brightly.
“How about a besome? A censer? An Athame?”
The saleswoman smiled. “Right this way,” she said, turning to make her way around several large barrels filled with wax-wrapped salt water taffy.
When Scully turned to see if Mulder was following her, she found him glued to the spot, his mouth agape.
“Scully?”
“Yeah?” she asked, more than a little pleased with herself.
“If they sell engagement rings, I’m buying you one.”
When she wakes, she’s alone. She touches the sheets on Mulder’s side of the bed and finds them cool, long since unoccupied. The clock on the nightstand tells her that it’s after 10am.
She scrambles out of the bed, kicking at the sheets that are tangled around her legs. What if he left? What if he went in search of Diana, or his parents, with the intention of confronting them? What if he does not yet understand just how much danger they are in?
She throws the bedroom door open and rushes down the hallway, coming to a dead stop in the threshold of the living room when she sees him standing at the window, his back to her. Her panicked heartbeat begins to settle, and she takes in the neat stacks of paper on the now upright coffee table, then recognizes the gentle notes of music lilting from the stereo.
Quietly, she pads back down the hall to brush her teeth and use the bathroom, though she cannot summon the will to get dressed. The apartment is already growing warm in the early summer heat, making her cotton shorts and Stanford T-shirt more comfortable than any of the proper clothes she packed in her rush to flee Ellicott City. She examines the purple splotch on her cheek where Mulder struck her, then dabs on a bit of concealer in an attempt to cover it up. When she returns to the living room, he’s right where she left him.
“Mulder?” she says from the threshold, and he turns around sharply.
He looks her over and his expression softens, making her belly tumble. He looks happy to see her.
“Hi,” he says softly, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I figured you could use some extra sleep. Sorry about…”
She shakes her head.
“You don’t need to be sorry,” she says emphatically.
They are quiet for a moment, the notes of the music filling the void. It’s Sam Cooke, one of the other songs from the album. Show me that river, take me across, wash all my troubles away. Like that lucky old sun, give me nothin’ to do but roll around heaven all day.
Slowly, she crosses the living room and stands beside him in front of the window, looking out over the drab cityscape. He touches her cheek and she startles, then looks up at him to find a pained expression on his face.
“Is this from me?” he asks, brushing the backs of his knuckles across her cheekbone.
“It was an accident,” she tells him, and he cringes.
“I’m sorry,” he says mournfully, pushing her hair out of her face.
The graze of his fingertips over her skin makes her shiver despite the warmth of the sun, and Mulder abruptly pulls his hand away.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, reaching out to touch that same hand briefly. “Your dream. Was it about Samantha?” she asks hesitantly.
Mulder sighs and stares blankly at the horizon for a beat.
“The details are hazy,” he says, then shakes his head like it may knock something loose. “All of them, not just the dream. I remember little snippets here and there, but there are massive blank spots between them.”
Scully turns and sits gingerly on the sill of the window, crossing her legs at the ankle. She sees Mulder briefly glance down at the exposed skin on her thighs before he quickly looks away.
“What are the snippets?” she asks.
He looks off in the distance again, absently dragging his thumbnail back and forth across the stubble on his chin.
“I remember sitting in my bedroom as a child while a police officer was interviewing me. I can’t remember what he said, I just remember looking past him and seeing a man in the doorway, watching,” he recites rotely. “I remember a party of some kind, and a woman with short brown hair talking to me.” He sighs again, then shrugs. “It’s less of a memory of an event and more of a feeling. I can remember feeling afraid when the police officer was interviewing me—I actually feel nauseated just thinking about it now. And when the woman was talking to me, I remember feeling embarrassed or humiliated. Maybe ashamed, I’m not sure.”
“Are all of the feelings associated with the memories bad?”
He turns away from the window and looks at her, letting his eyes wander aimlessly across her cheeks and chin, her nose, her mouth. Finally he meets her eye and she feels herself flush.
“No,” he says simply.
The song ends, and the album starts over. The first few notes stir up a maelstrom of emotion, though she’s heard them hundreds of times over the last several days. His presence, his proximity, the weight of his eyes on her, overwhelm her with nostalgia and longing.
“This song is meaningful,” he says, and her chin quivers as she nods. “I can feel that it is, but I don’t remember why. Tell me,” he requests.
She lowers her head, remembering. His arms around her waist, the way he looked at her. So content. So in love.
“It’s the first memory of you that I had. We were standing in a kitchen, dancing to this song,” she says quietly.
Mulder listens to the notes for a moment, then reaches past her and hits a button on the stereo. She feels his fingers brush against her palm and she looks up at him.
“May I have this dance?” he asks with a nervous smile, threading his fingers through hers.
She can’t speak, so she just nods and allows him to lead her to the open area in front of the patio door. His free hand finds her waist, and hers his shoulder, and they begin a slow waltz. She’s so overwhelmed by the familiarity of it, by the crushing need to feel him closer, that her eyes immediately well up. She stares at his chest, not wanting him to take her emotional response as an indication that she’s upset and they should stop.
At first I thought it was infatuation, but oooooh it’s lasted so long. Now I find myself wanting to marry you and take you home.
In an attempt to conceal her distress, she turns her head and rests her bruised cheek against his pectoral. She’s sure he can feel her tears wetting his T-shirt when he pulls her a little closer and begins to brush his thumb comfortingly across the side of her wrist. Her heart aches so acutely it feels as though it’s actively breaking, crumbling under the realization that she may never get him back, not really. She clutches the fabric of his shirt in her fist, wondering if he will stay with her if she falls apart. Wondering if he will comfort her while she mourns the loss of him. He heaves a sigh, and her head rises and falls with the expansion of his lungs.
“I don’t remember dancing to this song,” he says, his voice tight.
“I know, Mulder,” she consoles him, and herself. “It’s okay.”
He rests his chin on the top of her head. “I don’t remember what happened, the events,” he continues, the bass of his voice vibrating in her ear and his breath tickling her scalp. “But I do remember how I felt. I know that I loved you.”
Adrenaline flashes through her like a lightning strike, and her eyes fly open. Slowly, she lifts her head off his chest and looks up at him. Hooded, mossy green eyes, the plush pout of his bottom lip, third day stubble dappling his cheeks. Recognition. The part of him that loves her looking right back.
