When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.
I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.
You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.
Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”
I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”
I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”
After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.
The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.
Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.
And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.
Slytherin: Paper cuts and old parchment with ink stains. Love letters that were never sent. Cardboard shoe boxes of bottlecaps. Old family jewelry, coins from other countries, and coats with elbow patches. Broken shards of handmade pottery. Clippings of newspaper headlines and leaves that were pressed in place of flowers.
Ravenclaw: Sheet music and books with dog-eared pages. Silver spoons. Broken watches. Candles and old typewriters with sticky keys. Glass jars full of colorful pebbles, the silver chains of necklaces, and old train tickets. Journals brimming with empty pages. Feathers and empty inkwells.
Hufflepuff: Patterned socks and dusty buttons. Flowers pressed between book pages. Photographs stuffed in envelopes. String and the gold parts of candy wrappers. Chipped mugs, skipping stones, and family recipes. Bark from the tree in front of a childhood home. Maps and wire-rimmed eyeglasses.
Gryffindor: Old Quidditch brooms and fraying quilts. Broken wands. Shoes with holes at the toes. Brass bells and memories of laughter. Scars, empty bottles, and cozy sweaters. Unused tea bags. Mirrors that fit in the palm of a hand and seashells that sound like the ocean.
Disclaimer: This isn’t a request, but an idea that came to me a while ago, and I felt I needed to complete it. Fighting and fluffy smut ensues, enjoy 💙
It’s a silence that takes shape around you like a fog, thick and unforgiving. It causes you to think, your mind utterly wild and roiling like a tsunami tide. “This is it Y/n. I can feel it.” Bill never says the same thing twice but every single time it’s a variation of the same sentence.
You’d been to fertility clinics all over the country and it was always the exact same story: “I am incredibly sorry to tell you this,” The doctors sullen voice cuts through the stillness like a shrill bell. “But it is virtually impossible for you to conceive children.” Bill squeezes your hand under the mahogany table like a vice grip, as if his strength will lend itself to your irreparable uterus and the next day a baby will be found there. You watch, bleary-eyed as the doctor leans back in his leather chair, pushing his wire rimmed glasses farther up the bridge if his nose. “There are other options…” He drones on, over and over, a broken record playing in the background of your mind like a dismal soundtrack.
You think you’re all cried out until you’re stopped at a red light and Bill turns to you to say, “He’s right love, there are other options.” You knew there were; you weren’t blind to the notion that there were plenty of adoptable children, plenty of women willing to home your baby in their belly for nine months… you just couldn’t comprehend the fact that you couldn’t give Bill the one thing he had pined for from the moment you said I do. They are silent, wracking tears. Rivers of saltwater cascading down your face and before you know it, your nose is running without pause, you can’t breathe and you’re hyperventilating. Bill is silent, he’s been down this road time and time again and he’s been turned away at the chance of being a father too many times to count. The anguish in that revelation itself is visceral.
When you have composed yourself enough that you can halfheartedly get a breath of air in, you simply say that you’re sorry.
Gryffindor: Chimney smoke mixing with the clouds as a storm begins to brew. A roaring fireplace on a cold January night. Inkblots on a crumpled sheet of paper. Autumn leaves dancing around each other as they fall to the ground. Plaid blankets. The song the wind sings when no one is listening. Loosely braided hair. A handful of copper coins. Skinned knees and untied shoelaces. The crease between eyebrows as lips pucker to blow out a candle. Laughter at six in the morning. Hands moving so fast that they look like fluttering birds. Broken tree branches. Songs sung off-key, out of tune, and together.
Ravenclaw: Rain pounding on the windows when everyone is asleep. A closed book on a dusty desk. Feathers. An emptied water glass, alone on the table. Wire-rimmed glasses. The leather bound cover of an overused journal. Handwriting so quick and swirled that it can hardly be counted as legible. The draft of air from an open window. Unnamed constellations. A cat with its claws stuck in the curtains. Perfectly buttoned shirts. Nights spent without sleep. A chessboard where the first player has yet to make a move. Lips pursed in thought. Bottle caps hidden in a box beneath a bed. A pen without ink. The feeling of falling asleep.
Hufflepuff: A flower unfurling its petals to greet the dawn. Freckles dotting blushing cheeks. Soup beginning to boil. Dust drifting through a lonely ray of sunlight. Tapping fingers that speed with every minute. Friends calling to each other from down the hall. Boots with broken zippers. A sunset just before it turns blue. A single bumblebee. A pair of socks with the toes worn away. The smell of something baking two rooms away. Birds singing an hour too early. The reflection of a face in a spoon. Birds flying in vee formation. Pinkies linked together. Eyes widened in realization. The call of a trumpet into an empty room. Hands stained with flour. The lingering of breath after a question. An owl carrying a letter. Papercuts. A face caught in standstill as it shifts from confusion to a smile.
Slytherin: Staying up too late and waking up too early. A river as it emerges from hibernation. Silver coins. Coats with three shiny buttons that swirl around the ankles. The moon on a cloudless night. Confessions spilled into the open air. Ivy creeping up the side of an old building. Falling into a familiar pair of arms. Blankets tangled helplessly. Bells. Footprints in freshly-fallen snow. Sentences without punctuation. A slightly breathless voice. A dream that doesn’t make sense but doesn’t seem entirely fictional. Hoarse whispers. Unused parchment. The flicker of a lightbulb on a windy day. Yawning. Overgrown grass in a forgotten field. Ears stained pink from embarrassment and cold weather. A handwritten letter sealed with wax. Boiling water. Standing off to the side and watching the world go by.
