FIC: The Love of Evil
(People, I have been posting this shit all night. Livejournal hates me right now. I hope to God I can get this posted or I might have an LJ related nervous breakdown. Roar.)
Title: The Love of Evil
Author: Amal Nahurriyeh
Summary: If Scully can just keep from bursting out laughing for a little while she thinks she'll be OK.
Pairing: Mulder/Scully UST.
Rating: R, I suppose, based on the rule that more than one use of that pesky word starting with an F means an R rating. But that's total crap, right?
Timeline/Spoilers: Spoilers through One Son; there's at least one line that makes the most sense if it comes after The Unnatural, so let's put it between there and Field Trip somewhere. But it's pretty flexible. Ahem. Forget I said that.
Disclaimer: Intellectual property is a capitalist fiction designed to oppress the working fic-writer. That said, I don't own them either.
This is for ismenetruth . Explained in the notes.
Thanks to Leigh for a lightening beta while she was bored at work.
**********
Mulder is studiously blank as they walk back to the car. The arresting officers have left, the forensics crew is collecting evidence, and there's really not much left for the FBI to pull together, jurisdictionally. Some paperwork tomorrow morning, and then they can find themselves a flight back to DC.
If Scully can just keep from bursting out laughing for a little while she thinks she'll be OK.
She doesn't even try to argue about who is going to drive, what with how down he looks. Honestly, Mulder, it's funny, she tries to tell him telepathically, and then catches herself. No such thing as telepathy. Don't even bother with it, Dana.
God, he's moping behind the wheel, all puppy dog eyes and extra wrinkles, and not even looking at her. Does he think she's upset? That somehow she thinks less of him? He's such an idiot, an insecure teenage boy at heart. Which...that picture...oh, God, she's going to blow it and laugh and that would not be a good thing.
"What?" he says, sliding a look over at her. Wary, but possibly realizing that not everything is a disaster.
"Oh, just thinking about the case." Composure should have been her confirmation name. She focuses ahead, watches cornfields waver past, spiky and sweet. "I'm certain they found enough of the supplies used to make the voodoo dolls to get a conviction. And it looked like as they were leaving they'd found the missing teeth."
"Uh huh."
"Although I do not believe she actually used the rituals to extract the teeth from the corpses."
"Of course you don't." He is grinding his teeth as he turns the wheel. She shouldn't laugh at him, but she can't take this sulking. It's time to tease him back to health, so to speak.
"And I do have to say, Mulder..."
"Jesus, Scully--" He is whining just slightly.
"You don't wear purple anywhere near enough these days."
They're at a stoplight, so he puts his head down on the wheel and groans. She is not going to laugh. It would be a giggle, anyway, which is a really terrible idea around him in general. Especially lately.
"No, really. It was a good look on you. Your hair was a little long though."
"Everyone made some poor fashion choices in the seventies. Especially around prom time." The car behind them honks. He straightens up and accelerates.
"I suppose." There is too much humor in her voice for him to miss it now, she thinks, consciously warming herself so he can hear it. This is funny, Mulder, she thinks at him again.
"Seriously, Scully, what are the odds?" He sounds like himself now, amused, self-mocking. "We track a supernatural serial killer across three states, finally pin her down using only the most impersonal of records, and when we show up to arrest her, she turns out to have been my junior prom date."
"I don't know, Mulder. I think it's pretty consistent with previous data, actually."
"Oh?" He sneaks a look at her, arches an eyebrow. When did he start doing that?
"Mmm. Phoebe. Krycek. Diana. What's her name, that vampire. People you fuck turn evil, Mulder."
He laughs at that one. "Oh, so that's why you've been so resistant to my charms."
"It may be among the reasons." Her voice shouldn't have been so deep at that, but she doesn't think it's out of place, really. They make eye contact fleetingly out of the corners of their eyes.
"And you do any better? You're practically psycho-bait." He turns into their motel, baked beige in the late afternoon sun, surrounded by fields of waving grain.
Ah, so it's give and take time. Proof he's recovered. She likes proof. "True. I've started preemptively handcuffing any man who asks for my phone number."
"Is that so?" He sounds interested. She is trying not to smile all the way. Smirking is better suited to this game anyway, to the launching of volleys that are starting to collect, to gather knee-high and have consequences.
"But, generally, they were psychotic before they met me. You, on the other hand, appear to be a predictor. There's a correlation/causation problem here, of course, but it might warrant more investigation."