She feels her face contort into something that is surely very unattractive, and she cannot find a single word to say that feels adequate. He releases her, then cradles her face in his hands and swipes his thumbs across the tears streaming down her cheeks. They just keep coming, a deluge of relief, and sadness, and hope, and fear.
“I’m sorry, Scully,” he whispers, agony on his face. “I’m sorry I don’t remember.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but then his lips are on hers and she forgets what she was going to say. His kiss is firm and chaste, an act of impulse fueled by bravery. Both her hands are on his waist, clinging to him desperately, afraid to let go. He pulls away just as suddenly as he initiated, and they stare at each other for a moment, awestruck.
You thrill me. Darling you, you, you, thrill me. You thrill me, honest you do.
She doesn’t allow herself to consider the risk. To think about how she will feel if he rejects her, if he tells her it was a mistake. She brings one hand to the back of his neck and tugs him down, pushing up onto her tiptoes and pressing her mouth fully against his. Mulder hums in surprise, stiffening briefly before his hands move to her waist and he pulls her flush against him, nearly lifting her off the floor. His mouth tastes like heaven, like coffee and sunflower seeds and confessions whispered across rental car consoles. She doesn’t hold back, couldn’t if she wanted to, as she laps hungrily at his tongue, threading her arms around his neck and then her legs around his hips. She feels his hands cup her ass cheeks to hold her steady and her brain short circuits.
Please, please, please, she begs him with her body. With the flex of her hips against his belly and the needy whimpers bubbling up from her throat. She feels herself falling, and then she’s collapsing into his lap as he sits heavily on the couch. Their hands freed, they claw at one another’s T-shirts, interrupting their kisses only long enough to strip the offending items off and toss them to the floor. When her breasts meet with the bare skin of his chest, he groans and grabs her hips, pulling her firmly against him.
“Is this okay?” he asks breathily, the bulge of his erection pressing against her vulva through her shorts.
“Yes,” she whimpers, fumbling with the fly of his jeans. “God, I want you so much.”
She feels like she’s on fire, like she could die from the heat of the wanting. Like she’s been dying, suffocating under the loss of him, and she can breathe again for the first time in months.
He stands and sets her on the floor before tucking his fingers under the waist of her shorts and sliding them down her hips. They puddle around her feet, along with her already soaked panties, leaving her nude. She already had his jeans unbuttoned and the fly lowered, and he shoves them roughly to his knees before he sits back down and she climbs into his lap. Her clit throbs expectantly when she wraps her hand around his shaft, giving him a few pumps before she lifts her hips and lowers herself onto him.
Time slows as she sinks down. The sweet stretch, the tickle of his pubic hair as she sits fully in his lap, the heat of his balls pressed against her. She sighs and kisses him deeply, leaning the full weight of her body against his, connecting every inch of skin that she possibly can. Mulder runs his palms over her back, her hips, her thighs. The tips of his fingers skirt along the crack of her ass and her desire flares again. She arches her back, drawing her hips away from him, then thrusts her pelvis forward until she feels the head of him collide with her cervix.
Mulder sucks in a breath and his fingers dig into her hips. “Do we…are there condoms here?” he asks through gritted teeth, and her heart sinks.
“I can’t get pregnant,” she murmurs against his mouth, and while she’s sure that they are words she has uttered before, they feel painfully fresh.
“Oh. Sorry,” he says, and she desperately does not want to go there right now, not when this is the first time she has felt good in weeks.
“It’s okay,” she assures him, grinding her hips against his lap to bring him back to the moment. Back to her.
He moans, and she begins a steady rhythm forward and back, the length of him dragging across her clit on each downstroke. They kiss sloppily, intermittently just holding their open mouths against one another, and one of his hands finds its way to her breast. He captures her nipple in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing and kneading so perfectly in a way that he could not have intuited. She collapses against him, tucking her face into his neck, and he moves both hands to her ass cheeks. Though she is on top, she becomes the passive party as he flexes his pelvis and pulls her down, then pushes her away, fucking her from his inferior position. And it feels so devastatingly good, not only physically but mentally, because they have done this so many times. Because even if his mind cannot remember, his body does. He knows her in his bones, in his heart, in his cock. She melts into him as it builds, and builds, and builds, and he grunts when he feels her quiver around him.
“God, I love the way you smell,” he mutters, burying his nose in her hair. “The way you feel.”
“I’m gonna come,” she whispers, so full of love and pleasure that she wishes this moment would never end.
His head drops back against the couch as she explodes around him, shortly following her over the edge. She lets it all wash over her, the oxytocin and the dopamine, the love and the relief, the desperation for more, even though she’s still in the thick of it. They start kissing again, moaning and writhing and coming with the impending afternoon heat beating down on them through the uncovered windows. She feels the slick of them both pooling in his lap as her hips begin to slow, then he throbs for the final time and slips free of her.
She rests her head on his shoulder, sighing contentedly, and he wraps his arms around her waist. They sit there for minutes, basking in the afterglow and the bliss of being held.
“That was fun,” he says shyly, breaking the silence, and her mouth stretches into a wide grin.
She sits up, looking at his swollen mouth and blown pupils, and the knowing smirk that’s as familiar to her as her own name.
“Yes, it was,” she agrees playfully, and then they just look at each other.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says with wonder. “How’d I land someone as pretty as you?”
She laughs, which adds to the mess beneath them on the couch.
“It took a very, very long time,” she says emphatically, and he reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Worth it, I bet,” he says softly, and this time the tears that threaten her eyes are tears of joy.
Fox Mulder/Dana Scully (The X-Files) vs James T. Kirk/Spock (Star Trek)
Mulder/Scully
Kirk/Spock
Voting ended onOct 19, 2023
This poll is a celebration of fandom history; we're aware that there are certain issues with many of the listed pairings and sources, but they are a part of that history. Please do not take this as an endorsement, and refrain from harassment.
I started writing last year and posted my first fic one year ago today with TONS of help from @xfmaweezy and @atths--twice.