Aries: Jessica, 32. owns a scary german shepard, fights with her siblings at family reunions, brings her dog eVeRyWhErE, borderline makeup guru
Taurus: Melissa, 51. sends everyone cat videos, has the best hair in the family, always leaves nice comments on her friend’s and family’s facebook posts, and is an avid wine drinker
Gemini: Stephanie, 45 (but tells people she’s 38). makes everyone call her “Aunt Stephie”, uses her family like a babysitting service, and always smells like anti-aging creams. genuinely likes seeing people happy
Cancer: Julia, 33. sits at the kids table, married to her career (she’s a marine biologist) but does volunteer work when she can. takes her family to aquariums and the ocean all the time
Leo: Chloe, 30. owns a stunning purse collection, and almost always the center of attention. she slays beer pong, christmas is boring without her (lowkey grandma’s favorite)
Virgo: Samantha/Sam, 31. a successful librarian, old soul, and gives amazing reading suggestions and awesome books as presents for christmas. looks cutest in wire rimmed glasses
Libra: Tana, 28. doesn’t have kids, subtle vegan (and talks about it with Pisces), likes talking politics and justice at family events. ransacks nordstrom rack in her free time. everyone comes to her for dating advice
Scorpio: April, 70. voted most likely to succeed in high school, richest in the family. loves wine more than her husband, brings the expensive liquor to family functions, dominates monopoly
Sagittarius: Sierra, 30. has the youngest soul, always parties with leo. very, very gay. married to pisces, and has the best eyebrows in the entire family. loves to travel
Capricorn: Tiffany, 34. lawyer, always smells like freshly brewed coffee. more gorgeous than she knows, slays red lipstick. in charge of organizing all the family functions
Aquarius: Josie, 42. the best baker, in charge of cooking at holidays (if you can get her to show up) because she’s so picky. teaches science, lowkey annoys grandma
Pisces: Rose, 29. plant lesbian, botanist. cherishes her succulents like her adopted children. married to sag, vegan, proud yogi, and loves tea almost as much as her cat
Hiiiiii Clare :) Congrats on 600! What are some of your hcs for the gangsey after the events of the books are done???
heidi!!! thank you!! you spoil me ahhh i had a long week but now i have some pasta and down time and im so Ready™ to talk about these kids that i love with my whole heart this is so long oh god
listen idk about you but i’ve been on a ton of road trips and they are not easy so if that trip actually lasts the whole 3 months of summer i’ll eat my shirt
ok but please??? imagine the bickering i bet you henry is so directionally challenged, blue probably wants a schedule whereas gansey is probably like “what do you mean we’re not just driving off into the sunset i don’t understand wait…we have an actual route?”
don’t lie to me you know he got lost plenty on his various adventures and his soft scholarly heart just went with it
but yea anyway they probably went up and down the east coast for about 2.5-3 weeks, hitting up all the state parks along the way and stopping in small towns
henry insists they have to find the best pizza on the east coast only to claim nothing can top Nino’s by the end of it
gansey wants to see all the wacky tourist spots “to get the authentic experience”
at each stop they send postcards to The Barns (theyre all on the fridge)
blue takes SO MANY pictures ok but all of them are candids
so while there’s these awful blurry messes she also manages to catch these really fantastic photos of henry falling out of a tree he tried to climb with gansey laughing, of the three of them in a diner shifting their food around (you know how when you know someone so well you just order food and shift things around so everyone has what they like? like that)
her absolute favorite: she was recording them on a hike and they stumble upon a little grove with a stream running through and forgot to stop the video when she set her phone down. that night she plugs her phone in to the car charger and gets a screenshot of the three of them standing in the stream, laughing and singing.
after the road trip blue registers for summer sessions at the community college and keeps working at Nino’s and walking dogs, she decides she’s going to save up and get her associates then transfer to a university to get her degree in marketing for art (listen she loves being creative, she loves collecting, she’s smart as hell and would get great buys for up-and-coming artists, that girl could own a really cool gallery i can see it now)
gansey defers for a year because. well. dying is stressful. but once he goes to college he decides to study art history. like blue, he loves art but he can’t deny he loves history too, and authenticating old works and searching for ancient tapestries and lost paintings is something our boy would be great at (bonus: in later years he would be the most eccentric art history professor ever and he’d totally where those corduroy jackets with elbow patches and his wire rim glasses im!!! i love the idea of old man gansey being this adorable weirdo professor that all the students love)
because we don’t really know much about henry’s interests i don’t know what his major would be but wouldn’t it be hilarious is he was a professional beekeeper and bought up land to have bee gardens and sanctuaries and started a natural honey business and gansey goes there all the time because he’s Crazy but he’s decked out in protection gear and ronan and blue team up to make a rule that he not go out to the gardens because nobody wants to tempt fate that bad
adam and ronan spend the summer together with opal seeing the beginnings of their life together settle in
ronan teaches opal more and more english and spends hours figuring out what foods she likes or doesn’t like while training her not to eat sticks
adam comes up with little lesson plans for her to start learning how to read and write along with simple math and science
ronan dreams up some fake documents so they can get her enrolled in homeschooling because there’s no way they’re gonna do public school and try to explain their satyr child to anyone thats just…nah
when they’re not teaching opal ronan is tending to the farm, learning what livestock he wants to buy and care for, going to showings all around the state (people look at him so weird, a tall kid who looks more like a biker than a farmer, cradling a bunny in his arms at the makeshift petting zoo with a little girl on his shoulders. he’s A Sight.)
adam, it turns out, is very good at baking and opal develops a bit of a sweet tooth off of his many experiments with different cupcakes and cookies
their days are carefree. they explore the fields of the barns, make wild plans for the future, tell opal stories and play with her. they catch fireflies and learn constellations together.
