“It’s an emotional response to the overwhelming respect they have for one another, where you transcend logic and things become more visceral and human. The only place for him to go in my mind, to express his next thought, is to kiss her.”
If Scully doesn’t stop shaking her sweet little ass against Mulder’s crotch, he’s not going to be held responsible for his actions.
True, it was his idea to call her to meet him here, his idea to spend the evening with her in a deserted baseball field. And he’s the one tho thought it would be fun and kind of cute if they tried to hit at the same time. The stance, too, the way that he’s totally wrapped around her with his chin tucked into her shoulder, that was his idea.
But the way they’re pressed together, not an inch of space between them from knees to shoulders? That’s all Scully, wriggling backwards into him until they’re locked together like two perfectly-matched puzzle pieces. If she keeps this up, if she keeps sliding her tempting backside across the front of his pants, wiggling her hips far more than necessary, Mulder’s going to lose all self-control, and the kid loading the pitching machine (the son of a single dad who lives on Mulder’s floor) is going to get a lesson in sex ed that he’ll never forget.
They miss two pitches in a row in spectacular fashion, mostly because they’re too busy being handsy on the bat to get a proper grip, and Scully lets out the most genuine peal of laughter- incredibly sexy laughter- that Mulder has ever heard from her. And just like that, he loses the battle against his growing arousal, and he’s suddenly as hard as a rock. She freezes the moment she feels him rubbing against her… but instead of moving away, she gives him an impish smile over her shoulder and grinds herself slowly, sensually against him. He lets out a feral growl into her ear and just barely manages to restrain himself from biting at her neck, like a rutting tomcat trying to get a better grip. Which is, essentially, what he’s going to be reduced to before long if she doesn’t knock it off with that tight little ass.
He’s done his research pretty thoroughly, and he knows that pregnancy hormones can frequently have a marked effect on a woman’s libido. He wonders if that’s what’s inspiring Scully’s teasing, or if she’s normally this playful, this demonstrative.
He’s also wondering how far this mood will take them tonight.
When the bucket of baseballs is empty, Mulder reluctantly peels himself away from Scully and pays the kid, who scampers off to his dad’s car, waiting in the parking lot. Together, he and Scully round up as many baseballs as they can find in the dark outfield, collecting them back into the bucket and carrying them to home plate. Scully stands next to the bucket, holding the bat, considering it thoughtfully.
“My high school in San Diego was more than a little lacking when it came to women’s athletics,” she tells Mulder, sighing. “There was field hockey, which I never cared for, and basketball, which I was too short for.” Mulder bites his tongue on a few jokes he suspects won’t do much for the mood he’s trying to create tonight. “I knew what sport I wanted to play, though, and Title IX had passed about six years before I started high school, so my dad pointed out to me that I just as much legal right to go out for the team as any of the boys.” She bends down and takes a baseball out of the basket. She tosses it up in the air, takes a textbook-perfect batter’s stance, and belts it out of sight into center field. Mulder stares at her, his mouth hanging open.
“Scully,” he says, “don’t tell me you already knew how-”
“Varsity baseball, all four years of high school,” she says, grinning cheekily at him. “It drove Bill crazy. He never got further than JV.”
“Then why did you let me think I was teaching you?” Mulder asks. “I feel like an idiot now! Why didn’t you say anything?” Scully’s smile turns impish again as she drops the bat and saunters over to him, leaning against his chest. She runs one hand down his stomach, stopping just below the button on his jeans. He gasps sharply.
“And miss getting a little better acquainted with this?” she asks. “Why on earth would I do that?”
Mulder has seen a thousand different versions of Scully over the years. There’s Scully the ass-kicking special agent, Scully the brilliant scientist, Scully the loving daughter and sister, Scully the stoic survivor. But this Scully, this flirty, forward Scully who sees what she wants and goes for it without any trace of shyness or hesitation… this is a Scully he’s never seen before, and he hopes like hell she’ll be coming out to play again in the future.
Mulder bends down enough to wrap Scully tightly in his arms. “If you’d like to get better acquainted, Scully,” he growls into her neck, “that can be arranged.” He kisses her forcefully, backing her up across home plate until she’s pressed into the backstop. He slides an arm under her and lifts her against the fence, and she wraps her legs around him, grinding against him more forcefully, seeking as much contact as she can find. She whimpers in frustration when it’s not enough, and he takes one hand from his waist and slides it down between them, cupping her through her jeans as she moans in gratitude.
Given that he’s not yet learned exactly how she likes to be touched, it takes a surprisingly short time before she’s gasping and trembling against him in a way that tells him, beyond any doubt, that he’s gotten her there. He strokes her hair and murmurs encouragingly into her ear as she comes back down, and when she gets her breath back, she smiles up at him.
“I think,” she says, her voice hoarse, “that we should probably get out of here before someone calls the cops on us.”
“Agreed,” he says. “Your place or mine?”
