the more seasoned writers of the world might tell you that the first draft is the most difficult. they are filthy, twisted, perverted little liars

#write a REAL novel I told myself #It DEFINITELY won't take you three years. there definitely won't be any interruptions like say... a pandemic and two pregnancies

the after

Many years ago, before kids and between jobs, I was called upon to housesit for a friend. She lived in a picturesque little town nestled in the Rockies. During the day, I'd walk her sweet, shy dog along the river, work on my writing, and drink countless cups of organic coffee at the local hippie cafe. At night, I'd settle into bed with my laptop and trawl tumblr for pretty pictures of my newest obsession--Agents Mulder and Scully. Inevitably, I discovered fanfiction. I hadn't read a word of fic in my life, so I poked around for a good source on where to start.

Reader, I don't believe that I closed the tab containing @txf-fic-chicks-blog for weeks. Thanks for the recommendations, angels, and happy anniversary. 🖤

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Many hundreds of years later, after the horrors, the visitations, the lights and the wars; after the brilliant and incandescent violence of nuclear Armageddon, after the collapse and the cold and beyond the end of everything, Scully woke Mulder with a kiss.

Even now, he was a light sleeper. He opened his eyes.

Any semblance of Scully’s mortal vanity had long since dissolved, but there was nothing to be done about it–she would always be beautiful. She wore her copper hair cropped close to her head, and proud, tawny freckles lay spattered across her cheeks. Her eyes were still as blue as a new star.

“Happy turning day,” she smiled, setting a mug on the side table. He caught a whiff of the contents. Rich. Heady. Intoxicating.

“Don’t know why you still keep track of these things. It’s been centuries,” he mumbled, playing at sleepiness. He wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her down beside him on the mattress. “And I don’t know why,” he continued, nosing at her neck, where her pulse quivered provocatively, “you thought to bring me my celebratory meal in a mug, when you know how much I prefer it straight from the source.”

She giggled. Minx.

He nipped her, but not hard enough to draw blood. He’d learned quickly after his turning that he very much liked to play with his food.

“I like to remember,” she said tenderly, wiggling her bottom against his crotch. “I like thinking of you seeking them out, asking them to make you what you are. I like… remembering what you sacrificed to stay with me. It matters. Today matters to me.”

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” he said.

An airship passed by the window, the marshmallow-white canvas turned kaleidoscopic by the stained glass. Scully’d had a phase a few decades ago, and there wasn’t a single window that had escaped. Extinct flowers, whales, even a Mary, that pet deity of hers from the before times. They lived in a house of dancing light and colour.

She turned in his arms, and he kissed her. The gardens would be tended to later, the rain collected and purified, the daily communications and reports beamed to the other eternals. But just then, there was an anniversary to be celebrated. There was sweat, tears, blood, and seed to be shared.

The world was not dead, and love, of course, was immortal.