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One thing about Tom Cruise is that he had had aliens in his brain long before there were aliens in his brain, Carol thinks, so probably this was all going really great for him.
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post-s1. world-saving for the world-weary or whatever. [complete]
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“What do you all dream about, anyway,” Carol asked.
“Colors,” Zosia said. “And language, sound. Architecture.”
Carol lifted her head. “Architecture?”
Zosia either smiled with just one side of her mouth — which was new — or Carol could only see one side — which was also new. In either case, her own mouth felt dry.
“Systems,” Zosia said. “Simplicity. We’re interested in continuity.”
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Mark thinks about a mirror, a cubicle, about Helly’s smart mouth. The axis of the world, slipped, some time ago, and the depth of some unknown horizontal. Yesterday he had remembered the words: prime meridian, but had not known who or where it was.
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post-2x10. Mark and Helly spend a long weekend alone on the severed floor.
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Helly had always believed there were things worse than living out her entire life between a puke-green rug and a hard place. She just hadn’t known what they were yet.
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ambiguously post-2x04.
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Mark is very gentle with her, kind, that first and only time. She wonders if he knows no other way to be. He was, of course, only born some 400 days ago—give or take a sick day, two.
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2x04ish, scenes before and after. Helena Eagan gets fired.
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Isolated, missing the pull of roots like a limb, Scully grew radicchio and radishes. She hunted dogged rabbits. She got a hunting dog. She wrote long, urgent missives to Mulder, sent c/o of Gibson Praise to Nowhere, Neverland, P.O. Box 4242, all of them full of strings of seismic phrases like “coherent slides” and “Brittle-ductile boundary,” none of which meant what they said, half of which she was pretty sure he’d understand. She ran tests. She ran tests. She ran tests. She reread Mrs. Dalloway. It snowed and then it didn’t. Mulder came and then he went away again. Scully sowed lilacs, then poppies, then daffodils into the deep hollow belly of spring.
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from the Tumblr prompt: AU where M&S never got together romantically in s7. up to u how it ends.
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Tami pets his head in sympathy, but she’s laughing. “You know what they say, honey, those who can’t do, teach.”
“Uh-huh.” It’s the last week of July. The air from the open window smells like hot pencil sharpeners, soft with exhaust from the sorghum harvest. Summer’s final quarter has come with a dusky turn in all the leaves and an addendum to his contract at East Dillon, printed on cheap white paper. “And what’d they say about those who can’t teach?”
Tami reads from behind him at the kitchen island. She smells like coffee with the last of their creamer. Her hair falls into her face, then his, obscures the words REMEDIAL and ALGEBRA and FRESHMAN. But not so much that he can’t make out what they mean.
She says, “They pretty much teach, too.”
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"I’m eight months pregnant, Mulder. I’m awake even when I’m sleeping.” And sick with craving, her fridge too full to offer satiety.
The familiar jingle of his keys. That sound that used to mean he was coming to save her, coming to bring her take-out and reckonings and really late library books he’d stolen off her shelves. That all she had to do was wait. Scully tried not to be too hungry. She tried not to want anything at all.
Mulder said, “Then get your shoes on, Lady Macbeth.” Mulder gave in to poetry. Mulder said, “For I intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee.”
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“Mulder,” she says, too loud for the theater.
“Of all the gin joints,” says Mulder, cut out of the stars on screen. He’s looking at her like he had after he’d told her she should thank her lucky ones in a hospital bed, years back. It’s only been a couple days.
“Wrong movie,” she whispers.
“Nah.” He settles in beside her. He offers up a tacky Red Vine, which she accepts. “It’s definitely the right one.”
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I sent you signs, he’d said, on the way down. You get any of those?
She’d shifted against the back wall. I had strange dreams.
I’m talking omens, Scully. Like white oxen, weather patterns, that kind of thing. No? Maybe they got sent to the wrong address.
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Scully ordered grits instead of home fries but they brought her home fries and Mulder traded her his buttered toast, silently, without looking up across the table. Last month he’d broken his finger such that she had had to break it again, differently, but better.
“You know,” he said, “even Pythagoras believed in werewolves. Transmigration, Scully. Transmigration and triangles.”
Scully munched delicately on the c-squared side of his toast. She said, “I prefer the triangles.”
Another Tuesday. Teamwork and communication.
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Let this hour be filled / With anything but the case, so that Time the clerk / Goes panting in horror from gremlin to error to glitch / And his screen is stripes and he knows he saved his work / In one of a billion files but fuck knows which, / And he lets us alone or, at worst, as we tiptoe by, / Feels we're familiar, can't for the world say why.
Glyn Maxwell, "Anything But The Case"
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a collection of long lost askbox AUs. in quintets & sextets & such. part of my (protracted) tumblr migration. index: (1) married post-emily au (2) daniel arrives circa s6 (3) diana fakes her death, keeps late-season tabs (4) IWTB but it's about finding william (5) scully is never abducted
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"Don't stay up listening to that radio all night," Scully said. "And if you hear a ghost, no you didn't."
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cancer arc. a quasi-casefile, a distress signal, a song.
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Mulder and Scully, after autopsy. Or: She goes with him to the place he grew up, and they spend a weekend in the cold.
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Asleep, Cornelia had the eyes of a nocturnal thing, and she could see for miles in any direction and sometimes all of them at once. What never changed was cardinal: before her was the blue basin of Colorado sky. And behind, always, was Eli.
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finale fix-it, of a kind. the scene at Flathead Jackson’s Wild West Show goes another way.
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Yesterday, Rita had smashed Cage so hard across the face in the mech suit that she had been pretty sure his nose was broken. Don’t, don’t, he’d said when she’d come toward him across the mat for a better look. Please, she’d snapped, I’m not going to do anything. Then softened: Cage, I’m honestly not. He’d let her look. His eye was red in the socket, rolling. She’d pressed just under it with fingertips.
This is going to bruise like a motherfucker, she’d said, and it had.
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post-film. Cage & Rita kill some time.
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One moment, they were Shiv and Tom, and they were vain and stupid; the next they were someone’s parents, and they were the same, except now they were to blame for everything.
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post-s4. if it weren't such a total fuckin' disaster, it'd be a dream come true!
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“Yes, you fucking moron.” On the back of the last pew, Tom settled his fingertips like they were atop a conference table. He sounded suddenly like a very old man. “It’s been about Shiv. It’s always been about Shiv.”
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sometime s4. just schrodinger's pregnancy things.
Series
- Part 5 of box set death march
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TMZ runs a blurry snapshot of Shiv’s titian head too close to an oblong one near the dry bar. Greg texts it to Tom, who squints at the screen and zooms in with his thumb and forefinger. He makes a stupid face. You can’t see anything. Just two scalps, one semi-anonymous, tucked in together against the spangle of schmoozers and Southern California.
Curled in near the bottom of the bed with her head nicked off his hip and her arms outstretched, Shiv is still visibly blue where he’d bitten down. Tom passes a finger along his forearm to feel the pebble of her teeth.
Please, he texts back, this is nothing.
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4x6 and thereabouts.
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- Part 4 of box set death march
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“What about the heart?” His own voice is a surprise. The museum had cleared out quietly and steadily as it got later into the afternoon. It is just him and Scully and the mummy now. The three of them and the long shadows and the slow dark.
“Hm?”
He gestures to the display. “Lungs, intestines, stomach, liver. Where do they put the heart?”
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post-s1. Mulder and Scully meet up in the Smithsonian.