I wanted to celebrate a year of writing, by posting my 75th fic- “Probation Vacation” and just like the first one, it’s DIANA / ANGST / ONE BED. It occurs during the flashback in Hollywood A.D. (remember the on set visit in LA happens about 12-15 months prior)
Teaser below, full story on AO3-
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Teaser from chapter 1 (Promise this is MSR)
Cleaned, hair styled, and a dress picked out, she made her way to the adjoining door, which she found unlocked. As her eyes made sense of the scene in front of her, she panicked and froze. She swore she felt the world stop on its axis as she saw Mulder on his bed, hovering on his hand and knees just above a woman.
“Diana,” Mulder said.
Scully’s jaw dropped, realizing Diana Fowley was splayed beneath him, legs spread, and arms reaching around his back. He moved one hand to her wrist and then pressed it delicately against her neck.
What the hell , Scully thought, a tear falling down her cheek and rage pulsing in her veins—but she couldn’t turn away.
Her panic escalated as Mulder started undressing Diana, helping to remove her jacket and fishing her phone from the pocket.
“Fox, that tickles,” Diana squealed.
And— OH FUCK! Mulder, the man who had kissed her just hours ago—leaned his face down toward Diana’s mouth.
“Oh hey, Fox. Hi,” Diana said flirtatiously at his proximity.
“Hey, say something, Diana,” he said, and Scully was sure Mulder’s breath was tickling Diana’s lips.
“Fox Mulder, F.B.I.,” she teased playfully.
Scully gasped loudly. So loudly that Mulder jerked, obviously hearing her in the room now. He turned his head toward Scully while his mouth was just inches from Diana’s. He immediately worked to move from Diana's body, like a fox caught in a trap.
“Oh, hey, Agent Scully. Fox and I are catching up,” Diana said from her position underneath him.
Scully turned toward her room; she had to flee: maybe flee L.A., maybe flee the Earth . Anything to get away from the activity of her partner and his ex and whatever they were up to on his bed.
“Fox, you’re glad I’m here, right? Thanks for finding me,” Scully heard Diana say behind her.
“Mulder, I’m speechless. I have to go,” Scully said, her voice choked with tears, reaching for the door.
I saw your reply of scullys prefered sex position on her side from behind, but pleaaaase write or draw about it ❤️🥹😊
He can hear her soft little vocalizations with every exhale, her sweet, breathless "oh....oh....oh"s in concert with the rhythm of their entwined bodies. She smells so good, his lips pressed to her scapula, his nose engulfed in the fragrance of her silky hair. He knows she loves it like this.
"Gently," he husks into the back of her neck, thrusting shallowly, "so gently, honey." She moans, clasping the wrist of the arm he has propped between her head and the pillow. He feels a flicker of pride that she's lost all physical coordination as he presses his hips into her smooth little behind.
He hears a murmur, a muted catch in her throat and he knows she's close. He deepens his strokes, moves his free hand to dip his middle finger down to the slick, fat bead of her clit just as she sucks in a shuddering gasp. He feels one, two, three...god, almost ten steady pulses as she disintegrates around him. At around the sixth clench he feels a hot, gentle flow around his fingers and down his thigh, accompanied by a whining hum that he's never heard her make before—an animalistic mewl of complete abandon. Her hand flings behind and grasps at his hip, her nails digging mercilessly into his tender flesh.
He's hopeless to hold back after that, groaning her name with his lips against that minuscule scar at the back of her neck.
Later, barely able to meet his eyes as he strips the bed, she'll apologize sheepishly for the state of his sheets. Incredulous, he'll stare at her, lamplit in her rumpled, happily fucked state with her flushed cheeks and pillow mussed hair...and wonder what on earth he did to deserve her.
Summary: What if Mulder had been married to Diana Fowley when Scully joined the X-Files?
A/N: I know this story has been told before—I’ve read at least one version of it. But I wanted to tell it myself and the motivation aligned with the idea, so here we are. I plan on two more parts, I think, unless this gets out of hand. Be gentle, I’m very rusty.
—
1993
She really was looking forward to working with him. In that dank office overflowing with paper he had slides at the ready. He’d been waiting for her, rolled his sleeves like an arrogant schoolboy. He’d spent time thinking of a line to snare her or scare her.
In the glow of a projector bulb displaying the body of a dead Texan, she’d smiled at the challenge: hooked. And the crook of those lips revved his heart in return, in spite of himself, because he swore not to trust her. She was here to undo him, and he wouldn’t let that happen.
He wouldn’t.
And then, when she made herself vulnerable to him, against all his better judgment, he told her everything.
Like teenagers at a sleepover, in candlelight and to the sound of thunder, he spilled it all. He opened up his guts and poured them out in front of her.
The hook was in deep, but when he said the word wife, something in her wriggled like a worm.
She’d not known.
She felt different about coming into his room now, ashamed like she’d been in those moments just after her panic when she caught her breath and regained her composure and wrapped her robe around herself again. And the fact that this wife was FBI—had helped him find these very files, knew all of these deep secrets about him already—shook the still uncertain ground beneath her. The knowledge was like a splash of cold water, waking her up, reminding her: this was her job, only her job and not her whole life.
“She doesn’t work with you anymore?” Scully wondered if the Bureau had separated them because of the marriage.
Mulder swallowed and a look of discomfort crossed his face. “She transferred to an anti-terrorism unit about ten months ago. She spends a lot of time overseas.”
He told her no more, but the fact was that he hardly saw Diana these days. And he didn’t want that part of his life in the room with them now, not when they were onto something big. Not when a case hadn’t felt this right in years.
A phone call sent them off into the night again, and Scully tried to steel herself against what felt like a too-easy attachment to this boyish energy and earnest charm. Then cold rain in an Oregon cemetery brought a kind of euphoria that Dana Scully had never known. Her first case in the field and the excitement of unfolding a mystery—god, the elation of it—knocked her punchy, wired her like an electric fence. Was it like this for everyone? Was it always like this for him?