every evening is spent giving opal bubble baths and wrapping her up in old tshirts and gym shorts from matthews room then settling down with warm milk and honey and telling stories of sleeping kings, trees that give advice, and ordinary people discovering magic
they brush out her wild hair and the fur on her legs and put her to bed and quietly get themselves ready for bed. sometimes adam will read to ronan until they fall asleep.
sure, there are bad nights. they both have their fair share of nightmares. opal does too. that’s when they grab blankets and go sit on the porch and talk about the stories of the constellations until their minds settle again.
when they drop adam off at the dorms as he starts his first year, its hard. its really really hard. these three haven’t had a lot of good in their lives up until now so letting go of their routine, of each other, although its temporary, it hurts. none of them cry, but its close (close as in adam waits until they’ve driven away and he’s got a moment alone in the bathroom. ronan lets the tears fall silently as he grips opal’s hand reaching forward from the back seat where she’s crying into her knees she’s drawn up to her chest).
the first time adam calls home he’s worried opal won’t remember him, after all they only had a few months together, and they don’t know exactly how great her memory is. his worst fear happens when he’s skyping ronan, who tells opal it’s adam, and she says “who’s that?”
just as adam feels his heart break a little, opal leans into the frame and continues, “no papa, that’s dad.” (turns out ronan bought her a book that teaches family vocabulary)
adam feels like his heart is breaking again but this time from being so entirely full of love for these two he can barely comprehend it
adam, light of my life, goes into law. he gets a full ride because he is smart as hell and super dedicated (can u tell im proud of him). for the most part he assists at a small business firm his first few years out of college but eventually, he focuses on social work cases and getting law changes in the state to make it easier for parents to report their parents without endangering themselves, as well as changing emancipation laws so that emancipated minors can make purchases regardless of age and aren’t left homeless. its very close to his heart but even though it hurts sometimes to see these cases it only makes him want to win even more, and he knows he has ronan and opal to help bring him back from rough days at work
ronan is the Best Farmer Ever he starts buying livestock and filling up The Barns with dairy cows, hens, and goats (he thinks its hilarious when they get there and opal is absolutely fascinated by their legs). part of the land has an orchard that has both normal fruit and some of the trees niall dreamt up, and ronan sells fruit at a local farmers market as well as to other farmers who make local preserves. declan comes by here and there and…they actually start to get along a little better once declan accepts that this is ronan’s life and ronan accepts that declan was just trying to do what’s right. it also helps that for some reason opal loves declan like. so much man. and he loves her too theyre practically best buddies its precious, and even better when matthew is over too. all the lynch boys are weak for this little girl ok? they don’t stand a chance she’s got them all wrapped around her little finger.
finally, there’s noah.
every year on the day he died, truly died, for them, they all get together and go to his grave (his birthday is for his family). they tell his headstone about their classes, about new things opal has learned, about how the farm and the bee garden are going.
blue always kisses her hand and presses it to the headstone before she leaves. he was her first kiss, so he gets another every year as thanks for giving her the boy she loves.
ronan always brings opal and tells her about his best friend, about a boy who was dead but lived loudly in spite of that. he leaves dream fruit at the headstone, and opal leaves her favorite stick she’s found that week.
henry never met noah, but he hears so much about this boy who was a ghost, who was technically non-existent who still gave the last vestiges of himself up, just for the friends he’s come to think of as family. he leaves a bouquet of the most beautiful wildflowers from his garden.
adam always starts off with telling noah about classes, trying to keep himself together, but he always ends it by choking up halfway through telling his headstone how important noah is to him. adam leaves a stone from the river, almost like he’s redirecting the ley line again.
gansey is always last. while everyone else is there for comfort they always leave gansey to say his goodbyes last, and instead take him into a hug when he gets to the car. gansey just…he needs to do this alone. he needs to tell noah it wasn’t for nothing, that he’s doing everything possible to make noah proud. gansey never knows what to leave that could possibly live up to what noah has given him. he leaves a copy of pictures of them every year. noah gave him life, so gansey leaves evidence of the people he lives for, the people that make it worth living, the people that miss him. the people that remember him.
((Okay, So I’m doing a MC that has really bad vision, and so they take her to the eye doctor and get her her first pair of glasses))
MC was always squinting, and Yoosung was somewhat concerned
She was always asking him what signs said, and he was rather worried when she said that the world was quite blurry
After a lot of convincing, Yoosung managed to get MC to go to the ophthalmologist
“I don’t know why you didn’t come in sooner miss MC. You are very nearsighted”
They asked her to go and pick out some frames.
She was really worried because she couldn’t see any of the frames without them already being on her face and two inches from a mirror
“Yoosung…can you pick out some glasses for me?”
Yoosung brought over several frames, and MC put them on one by one and Yoosung either said keep or never mind
Eventually, he found the perfect pair. It made her beautiful eyes stand out and he loved the color on her. They were turquoise frames with purple arms and the metal on the frames made her bright eyes that much brighter
About a week later, the glasses came in and MC went with Yoosung to the eye doctor’s clinic together
She put them on, and for the first time, she could clearly see Yoosung and his beautiful purple eyes and adorable smile. He had the most wonderful hair, and MC smiled brightly
The world was no longer a blur, and she ran over to the mirror to see what she looked like
The glasses were very thin, yet cute, and they really brought out her eyes and framed her face
“Yoosung! I can see again!”
MC was trying to help Zen rehearse for his upcoming play
But she kept messing up the lines, and holding the paper out an arms length away
And she was still unable to see the stupid small print
So Zen, who was worried, told her to go to the eye doctor.
Apparently she was far sighted, and the ophthalmologist wasn’t sure how she was able to text at all
Apparently she had a text to voice program
MC went to go pick glasses, and after looking for a moment, she chose some rectangular black frames. Just the right amount of cute and attractiveness.
