I love your writing so much! Here's a prompt if you want it: in Dreamland after Scully handcuffs Fletcher to the bed she tells Mulder about it when they're sitting in the car talking
“What convinced you finally?” They’re sitting in the car, Mulder and Scully, like they’re the only two people here in this murky parking lot. Mulder, with the face of Morris Fletcher, eyes Scully and she stares right back. She’s never been interested in looks. It’s what’s inside that counts, she reminds herself, and the man inside is Mulder. The grin, though, is not Mulder. The inflection of this man’s voice is a strange, obscure sound in her ear. She can’t read his expression, doesn’t know what the twitch in his cheek means. The light is dim, shady, and if she blinks, squints her eyes, can she pretend this is her Mulder? She tries, but the face remains the same; the one she doesn’t want to see.
“Scully?” It doesn’t sound the same. A nuisance at first, a tease on his part, she is certain, when he started calling her Scully. Not Agent Scully or Dana. Scully. She crinkles her nose remembering Morris Fletcher, inhabiting Mulder’s body, saying her name.
“I was just – this is so strange, Mulder.”
“Tell me about it.” He huffs, his eyes intent on hers. Scully briefly wonders if she looks different to him, looking through different eyes. “So, tell me. What did I – what did he do – that made you believe me?”
“You don’t want to know.” She mumbles no longer looking at him, instead playing with a loose thread on her jacket.
“I may not want to know, but I need to know. Please, Scully.” She lifts her head. She They have a history of this, don’t they. Eddie van Blundth slips into her mind. As intrusively and unwelcome as when he came to her apartment back then. A big fat smile on his face. Only that it wasn’t his face. It was Mulder’s face. She’d almost fallen for it again this time, let herself be fooled again. The mere idea of switched bodies so improbable that a completely out of character Mulder made more sense to her. More sense than her own feelings and her intuition. She doubted herself; she doubted Mulder, too.
“You – he – is quite popular at the moment. He’s been entertaining… new friends.”
“Scully, I hope you know that-” She shakes her head, stops him.
“I know, Mulder. That’s one of the things that made me realize something wasn’t right.”
“Just one? Scully, you have to tell me.”
“You – he,” Scully, frustrated, corrects herself, “invited me over to your place.”
“What did he do?” Scully may not know Morris Fletcher intimately, or well at all, but she detects the darkness in that question. There’s a hint of fear, too. That’s all Mulder.
“Nothing happened, Mulder. I stopped him. I knew he wasn’t you. Without going into too much detail, I, well, I tied him to the bedpost. With handcuffs.” She is proud of herself for that move, she can’t deny it.
“You did what? Since when do I even have a bedpost?”
“Morris spruced up your bedroom, Mulder. You’ve got a bed now,” she tells him and can’t contain the smile, “a waterbed, in fact. Oh, and a nice mirror over your bed.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.” Mulder groans.
“Sorry, Mulder. At least you’ll be able to sleep in a bed from now on.”
“That implies you have an idea on how to get me back into my own body.” Scully glances at him. She doesn’t have an idea. None. This should never have happened. What is she going to do if Mulder remains in this man’s body? The wedding ring on his finger glints. If they don’t find a solution… she won’t allow herself to even think it.
“Whatever happened, Mulder, is an improbability.”
“That didn’t stop it from happening, Scully.” She nods miserably.
“I hope the Gunmen can help us. If not…” Mulder reaches over and takes her hand. She startles and gasps. She should have kissed him, she thinks, and the thought surprises her even more than the unknown touch. When they returned from Antarctica, feelings as raw as their skin, she should have just kissed him. She wanted to. Wants to now. Scully turns to him, wonders if the surprise on her face is apparent. With Mulder, her Mulder, she would have been able to tell. She aches for his face, longs to touch his cheek, and lose herself in his eyes. She’s never much cared about Mulder’s effortless good looks; they are not what make him who he is. But she misses it; misses what she’s grown to know and love.
“There’s got to be a way, Scully. It happened once, right? There’s got to be a good chance it can happen again.” She’s not going to tell him about statistics. Not that she knows any numbers for unlikely occurrences like this. He once called her his one in five billion. So unlikely. So what if… what if.
“Hey, don’t give up on me yet, Scully.“
"I’m not, Mulder. I promise, I’m not.”
“But there’s something on your mind. Sunflower seed for your thoughts?” He offers her a handful but she shakes her head.
“I miss your voice, Mulder.” She admits and stares at his hand. He puts a seed in his mouth, cracks it. The sound is the same as always, should be familiar, but it’s not.
“Do I not talk? I mean Fletcher.”
“Not like you do."
"I promise you that as soon as I’m back to myself, I’ll talk your ear off. I can recite sonnets or do you want me to sing you a song? What would you like to hear?” She wants him to tell her again how he makes her a whole person. How they’re in this together. That he needs her. She wants to hear him say Scully in a whisper, a moan, a prayer.
“Just anything, Mulder.” She answers him instead.
“Anything? So if I wanted to talk to you about let’s say handcuffing people to bedposts…” Scully laughs and desperate tears tickle her throat.
“If we make it out of this, Mulder, I’ll not only talk to you about it, I’ll show you. Now go back inside so I can find a way to get the real you back.”