summary: what if the x files was a series of sci-fi novels written by the cigarette smoking man, and what if the cigarette smoking man wasn’t a shadowy villain but instead a petty writer who cast the people in his lives in his stories?
based off a post i made earlier today. it should be mentioned that i unconsciously channeled the dead hand loves you by margaret atwood (which can be found in her anthology stone mattress) and didn’t realize it until after i was finished.
disclaimer: this is not meant to, in any way, make fun of any real people.
(not intentionally, at least.)it is pure and total crack!fic and should be treated like the crack it is: a 5 am thought that came from analyzing musings of a cigarette smoking man. which should never be done.
The aliens were watching her and the smoker stood over her, token Morley in hand. “What do you want from me?” Scully asked, gripping her elbows tightly. “Where’s Mulder?”
The writer sighs, shaking the ashes off of his cigarette into the ash tray and pressing his nicotine-stained fingers to his forehead. He’ll have to call his publisher and tell him that the book isn’t working out. He’s resorted to old habits, dumb cliches of The X-Files’ former glory days. How many times has he had his main heroine abducted? The Jesuit slug in Volume 8 resulted in another angry letter from his purported son, threatening another lawsuit.
The idea behind the last book, Volume 10, had been to give the fans a sense of nostalgia, love for the 90′s book series that had taken off and become a cult classic and made him a successful author. He’d figured that his not-son had forgotten about the lawsuit, the second lawsuit, his freak-out over the movie rights almost being sold, and the one crazy fan who had written a series of letters all addressed to Fox Mulder or Dana Scully. He’d been wrong; when Volume 10 had been announced, he’d shown up, outraged, on the door and insisted that he give it up, or at least share some of the royalties. His kids were on the way to college, he said. And his life had become a never-ending embarrassment since the damn books. In revenge, the writer had stormed upstairs to his typewriter and broken Mulder and Scully up, made Mulder a sad hermit and then essentially killed him by the end of the novel with his pandemic. It was supposed to be the end, a grand finale and one final “fuck-you” to his not-Mulder not-son. But the fans wanted more, they’d hated the ending. And his publisher had demanded it, but the writer is more than out of ideas.