A week later, she went in and the frames were all ready
She put them on and went home to surprise Zen (Don’t worry she took public transportation)
When he got home he was stunned
She was gorgeous, not that she wasn’t before, but something about the glasses just made her that much more attractive
“Wow, Zen! You’re so …pretty! I wanna play with your hair!”
MC kept running into the edge of tables and things, and Jaehee became very concerned
So she dragged MC to the eye doctor
MC started crying, and admitted that she didn’t want glasses because she was afraid of people making fun of her
“People will not make fun of you. I will make sure of that”
They ended up going in together, because MC was scared to go alone
When MC was told to choose her frames, she freaked out because there were so many options
They eventually settled on a pair of frames that looked suspiciously like the faux glasses that Jaehee wore
Jaehee made sure to wear her glasses when they went to go get them
“OMG you two are twins! That’s so cute!” The eye care assistant said as they gave MC her glasses
MC put them on and Jaehee took a selfie of the two of them just to prove to MC that they were adorable and they deserved the world
“Wow…we do look like twins Jaehee!”
When MC couldn’t distinguish between Elizabeth 3rd and a pillow, Jumin knew that MC needed glasses
He actually brought the ophthalmologist to MC
She actually fainted when she saw Doc Lee
So he brought in another ophthalmologist in to see her
This one was much less scary and MC was more willing to work with them.
She ended up needing pretty thick glasses, and she started to cry.
Jumin soothes her telling her that she will look beautiful with glasses, and if she didn’t want them, she could get contacts.
She ended up getting brown oval frames, and they looked adorable on her
Jumin showered her with praise and told her how beautiful she looked
Now he’s starting an aesthetic glasses project for cats
Run Jaehee run
As soon as they got home to the penthouse, MC ran to the window and gazed out at the beautiful scenery
“Jumin! It’s so beautiful! Come look!”
MC was always on the computer, and she seemed to be having a harder time seeing the screen than normal
Saeyoung tried to lend MC a pair of his glasses, but that didn’t help either.
Saeyoung knew that she needed glasses though
So they went to the eye doctor to get her glasses
Apparently, she needs glasses badly, because she was very nearsighted
So the glasses were going to be rather thick
So she decided to get awesome frames like Seven’s
They were a pastel pink with what looked to be a brown print inside of the plastic. They were rather large and round, but MC loved them
Both of them now had cute glasses and neither could see anything without them
“Oh look, I can see more than a tomato now!”
V…um…how do I put this…he’s blind too
So he couldn’t tell that MC was losing her sight
Until one day Jumin brought her home after Driver Kim almost hit her because she couldn’t see the car clearly
They went to the eye doctors, and V heavily reconsidered the eye surgery
He ended up calling Jumin to ask him to set him up with the ophthalmologist while MC got her eyes checked
She wasn’t quite as blind as V, but pretty damn close
She ended up getting harry-potter-like glasses
They looked really cute on her, like really good.
A week later, V had an appointment for surgery on his eyes, and MC got her new glasses
“V I can see again! The sky is so pretty, wouldn’t you agree?”
Saeran could tell right away that she needed glasses
She squinted at everything and it made her look like she was angry at the world
So he dragged her to the eye doctor
She really didn’t want glasses for some reason
“Why do you not want glasses.. You obviously need them.”
“Because I’m going to be teased again”
Apparently, MC used to wear glasses, but stopped when people started calling her names
Saeran told her that if she wanted she could get contacts like him and if anyone teased her they were going to get decked
He led her in, and he saw the cutest pair of glasses.
They were black on the arms, and had a wire frame around the rims.
He had her try them on and she just looked so cute
She got them a week later and she just looked adorable in them, even though she didn’t think so
He decided to convince her by bringing her on the roof to watch the sun set
“Wow. it’s so vibrant and colorful. Thank you Saeran. Maybe glasses won’t be horrible after all”
“Animals doing human activities are so adorable,” the witch said to her friend.
“I found this adorable Tumblr that features that.”
“Oh, no I meant…”
Hopping in from the other room, a black rabbit wearing wire-rim glasses cleared its tiny throat, “Sarah I think I have found a way to safely increase your retirement portfolio by 2% a year, but it will require us to tighten our belts for six months. Oh hello Janine, didn’t hear the door. How is Mister Sprinkles?”
Pull-over sweaters. Hats that shade the eyes from the sun. A fading band logo on an old shirt. Fabrics that never wrinkle. Leather bracelets. Plaid. Dress shoes that leave echoing footsteps in empty hallways.
Soft cotton t-shirts. A tie left untied. Dark-washed jeans. Long wool coats with lots of buttons. Stripes. Sneakers caked with mud. Silver watches that tick loudly if you hold them to your ear.
Pants with lots of pockets.
The perfectly pressed collars of nice shirts.
Socks with sharks on them. Wire-rimmed glasses. Drawstring backpacks. Hoodies. Well-worn fabrics that smell like home.
Scuffed shoes with untied laces. Button down shirts. Sunglasses. A wool scarf wrapped tightly around a neck. Shorts with silly patterns on them. Khaki. Outfits that look nice no matter the time of year.
Anon said :
What would the modern day dwsa cast wear?
i only did a few because it would have gotten pretty repetitive but here’s a handful of our Top Bois.
Moritz - Moritz rarely buys new clothes because he absolutely hates shopping. When he does buy things, it’s always from garage sales or really crummy thrift stores. Most of his wardrobe consists of oversized tee shirts to marathons in Canada, or Aquariums from the 80s or for an elementary school he’s never heard of. He wears the same brown bomber jacket daily even though it’s falling apart and smells like ass.
Wendla - Wendla does most of her shopping online, most of the time on Asian websites poorly translated to English. Her wardrobe has a lot of dresses in it, as those are her favorite. Almost everything she owls in some type of pastel and they all have cute designs. She practically wears a pastel goth tumblr blog on her body daily.
