threeguesses | FIC: five things that never happened to dana scully [x-files, scully]

Word Count: 1 500

Disclaimer: I disclaim it.

five things that never happened to dana scully

Mulder is out on loan to Violent Crimes, her regular babysitter has a date (“I’m sorry Mrs. Scully, but it’s Pat Danes and prom and—”), and her mother is out east visiting Charlie. “It’s urgent, Agent Scully,” Skinner had said. “We need you on this,” Skinner had said.

She tiptoes into Will’s room and lifts him up out of his big-boy bed. He smells like sleep and new grass and she asks him “Want to go on a trip?”

It’s too hot, but she dresses him in his favourite sweater, the one with the alien on the front that Mulder bought at a pawn shop in San Diego. He falls asleep the second his head hits the car seat.

Skinner raises his eyebrows at the crime scene, but says nothing.

-

Will sleeps through the first autopsy, and the second, but he’s awake by the third and the technician who comes to get Scully is in a panic. (Scully had set Will up in the lab. She'd made a makeshift bed in the alcove beside the emergency shower, the spot where they normally store clean beakers. The midnight lab crew had looked on suspiciously, like they had never seen a real child before.)

“He wants juice,” the young man flaps his arms helplessly. “All we have is water.”

Yes Santa Claus, there is a William, Scully thinks. She rolls her eyes and strips off the latex.

“Mummy,” he cries when she gets there, and burrows his head in her stomach. Scully puts her nose in his curls and inhales until she can no longer smell the autopsy bay.

“We’re going home,” she announces, and piggybacks him to the car.

Mulder comes home two days later, exhausted and triumphant. Scully and Will meet him at the airport, and when Scully kisses him hello she screws her eyes shut and wishes for them to always catch the guy, for there to be no more guys to catch, and for everyone to ride off into the sunset on painted horses.

Later, they’re lying in bed on top of the sheets because it’s too hot to do anything else (but they did – they did everything else for two hours and now they’re exhausted, sore and sticky). Will’s breathing is deep and even over the baby monitor.

Scully drags her leg over Mulder’s hip. Whispers in his ear, like a secret: “I want to have another one.”

“Samantha Mulder,” the woman holds out her hand without looking up, “one-way ticket to the dead end of your career.” There is a pencil in her hair and ink stains on her fingertips.

Scully doesn’t take the hand. “Dana Scully,” she says. With just a little bit of snap on the c.

It works: Samantha finally swivels to look at her. “Dana Scully,” she drawls (and Scully has never heard her name said with that many l’s), “Why on earth are you getting on this train?”

Scully does not like the up and down Samantha is giving her. She does not like the drawl, and she does not like the smirk. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Samantha laughs. It is not a happy sound. “I mean, Miss Scully, what are you doing here? Pretty girl like you and a place like this. That sort of thing.”

Scully blinks. “Excuse me?”

Samantha rolls her eyes. “Who the hell did you piss off?”

Scully considers. “J. Edgar Hoover,” she says.

Samantha looks at her for a moment, head cocked. Then she grins. “Tell me, Doctor Scully," she asks, swivelling back to her desk, "do you believe in extraterrestrials?”

Five years later and Scully still hasn’t left. “You just like me,” Sam says, and tugs on Scully’s jacket. “No,” Scully tells her, “that can’t be it, it must be something else.”

They have a case in Milwaukie one week, a case in Minneapolis the next. Scully has criss-crossed the sky a thousand times and then doubled back to do it again. She leans her head against the window and closes her eyes.

She opens them again and they are in Denver. They do not solve the case.

Sam is lying on the bed channel surfing. Scully never wants to open her eyes again. “At least not for the next week,” she tells Sam.

“Okay,” Sam says. She leans over and presses Scully’s eyes closed with her thumbs. “I’ll tie a string around your wrist,” she whispers into Scully’s ear, “lead you up and down town.”

“I’d trip over curbs,” Scully sniffs. Sam's thumbs have migrated to her temples. They rub there in soft circles.

“I wouldn’t let you,” Sam breathes. And even though her eyes are still closed, the kiss doesn’t catch Scully off-guard.

Scully quits two weeks after formally adopting Emily. She goes back to teaching at Quantico, half-days, clock in at twelve and home by five.