“Yours is closer,” she says, kissing her way up his neck and nibbling at the skin just under his ear.
“Yours is cleaner,” he says. “Probably has fresh sheets on the bed and everything.”
“Mulder,” she sighs, “do you really care that much about clean sheets right now?”
She emphasizes her point by taking his earlobe into her mouth and sucking on it gently, and Mulder decides that no, clean sheets are not, at the moment, a priority.
“Iconic characters, rich storytelling, bold creators – these are the hallmarks of great TV shows,” said David Madden, president of Fox. “And they are some of the reasons why The X-Files has had such a profound impact on millions of fans worldwide. Chris’ creativity, along with the brilliant work of David and Gillian, continue to propel this pop culture phenomenon, and we can’t wait to see what fresh mysteries Mulder and Scully uncover in this next chapter of The X-Files.”
drabble; pg-13; msr origins (i.e. friendship); FLUFF; set season two, pre-abduction; Scully stays up a little too late solving a case with Mulder.
Even the solitary light from the fish tank feels a little risky, though his apartment passed so many of the gunmen’s bug sweeps he’s now pretty sure they just wanted to hang out. With a crappy pair of birdwatching binoculars anybody could look in and find them there. Sitting right next to the tank her face is cast in blue and shadows over and looks a little psychedelic. Watching her mouth move around hypersyllabic words like ileus and meconium is a lot like a day trip he took at Oxford. But at this time of night the world itself is also hazy and unreal; this is his time, his realm, the only part of day that brings him a little peace. Normally he spends this time alone. He finds her presence isn’t such a nuisance.
And it’s not as if anyone in the Bureau actually cares anymore. They have been declared Impotent and A Sad Sad Joke. How many times has he showed up in her lecture hall unkempt and uncaring, sporting his hair wild on purpose and miserable eyes, less purposeful but nevertheless useful? He likes upsetting her students, who have all heard plenty of stories about good old Spooky, respectable Dr. Scully’s maniac ex-partner. She would slice and dice and maim the dearly departed and try not to laugh as he hissed at anyone who stopped paying attention and dared looking his way.
When the shitstorm settles he consults her on cases and neglects Agent Krycek like a Christmas puppy. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with Agent Krycek; he’s a shoo in for S.A.C. of some bullshit unit that receives way more funding than the files ever did, what with his penchant for every-inch-of-both-cheeks ass kissing and the size of his biceps. Mulder will only get in his way. He figures he’s saving the kid some pain.
Anyway, Agent Krycek can’t look at macramed intestines and tell him if they appear to be the intricate work of a voodoo priestess. Scully can’t tell him that either, would die before saying such a thing, but it’s way more fun to try and make her.
They’ve been at it for three hours and Mulder is getting to the best part, using polaroids instead of his slides to illustrate – something about colorectal balloon animals in the 1970s – when he turns to find Scully gently tipping forward and nodding her head. Her eyes flutter shut and she slumps over.
He quickly catches her by grabbing her shoulder with one hand and using the other to cup her cheek. “Scully? Hey.” He taps her face twice. “Scully, are you okay?”
Her eyes snap open and she scrambles back into the couch, her wide eyed stare flitting around the room like a sightless moth. When she comes back to herself, she shoots him an apologetic look.
“I’m sorry Mulder,” she says, rubbing at a sore spot on her neck. She winces. “I must have fallen asleep.”
He stares at her oddly. Scully falls asleep anywhere anytime at the drop of a hat or her blood sugar, but she has never, ever done it mid-conversation. Not even that time he talked at her for a straight hour on his own by himself without noticing that she had started taking notes to formulate her responses.
His eyes fall on the clock and it hits him: its’s one o'clock in the goddamn morning. Scully has a new life now, classes to teach and dead bodies to harass and other, lesser units to appease, and she’s spending time with him like nothing has changed. When did he approach her with this case? He can’t remember, only because he hadn’t bothered keeping track. Before lunch, definitely, and they’d been together the entire time after. Scully is effectively splitting herself in two, her life with him and her life without him, and in this realm at this hour she is still his partner and the idea of her at Quantico is an empty threat when he sticks her with all the filing.
“You need to go to bed,” he gently chides, scooping up his polaroids and newspaper clippings and their mugs gone cold on the coffee table.
“Mmm, I think you’re right,” she says around a yawn, stretching and popping her limbs one by one. The sound makes him cringe. “I don’t know if my bed has ever sounded so appealing.”
He’s too caught in his own head to respond with an inappropriate zinger. He places the mugs in his sink, drops the photos back in their file.
“Take the couch,” he says distractedly, tugging on a doorknob. With much effort he’s able to strong arm his way through the tremendous clutter and cardboard-box war zone that is his bedroom without alerting her to how pathetic he is. He nearly breaks his neck slipping on a stack of vintage porno mags, but there in the middle of a decrepit bed frame rests exactly what he’s looking for: a sleeping bag and a stack of extra pillows .