Melchior - Melchior is a simple man. Most of his clothes are hand me downs flannels or beat up converse. He’s against sweatshops and child labor so he refuses to shop at most mainstream stores. He layers a lot and is almost never caught dead I’m anything that’s not a long sleeve. His one and only weakness is Adidas brand anything, which they often mock him for because he always has at least one Adidas item on his body.
Hanschen- Hanschen gets shit all the time for having the generic fuckboy look. When he cleans up and puts effort into his outfit, he looks drop dead. But on an everyday basis, he’s covered head to toe in Nike, Topman, Calvin Klein, Diamond and a handful of other name brands he feels the need to shop at. His sense of style is impeccable and me never misses a chance to look the best and the most stylish.
Ilse- Ilse shops almost exclusively at vintage clothing stores. Her favorite item is always bell bottoms. But she’s never at a loss of flowy blouses, pencil skirts, neon sweaters, and fur coats. She even buys her underwear at vintage stores, giving her an endless amount of old fashioned lingerie.
Ernst- if it were up to him, Ernst would wear a pair of sweatpants every day for the rest of his life. But when he’s out of the house, he tends to lean towards simple skinny jeans and sweaters. He also wears an awful lot of yellow, with his wire rimmed glasses yellow as well as his favorite yellow wool sweater.
In the morning,
I rise early and sneak out to the bakery while girls are still asleep in the
livingroom bed. I head straight to shed to get wood to light the ovens, and since I’m out there, I dig clothes out of my boxes and change. It makes me realize I’ll have to face bringing
my things to the Everdeen’s sooner rather than later because if my mother gets
in a mood, she might toss everything. To be safe, I stack the boxes
behind one of the wood stacks so she won’t see them immediately if she happens in.
morning is alright; there’s a strained silence between my brother, father and
I, but only because the unspoken cloud of my mother’s bad mood lingers. But it’s
nothing we haven’t gone through before.
School is still
six days away, and so I’ll be at the bakery all day, but my father gives me a
lunch break long enough to ferry one of my boxes back to the house. I remember to grab my jacket off the peg by
the back door before I march off.
When I get back to the house, I hear Prim’s voice coming from the back yard so I go there. She’s sitting on a little crate, bundled in a
jacket and milking her goat.
laugh a real, if short, belly laugh. The
creature, as wide in the middle as the Everdeen girls are thin, and with hair a clean white that matches the hoar frost on the ground, is wearing a…
looking very intellectual, wearing a perfectly fitted sweater.
absolutely hideous orange colored
sweater, covered in balls from pilling, and with a collar so tall and floppy
that I swear it makes the goat look like it should be sporting a pair of
wire-rimmed glasses on its snout.
even a tobacco pipe to accentuate its white beard.
up, and smiles when she sees me trying not to keep laughing.
“We had to
soak the arms in boiling water, to shrink them so it would fit her legs
properly,” Prim says, smiling wider, and she laughs herself.
is a waterfall of joy compared to the weeping I heard last night.
I nod, and
my grin of mock appreciation for the tailoring is so wide it actually hurts my
jaw a little.
must say, I’ve never seen a better dressed goat my whole life.”
“Come and meet the princess.”
I lift the
latch on the gate and slip into the yard, balancing my box of cloths on my hip
as I do. I wonder where they get and store food
for it. In the summer I suppose
Pre-Pilot AU, possible explanation for why Mulder is such an condescending ass to Scully in the first episode.
Tuesday, December 31,
1991 10:32 PM
The staccato clack of stilettos on tile floor echoes through
the empty basement corridor of the Hoover Building. Dana Scully hurries down
the hall, the train of her dress in one hand and the files she had spent the
last two hours digging through the FBI Archives for clutched in the other. It
was supposed to be just a quick stop before the party, but locating the files
had taken frustratingly longer than expected and the more she could not find
what she was looking for, the more she had become determined to find it. It was
a conspiracy of the filing cabinets, she was certain, and finding them had
become a personal vendetta, even if it had made her so very, very late. She
just needed to get to the parking garage, so she could get in her car and
finally be on her way, before she incurred any more tardiness-induced wrath
upon her. She reaches the end of the hallway and jams the ‘up’ button, mentally
urging the car to arrive faster. The doors finally slide open and she slips
inside, finger on ‘door close’, trying to calm her pulse, foot tapping
“Hold the door!” an unfamiliar voice shouts down the hall,
heavy footsteps growing louder.
Scully groans and jabs at the ‘door open’ button, her
military upbringing of unfailing politeness winning out over her desire to get
out of there. A large male hand clamps over the sliding metal door.
“Thanks,” her newfound elevator companion shoots her a
smile. Adonically lanky with floppy hair and oversized wire rim glasses perched
on an aquiline nose, he is dressed in a rumpled white button-down with a wide,
garish tie hanging loosely round his neck, forest green patterned with orange
triangles. A grey wool trench coat is tossed over his arm.
“Sure thing, ground floor?”
The elevator shutters to life and slowly begins its ascent.
It barely clears the first floor when it lurches to an abrupt stop with a
precarious creak. A startled yelp emerges from Scully as she grasps for the
wall railing to stay upright. The lights flicker and suddenly plunge the tiny
car into darkness. After a few moments, the sallow emergency backup lights
Scully pulls the elevator emergency phone from its case,
stabbing at the red help button to no avail; the line is dead.
“Somewhere important to be?” he drawls bemusedly, slowly
trailing his eyes down her body.
