far away to the west and south
Thanksgiving orphans at the Gunmen’s….place? | season 6 | fluff | 4k
The gunmen have three deadbolts. The first two are horizontal, hugging the doorframe with simple industrial adequacy, but the third is the shiny new baby, the crown jewel of paranoiac wet dreams: a twisting, interlocking system that snicks with satisfaction as it slides home. Mulder is standing behind her, hands on shoulders, in a way that feels somehow quaint. She half expects her mother to be the one at the door. The ceramic in her hands is cooling fast.
Frohike’s face appears at her level, between the door and wall, furrowed and half-smiling. “Password?”
From inside, the loft smells damp but clean. Of laundry and pie crust and old newspaper and weed. Outside, it is crisp November air - something like whiskey warmth spreads from her sternum out.
“Open sesame,” Mulder says. “Hocus pocus. The moon landing wasn’t faked.”
“Wrong. Wrong. Embarrassingly wrong.”
Frohike moves quickly back with unexpected grace, like he might sweep his arm out across the empty space he’s making, and lets them in.