"I'm not opening an X-File on the notches on my bedpost." He climbs out of the car, tilts his face towards the sun. "How is it so fucking hot already? You'd think Kansas would be cooler than this." His large hand running over his face. She tries not to think about his fingers. "I'm going to hit the pool. What do you want to do for dinner?"
"That barbecue place was pretty good." She feels him following her up the stairs to their second floor rooms. She tries not to think about him swimming.
"Take out or actually leaving the hotel?"
"The Exorcist is running on TBS tonight at eight." She unlocks her door, kicks her shoes off her feet as hard as she can as she walks in.
"I'll pick up a six-pack on the way back." She feels him hovering behind her, his eyes on her intently. She turns around, folds her arms across her chest. The way he's looking at her feels physical, like she can feel it her skin, brushing across her.
"And anyway," he says, standing with his arms braced in the doorway, blocking her light. "I never fucked Krycek."
She looks at him so hard she can hear him thinking the word technically.
"Look, Mulder," she says, strategically, "I'm not asking for the blow-by-blow."
He actually blushes. Well. Now that is an image to be filed for later use.
"I'm just curious. Given blood lately?" The look on his face is hilarious, a desperate attempt to stay composed and not collapse into a pile of embarrassment. Dear God, if pointing out he's queer as a three dollar bill gets reactions like this she's going to have to do it more often. Maybe a Madonna CD for Christmas.
He finally pulls his dignity around him, the tips of his ears still pink. "I am going swimming. I will talk to you later."
"Uh huh." She watches him stalk off, the tips of his ears pink, faking some sort of high offense. Follows his wake to the door, watches him fumble with his keycard. "Hey, Mulder."
He turns to look at her, composure vibrating slightly.
"I'm pretty sure I won't turn evil."
The heat on his face is for an entirely different set of reasons now. "I'm pretty sure, too."
"And I'm too skinny to give blood anyway." She steps back into the room, closes the door, wonders if she remembered to pack her swim suit.
***
NOTEY GOODNESS
So, ismenetruth wrote a post asking for recs for MSR fic that included significant mention of Mulder/Krycek. This got my brain turning. I'm not sure this is precisely what she was looking for, but it's what the snarky Scully in my brain whispered at me. Blame her.
The blood donor thing? Men who've had sex with men since the 1970s are forbidden from donating. As are their female partners. Now, so are people who lived in the UK for more than 6 months since the 1980s, but I think that rule is more recent than the timeline of this story, so Mulder can't avoid the question that way, either.
Title: The Love of Evil
Author: Amal Nahurriyeh
Summary: If Scully can just keep from bursting out laughing for a little while she thinks she'll be OK.
Pairing: Mulder/Scully UST.
Rating: R, I suppose, based on the rule that more than one use of that pesky word starting with an F means an R rating. But that's total crap, right?
Timeline/Spoilers: Spoilers through One Son; there's at least one line that makes the most sense if it comes after The Unnatural, so let's put it between there and Field Trip somewhere. But it's pretty flexible. Ahem. Forget I said that.
Disclaimer: Intellectual property is a capitalist fiction designed to oppress the working fic-writer. That said, I don't own them either.
This is for ismenetruth . Explained in the notes.
Thanks to Leigh for a lightening beta while she was bored at work.
**********
Mulder is studiously blank as they walk back to the car. The arresting officers have left, the forensics crew is collecting evidence, and there's really not much left for the FBI to pull together, jurisdictionally. Some paperwork tomorrow morning, and then they can find themselves a flight back to DC.
If Scully can just keep from bursting out laughing for a little while she thinks she'll be OK.
She doesn't even try to argue about who is going to drive, what with how down he looks. Honestly, Mulder, it's funny, she tries to tell him telepathically, and then catches herself. No such thing as telepathy. Don't even bother with it, Dana.
God, he's moping behind the wheel, all puppy dog eyes and extra wrinkles, and not even looking at her. Does he think she's upset? That somehow she thinks less of him? He's such an idiot, an insecure teenage boy at heart. Which...that picture...oh, God, she's going to blow it and laugh and that would not be a good thing.
"What?" he says, sliding a look over at her. Wary, but possibly realizing that not everything is a disaster.
"Oh, just thinking about the case." Composure should have been her confirmation name. She focuses ahead, watches cornfields waver past, spiky and sweet. "I'm certain they found enough of the supplies used to make the voodoo dolls to get a conviction. And it looked like as they were leaving they'd found the missing teeth."
"Uh huh."
"Although I do not believe she actually used the rituals to extract the teeth from the corpses."
"Of course you don't." He is grinding his teeth as he turns the wheel. She shouldn't laugh at him, but she can't take this sulking. It's time to tease him back to health, so to speak.