She is wearing an exquisite cobalt dress with an open back
cut down almost to the base of her spine. The top of the dress cuts modestly
across her chest and the thin straps hug her shoulders before crisscrossing the
smooth pale skin of her back. The fabric shimmers when she moves and the
flowing train brushes the top of her feet encased in silver pointy heels that
brought her almost to the height of his nose. She shifts uncomfortably under
his headed gaze, feeling naked and exposed. She crosses her arms across her
chest, causing the creamy rise of her cleavage to swell. This does not escape
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” she rejoins archly. At his
non-response, she prattles to fill the awkward silence. “I was supposed to be
meeting Ethan over an hour ago and he’ll be waiting with no idea where I am and
I have no way of contacting him and I should have just left these stupid files
until Thursday but no, I just had to have them tonight because God forbid I
don’t do any work and actually relax on my vacation and now it’s New Year’s Eve
and I’m stuck in a basement elevator with…with…” she gestures helplessly,
realizing she had never asked his name.
“Mulder. Fox Mulder,” he supplies helpfully, looking even
Fox Mulder. She knew that name; everyone did. The golden boy
of the Violent Crimes Section, his profiling skills had earned him the nickname
“Spooky” at the academy.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry. You must think I’m insane.” She
places her head in her hands with a soft groan of embarrassment, fair skin
reddening. Here she is, trapped in an elevator with the infamous Spooky Mulder
and somehow she manages to be the crazy one.
Way to go, Dana. Make
a fool of yourself in front of an attractive elevator stranger. Attractive? You
have a boyfriend, Dana. A boyfriend who is probably freaking out right now
because he doesn’t know where you are.
Fox Mulder cracks a sunflower seed between his teeth and
smiles down at his tiny elevator partner, suddenly finding himself distracted
by the escaped curls from the chignon on the nape of her neck. His long fingers twitch as he fights the urge to brush them back. He’d intended for his question to be entirely
innocuous, but he’d be lying if he said wasn’t enjoying watching her stumble
over herself like a baby bird, all fluff and innocence.
His smile fades when she turns her face to look up at him.
He’s taken aback by the sheer fierceness of the blue flame, exactly the same
hue as the gown that sheathed her lithe body.
“I’m Dana Scully. It’s nice to meet you, Fox.”
He meets her proffered hand, unable to tear his eyes from
her crimson lips as they slide over the syllables of his detested first name.
He almost jerks his hand back at the first touch of her skin
on his. He could swear he’s been burned. Was the audible crack of static
electricity between them simply a result of the dry winter air or something
“Likewise” He swallows hard.
Scully reluctantly drops her hand and her eyes from his.
There’s only so long you can keep someone you just met in a polite handshake
before it turns into impolite hand holding. She steps back into the corner,
awkwardly staring at her feet, unsure of what to say next, silence blooming in
the space between them. Did he feel it too? That spark between them? Had it
been all in her head?
“So, who’s Ethan?” Mulder’s voice snaps her from her
reverie. She lifts her head to find him still fixing her with that bemused
gaze, all bright eyes and pouty lips twisting their way around another seed.
“He’s…um…my…uh…boyfriend.” The expression on his face
doesn’t change, but Scully is sure she sees a flash of disappointment darken
his eyes. “He’s a journalist.”
Really Mulder? ‘That’s
nice’? An Oxford education and esteemed psychology degree and that’s the best
you can do?
That uncomfortable silence fills the elevator car again.
“Maybe we should try the phone again?” Mulder offers. His
long body leans across her to pick up the emergency phone and Scully finds her
eyes drawn to the wide planes of his shoulders stretching under his dress
shirt. “Nope. Nothing.”
He’s suddenly standing much closer to her than he had
before, so close she could reach out and touch his chest. Which she will not
do. Because he is an elevator stranger. And she has a boyfriend.
“Don’t worry; I’m sure someone will be along soon to fix it.
Unless a shadowy government agent cuts the cable and we plunge to our death
first,” he monotones.
The lack of humor in his voice gives her the unsettling
impression that he’s not joking.
“Somehow I think we’d probably survive the one floor drop,”
she retorts, tipping her chin to look at him. “And besides, despite what all your
action hero movies may tell you, it’s nearly impossible for an elevator to
plummet in freefall. Elevator cables are regularly inspected and rarely break
and even if they did almost all elevators have at least four cables, one of
which is strong enough to hold up the entire car. And say your shadowy
government agent somehow managed to cut all the cables, there are breaking
systems activated by a mechanical speed gauge, which clamp the rails the run
down the inside of the shaft. And if this nefarious villain somehow destroyed
the safeties too, the friction from the shaft rails and air pressure underneath
the car would greatly decrease the speed until you ultimately hit the built-in
shock absorber that would cushion the impact at the bottom of the elevator
shaft. It’s simple physics, really.”
His lips twitch of their own accord. Of course, simple physics indeed. He likes women who know things.
She finishes her diatribe to find him staring at her with
that frustrating smile again. She hates it. She hates how it makes her cheeks
burn and stomach flip. There you go
again, Dana, just rambling on for no reason. Again. If he didn’t think you were a freak before, he
certainly does now. Maybe you should be the one they call “Spooky”.
“So I shouldn’t jump right before we hit the ground?”
“Only if you want broken bones.”
He wonders what else she knows.
“I guess it’s a good thing you’re a doctor then.”
He wonders what she knows about chemistry.
“I guess so.”
Mulder pulls back abruptly and clears his throat, moving to
lounge against the elevator railing, long arms stretched to either side of him,
not meeting her eyes.
Scully eases down into the corner and pulls the heeled shoes
from her feet with a slight wince. They are not the most comfortable of shoes,
but they are gorgeous and when she had seen them in the store window, she
couldn’t resist them. Besides, Melissa is always telling her she lacks a sense
of whimsy and that a bit of impulsivity is good for a person.
An unexpected shiver courses through her. She had been so
distracted fighting off the inappropriate thoughts featuring the attractive
elevator stranger, she hadn’t noticed the dropping temperature.