It wasn’t and it wasn’t. Mulder also tried to guard himself against this small, frizzy-haired creature who could belly-laugh beside an open grave, who wielded a scalpel like the sharp sword of justice. But if she wasn’t to be trusted, why did he want to tell her everything? Why did he feel the itch to call her just hours after they separated at the airport, to make sure she’d be in the office tomorrow morning so they could begin the hunt again?
They each tried to hold the other at arm’s length against the magnetic pull that yoked them ever closer. But in the end, that meant they were both still holding one another.
—
It was months before Scully met Diana Fowley. The tall brunette breezed into the X-Files office one day like she owned it, while Scully herself was barely comfortable perched at the spare work table.
“Where’s Fox?”
Scully’s mouth fell open for a moment before she could speak, and the other woman eyed her up and down conspicuously.
“He’s—he’s requisitioning a car.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
“Diana Fowley,” the woman said. “His wife.” She said this as if it should have been obvious, which maybe it should have been. Scully realized that there were no pictures of the woman anywhere in the office. Mulder rarely spoke of her.
“Oh.” There was an awkward pause before Scully stood up to shake the woman’s hand. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Dana Scully.”
Diana gave her a pained smile and a limp handshake. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Scully’s eyebrows went up at this. She crossed her arms, unsure what to say.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
Scully looked at her watch. “I don’t know, he left about twenty minutes ago—“
And just then Mulder came through the door waving the approved rental form and holding a set of keys in his other hand. “Took me some wheedling, but I got the Taurus with the good air conditioning.”
He stopped short when he saw Diana.
“Hello, Fox.” Her smile was smooth like satin. Slippery.
She’d said almost nothing to him, but he looked chastened, arms flopping to his sides. “Diana,” he said like some wind had been knocked out of him. “You’re back.”
“Just this morning,” she said. “Can we talk for a minute?”
He nodded, and they stepped out into the hallway, closed the door behind them. Scully heard escalating voices, muffled through the closed door, but harried nonetheless. She concentrated on their paperwork and tried her best to withhold any judgment of Diana Fowley.
—
It was easy, at first, for Mulder to compartmentalize the passion he felt for his work, the strained affection he felt for Diana, and the simple pleasure of his growing friendship with Scully. Each had its place in his life and seemed not to rub too much against the others.
“I don’t think she likes me much,” Scully mused one day over a chicken Caesar. Her tone was casual, but it hung over a small stormcloud of anxiety.
“Who, Diana?” He was slurping a Cup-O-Noodles, unevenly heated in the basement microwave.
Scully gave him a look and turned back to her expense report.
Mulder cleared his throat. “She doesn’t know you,” he said, a half-truth to cover his own suspicion that Scully was right. Diana had made a few passing comments about his new partner, none of them pleasant.
Scully made a small sound in the back of her throat and left it at that.
Three days later they were isolated at the edge of the world, facing down death on the Icy Cape. They held loaded guns at each other, yet Mulder had never felt more fiercely protective of a partner. He was afraid for himself, but terrified for her. In the bald overhead light in a storeroom, he placed his warm palm over her neck and felt her shiver. She was small and fierce and painfully good.
He might die for her, he realized, and willingly. He wondered what that meant.
—
1994
The thing was, Diana was cagey about her work but eager to hear about his—if dismissive and cutting every time he mentioned Scully. She blew back into town a few times a month, fucked him so hard he thought his ears would bleed, and then stroked his back while he told her everything he’d been doing: every case, every lead.
“What about you?” he’d ask.
“Nothing exciting. Nothing I can talk about, really,” she’d say—or some equally vague non-answer.
“I miss you,” he’d tell her. “Can you stay longer?”
She’d give him a sad chuckle. “I wish I could. Only until Tuesday.” Or Sunday or Friday or whichever day gave them barely a few hours together.
“I love you,” she’d reassure.
“I love you, too,” he’d confirm.
Mulder held on to hope that this was just a phase, a rough patch.
Diana didn’t visit him in the hospital after he was shot. Instead Scully was there every day, hovering and checking his chart, asking him to lift the blanket so she could check the bandage and feeling his forehead, fingers lingering a bit too long. She carried his bags in the airport and drove him home to an empty apartment.
“Fox, I’m so sorry,” Diana said when she finally saw him again. He was hobbling on crutches and she held wine and his favorite takeout.
“It’s okay,” he said.
And it was, for a while—until everything came crashing down around them. Until they closed the X-Files and sent Scully away from him and he felt like he’d been ripped in half.
Late one night when Diana was home for once, he heard her on the phone: “He’s withdrawing. He’s losing interest.”
Mulder sat up in bed, rustling the covers more than he’d intended.
Diana’s voice fell. “Yes. … Yes. … I have to go,” and then the sound of the phone settled back in its cradle.
Who? he wanted to ask, but he was tired. So tired of everything. It wasn’t worth it to fight. He slept.
—
Mulder was off course and she was just so worried and she really truly never intended for this to happen. She would hate herself for it soon—already did, or would, if it didn’t feel so absolutely right.
His tongue was in her mouth and they were both wet from the hotel shower, the humidity, flying high on the thrill of escaping death again together. They’d made it all the way to Savannah in the rental she’d left in Miami before they pulled into a motel. One room was enough—with two beds, they thought they’d be fine.
They were, until she saw him dripping and alive, the light back in his eyes, and she’d reached to cup his stubbled jaw.
“You’re here,” she told him. “You’re back.”
“You brought me back,” he said, and then his lips fell to hers. She didn’t resist; the thought never crossed her mind.
Now he was hilt deep against her pelvis and her knees were in the air and even though she swore, swore, she’d never do this again, she wouldn’t let him stop because Jesus fuck it was so good, he was so good.
“Mulder, oh…” and then just whimpers because his lips were on her neck and one hand was palming her cheek like she was fragile porcelain.
“I’m sorry I ignored you. I’m sorry. You’re everything, Scully.”
She couldn’t think enough to make sense of what those words might mean, so she turned his head with her hands and kissed him again, kissed him quiet.
She knew she couldn’t have him, not really, but she followed him off the cliff anyway. She would save regret for Washington, where they’d both swear never again, no matter how good it had been.
—
Late at night in the apartment, and this time Mulder didn’t hear the hushed phone call—a tragic missed opportunity for the truth.
