drunky face

anonymous asked:

I saw you were taking fic requests and idk if you still are but I was rewatching Three of a Kind and I think an intoxicated scully with guys all over her interrupted then by jealous/protective mulder and then see where it goes from there. I think it would be really nice and thought I'd share with someone who is talented at writing!

Thanks for the prompt, anon! 


It’s unlike her to get drunk at 2pm on a Wednesday, but this whole thing is unlike her. Or maybe it is like her, and she’s just never been herself before. Maybe she is the girl who sneaks her parents’ smokes and gets tattoos and has sex with her professors. There is no doubt that she is the girl who drops everything to disappear across the country with her partner. There is no doubt that she is the girl who gave up her baby. There is no doubt that she has a lot of reasons to be drinking at 2pm on a Wednesday.


He barrels through the door of the bar next to the truck stop. Some distantly familiar country song plays on the jukebox and billiards clank in the next room over. Her laugh bubbles up from the bar, uninhibited and flirtatious.

His eyes scan, looking to match an image to the sound. He finds her leaning back in a stool, elbows resting on the bar, flanked on either side by two beefy looking men, one in a cowboy hat and one in a leather jacket. A menagerie of empty shot glasses litter the bar behind her, and another one rests in her hand, the amber liquid inside threatening to slosh over with every move of her body.

She and her new compadres lock eyes and nod their heads as they count together, “One… two… three!” They down the shots and whoop with laughter.

Mulder sighs and heads toward her, not liking the way the man in the leather jacket puts his hand on her arm. Scully sees him walking towards her and her eyes light up.

“Baby!” she cries, and jumps up to give him a hug and a sloppy, Tequila-flavored kiss.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were hanging out with the village people?” he asks, gesturing to her friends at the bar.

“What’s wrong with your face?” she asks, the alcohol giving her an uncharacteristic childishness. “You have grouchy face.”

“You have drunky face,” he counters clumsily. The man in the cowboy hat chuckles, and Mulder can’t tell if it’s at his poorly-constructed comeback or at his expense. Either way, he’s getting pissed. “Come on Scu–Come on, the sooner we leave the better.”

He takes her hand and pulls her to standing but the man in the leather jacket pulls her back toward the bar. “Sweetie, is this guy bothering you?”

Scully looks very confused, but even in her inebriated state she shuffles toward Mulder and says, “No.”

“You sure?” the other man asks, standing up. When Mulder tells this story later, he says that the man cracked his knuckles, but Scully’s not sure.

Either way, Mulder’s reaction is immediate and instinctual: he punches the man square on the jaw. The man in the cowboy hat tumbles back, sending shot glasses rolling down the bar. Before his friend in the jacket can retaliate, Mulder grabs Scully’s hand and they run toward the door, the bartender’s shout of, “Hey man, you can’t punch people in here!” ringing in their ears.

He leads her through the parking lot, gravel crunching under their feet. She is laughing wildly, and then he feels a sharp tug on his hand. He turns to see her face pale, her eyes searching the ground back and forth in front of her until she doubles over and throws up, the mess splattering at her feet. It’s mostly tequila; they haven’t eaten much today, and the sweet smell of alcohol hits him almost instantly.

“Oh, Scully…” He rubs her lower back, tucks her hair behind her ears, but it’s getting long, and she snapped her last remaining hair tie this morning. He knows there’s a rubber band in the middle console of the car, but it’s too far back across the parking lot, and he doesn’t want to leave her.

She comes up for air, resting her hands on her knees and sniffing. “Fuck. I’m sor–”

She bends over and dry heaves this time, spluttering and coughing in a way that reminds him of an even more unpleasant time, when he’d catch her curled over the toilet with crimson tissues and insistencies of, “I’m fine, Mulder.”

When she raises her head this time, a tear rolls down her cheek, but he’s not sure if she’s actually crying or not. “I’m sorry,” she says, and her tone of voice tells him everything he needs to know: why she’d wandered away from their car at the truck stop, why she’d taken up drinking with two complete strangers, why everything hurts a little bit.

All he can say is, “No, I’m sorry,” and wrap her in a tight hug. In her sneakers she tucks neatly under his chin and he rubs her shoulders until she stops crying, vomit drying in the corners of her mouth in a truck stop parking lot in South Dakota.

John licking that riszla paper real good, getting it nice and juicy so it’ll stick on Sherlock’s skin, and he looks up and Sherlock is just like :o with his sweet lil soft drunky face. And maybe John does that nasty little giggle of his and says, “C’mere you. Bend over.” And Sherlock bends forward way more than he needs to, so that his forehead is level with John’s chin (John can smell his hair product).

And John presses that paper onto Sherlock’s forehead and rubs his thumb back and forth over it. Then maybe he notices that Sherlock’s hair has flopped forward onto his forehead, so he brushes it back and it’s so soft, like he always thought it would be. And Sherlock looks up at John through his eyelashes and says in his soft tête-à-tête voice,”Is it on?” And John has forgotten, momentarily, what the legitimate purpose of all this distracting intimacy is. But he strokes Sherlock’s forehead with his thumb a few more times, “Yeah. It’s on.”