Little_Earthquakes
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- The X-Files (16)
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Since finding the chip at the advanced research facility it had become impossible to ignore. He’d believed in close encounters, abductions and little grey men with everything he had. Now? It was men. Manipulations and deceit. A conspiracy of silence and unspoken damage, lives torn apart in pursuit of something that couldn’t be named.
The chip had been a miracle, reversing the cancer and bringing her back to him. He should have seen it, during that conversation in the office, when she had read that Cassandra had been taken from Skyland mountain. Her expression had changed. She was guarded, she had that look, that look that said there was something she wasn’t telling him. His brain hadn’t allowed the connection, that her chip, her miracle cure might draw her to her death. That chip? It was a zeppelin; a miracle craft opening the world, a balloon filled with hydrogen powered by a combustion engine; the slow burning fall to the ground felt suddenly inevitable.Series
- Part 6 of Living in the Embers
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‘To know an artist, you have to look at his art,’ he’d told Scully trying to explain what it had been like in VCS back then, explain what it was to be a profiler under Patterson’s tutelage. ‘It really meant, if you want to catch a monster, you have to become one yourself’ and he very nearly had. She’d commented about him being the fair-haired boy, he had been, because unlike almost every other profiler there he had nothing to tether him to reality. He was cut loose, to spiral further and further down into the depravity. Nothing to hold him up. He could go further than anyone else there.
Monty Props had damn near killed him, and yet it was his brightest professional accolade.
If he’d stayed he might have become what Patterson had.
He’d been pulled under, drawn down into the thick, viscous filth of Mostow’s mind. He had almost been lost.
This time however there was a hand outstretched to reach him. Tiny. Dainty but mighty.Series
- Part 4 of Living in the Embers
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Tick.
Tock.
He didn’t want to acknowledge it but the clock in their office had become the unstoppable metronome of her slow march to death. The beat of her heart approaching it’s last. The heart would stop. The clock would not. He didn’t want to acknowledge it. He refused to believe it but he felt it, her life slipping through his fingers like sand in a timer. He tried to cling to it, to her, but it was holding back a tide that was inevitable. He wanted to fight, but against what? The aggressor? Cells of her own body.
What would he do without her?Series
- Part 5 of Living in the Embers
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If she comes back…’ the voice corrected. “If…” That voice, the unhelpful one that nothing seemed to silence. Not his long nighttime runs until his muscles gave out. Not the long days that bled into one another sleeping on the office floor as he pawed over evidence that he’d read a thousand times. Not the weight of her cross, the gold talisman that settled into the hollow of his neck. He’d put it on to feel close to her and carry her with him until she was back by his side. Instead it served as a constant reminder of the limb that he’d lost; the sensation of it unwelcome and heavy when he first put it on. Now weeks later, the weight had become so familiar that he sometimes forgot he was wearing it, just for a moment, familiar and every time the realisation that her absence had become pedestrian was overwhelmingly sad.
Nothing helped, certainly not the hard liquor; though he poured himself another room temperature vodka because at least if he blacked out he wouldn’t hear it anymore.
Series
- Part 3 of Living in the Embers
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“Fox,” she had said, so softly, lilting, a cadence to it that was deliciously rich and inviting.
His name on her lips, on her tongue, on her… it felt heady. It shouldn’t and it couldn’t, but it was undeniable. Something about his name, one syllable, silken and smooth had the power to have him undone. It tugged at something that felt dangerous. It was primal, what it did to him. That morning in the office the choice to stick to last names had been tactical, to create distance, professional boundaries that she had demolished almost instantly. She had chipped away at them in fear and candlelight. His fingers soft against the small of her back had started the engine. When she had dropped her robe, standing before him in her underwear, shaken and vulnerable and the weight of her tiny body against his she had driven the bulldozer through the barriers he had tried to construct.Series
- Part 2 of Living in the Embers
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- Words:
- 17,075
- Works:
- 7
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Mulder and Scully try being friends-with-benefits. Diana Fowley is here to ruin it all.
*new updates coming*Bookmarked by Little_Earthquakes
10 Jul 2026
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He won't accept it's over until he's sitting at her grave, and maybe not even then.
Bookmarked by Little_Earthquakes
29 Jun 2026
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Five years in, the line finally breaks. Mulder/Scully, established-ish, mostly explicit.
Bookmarked by Little_Earthquakes
01 Jun 2026
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* I’ve added Chapter 5 - “Wednesday” *
Saturdays (and more days) in love.
Bookmarked by Little_Earthquakes
30 May 2026
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This is a short post-Orison fic.
After the attack, Scully chooses to remain in her apartment. She is struggling with a profound sense of lost control in every sense of the word: Pfaster’s intrusion, the physical restraint, and even the act of killing him, which leaves her feeling displaced from her own agency. Leaving the apartment feels, to her, like an acknowledgment that Pfaster still holds a presence there, in the space that should be hers.
Mulder, in turn, decides that if she stays, he will stay with her.
That night, Scully attempts to reclaim control in a way that ultimately leaves her feeling even more hollow. In the aftermath, Mulder helps her begin to understand what control actually is, and what it is not.
Bookmarked by Little_Earthquakes
30 Apr 2026