#vnerate

“ 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜. ” from dana katherine scully, @vnerate

❛   ────nervous, ey?   ❜ uttered out of one side of his coy smirk, he's careful to tread lightly around the fact that while he's busy lounging there leafing through the community's seemingly endless book of covenants, conditions &. restrictions, rob petrie's dearly beloved is sauntering brazenly around their new home with a face mask that makes her look less like a lady and more like a creature from the black lagoon ──

in the back of his mind, he can't help but picture what win shroeder or big mike raskub would think if they saw laura out on the lawn rocking that unconventional shade of marshland green [ ... ]

in lieu of the mischief glittering in his eyes, he wedges a fingertip into the book to keep his place; then, he reclines a little in the bed ( 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑. ) ❛   consider this a character building question, agent scully: why ever would someone like laura agree to love and cherish a man who makes her nervous for as long as they both shall live?   ❜ barely giving her a chance to respond, he furrows his brow with an insufferable amount of confidence in his own humor.

hazel eyes trail from the couple back to his partner's face where she still stared softly out of the window. steam from their food was fading fast and it rose past her to seek an escape in the ceiling. but none would be found. mulder's head tilts minutely and long strands of bangs sweep against the top of his forehead. the simple act of the couple sitting on the porch together and existing separately, but connected through their light grasp wasn't something that he thought would strike her so intensely. and it tugged at something within him. something that hadn't been discussed yet. she'd probably never guess that he felt so similarly.

“Did you ever think about me?”      ➜      sent,      @vnerate​.

To him it feels like such a silly thing to ask.  How foolish!  Of course,  of course,  of course!  How could he not?  His parents had told him young,  always being honest with him right from the very start.  It didn’t make him view them any less;  he loved them more than anything,  that wouldn’t change.  But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a part of him that always felt missing.  A constant yearn ache for something so faded in his mind,  constantly missing a piece inside.  He can recall so faint,  a space mobile on display,  a blurry redheaded woman.  At first he thought he’d conjured it up;  stolen from the visions and dreams of the blurry redhead woman;  the golden cross necklace so prominently displayed.  Now it all made sense with Dana right before him making the blurred images come to high definition as he makes out each of her features that looked so familiar, the curve of her jaw and slope of her nose vastly similar to his own.

she’d begun growing it longer when they were on the move.   no particular reason---   she could’ve had a haircut at any time.   he liked it.   he loved it,   really,   the messy buns she wore at work and the way it would fall,   gently wavy by the time her work day was over and she fought the band away from a lazy folds.   but she’d always tell him he was biased.   he could remind her day and night how he’d adored every inch of her,   however,   and she’d insist he was being polite   (   but she’d have a smile that met her eyes and he knew it would stick ).   she’d shake her hair out in their bedroom after peeling off layers of scrubs and removed shoes that made her soles ache,   squinting while the hairband was released,   and he’d reach,   a request,   to comb through with his fingers before she attacked it with a brush as a well-deserved bath poured in the other room.

he draws it back and behind her ears,   now,   cards it gently through his hands and stops at the smallest resistance.   she reminds him he doesn’t need to be so gentle---   but it had taken one day of a small whimper years ago when he’d tugged through a knot and he’d assured himself to be more careful.   he’d work them out slowly.   take her brush and hold a small tuft and work away the little tangle,   then continue with gradual brushes through damp hair,   pleasantly scented.   it was as relaxing for him as for her,   perhaps.   he’d sat her down and offered,   after all.

  it’s a meme and it sure isn’t getting an icon.   ⇢  @vnerate

ears ring ,   a deafening headache ,   pressure against his eardrum ebbing to be replaced by a rising shrill ,   emerging from a dreamlike vacuum .   blindspots from sources he could never distinguish burned into mind ,   lights too intense to keep eyes open ,   merging now with absence of light in familiar bed   (   this is not blindness ,   but a setting well known    ) .   figments moved out of sight ,   silhouettes he couldn’t see whispered paranoia with cold sighs on the back of his neck ——   but so had their concept conditioned a man ,   fearless of nothing ,   to tremor in his sleep .   the memories   :   they’re all tucked away somewhere deep ,   the same place all the vague recollection of samantha went .   now awoken he clutches the blanket ,   their silent bedroom in the middle of the night holding its breath ,   his chest heaving ,   his skin glistening with a cold sweat ,   his throat scraping with the scream that woke them both .

eyes adjust to the darkness .   her legs move by his side ,   disturbs the duvet as she pushes to a seated position .   he had slept soundly for weeks .   days they relished in the serenity of a full night’s rest ,   a room inviting with comfort in warmth and the soft scent of her perfume .   he would lay still ,   snores muffled into her hair ,   pressed against her with both arms across her body like they used to have ,   years before the abduction .

jaw quakes with each gasp  ;   her fingers trace his forearm ,   brush down the venous curve of wrist to palm .   she’s careful to wait until memory returns to his brow ,   when panting halts and a sigh attempts to veil demeaning desperation .   he welcomes her gentleness ,   then .   he stills and watches the gesture as if it is the sanctum of a hazy amber lampshade in pitch dark ,   spreads fingers to interlace with hers .   their custom :   hunched forth ,   elbows on thighs ,   shoulder to shoulder ,   color returning to knuckles and cheeks while his heart matches the gentle tapping of hers ,   thrumming against his thumb which presses against her pulse .