the week end

Medusa

“Are you okay?”
“I can only hope, Agent Scully.”

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.

Aaaand I’m back after a century of inactivity. Here’s a quick fan art of Hana eating some Cup Noodles. 

Now, watch as I leave for another decade. 

do people still read tags?

A little AU meet-cute based on @billypoindexter‘s prompt (someone else may have already done it, but I haven’t written any zimbits in forever):

So I was watching Say Yes to the Dress yesterday and Corbin Bleu and his fiancé (now wife) Sasha Clements were on it and when they asked how they met Sasha said they met in a grocery store and she kind of recognized him, and figured he was an acquaintance whose name she had forgotten. So she goes “Hey!! How are you?” and they chat for a bit before she realizes that she knows him because he’s famous.


Bitty was rounding the end of the cereal aisle, rechecking the grocery list to see if he’d gotten everything and wondering what was wrong with the state of public education in New England that none of his roommates had apparently learned basic penmanship, when he ran into someone.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry!” he exclaimed, and suppressed the wince as his accent reflexively came out full force. (It was partly the apologizing, and partly that he’d learned people were more forgiving if they thought he wasn’t from ’round here. He’d decided to embrace it; if he couldn’t get rid of the accent, it might as well be good for something.)

“No, no problem,” said the person, and then Bitty actually looked at him and felt that familiar terror of countless small-town grocery runs with his mother, where they ran into someone that he knew he was supposed to know, but could not place for the life of him, let alone remember an actual name.

“Well, hey!” he exclaimed, racking his brain frantically for the reason this guy looked so familiar. Surely he’d remember someone who looked like that. Lord. There was nothing, though, so he let autopilot take over. “How have you been?”

Tall, Dark, and Handsome blinked at him. (How could Bitty have forgotten eyes that blue? What even was wrong with him today? This was ridiculous.) “Uh, okay, actually. Yup. Everything going well.”

“Well, that’s great!” Bitty glanced at his list again. “Hey, can you read this? I genuinely can’t tell if this is supposed to be English.”

The guy obligingly took the paper from him and squinted at it. “Provolone, I think.”

Bitty took the list back and stared at it for a second. “I think you’re right. Honestly, Holster.”

“I was just heading toward the deli myself.”

“How perfect! I really kind of hate shopping by myself? But this was just supposed to be a quick in and out, or at least it was until I realized I apparently live with chickens in human guise who never learned to write properly.”

By the time Bitty and The Guy checked out and parted ways half an hour later, Bitty still hadn’t recalled his name, and by then it was clearly too late to admit it.

Oh well, he’d probably remember later, when he was trying to fall asleep.

~*~*~*~

“You know,” he called pointedly from the kitchen, “y’all could make yourselves useful and help me put all these things away.”

“Yes! Bro! Did you see that pass?” Holster yelled instead.

“Beauty,” Ransom answered, and then there was the sound of a high-five.

Bitty sighed and stuck his head around the corner to see what they were yelling about now.

SportsCenter, as usual, was on, playing highlights from the Falconers’ game the night before. As Bitty watched, it switched from the on-ice play to an intermission interview.

An intermission interview. With the guy from the grocery store.

Jack Zimmermann.

“Oh my god,” Bitty said for the second time that day, hands to his cheeks, which were indeed burning up.

Holster looked over at him in concern. “Bits? What’s wrong? Why do you look like a tomato?”

“I just spent half an hour casually grocery shopping with Jack fucking Zimmermann because I thought he looked familiar and I didn’t want to admit I couldn’t place him. Oh my god, I could just die.”

Ransom and Holster exchanged glances and then they were on him. “No shit! What’s he like? What did he buy? Tell us everything!”

“I can never shop there again,” Bitty said faintly.

4

some assorted school studies/doodles that I did over the week :D (other wise known as the “i-forgot-bendy’s-fucking-tail” collection)

Spud helped me realize that bendy would have a *lot* of scars with how much he’s getting into fights. Plus, with how dark toon’s skin can be, scars would probably be really painfully noticable and scar over in a light gray or white. (The scars on his face are supposed to be a little less noticable but it was a little hard to do with pencil)
I also just wanted to show off his forked tongue and teefers :9

Oh shit!!!! My hand slipped !!! Oh no!!! @the-vampire-inside-me

A Yuuri Katsuki #Relatable Anxiety Feel:

Viktor, as they’re loading the groceries into the trunk, says, “Oh, we forgot sour cream.”

“Oh well,” says Yuuri, who is already planning how to work around the absence of sour cream in their fridge for the next week.

“Let’s go back in and get it,” says Viktor, closing the trunk with a decisive bang. 

“Um…no, that’s okay,” Yuuri says. “We don’t–do we need sour cream? I don’t think we need sour cream.” Half of Viktor’s recipes require sour cream. It’s a Russian thing. Yuuri has a What I don’t know can’t hurt me policy with regards to how much sour cream the typical Russian consumes in a week.

“Yuuri,” Viktor laughs, taking Yuuri’s hand, “Come on. The store is right there–it’ll take two minutes. It’s not like we’re in a hurry.”

“We’ve left the store,” Yuuri says. “We have to live with the purchase we’ve made. At least until another shift. We can come back in a few hours?”

“But we’re here now,” Viktor says, utterly perplexed.

“But the same person who just checked us out will probably check us out again,” says Yuuri, “and the only thing we’ll have to buy is two family-sized cartons of sour cream. They’ll know that we were just in there. And that we forgot something. And that our family eats a ridiculous amount of sour cream. Viktor, they’ll want to ask us about it.”

“Okay,” Viktor says. “Would it be better if…I went in and got it myself?”

“No. We go to this store every week. They know we’re married. The next time I’m here they’ll ask me Why did your husband buy all that sour cream.”

Viktor, gently, laughs and says, “Darling, I really don’t think cashiers pay that much attention to what people buy.”

“I know,” Yuuri groans. “But what if they do?”

“It’ll be fine,” Viktor says, and starts towards the store. “I’ll buy something other than the sour cream. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

When Viktor settles into the car, passing the single shopping bag with two huge containers of sour cream and one singular pack of gum in it, Yuuri releases a mournful bleat and says with the gravity normally reserved for funerals, “We can never come back to this store”