With trademark focus he ignores her protestations and sets up his station, throwing down pillows that will support the weak spots in his spine and unrolling the bag like a good little camper.
“Mulder, seriously. There’s no need for this.” But she’s slurring and her body is so heavy she can’t stay upright. “ I can drive home just fine. Let me make myself some coffee. You’re being ridiculous. This is where you sleep.”
“Just go to bed, Scully,” he tells her. He repeats it when she says no. Time for bed Scully. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you up early. And she eventually does fall asleep, succumbs to the mental exhaustion of arguing with him.
In a fashion that creeps him out a little he stares at her well into deep sleep, propped against the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. He feels tired just looking at her, the yearning to lie down calling to him a little more urgently than he’s used to.
Before he crawls into his bag he stands before her, looking into her slack and open face. It’s crazy and weird and definitely spooky. But this is driving him nuts. He leans down and slowly brushes an errant lock of hair out of her eye. Okay. Good.
Crawling into his bag he understands what’s bogging him down. Dana Scully is not living her double life as his partner, but as his friend. And somewhere along the line he became hers, too.
She never thought she would see the day when Agent Doggett would remind her of Mulder.
(And not just because he wound up in the hospital at the end of this case.)
Something’s changed, though. There was an openness to his approach this time around that surprised her. Nothing particularly extreme – it’s not as though he ran into the tunnel believing he would find poltergeists or mothmen, as Mulder might have done – but when confronted with something completely bizarre and outside the bounds of conventional wisdom, he didn’t shut down. He took it in stride, ultimately improvising a solution that unquestionably saved lives.
It was a very “Mulder” thing to do.
And then of course there was the part where she almost lost him. That was also, unfortunately, decidedly Mulder-like.
In the end, though, he made it out okay. Thank God. When the image from his video feed started moving again, the relief she felt turned her knees to water. Though somewhat less intensely than earlier, guilt still gnaws at her over sending him alone, over staying behind because she couldn’t risk her pregnancy with some possible contagion. (The pregnancy she still hasn’t disclosed to him.)
She convinced herself before, when she was pursuing the IVF treatment, that getting pregnant wouldn’t affect her ability to work. She reasoned that surely, if she’d managed to work more or less uninterrupted while fighting cancer, it wouldn’t be a problem. She wonders now how naive that was. Her hand drifts to her belly, to the roundness that’s just started to become visible there, and she sighs. She’s going to have no choice but to tell him soon.
She told Skinner out of necessity, not just because of work but also because she was still having so much trouble believing it, and saying it out loud made it real. Her mother… well of course she had to tell her mother. And the Gunmen figured it out when Byers saw the ultrasound machine at the hospital. Beyond that, though, she hasn’t told a soul. Not that she has a lot of friends she could share this sort of news with, these days.
Agent Doggett may not be someone she socializes with outside of work, but he is her partner. Telling him would be a logical thing to do, and there is nothing logical about the primary reason she still hasn’t. True, it is technically none of his business, but there’s more to it than that.
It’s just that somehow, deep down, no matter how unrealistic a hope it’s turned out to be, she wanted to be able to tell Mulder first. She hoped… well, she hoped a lot of things. None of which seem likely to come to pass anytime soon.
She’s going to have to tell him. Not today, not after everything that’s just happened. But before too much longer. In the meantime, she just has to figure out how to convince herself that telling Agent Doggett doesn’t mean she’s given up on Mulder.
*wheels in conspiracy board* okay kids settle down, today’s
lesson: Shiro is Altean and can do magic!
I’ve made several individual posts about this, so here’s a
masterpost summarising all the main evidence I’ve gathered so far in support of
the theory that Shiro can do magic/manipulate quintessence. The numbers in
brackets are references to other posts, which are all listed at the bottom
along with links to the originals. The original posts have more detail
(including evidence, screencaps, discussions etc.) so if you’re not sure on any
points please read through the references.
The fundamental theory goes like this:
Shiro has some kind of Altean ancestry and is a
magical/sacred Altean with the same powers and abilities as Allura
When Haggar experimented on him in the Galra prison, she
activated his dormant magical abilities, turning his hair white
Haggar gave him his prosthetic arm to both activate his
magical powers and change his natural Altean quintessence to the more corrupted
Galra version, which is why the arm glows pink/purple
We have seen Shiro do magic several times on the show, but
it has not been acknowledged as such
I’ve put the main body of this under a readmore so I can
update it as necessary and hopefully it will update in all the reblogged
versions too. And now… to the
theories! *x-files theme starts playing in the next room*
Madden also teased a bit about season 11’s storyline. “We start the season right up from where the season finale left off with that big helicopter and takes you right from there,” he says. “You’ll be launched into a very urgent adventure that has a lot to do with William — Mulder and Scully’s kid. so the search for William will be a significant thread through the show. You will see the Cigarette Smoking Man. You may see The Lone Gunmen somewhere along the line. There will be other characters from the previous mythology that will be reprised.”