VERY IMPORTANT HEADCANON: Whenever Alana becomes overwhelmed, Scully invites her and the dogs over for a sleepover because silk pjs, crosslegged sitting, good company, and eating ice cream from the carton are critical to helping your friend’s mental health.
“You make a good point.”
She admits this begrudgingly, did not intend to make light of Dana’s own struggle, but she forgets herself sometimes– know-it-all syndrome, a chronic product of growing up insufferably involved with herself. Children with siblings are supposed to be better socialized and yet– here she is, opening her idiot mouth, foot in, the way she just about always does.
Always, always does.
Two brothers and she still can’t figure out how to act in front of anyone else. She doesn’t mean it, not at all, but it rolls out of her mouth– a bitterness as fine and dark as espresso. She doesn’t want to be so bitter. She’s guilty of it, in fact, and she feels it. A cross little look– an eyebrow raise as a pepper is stolen. She’s not one to criticize. Dicing an onion still, fine enough to sprinkle.
“Well, there are maladaptive methods of coping. Those do exist. For example– the rubber band method some therapists use? The when you feel the urge to self harm, snap a rubber-band at your wrist? Wouldn’t recommend. It just ramps up more pain endorphins until you end up associating pain with relief. That, for example, is not recommended, maladaptive coping.”
A pause to glance into the gumbo pot, curiously humming.
“Chili powder or no?”
“I think it would probably help if you paired it with something else -- used it as a bridge be- tween self-harm and something safer without allowing it to escalate past the reasonable boundaries.” She’s not a psychiatrist, but she’s spent an awful lot of time trying to understand people. Her partnership with Mulder, in part, relies upon her uncanny ability to connect with others when obsession carries him past them. He may be a trained profile and psychiatrist, but that does not mean that he doesn’t also possess a habit of being selfish and single-minded at times when it is nothing less than inappropriate. But she’s there, like she always is, to pick up the pieces that he leaves behind and offer support and comfort to the victims, even if it’s just a word or a pat on the shoulder. One of Alana’s dogs -- Guinefort, Scully favorite -- pads into the kitchen, and Scully cannot help but allow her face to rise into a gentle smile. Wet, inquisitive nose, nudges at her fingertips, guiding them until they settle on his ears, but she does him one better, crouching down so that she might flop them with both hands. “Hey buddy.” Often when she comes over to Alana’s, she faces the temptation to adopt a dog herself, but she knows that she does not have the time to care for one properly. Dogs need attention and energy, and her work soaks up both of those things with the intensity of a dry sponge. But still -- the temptation remains. The warm and loving presence of a pet would almost certainly help her process some things. A better coping mechanism than her current one, though much less convenient. “Whichever you like. I trust you.” She’s never been a picky eater, and Alana pours so much love and soul into her food that the idea of ever having a poor meal at her table seems incredibly far-fetched.
❝ should science lose all sense of it’s limitations i fear we might lose interest in it’s efficiency entirely. it’s only natural to question even the obvious - it’s what keeps us grounded as a whole, i think. ❞ science stemmed on different possibilities, of hopes and circumstances unknown. it was meant to prove the impossible, to rationalize questions and make sense of the world. in truth, she admires the very individuals who place focus on such things, as part of her job as well as her own persons. she isn’t unknown to the very nature of scully’s requirements in her field and of course she’s fascinated by it, but so too does she refrain from prying too far into it for now. their reason for such an intimate setting as this was meant to ease tensions, not provide them into further turmoil and discomfort. with the younger agent’s drink already at it’s end, it’s almost difficult for stella not to request another on her behalf, but instead she refrains for the time being, knowing that dana scully has already reached the maximum capacity of where she deems comfortable. with a pause, stella reaches for the credit card that resides within the pocket of her coat hanging behind the back of her chair, placing it on top of the bar as silent indication that they had concluded their evening by leaving it present for the bartender to take notice of it. thankfully she remembers the bottle of scotch still residing in her hotel room, something she’ll further find indulgence in once she returns and is finally left alone to her own devices. ❝ this one’s on me. ❞ she states simply, before scully has even a moment to argue the action - she did after all, request this little outing for her own personal and selfish pleasures, so it only seemed appropriate. the final remains of her own drink are then taken into her mouth, lips only slightly pursed as she savors the taste of wine against her tongue before the glass is pushed away from her. ❝ whatever your continuing plans for the evening, agent scully, you are more than welcome to join me should you wish to continue this conversation. ❞