“He’ll never stop while he has her,” Diana whispered fiercely. A hot wave of jealousy lived beneath those words. “Take her out.”
Summary: What if Mulder had been married to Diana Fowley when Scully joined the X-Files?
A/N: I think one more part after this… again, assuming it doesn’t get out of hand, lol.
—
October, 1994
Fox Mulder did not react the way Diana anticipated. She watched him crumble from the inside, watched him throw himself into fire and rail screaming against the night. This wasn’t just guilt and devotion, she realized. It was love: hot and soul-deep in a way she didn’t think he’d ever felt for her.
The thought burned acidic in her gut.
It was never a lie when she told him she loved him. She did, with all of herself that was able to love. There was just so much she couldn’t tell him, that he wouldn’t understand. Dana Scully might have been “good,” but such a position was relative, and to think her goodness more pure was naïve. On the deeper scale of history, wasn’t saving the human race better? Wouldn’t advances in genetics, and these future children, be the key to survival some day?
Diana looked down over her medical mask at the red-haired woman, petrified but immobilized, on the metal gurney. She dare not speak, lest the other woman recognize her voice, but she placed a hand on Scully’s arm—whether to comfort or reassert her own power, she wasn’t sure. Both, perhaps.
Now you’re a part of this, she thought.
Diana could tell the other woman wanted to scream, but the intravenous paralytic kept her from moving, tied her voice down in her throat, even as her belly distended for the hyperovulation.
We’ll be the same, she thought. They’ll have your future, too.
And when Scully died, whether from this procedure or the cancer that would inevitably follow, Mulder would be broken. Diana would be there waiting for him with open arms and open ears.
—
November, 1994
Scully was soft and fragile and freckled, teetering just this side of life and no memory of where she’d been. Mulder returned her cross to her: a symbol of both her faith and his, though not in the same things. When darkness came and her mother and sister had gone, he wielded his badge to reach her floor and stole back in when the night nurse took a break—even if Scully were sleeping, he needed to see her.
But she wasn’t sleeping. She was deep in thought with a reading lamp on, fingers clasped around the necklace on her chest. She looked up at the sound of the door.
“Hi,” he said.
She smiled at him, and he felt dizzy for a moment at the sober cobalt of her eyes.
“Did you sneak in?”
He frowned. “I don’t sneak, Scully. I deftly maneuver.”
She gave a slow nod of humoring agreement.
“Are you feeling okay? I was just going to sit for a minute and then sne— maneuver my way out.”
Another half smile before she scooted over, patted a space on the bed by her hip. He crossed the room to sit facing her, like she’d done for him in a hospital bed not long ago. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, pushed her hair from her face with a gentle touch. His eyes carried a weight that looked like it could pull her down and drown her. It scared her a little.
“Mulder—“
“I thought I’d lost you,” he said, voice low and full of gravel. “It ripped me apart. I wasn’t sure I…” He breathed in once, twice, pushing down some dangerous confession. “They reopened the X-Files and I almost didn’t care. I only cared about finding you.”
Scully’s eyebrows went up at this. “They reopened the files?”
Mulder brushed his lips across her fingers one more time and then let them go. “Yes.”
“When?”
He shrugged. “About two weeks ago.” A pause as he considered how to frame his next words. “I don’t want to pressure you to make any kind of decision. I know you need time, and you may not want to come back at all—“
“I do.” Her voice so firm, so sure.
“Scully, there’s a very good chance someone took you because of our work.”
Her chin jutted up to cut the air with determination. “Then we can’t let them get what they want.”
He opened his mouth to speak, to argue, to say something protective and reassuring like that he’d be okay without her—a lie—but he swallowed it back. He wanted her with him, needed, couldn’t imagine his life without her now. “Scully…” a croak, an admonition, a declaration. He leaned forward and turned to lay his head on her pillow, pulling her back with him. He swung his legs up to lay alongside hers and curled his body around her.
Scully stiffened. This was a dangerous game—dangerously close to the mistake they’d already made. “Mulder, I—“
“Please,” he said. “I just need to hold you for a few minutes. I just need to know you’re really here.” She relaxed, softened against him, and after a moment let her head fall onto his chest.
“You’re married,” she said. “It’s not fair to—“ she swallowed around a click in her throat, “to her.” Or me, she thought. But her arm had come around his waist and her palm was on his back, under his jacket and t-shirt, warm on his skin. She wanted all of him around her like a cocoon. It was the safest she’d felt since waking.
“I know,” he said. He kissed the top of her head.
He didn’t let go.
—
It would be almost Christmas by the time they left quarantine, another whole month gone and so soon after losing time already. Alone in all this quiet sent Scully reeling into the blank void of her lost memory, grasping at scraps and finding only terror, meaningless sensations, dead silence but for the whir of horrible machines.
Scully doubled over in the dark, clinging to her own knees in oversized hospital scrubs. She heard a low keening whine. The drill—
the drill the drill the drill the drill the drill
But it wasn’t the drill. It was only herself, her own throat squeezing out that high, desperate note. She choked on it and sobbed.
She needed to work. She needed to be anywhere but alone with her thoughts and the cold, medical smell of antiseptics, waiting to see if she’d sicken and die like the others.
Welcome back, she thought.
—
Less than two weeks left and neither of them showed signs of infection so they were given permission for contact. Mulder was practically banging at the door, ready to tunnel between their rooms to see her. Unlocking the passage between them was like the crack of gunfire at a race: he was off in a heartbeat.
What he found on the other side of her door was a pale, limp creature, wrapped in blankets and staring at the ceiling.
“Scully!” he rushed to her bed and checked her pulse, felt her throat and her cheeks. She felt warm, but not flushed. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes focused on him and her lips trembled. “I tried not to think about it,” she said, “but I was alone again.” He sank down beside her, watched her wrestle with herself, biting her lips and forcing herself to sit up. She was collecting composure from every last reserve. “I’m sorry. I’m okay.”
He touched her face again—he couldn’t help it. “You’re not okay.”
For a moment, she leaned her cheek into his palm, eyes closed. She breathed deeply while silence hovered. When she finally spoke, nothing could have prepared him for her words.
