![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blazingcaepaTitle: as ever
Fandom: The X-Files
Word Count: ...not high
Notes: They say Iphigenia went eagerly. You know better.
as ever
You're not for sure but you're pretty sure that it's a Lincoln station wagon, one of those anonymous black boats that they you imagine governments and consortiums purchase in bulk, the kind that Danny can never pull a license number for and always smell like cigarette smoke swirling upwards. You are in the trunk, hands bound, mouth gagged, and you wake up when the car hits a pothole and bounces you half a foot in the air. You force down the panic swelling in your throat like bile, because honestly, Dana, you've been here before and you'll be here again, so put on your big-girl panties and try to figure this the hell out.
Breathe. Blink. Wait for your eyes to adjust. Assess.
Outlook: not good. This batch had the foresight to remove the internal trunk release.
Honestly, it's really not fair that your parts aren't reversed. For years you've spent all your time and energy attempting to separate Fox Mulder from his deep and earnest desire to martyr himself. Yet here you are again, back on the alter.
They say Iphigenia went eagerly. You know better.
You rock back onto your hip pocket. Your cell phone is gone. No hope of calling Mulder. Not that there's ever any hope in calling Mulder. Mulder's the one who always waits for you to rescue him. Duane Barry crashed through your front window, you screamed for Mulder over the handset, and you woke up at Georgetown three months later. He'll arrive at the last possible second, swinging over the hill with the cavalry at sunrise, but it's up to you to take all the early shots in the meantime. Fox Mulder is too romantical to be trusted in a crisis.
Oh, Mulder. The love of your life, the thorn in your heel. Fox Mulder is a zero-sum game, six feet of lanky self-destructivism coupled with a brilliant intellect and a mouth that doesn't know when to quit. It's a heady combination, it's a little black dress that's tight in all the right places, and it's as intriguing to you as a corpse. Conspiracy is his family business, and his own determination and a deranged sort of nepotism keep him involved. Sometimes you wonder if it's that same conspiracy that keeps you a bit player in all of this. All those times the men in black make you disappear, tossed in the back of a car like a suitcase with duct tape around your wrists, it's always him they're after, never you. Why are you always the pawn? They've killed your sister and stolen your children; this is your fight, too.
Experience dictates that your best chance for escape will be in the split second after they open the trunk. You saw the pictures of yourself bound and gagged and terrified in Duane Barry's car, and vowed ever after that you'd come out swinging. You'll have one good shot. Better make it count.
Remember: maybe four years into your partnership, you get sick, and oh God, sometimes the blood doesn't stop for hours and half your towels are ruined and before long, maybe you're imagining it, but it's like an x-ray when you hold your hands up up to the light. Mulder says you're getting too thin and you want to laugh, because hell, you've been eroding under the tide of him for years.
One good shot, at most.
One day you find out that your children, past, present, and future, are all gone. Just like that. You think about taking the day off to go home and break things, you've always had too many dishes, but somehow or another it would probably wind up on your permanent record, and then some well-meaning government employee would assign you an hour a week spinning cotton-candy fictions for the Bureau shrink. And there's really not room for that in your schedule.
A sudden turn, and the change in texture beneath you suggests a gravel road. One shot. Better make it count.
Anyway, the cleaning lady's had you on probation since she had to clean the blood out of your carpeting. Yours, and Donnie Pfaster's.
If you had any sense, you'd have quit by now, but the one time someone pulls the rug out and transfers you, there's this thing with a bee and you wind up in an ambulance en route to the Antarctic - and from there, back to him. Somehow, all roads lead to Mulder.
You wonder what leads Mulder to you. If anything will, this time.
Beneath you, the car slows, rolls to a stop.
One shot.
Better make it count.
Fandom: The X-Files
Word Count: ...not high
Notes: They say Iphigenia went eagerly. You know better.
as ever
You're not for sure but you're pretty sure that it's a Lincoln station wagon, one of those anonymous black boats that they you imagine governments and consortiums purchase in bulk, the kind that Danny can never pull a license number for and always smell like cigarette smoke swirling upwards. You are in the trunk, hands bound, mouth gagged, and you wake up when the car hits a pothole and bounces you half a foot in the air. You force down the panic swelling in your throat like bile, because honestly, Dana, you've been here before and you'll be here again, so put on your big-girl panties and try to figure this the hell out.
Breathe. Blink. Wait for your eyes to adjust. Assess.
Outlook: not good. This batch had the foresight to remove the internal trunk release.
Honestly, it's really not fair that your parts aren't reversed. For years you've spent all your time and energy attempting to separate Fox Mulder from his deep and earnest desire to martyr himself. Yet here you are again, back on the alter.
They say Iphigenia went eagerly. You know better.
You rock back onto your hip pocket. Your cell phone is gone. No hope of calling Mulder. Not that there's ever any hope in calling Mulder. Mulder's the one who always waits for you to rescue him. Duane Barry crashed through your front window, you screamed for Mulder over the handset, and you woke up at Georgetown three months later. He'll arrive at the last possible second, swinging over the hill with the cavalry at sunrise, but it's up to you to take all the early shots in the meantime. Fox Mulder is too romantical to be trusted in a crisis.
Oh, Mulder. The love of your life, the thorn in your heel. Fox Mulder is a zero-sum game, six feet of lanky self-destructivism coupled with a brilliant intellect and a mouth that doesn't know when to quit. It's a heady combination, it's a little black dress that's tight in all the right places, and it's as intriguing to you as a corpse. Conspiracy is his family business, and his own determination and a deranged sort of nepotism keep him involved. Sometimes you wonder if it's that same conspiracy that keeps you a bit player in all of this. All those times the men in black make you disappear, tossed in the back of a car like a suitcase with duct tape around your wrists, it's always him they're after, never you. Why are you always the pawn? They've killed your sister and stolen your children; this is your fight, too.
Experience dictates that your best chance for escape will be in the split second after they open the trunk. You saw the pictures of yourself bound and gagged and terrified in Duane Barry's car, and vowed ever after that you'd come out swinging. You'll have one good shot. Better make it count.
Remember: maybe four years into your partnership, you get sick, and oh God, sometimes the blood doesn't stop for hours and half your towels are ruined and before long, maybe you're imagining it, but it's like an x-ray when you hold your hands up up to the light. Mulder says you're getting too thin and you want to laugh, because hell, you've been eroding under the tide of him for years.
One good shot, at most.
One day you find out that your children, past, present, and future, are all gone. Just like that. You think about taking the day off to go home and break things, you've always had too many dishes, but somehow or another it would probably wind up on your permanent record, and then some well-meaning government employee would assign you an hour a week spinning cotton-candy fictions for the Bureau shrink. And there's really not room for that in your schedule.
A sudden turn, and the change in texture beneath you suggests a gravel road. One shot. Better make it count.
Anyway, the cleaning lady's had you on probation since she had to clean the blood out of your carpeting. Yours, and Donnie Pfaster's.
If you had any sense, you'd have quit by now, but the one time someone pulls the rug out and transfers you, there's this thing with a bee and you wind up in an ambulance en route to the Antarctic - and from there, back to him. Somehow, all roads lead to Mulder.
You wonder what leads Mulder to you. If anything will, this time.
Beneath you, the car slows, rolls to a stop.
One shot.
Better make it count.