“Are you cold?” Mulder asks, staring down at her from his
perch, brow furrowed in concern.
“Oh no,” another shiver interrupts her nonchalant shrug.
Mulder extends his coat to her. “Here, take this. I’m not
“No, I couldn’t. I’m sure you’ll want it eventually. I’m
fine, honestly. It’s my own fault, really, for leaving mine in the car. I
wasn’t expecting to be here this long.”
“Take it,” he insists with a teasing smile. “Before your
lips turn blue.”
Unless you want me to
warm you some other way… damn it, Mulder. Who are you, Frohike? Pull yourself
together. She has a boyfriend.
He crouches down and drapes the coat across her back, his
hand lingering on her shoulder longer than necessary. It engulfs her petite
frame and she shifts infinitesimally closer to him under the pretense of
drawing the coat tighter around her herself. He pretends not to notice. It’s
warm from his body and smells like him, dark and woodsy and undeniably
She smiles gratefully up at him before dropping her eyes,
inexplicably shy, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. “Thanks.”
“Of course.” If his New England upbringing had taught him
anything, it was how to be a gentleman. He sits down next to her, stretching
his long legs out in front of him.
“So…what are you reading?” Mulder gestures to the file in
her lap. “Anything good?”
“Cadaveric heat rigor in cases of self-immolation”
“That sounds like cheery holiday reading. Certainly gives a
new meaning to ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire’.”
Scully laughs; Mulder decides in that instant that it’s
something he needs to hear again.
“I’m a medical doctor. I did my residency in forensic
medicine and now I teach at the Academy.”
“A doctor?” She nods at him and he leans over to whisper
lowly in her ear, “So, Dr. Scully, have you ever performed an alien autopsy?”
She laughs again, even louder this time, the sound
reverberating in the small metal car. His stomach somersaults and he grins over
at her. Yeah, he really likes that sound. He wasn’t kidding about the autopsy
Mulder shifts uncomfortably on the hard ground of the
elevator car. The chill that had settled in the car shows no signs of abating
and the temperature continues to drop. He hunches his shoulders against the
goosebumps scattering down the slope of his neck.
“See? I knew you be cold eventually,” Scully ribs
“Me? Cold? Nah. I’m far too manly to be taken down by
something as insignificant as a minute drop in temperature,” he declares.
Scully rolls her eyes at him, reaching out a finger to trail
the goosebumps on side of his neck in proof. He shivers, but not from the chill
of the air.
“Uh huh. You can save the macho act for another time, Fox.
It’s only going to get colder as the night goes on. I might be a doctor, but I
can’t bring you back from the dead if you freeze to death,” she smiles. “Come
on, we can at least share the coat.”
Scully slides the coat from her shoulders and moves closer
to him, her thigh resting along the length of his. She spreads it across their
laps, but quickly realizes it isn’t large enough to cover both of them. She
wraps her arms around her top half, now exposed to the cold air. Mulder looks
over at her, feeling slightly guilty that he’s the reason she’s no longer
snuggly and warm. The sight of her wrapped in his clothes did things to him.
Inappropriate things. Things one should not be thinking about a girl with a
Slowly, cautiously, as if to gauge her reaction, he reaches
his arm around her and rubs his large hand up and down her thin upper arm,
shifting her even closer. She goes completely still, but doesn’t move away.
“Jesus, your skin is still like ice,” he chuckles, the
friction increasing between them.
Scully sighs almost imperceptibly and her eyes slide closed
a hair longer than a blink should last. His warmth feels so good against her; she
wants to bury herself in it.
Mulder rotates his upper body and opens his arms to her
wordlessly, his eyes reflecting a silent invitation. Scully hesitates, unsure of
the proper social protocol of such a situation and unsure of how it makes her
“Just for warmth,” she clarifies in the sternest doctor
voice she can manage.
She crawls into his lap and he pulls her into his chest,
tucking her head snuggly under his collarbone. She shifts the train of her
dress so she can pull her knees towards her chest. The coldness of her tiny
hands seeps through his shirt as they settle over his breastbone and she can
feel the rapid flutter of his heartbeat thrumming through the tips of her
fingers. He draws the coat back over them and wraps his arms around her. One
arm rests one across her shoulders on top of the coat to ensure it stays tucked
up against her. The other is under the coat, directly against her curled body,
his large hand splayed across her exposed lower back like it somehow knows it
Mulder has to remind himself to breathe. Her soft hair is
inches from his nose, the floral of her shampoo wafting towards him; he wants
to bury himself in it.
“Of course, Dr. Scully,” he replies. “What else would it be
The answer they both know hangs unwillingly in the air
The rumbling of his chest reverberates through her body as
he enthusiastically expounds a dizzying array of complex theories. When she had
asked him a few moments ago what he was doing here so late on New Year’s Eve
himself, she’d expected a witty quip about psych profiles and serial killers
not taking vacations, but instead found herself the audience of a sunflower
seed fueled soliloquy on the inherently flawed nature of the Fermi Paradox and
all twenty-one possible explanations for the lack of evidence of extraterrestrial
The soft weight of her body in his lap is making it hard to
focus, very hard. He’s disconcerted by how familiar and right it feels with her
head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest. It’s been so long since he has
held anyone like this, felt the warmth of physical human connection. He’d forgotten
how much he misses it. Mulder struggles to keep a cohesive narrative as he continues
to ramble. He’s sure he sounds insane at this point. Another thing he’d learned
from that New England upbringing: blathering on about the intricacies of
alien morphology doesn’t tend to impress the ladies.
Always living up to your nickname, aren’t you Spooky? Fantastic.