“Do you love your wife?” she asked.
It was like a record scratch, a slap, a T-bone at an intersection. “What?”
His hand dropped back onto the bed, and she opened her eyes to look at him. “This is dangerous, Mulder. Whatever this is—“ she waved her hand between them, “—it’s very confusing.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“Do you love her?”
Mulder looked away, grappling with his own demons. “Yes. I do. I did? God, I don’t know.” He’d thought what he had with Diana was love, but now he wasn’t sure. Diana was a low thrum of lust and comfort. Whatever this was, it felt monumental, volcanic, planetary, cosmic.
Her voice was low and dry, like wind through leaves. “I won’t do this, Mulder. I won’t be the greener pasture or give her reason to hate me more. That’s not fair.”
“I know it’s not.”
“You’re my friend,” she said.
“Yes.” He thought of her naked under him, soft and unbearably sweet, pink-cheeked and mewling with pleasure. He felt like he’d swallowed fire.
“When you touch me…” She couldn’t finish. “I need to respect your marriage. Or I can’t respect myself.”
There was something in the way she said it that made him realize there was more—something she wasn’t telling him.
“Okay.” Still, he didn’t stand. When she looked up at him, her eyes were hooded, dark, hungry. Being this close to her was dangerous. He didn’t trust himself.
And he was stupidly in love with her, he realized.
He bent to kiss her, and she didn’t resist. She opened and softened and tasted like honey. He’d kill for her. He’d rip the world to shreds for her. He wanted to let her go, but he couldn’t—not after he’d felt this. It was danger love, cataclysmic love.
When he pulled back, her lips were swollen and the freckles stood out on her nose in the dim light. There was no regret her eyes, nor in him: only need.
“I’m not sorry about this,” he said, and he gave in.
—
January, 1995
In the real world of D.C., they put their professional composure back together. They were polite, protective, and professional—if somewhat flirtatious. Scully wouldn’t allow things to move beyond that, not in the city where they lived and worked, but the memory of how he felt over her, under her, inside her was never far away. It seeped in when he was giving slideshows and pinkened her face. She ached to touch him.
But he was married, and that thought would always follow the desire and fill her with a too-familiar shame. By some miracle, Scully had managed to avoid seeing Diana Fowley in the intervening months—was, in fact, terrified of running into her again. When it finally happened, she was shattered, knocked flat by the encounter.
She and Mulder had been working over lunch when Diana walked in, shoving her into panic mode and skyrocketing her blood pressure. Then the woman spoke, and everything came undone.
“Agent Scully,” Diana said, as if surprised to see her. “I was sorry to hear about what happened…”
Diana kept speaking, but Scully had stopped listening. The look in Diana's eyes, their shape and the pitch of her eyebrows rolled a tumbler in her mind.
no no no no no no no
Cold sweat broke out on her upper lip and she felt her face go white as blood left her and she was blanketed with terror. The machines, the drill, the hard metal slab...
Fuck or Die fic, with consent! Fully written- will be fully posted by Saturday morning (US Time) **I haven't posted about this since the first day, but I know some people like to jump in when the fic is almost done! 😂
SELECTED PASSAGE FROM CHAPTER 8:
She felt his hand reach hers in the darkness, grabbing a hold of it. It felt sweet, innocent, loving. She gently squeezed his hand as it wrapped around hers.
“Do you ever think of our old cases?”
“Yeah. So much of it is dark. But we’ve had a bit of fun in there, right? You had Bambi and Phoebe.”
“Hey,” he teased, rolling towards her, even though they could barely see each other in the dark.
“You can’t help your charisma, Mulder. Even Dr. Blockhead said it; remember him?”
“Yes,” he said, suspiciously. “What did he say?”
“He said future genetic engineering would make a planet of people that look perfect,” she teased, poking him in the side, “just like you.”
“Hardly perfect, Scully. Have you been acquainted with my nose? Among other things….”
“I happen to like your nose,” she said, gently finding it in the dark and tapping it with her finger.
He squeezed their held hands.
“You are one to talk, anyway.”
“What?” she asked, confused. They barely ever talked like this…talked about each other’s looks.
“Come on, Scully. Frohike never shuts up about how hot you are. And Max Fenig—the enigmatic Dr. Scully….”
“Frohike is your example?” she whined.
“Frohike is a smart man, with good taste. And Scully, you are, in fact, exceptionally hot.”
She felt her stomach flip over, a tumble of butterflies moving in a disjointed fashion. The room felt dynamic, full of energy.
“Scully?” he said, drawing her back to the moment, “I’m sorry. Did that offend you? Just forget I said it….”
“…No. I mean—it’s nice—you’ve never said anything like that to me before.”
“You’re beautiful, don’t you know that?” He cupped her jaw, and she leaned into it. She saw his silhouette lean towards her, and he kissed her gently, just a tease of tongue finding hers.
READ STORY on AO3: HERE
Thank you to BETAS: @xfmaweezy, @cecilysass, @agent-troi Who save my ass with every single (and there were a lot) suggestion and correction! ❤️
Rated X | Joint work with @xfmaweezy | Read it here on AO3
A salt-laden breeze wafts through the slats of the heavy wooden balustrade just as the sun drops below the horizon. Mulder is sprawled out in a resin stack-chair at a table in the corner of the deck, rhythmic bass notes thumping through the boards under his feet as music from a jukebox inside spills out into the briny air. He is as relaxed as one can be after sipping on three icy mugs of draught in two hours before moving onto iced tea.
Scully is ahead of him, by his count, and has reached the much less inhibited, social stage of her buzz. Her forearms rest on the table, one hand wrapped tightly around her glass while the other absentmindedly scrapes X’s into the frost with a manicured fingernail. She is leaning in toward Chief Kent, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and she barks out a laugh at whatever story he’s just told.
The Dana Point Chief of Police flashes a dazzling set of unnaturally perfect teeth as he reaches for a pitcher, refilling his glass. He’s ruggedly handsome, charming—tall, with a broad chest and sun bleached hair that hangs below his ears. His tanned bicep flexes, stretching out the sleeve of his t-shirt, as he lifts his mug and takes a gulp of sudsy beer. The dark five o’clock stubble adorning his square jaw contrasts the pale blue of his eyes, which twinkle as he continues to flirt with Scully.