“That doesn’t mean there aren’t stupid questions, and questions that are not worth answering. That, too, has its limits. Just because I’ve seen some things the lie outside the realm of logic and reason, does not mean aliens or what-have-you are the correct answer.” Even in a world that eludes traditional, defined limits, it is still possible to carry ideas too far, just as she had done mere moments ago when she naïve whimsy had compelled her to ask Stella to kiss her. There are few things she would like less than for her mind to continue circling back to her own indecency, but her train of thought will not deviate from that track. Derailment is too much to ask so soon after such an incident. Shame flushes her cheeks alongside the light layer of blush that she had almost forgotten to put on before going to work this morning. Perhaps therein lies part of her desire for Stella. The woman is so authoritative, yet she has not been forced to sacrifice femininity in order to succeed and earn the respect of the men in their field. To Scully, that still seems to be an impossible task, so she finds herself caught in a world of half-commitment to everything except the work that she shares with Mulder. Eyes follow the card as it slides across the surface of the bar, eyebrows lifting ever-so-slightly. She is, in a way, both surprised and unsurprised by the gesture -- and her pockets certainly thank the older woman for it, since she is still mired in the debt accumulated throughout her months of caner treatment -- but her pride still demands that there be some acknowledge of the fact that she could have (and should have) paid for her own drinks. She nods as she turns in her chair, sliding her trenchcoat off the back of it so that she can drape it over her shoulders and rise to her feet. It’s wool, and larger than it should be, and the weight on her shoulders feels like a burden. A heavy coat for a heavy mind. Seems like an unfair exchange, one in which each party found the losing end of the deal. “Yeah, sure.” Even if she is loathe to follow up on her previous request, she still genuinely enjoys Stella’s company and is not yet ready to relinquish her hold on it for the night.
Scully’s makes some great faces in Small Potatoes
“The man shouldn’t have gone down the river to begin with.”
She’s in the midst of making a vegetarian gumbo, steadily chomping on diced tomatoes, slicing up green bell peppers. She keeps slicing and slicing, nibbling and munching as she does, gesturing idly. Admittedly, she’s not the most careful in the world. She keeps on, patient, checks the pot and leans over to stir.
“The man should’ve taken his sadness to the bar. He should’ve taken his sadness to the church, maybe to the Temple, in dependence of his religion. He should’ve taken his sadness and funneled it into all the places the good Jews or Christians put their sadness– in the possibility of self-flagellation or the canonization or the potential for eventual martyrdom. He should have taken his sadness to organized religion or buried it in his backyard like a sensible gentleman. Six feet under, just next to where he romanticized his own depression.”
“There’s nothing wrong with trying to cope with pain in a way that best suits your needs.” Though she understands the bitterness that sits upon her friend’s tongue, she has little sympathy for it. She may not carry the same tangible disability that Alana does, but she has shouldered more than her fair share of trauma over the past few years. Two family members have slipped through her grasp and onto whatever world lies beyond. Flashbacks, nightmares, and hyper-vigilance have marked her steps since Donnie Pfafser had attacked her. She is missing months from her memory and all of her potential to carry children. Cancer had almost taken her life from her. And she had ignored all of the advice as to how she should handle those incidents. She had swallowed it back and continued to work, shoving it aside until it dulled or faded away. “Wether that lies in nature or denial or ritual or food --” The last option is somewhat cheeky in hopes of changing the tone enough to avoid a fight, and she reaches over to snatch a piece of pepper from the cutting board, gnawing on the end of it as she watches Alana work. “It’s no less valid because it doesn’t happen to mirror your own.”
“Chasing bear-person-things on mountains… Yeah. Good thing you’re good at what you do, otherwise it could be a lot worse.”
He certainly wasn’t jealous of their gig hunting monsters and aliens across the continent. There were already enough human monsters to worry about, and at least those were marginally predictable. Although that didn’t make it any less unsettling. It might actually be more relieving if you found the perpetrator of these horrific murders was a feral creature rather than a fellow sentient human being. But then he would never know that.