Scully really does try to pay attention to what he’s saying,
but she’s constantly distracted by the pout of his lips wrapping themselves
around words like ‘interstellar’, ‘Arecibo’, and ‘synchronous gauge’. His one hand
idly trails over his coat, punctuated by sporadic gestures into the air to
emphasize his thoughts, and she can feel his touch even through thick wool. She
shifts and his arms instinctively tighten around her, the thumb of his other
hand never breaking from its rhythmic sweeps across her the soft skin of her
“Are you warming up yet?” he breaks from his monologue to
look down at her.
“I’m much better now, thanks,” she casts a small smile up at
Neither of them dares to move. The ceasing of the steady
rise and fall of his chest tells her that she isn’t the only one who stopped
breathing. She thinks she sees something flicker briefly in his eyes again
before he pulls back and resumes talking aliens and neutrino signals.
Mulder tips his wrist to look at the time, before extending
the watch towards Scully. “Hey Dana, look, it’s almost midnight.”
“Really? We’ve been in here that long?” Scully peers at the
watch face, shifting in his lap and flexing her ankles.
“The New Year shall be upon us in 10…9…8…7…” She tilts her
head back to look at him. Her eyes catch his and do not waver, his face slowly
lowering toward hers. He’s so close she can taste the salty sunflower tang of
his warm breath. They know this is wrong, but are powerless to stop it. The
unbreakable attraction of north and south poles pull them closer and closer;
it’s simple physics. Or was it chemistry?
With a sudden surge of reconnected electricity, the elevator
car jolts back to life, breaking them from their spell. The force jerks them
away from each other and Mulder tightens his grip on her to keep her from being
thrown across the car.
“Are you okay?” His brow furrows again and Scully resists
the compulsion to smooth the creases away with her lips.
“Yeah,” she stammers, unsure whether her heart is racing
from their almost-kiss or the unexpected restart of the elevator. “Yeah, I’m
“I’m good.” He reluctantly releases her from his arms and
stands, shrugging on his coat. She slides back into her heels and he offers a
hand to help her up. The elevator sounds their arrival and the metal doors
slide open. Her hand falls from his. Both know they will never speak of this
1992 12:01 AM
Scully steps out of the elevator to the shouting of a
“Look, I know she’s here! She said she had to pick some
files up and then was coming to meet me. And she never showed up! That was four
hours ago. I know her car is still in the garage, so where is she?!”
Ethan is struggling with two security guards at the end of
the hall, desperately trying to get past them. His face breaks with relief when
he sees her coming down the hall.
Scully flashes her badge to the guards and they release him
with annoyed shakes of their heads. Ethan sprints the rest of the way down the
hall and pulls her into his arms.
“Dana! Are you okay?! What happened? Where have you been?!”
“I’m fine, really. The power went out and I was stuck in the
elevator with…” she turns to gesture towards Mulder, only to find that he is no
Mulder takes the stairs two at a time back to his basement
office, determined to find out everything he can about the enigmatic elevator
partner currently consuming his thoughts. He combs through the FBI’s personnel
database until her file appears on his computer screen. Dana Scully: 28,
undergraduate degree in physics from the University of Maryland, medical degree
from Stanford, and currently an instructor at the Academy. The intrigued smile
on his face grows when he comes upon a copy of her senior thesis, ‘Einstein’s
Twin Paradox, A New Interpretation’. He was right. She does know things. He tucks
his face into the soft woolen collar of his coat; it still smells like her.
1992, 8:15 AM
“Are you familiar with an agent named Fox Mulder?”
Dana Scully freezes in panic for the length of her skipped
heartbeat before recovering quickly with a smile.
“Yes, I am.”
What did they know?
Had someone seen us? Did Fox Mulder say something about our completely platonic
New Year’s elevator tryst? Surely there couldn’t be an FBI rule against
huddling for warmth?
“By reputation,” Scully hedges carefully, praying her face
didn’t reveal anymore.
Fox Mulder shuffles through slides on his desk, looking for
best ones to illustrate the mysterious spate of unexplained deaths cropping up
across the country, connected only by the strange raised marks on the victims’
backs and an unidentifiable substance in the surrounding tissue. When Division
Chief Blevins had informed him of his new partner, it took everything in him
not to cuss out loud. Of course it was her. He should have known she was too
good to be true. Just like Diana had been. It wasn’t random coincidence or magnetic
fate that had drawn her to his hallway that night. No, she had been sent there to
spy on him, to debunk his work, to shut him down.
The staccato clack of stilettos on tile floor echoes through
the empty basement corridor of the Hoover Building. Scully clips briskly down
the hall, her briefcase slung over her shoulder. When Blevins had informed her
she had been assigned to the X-Files, with none other than her attractive
elevator stranger, she thought for sure that it was some kind of joke. The
serious unsmiling faces of the three men in the office told her otherwise. She
arrives at the office door bearing no name.
Would he say anything
about that night? Will he even remember me?
She hesitates for a moment.Willing her face to betray nothing, she takes a breath and forces
a neutral expression. She raises her fist and knocks.
“Sorry, nobody down here but the FBI’s most unwanted,” his
muffled voice comes through the door.
She opens the door to find him bent over his cluttered desk,
carefully examining slides on a light tray. He’s surrounded by stacks of
binders and files, manila folders stuffed to the brim with scrawled notes on errant
papers; pictures of skulls and humanoid corpses adorn the walls, along with a
prominent poster of a UFO flying over trees declaring ‘I Want to Believe’. The
dim lights cast sallow shadows across his face when he turns his head to look
at her, still all oversized glasses, gaudy tie, and floppy hair she wants to
brush out of his eyes. His cool steady gaze offers no acknowledgement.
“Agent Mulder. I’m Dana Scully; I’ve been assigned to work with
She extends her hand. When his skin meets hers, she could
swear she’s been burned.