Mulder is surprisingly understanding when she tells him. She sits on the other side of his desk, hands folded, her blackest suit, ridiculously formal. Mulder twirls a pencil and doesn’t look at her.

When she’s finished (she had a spiel, she’d planned) he just says, Okay Scully. He helps her carry the boxes to her car, shuts her trunk. They say goodbye in the parking garage, Scully’s heels sinking into a puddle. He waves as she pulls out.

The problem is, Scully doesn’t really know how to be someone’s mother; she’s never been very good at hugs; she’s rubbish at make believe. She only knows how to tie her shoes one way (and it doesn't involve bunny rabbits). But she tries. She goes through the motions; bath time and band aids and hold hands to cross the street. She does it again and again and eventually it becomes… well, if not natural, at least second nature.

(It takes two months for Emily to stop crying for her foster mother and Scully doesn’t take it personally. She doesn’t.)

She tries to keep in touch with Mulder. At first it’s visits every other day and calls at all hours of the night. But it’s always just a little bit awkward: they go out to eat with Emily and the waitresses smile at them like they’re a family. Mulder doesn’t meet her eyes and Scully pays for her own bill.

Eventually it’s less calls and less visits and finally six months have gone by and they haven’t spoken at all. Scully notices and thinks about calling, but doesn’t. She waits, lets six more months go by, and then six more after that, and then six more, and then-

And then eleven years have gone by and Mulder is dying in the line of duty. They go to the funeral. Emily is fourteen and fascinated by the open casket. “So you used to work with him,” she says.

Scully nods. Says, “Yeah, I used to work with him.”

Will-o’-the-wisps, Mulder tells Scully, who is watching him from the island that is the hotel bed. I am going to tell you a story about will-o’-the-wisps.

A folklore phenomenon that spans many cultures, they are also called corpse candles, hobby lanterns, ghost lights, or, my personal favourite, spooklights. There are multiple myths surrounding them, the most prominent of which being the story of Will the morally ambiguous blacksmith.

Mulder settles himself further into the chair.

Now, after a long life of evil and debauchery, our boy Will dies, and should by all rights go straight to hell. But Saint Peter, for plot reasons, gives him a second chance at the gate. Only he’s too bad for heaven, and hell doesn’t want him, so—

Doomed to wander earth for all eternity.

Exactly. But the Devil takes pity on him and gives him one single coal to warm himself with. It is lit by the fires of hell and will never go out. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Will’s an evil bastard, and he uses it to lure unsuspecting travelers into the marshes. They see the floating light, believe it's another traveler on the road ahead, and wind up-

Stuck in a swamp.

Stuck in a swamp. Now, some other cultures believe that the lights are held by fairies, or goblins. Still others hold that they are the physical manifestation of lost souls... Mulder trails off.

(Or stillborn children, she wants to say, unable to find their way into heaven. I know. I’ve heard the fairytale before.)

Scully, he says suddenly. Let’s quit.

She blinks at him. I know the case isn’t going well, Mulder, but that’s no reason to be dramatic.

No really, let's quit. Let's do it, Scully. He pauses, considering. We could set up our own private practice. Have our names on the door.

What, like the ghost busters?

I’d buy you a desk, he continues. His voice is hypnotic, soothing. Or we could go into teaching. I’ve always wanted to teach.

Mulder, she laughs, think of the poor young minds.

Or you could marry me, he whispers. I’ve always wanted you to marry me.

Mulder, she chokes.

We could just stop. Just get out of the car and stop. What d’you say, Scully?

Mulder, she says. It feels like the only word in the world.

Say the word, Scully. Just say the word and I’ll stop.

Their faces are very close. Scully licks a tear off his chin, mashes her nose up against his. "Stop," she breathes against his mouth. “Stop.”

There is a room. There is smoke and mirrors and men.

“What about this one?” Blevins asks, and tosses the file to a man with a cigarette. “Scientist, young, works at Quantico.”

The man examines it. “No,” he says. “Pick someone else.”

Current Mood: hungry

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

deltachild.livejournal.com

Oh these are awesome. I love reading how if different roads had been taken how they would have worked out. I particularly liked the one with Samantha, very cool :)

From:

Jimmy, if a cow got the chance he'd eat you and everyone you cared about

FIC: five things that never happened to dana scully [x-files, scully]

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