"And I do have to say, Mulder..."
"Jesus, Scully--" He is whining just slightly.
"You don't wear purple anywhere near enough these days."
They're at a stoplight, so he puts his head down on the wheel and groans. She is not going to laugh. It would be a giggle, anyway, which is a really terrible idea around him in general. Especially lately.
"No, really. It was a good look on you. Your hair was a little long though."
"Everyone made some poor fashion choices in the seventies. Especially around prom time." The car behind them honks. He straightens up and accelerates.
"I suppose." There is too much humor in her voice for him to miss it now, she thinks, consciously warming herself so he can hear it. This is funny, Mulder, she thinks at him again.
"Seriously, Scully, what are the odds?" He sounds like himself now, amused, self-mocking. "We track a supernatural serial killer across three states, finally pin her down using only the most impersonal of records, and when we show up to arrest her, she turns out to have been my junior prom date."
"I don't know, Mulder. I think it's pretty consistent with previous data, actually."
"Oh?" He sneaks a look at her, arches an eyebrow. When did he start doing that?
"Mmm. Phoebe. Krycek. Diana. What's her name, that vampire. People you fuck turn evil, Mulder."
He laughs at that one. "Oh, so that's why you've been so resistant to my charms."
"It may be among the reasons." Her voice shouldn't have been so deep at that, but she doesn't think it's out of place, really. They make eye contact fleetingly out of the corners of their eyes.
"And you do any better? You're practically psycho-bait." He turns into their motel, baked beige in the late afternoon sun, surrounded by fields of waving grain.
Ah, so it's give and take time. Proof he's recovered. She likes proof. "True. I've started preemptively handcuffing any man who asks for my phone number."
"Is that so?" He sounds interested. She is trying not to smile all the way. Smirking is better suited to this game anyway, to the launching of volleys that are starting to collect, to gather knee-high and have consequences.
"But, generally, they were psychotic before they met me. You, on the other hand, appear to be a predictor. There's a correlation/causation problem here, of course, but it might warrant more investigation."
"I'm not opening an X-File on the notches on my bedpost." He climbs out of the car, tilts his face towards the sun. "How is it so fucking hot already? You'd think Kansas would be cooler than this." His large hand running over his face. She tries not to think about his fingers. "I'm going to hit the pool. What do you want to do for dinner?"
"That barbecue place was pretty good." She feels him following her up the stairs to their second floor rooms. She tries not to think about him swimming.
"Take out or actually leaving the hotel?"
"The Exorcist is running on TBS tonight at eight." She unlocks her door, kicks her shoes off her feet as hard as she can as she walks in.
"I'll pick up a six-pack on the way back." She feels him hovering behind her, his eyes on her intently. She turns around, folds her arms across her chest. The way he's looking at her feels physical, like she can feel it her skin, brushing across her.
"And anyway," he says, standing with his arms braced in the doorway, blocking her light. "I never fucked Krycek."
She looks at him so hard she can hear him thinking the word technically.
"Look, Mulder," she says, strategically, "I'm not asking for the blow-by-blow."
He actually blushes. Well. Now that is an image to be filed for later use.
"I'm just curious. Given blood lately?" The look on his face is hilarious, a desperate attempt to stay composed and not collapse into a pile of embarrassment. Dear God, if pointing out he's queer as a three dollar bill gets reactions like this she's going to have to do it more often. Maybe a Madonna CD for Christmas.
He finally pulls his dignity around him, the tips of his ears still pink. "I am going swimming. I will talk to you later."
"Uh huh." She watches him stalk off, the tips of his ears pink, faking some sort of high offense. Follows his wake to the door, watches him fumble with his keycard. "Hey, Mulder."
He turns to look at her, composure vibrating slightly.
"I'm pretty sure I won't turn evil."
The heat on his face is for an entirely different set of reasons now. "I'm pretty sure, too."
"And I'm too skinny to give blood anyway." She steps back into the room, closes the door, wonders if she remembered to pack her swim suit.
***
NOTEY GOODNESS
So, ismenetruth wrote a post asking for recs for MSR fic that included significant mention of Mulder/Krycek. This got my brain turning. I'm not sure this is precisely what she was looking for, but it's what the snarky Scully in my brain whispered at me. Blame her.
The blood donor thing? Men who've had sex with men since the 1970s are forbidden from donating. As are their female partners. Now, so are people who lived in the UK for more than 6 months since the 1980s, but I think that rule is more recent than the timeline of this story, so Mulder can't avoid the question that way, either.