Any other time, Mulder might find himself roiling, jealousy coursing through his body until he acts out foolishly. He might groan and roll his eyes every time the Chief winks at her and comments on how serendipitous it is that Dana would be sent to crack the case in Dana Point . He might embarrass her with his brooding and snark.
But it’s not any other time. It’s a Thursday evening at a crowded California beach bar—and a tipsy Scully is straddled atop his denim clad knee.
Due to a lack of seating, he had spent the first hour and a half standing after she had nearly, silently, castigated him for suggesting they share a chair. But when she returned from the restroom and found him sitting in her seat, he pressed his luck by waggling his brows and patting his thigh in invitation—and she climbed aboard.
From his semi-reclined position he is able to check out his partner without being observed, without being chastised with a harshly whispered, “Mulder! We are at work,” and so he takes full advantage while he can.
Burnt orange strands of fiery hair swirl gently in the cooling air as they reflect the flames of tiki torches lit around the deck. With her head dipped toward the Chief, the back of her neck is exposed, and he can just make out the tiny scar he secretly kisses after she falls asleep with him spooned up behind her. A ribbed scoop neck top just barely reaches the waistband of the coordinating loose capri pants she’s wearing. He watches plum tipped toes wiggle at the top of black platform flip flops, and sighs contentedly.
Mulder pulls himself up higher in his chair as another pitcher is brought out. His movement causes Scully to teeter, and he places a hand on her hip to steady her, as she, too, sits up straighter, putting them at eye level. She now rests much farther back on his thigh and he feels her settle under his palm.
The condensation on his half-abandoned glass of tea has begun to puddle on the table. Candlelight glitters off the water, blurring into a shimmer of yellow and white that pulses with the beat of the music. As he reaches for a coaster, his chest and shoulder push into Scully’s back, his arm pressing more tightly around her. He feels her turn to look at him, assessing him, before she pats the hand on her hip with her own. When he meets her eye over her shoulder, she’s smiling. And she’s not asking him to move his hand. He thinks maybe, for once, she’s not worried about what anyone else might think. So he very casually dips his chin and places a gentle kiss over the textured fabric of her cap sleeve.
“Mulder,” she says, still smiling. “We are at work.”
He stifles a grin and cuts his eyes across the table, discovering that Chief Kent’s chair is unoccupied. “You’re the one sitting on my lap,” he says, shrugging—and immediately wishes he hadn’t. That Scully even agreed to use him as her personal barstool was a wonder in itself—that she relaxed into it at all, nigh on a miracle.
But to his surprise, it only seems to encourage her. “Touché,” she says softly, and squeezes his hand.
“When can we get out of here, Scully?” he asks, innocently enough.
A server brings Mulder a fresh tea and places a glass of ice water in front of her. As in everything not related to the paranormal, they are on the same page. He crooks a knowing smirk at the timing of her choice to stop drinking alcohol and subtly lifts his heel from the floor, pressing his thigh firmly into her vulva.
“I need food first, Mulder. Garth went to get pizza for everyone. And then after that…” she says with a nod toward the exit.
He drags his prickly chin up her shoulder until it meets bare skin. To onlookers it would appear he’s simply trying to be heard over the music. “Well, Dana, please tell me there’s pineapple on that pizza.”
“You don’t eat pineapple, Fox.”
“But I like it when you eat pineapple, Dana,” he growls softly.
“Mulder, you know there’s no scientific evidence to support the claim that consuming pineapples makes one’s secretions taste sweeter. Anecdotes aren’t science. For something to be stated as fact, it needs rigorous testing and controls and… and—” she startles as Mulder’s free hand slides up her thigh between his legs and grips her tightly.
“Mmm. Say secretions again, Scully,” he rumbles in her ear and finally, finally, she blushes. “You know I can feel you? The heat of you?” he says, and again lifts his heel, using both hands now to hold her even more firmly against the sinewy hardness of his runner’s leg. She inhales sharply and grabs the table’s edge. “God, Scully, I can feel you throbbing.”
Through the din of music and laughter he thinks he hears what might be a tiny whimper. But her body tenses and he reluctantly releases his grip on her thigh, removes his chin from her shoulder, and sits up straight. He’s afraid he may have gone too far, though she stays where she is, straddled over his leg with his hand on her hip. And for that he’s thankful. His dick is painfully hard, the bulge impossible to hide if not shielded by her body. But she sits tall and still and looks straight ahead.
Chief Kent arrives with the pizza and Mulder eats a piece one handed, afraid to let go of Scully with the other. He decides he’s definitely in hot water when she eats quietly and doesn’t flirt anymore with the Chief. She doesn’t react when he makes a small show of eating the pineapple either. And when he gives her hip a subtle squeeze she grunts in a way that can only mean knock it off. He’s clearly ruined her evening and embarrassed her and wonders how he can make it up to her. What was he thinking saying such things, touching her that way, in the presence of colleagues?
The next half hour is torture as Mulder imagines every apology possible. He’s beginning to think Scully might be delaying their departure, putting off dealing with him, when he hears her thank the Chief for the hospitality and tells him they’ll see him in the morning to finalize their statements. As she stands, another breeze blows across the deck and Mulder feels a chill on his thigh. For a brief moment he considers maybe the sensation is more than just a sudden loss of warmth, but he resists the urge to touch where she’d been sitting, his body and mind already battling between arousal and guilt.
He guides her through the crowds with a hand on her lower back—he can’t not touch her , even when she’s upset with him. She hasn’t spoken directly to him since her spiel about pineapples and anecdotes, and when they make their way to the back of the unlit parking lot and Mulder unlocks the passenger door, he breaks. “Scully, I’m—“ he says, before finding himself slammed up against the car and a tiny, red headed, federal agent sucking on his tongue and palming his crotch.
“Aw, man, where’d he go?” she nearly whines into his mouth, still pressing her hand over his jeans.
“Where’d who go?” Mulder asks, reeling and confused.
Stepping back, she raises a suggestive brow and lowers her gaze to where her hand had just been.
