Okay so RH era MSR: Scully puts on her old FBI jacket for Halloween and Mulder remembers her as a fledgling agent and feels so much tenderness for her in that moment and he just kinda... holds her for a while. Idk if this is fluff or angst or both Also, sorry if this sent twice. My network whacked out me for a minute
The leaves all raked into those butterball piles; the twigs of a cinnamon broom expelling its pungent, harvest smells into the air. He waits for her on the porch, bag of candy in hand, fiddling with the springy antenna popping out of his headband. It’s been two years since he dipped his toe back into the pool of the living and unwanted.
The house is too out of the way for trick or treaters – even the Jehovah’s Witnesses get winded. Thus began the new tradition of costuming up every Halloween and making the hour-long drive over to Maggie’s, armed with candy and a mob of Jack-O-Lanterns, all carved by Mulder. Scully has been doing it for years, since the very first autumn they bought the house and she was able to come out of hiding. She always worried about leaving Mulder alone. He told her to go. Giving out candy to all the kids put a color in her cheeks that he rarely got to see after all that time on the road, even though he worried too.
He still worries. He flicks his antennae. Little tiny pumpkins. Flick. Baby cow costumes. Flick. A group of young Ghostbusters. Flick. Flick. Flick.
He doesn’t do much of anything, these days. Even as a free man. It’s good to get out of the house.
“Now that,” Scully startles him, stepping out of the house, shutting the door, and locking it behind her. Her bag of candy rustles with her movements. “Is a cliche if I ever saw it, Mulder.”
He shakes his head vigorously, the alien feelers bouncing up and down and nearly wapping him in the face. “This is who I am, Scully.” He looks up to see who she is, this year. And nearly loses his breath.
She faces him, smiling fondly, her eyes hidden behind his own tacky aviator sunglasses. They’re big on him, downright ridiculous on her. Her hair is pulled into her loose ponytail, her face devoid of makeup. She wears an indigo windbreaker, the one with the big yellow letters on the arms and back: FBI.
Scully in this costume looks suave, daunting: like she could kick your ass and put her feet up on the body. But all he sees is Scully, circa 1992. Swallowed up in her suit jackets and kevlar, her size nearly getting her trampled in the bullpen.
“C’mere, Scully,” he says, voice rough. She shoots him a look, but it’s meaningless with those stupid glasses. She comes to him anyway. He pulls her into his lap, buries his nose in her cinnamon scented neck, and musters up the courage to pretend like he wants to leave.