“You good?” he asked as he dabbed a little more around her eye, now demonstrating the “nice doctor” tone. The question was hardly called for since Scully didn’t so much as wince at the sting of the alcohol, no less than expected. He peeled off the plastic of a wound closure strip before placing it over the scrape and pressed his thumb down over it.
“There we are. One should be enough to hold it closed.”
For good measure, he kissed her forehead, then briefly flicked his gaze over to Mulder to see if he was looking, but the man was busying himself on the computer. Zeller took advantage of every opportunity to kiss Scully in front of Mulder, even though the other never acknowledged it, which bothered Zeller all the more. Pulling away, he brushed a hand down the back of her head and smiled down at her.
“Now I cure you of all your ailments.”
“Mind curing me next?” asked a Mulder in his trademark deadpan voice. Zeller looked over at him with an equally deadpan expression and replied, “I do, actually.”
“Ouch,” the other chuckled without looking up from the computer screen. Zeller’s stiff smile relaxed as he returned his gaze to Scully.
“Wanna go grab a cup of coffee?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” It’s a relatively tiny amount of pain, nothing that she cannot handle. Paper cuts have a habit of simmering with more intensity. It is simply inconvenient to have a scab breaking every time she has a bad blink, and slightly less manageable than the bruises and aches that span the rest of her body, hidden beneath her carefully ironed pantsuit. As his lips brush against her forehead, a slight smile flirts with the corners of her mouth. However, she swallows it back almost immediately when she feels Mulder’s stare boring through her. She has been very aware of the rivalry that seemed to surface as soon as she and Zeller expressed mutual interest in each other, and though she highly disapproves of it on both a personal and professional level, she has not yet spoken out against it. Perhaps foolishly, she had assumed that it would fade away as they grew used to each other, but with every passing day, that hope seems increasingly misplaced.
Then they start lampooning each other again. Bright blue eyes flick between the two men, following their volley with an intensity that suggests that she is ready to step in and interfere if necessary. Before she has too, Zeller offers her an escape, and she almost immediately responds. “I would love to.” Almost immediately, she stands, straightening the sleeves of her blazer before she crosses to the door, holding it open so that the other agent might pass through it. Before she follows Zeller out, she offers Mulder a playful glance and a small smirk. “Try not to get eaten by Mexican Goat Suckers while I’m gone, Mulder.” It’s a well-intentioned joke, but she doubts that it will be swallowed well under these circumstances, and, indeed, he barely even looks at her before mumbling a quick, “Okay.” When the door closes behind them and they are left in the relative safety of the rest of the basement, where Mulder cannot overhear, she addresses the elephant in the room. “You don’t have to attack him every time you two share a room, you know. There’s nothing worth fighting over, and, frankly, it’s starting to make me uncomfortable.”
He listens and finds himself enthralled in the crystal clear way she uses to express her fears and needs in her first session. The man lowers his chin just a bit, as if he was a predator ready to attack but in fact, he’s studying her demeanor, dissecting her bit by bit with what he has at hand so far. This has nothing truly extraordinary, it’s simply work but he always tries to find the characteristic that makes his job less dull.
And then he remembers the traumatic situation she mentioned.
“Those shadows haunting your daily steps, are evidently a result of what your perception read as a threat. Which is human and normal, but in your case, with the environment in which you work, everything’s enhanced to unpleasant extremes.”
The FBI file has been censored and so, several information has been kept away from his eyes, so his knowledge on the woman’s variated experiences are limited.
“It’s the release and eventual vanishing of those shadows what will improve your sensation of self-consciousness. Care you share something in particular?”
“Anyone would see an inoperable tumor as a threat, Doctor.” Her hackles are up. There is, more likely than not, no need to be defensive, but that’s her immediate instinct whenever someone feels the need to associate her current position with anything negative. This psychiatrist may not know of the actual details of her work and the department in which it falls, but that does not mean that whatever file he had been handed upon her referral does not contain a flash of bias, or a single scrawled line that suggests that she ought to be convinced to take up a desk job -- far away from aliens and other monsters. She would never leave Mulder, not while the x-files are still open. Not while he needs her to keep him safe and grounded. Hands fall away from her face, but she continues the forward lean. It’s almost an aggressive stance, defensive, uncomfortable, yet interested -- and lacking the normal feminine habits. Neither her ankles nor her legs are crossed; it’s not her gender that she’s defending, rather, that focus lies on her heart and her mind. “ -- Outside of the cancer itself?” She is unsure if she will be able to identify anything more specific that passed during the course of her illness. The tumor and its effect on her was so overbearing that it seemed to wash all other personal concerns away. There are things before it, of course, but those are different --- and, largely, no longer relevant.