“Scully, I thought you were mad at me. I—”
“Mad at you? For what? Mulder I’ve never been so turned on in my life,” she says, both hands now on his belt working to pull the strap of leather through the buckle.
“Holy shit,” he moans, his erection returning with such ferocity he’s left a little lightheaded. “Scully, get in the car,” he orders, frantically.
As he scrambles after her into the large backseat of the rental, he has the ridiculous thought of sending Chief Kent a thank you for insisting on the luxury upgrade.
“This is a really nice car,” he notes, as he shuffles his pants and underwear toward his knees and rests his bare ass upon the buttery soft leather upholstery.
“Uh huh,” Scully agrees, kicking her shoes to the floor.
“It’s nicer than my couch,” he says, fisting his eager cock as he watches her wiggle out of her pants.
“Uh huh,” she says, before pressing a knee into the seat beside his thigh and hitching the other leg over so that she’s astride his lap, her open mouth already honed in on his plump bottom lip.
He takes two handfuls of Scully-ass and pulls her in closer. “You weren’t wearing any panties…”
“Uh uh,” she whispers, and runs her tongue over the sandpaper of his chin.
The windows of the car begin to fog, offering a bit more privacy and tempering their urgency. They kiss slowly and deeply, relaxed, familiar. When he pushes into her, they hum as if in agreement, and pause as they always do—their connection is never more profound than it is in that moment, a circuit complete, and they relish it every time.
From the speakers in the bar, Otis Redding sings about docks and bays, and Mulder and Scully grind and dance to the rhythm, up and down, ebbing and flowing.
He pulls her up his cock, dragging her clit through coarse hair and the slip of her own arousal, and then pushes her back down, the tip of him pressing into her g-spot before burying itself deep inside again and again.
Their mouths break apart, their need for oxygen now acute. She sits upright, grips him by his shoulders, and begins to roll her hips against him at a furious pace. He rakes the neck of her top down in a desperate attempt to mouth a lace-covered nipple, but the logistics are all wrong… and she’s riding him for all he’s worth… and he’s so so close...
“God, Scully,” he says. “Fuck.”
“Uh huh,” she breathes, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her forehead into his.
The air in the car has become heavy and humid. Perspiration trickles along his temples, and his ass and her knees slide on the sweat-slick upholstery. He presses a palm into her lower back to steady her and maneuvers the other hand in between them so that his thumb can work her clit.
“Ohhh,” she soughs, and her rhythm falters. “God, Mulder.”
“Uh huh,” he says, smiling.
She chuffs a small laugh as her eyes slam closed and she shatters, taking him over the edge with her.
“Scully?” he pants, as they come down from what is sure to make his Top Five list, even without the bonus points for the simultaneous orgasm. “So, you’re not mad at me?”
“I love you, Mulder. How can I be mad at you for finding me irresistible?” She smiles coyly, and moves to kiss him.
He hums in agreement, and kisses her back. “I do find you irresistible; I wouldn’t eat pineapple for just anyone, you know,” he says, loosening the plastered hair framing her face and pushing it behind her ear.
Scully laughs and then immediately grimaces when Mulder’s flaccid cock slips out of her. A small gush of their combined fluids dribbles over his balls and he squeezes his legs together in a useless effort to protect the seat underneath him.
He removes his t-shirt and motions for her to raise up onto her knees so he can wipe the fluid from her inner thighs and tenderly swipe the cloth between her legs.
The shared intimacy of aftercare is generally a treasure to both of them, and as he drags the cloth between his own legs he looks to connect with her.
She’s watching him too while she hurries back into her pants. “We’ll take a shower back at the hotel, ok?” she says, soothingly, and he’s nearly overcome by the profound love he has for her.
“Deal,” he says.
She is already closing the passenger door when he slides into the driver’s seat. He tosses the balled up, soiled t-shirt onto the console between them and reaches to pull the seatbelt across his bare chest. Mulder carefully maneuvers the car out of the space, his view somewhat impeded by the dissipating fog on the windows. Shifting into drive, he makes for the parking lot exit when he hears Scully suck in a quick breath.
“Shit!” she says, combing fingers through her hair and quickly running a knuckle under each mascara-smudged eye. “Chief Kent, ten o’clock,” she adds, not looking in that direction.
“Where? Oh!” he says, locating and locking eyes with the Chief, who drops his gaze to Mulder’s chest and then over to a disheveled Scully. His eyebrows lift as he looks back to Mulder, pushing out his bottom lip and nodding in a show of being impressed.
"Think he'll believe me if I tell him I spilled iced tea on my shirt?" Mulder says to Scully as he throws the chief a little wave.
Scully groans and sinks down in her seat, mortified.
Rated E .-// AU: Cyberpunk/Dystopia .-// Casefile .-// @today-in-fic
Endless appreciation to my betas @sisterspooky1013 and @xfmaweezy
READ ON AO3
*** I will no longer be posting chapters directly on Tumblr.
Mulder and Scully are from opposing factions in a dystopia ruled by corporate greed. They meet in a chance encounter, and end up working together to investigate the mysterious deaths of young men, while struggling with their growing feelings for one another. Will the truth tear them apart, or bring them closer together?
Overall Content Warnings: explicit sex scenes, violence, heavy angst, minor character death
Specific content warnings will be listed at the beginning of each chapter. If you’d like to avoid them, just skim ahead (after the notes).
Chapter rating: x | Joint work with @xfmaweezy | Read it here on AO3
“Oh, Jesus,” Scully says sharply under her breath, and Mulder glances over at her.
“What?” he asks.
They’re walking the fifty yards between his car and the crime scene, and she’s looking past the yellow tape like what lies on the other side is especially jarring, though so far as he can tell it’s mild compared to many of the murders they’ve witnessed the aftermath of.
“The forensic photographer,” she says quietly, slowing her pace. “I, um…I know him. Or used to, a long time ago.”
Mulder slows down to match her, giving her curious glances.
“The Academy?” he asks, and she shakes her head, avoiding his eye. “Oh, you know him?” he clarifies, smiling. “Are we talking biblically here, Scully?”
One sideways glance is all she offers in confirmation.
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