Scully loves wearing Mulder's shirts, especially the one she never gave back in the first year of their partnership ... but now 5 years later, it's falling apart. .... Here you go, do your magic :-) xo
There is the Tarkhan dress, Egyptian linen, knife-pleated sleeves, six thousand years old. There is a woman from Jutland, strangled and heaved into the peat, her blackened body still wrapped in soft, perfect wool. There is a sage-gray cotton t-shirt from the Gap, size XL.
Although she’s washed it countless times, she swears it still smells like him, like the libraries at Oxford, like sleepless nights in Alexandria. There’s a faint, stubborn bloodstain on the fraying collar, a remnant of cancer. A tear near the hem, courtesy of a temperamental Pomeranian. The stitching on the shoulder is unraveling, and in places, the fabric is as thin and translucent as gauze. She has taken to wearing it less and less, rationing the guilty pleasure of it like sugar in wartime.
It was Oregon, in 1993. Her first foray into fieldwork, and the most alive she’d ever felt. Fox Mulder was a wolf of a man, all wilderness and poetry, strange and mournful and gorgeous. She couldn’t pin down the colour of his eyes.
She pretended to forget her pajamas. He tossed her one of his running shirts and a crooked grin. What she’d really wanted was his skin on hers, his hot breath, his long fingers. But there were rules.
Tonight is one of those lonely nights where she’ll bring this shirt out, press her face into the slackening weave, and wonder how much longer it will last. How much longer she will, before this monumental thing between them comes to a head.
She pulls it on, crawls into bed, and hits ‘1′ on her speed dial. His voice is temple linen on the line.
saw the Huldremose Woman in Copenhagen a few years back. Man, if ever
there was a memento mori, if ever there was a humbling and beautiful
face of death, a reminder of the slow and inexorable march of time,
she is it.
The museum was almost empty that day. They’ve got her in a small, dark room, backlit by a two-panelled wall painted like a moody winter forest. There’s a bench beside her display case, and I sat with her for a long while, bewitched by the texture of her skin, her sweet, charcoal-coloured toes. She looked so cozy, swaddled in her scarf and cape, so small, so real. I wanted to unfurl one of her hands and hold it.