I’ve been sewing and hanging with people and I’m not in the mood to write so I’m just going to knock out some more icons and lurk tonight.
This gave me all the happy goosebumps and I just want to pass it along in case anyone’s having a rough day.
♥ "I love that's you're so driven and passionate about what you do, about anything you do, whether or not you agree. You do what you need to do. And your passion doesn't always show so much in obvious ways, but it does in your actions. You wear your heart on your sleeves; clichéd but true. It inspires me. You inspire me. You fascinate me. You challenge me. You humor me. And occasionally put up with my bullshit, which I greatly appreciate. And I love you, for all those reasons and more."
Send ♥ if your muse is in love with mine and tell them why.
“Now you’re starting to sound ridiculous.”
Scully’s quietly judgmental faces are my everything.
“Now don’t touch it, that’ll definitely open it up.”
He was aware that his voice took on an authoritative doctor tone and subsequently cleared his throat. Though he appreciated the way it sounded with his voice, it definitely needed practice, which he’d be able to get while fixing up Scully. If he couldn’t be there to keep her from being hurt, he could at least be there to help her after the fact.
“Be right back.”
He parted with a brush of his hand over her shoulder before exiting the room and heading upstairs. On his way down the hall, he recognized Mulder walking in his direction and animosity flared up in him like a match being struck. But then as he came closer, Zeller saw that the other was in worse shape than Scully was, which gave him a tinge of satisfaction.
“Watch out for those trains,” remarked Zeller as the two crossed paths.
“Mountains,” Mulder corrected.
“Ah.”
Neither bothered to slow down or look each other in the eye during this brief exchange. It was as much as they ever conversed with each other outside of work-related discourse, and even then they didn’t acknowledge each other much. Mulder was used to colleagues disliking him, but he probably didn’t know just how personal Zeller’s contempt for him was. It wasn’t until after they crossed paths that he realized that Mulder was likely heading down to the X-Files office. A curse rang loudly in his head. He was hoping to have some alone time with Scully, but apparently the universe was set against him.
After retrieving the first aid kit, he went back downstairs to the office and, sure enough, there the man sat behind his desk. A quiet huff of discontent before he set the first aid kit on the table beside Scully and flipped open the lid. He opened the wrapper of an alcohol wipe and gently held it to her scrape.
“You two sure have a knack for getting yourselves beat up.”
Reflexively, her hand moves slightly away from the wound. It takes her a moment to even realize the she’s done it, and her gaze falls first upon her blood tainted fingers before it slides sideways to Zeller. It’s odd; she’s not typically this responsive to him. Maybe it had been something in his voice that had caught her attention? She’s not exactly sure, but she drops her hand onto the desk almost immediately after the hesitation passes, trying to shamefully hide the involuntary gesture before it is noticed. “ -- Okay.” Fingernails tap idly on the surface of the desk as she waits, paperwork left abandoned in the wake of distraction and the anticipation of its return. With a couple lazy flicks of her ankle, she spins the chair 30 degrees to either side, marking the time. She does not deal well with periods of unproductively, even when those moments are inevitably fleeting. It makes her restless. “Good morning, Scully.” Her head snaps up as Mulder’s voice breaks the relative silence of the room, and she stands, abandoning his spot behind the desk in favor of her usual chair across from it. Her chair isn’t nearly as comfortable as his, but it’s not really something worth complaining about. Not when they spend so much time in the field. “Hi.” She is very aware of the each man’s contempt for the other, and she turns her eyes towards the table when Agent Zeller reenters the room. Easier to reach the scrape that way, anyway, since is trespasses against the skin of her upper eyelid. “I think it would be hard to do what we do and come away unscathed, Agent Zeller.” The muscles of her eyelid twitch as he runs a wipe across it, responding to both the chill and the slight stinging sensation, but she does not flinch. It’s not as big a deal as he’s making it out to be, honestly, but she wasn’t about to start an argument over something so trivial.
Am I still allowed to celebrate this blog’s 2 year anniversary in three days or is that invalidated by my 7 month hiatus?
