Twicetold Fic!
Yay the archive for twicetoldfandom is up here! I can't wait to read all the fic.
I wrote:
Title: The Year After the Year of Living Dangerously
Fandom: X-Files RPF
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Definitely don't own them.
Image: park
Summary: He wears the persona of Mulder as a suit of armor then, hoping to convey through the bad ties and the obsession with little grey men that it�s Mulder who loves Scully and definitely not David who loves Gillian.
There are days that David Duchovny really hates being Special Agent Fox Mulder. Hates putting on the Armani suit and the G-man sunglasses and playing brash and intense and tortured. Days that he hates the Vancouver set and everyone in a fifty mile radius.
Some of the worst are the fourteen-hour days, when they fight monsters in the forest and spend hours wet, muddy and miserable while Chris laughs with the glee of a madman. Then there are days when they don’t leave the stuffy basement office set and he can feel the walls start to close in on him.
But the days he hates the most are the ones where he has to pretend to be in love with Gillian. When Chris takes it in his head to throw the fans a bone and use shape-shifters or kitschy birthday gifts or whatever to hint at Mulder and Scully’s true and tragic love. The episodes dealing with Scully’s cancer were the worst - all longing looks and soft touches and it almost killed him.
He wears the persona of Mulder as a suit of armor then, hoping to convey through the bad ties and the obsession with little grey men that it’s Mulder who loves Scully and definitely not David who loves Gillian. His blood pounds into his skull, naming him: “liar, liar, liar.”
A small, traitorous part of himself likes those moments - he can be close to her as Fox Mulder, can rest a hand on the small of her back and tuck hair behind her ears, tiny gestures of affection and friendship, and he revels in the closeness. He can be close to her as David Duchovny as well - he holds her for photo shoots, endless ones. But even in those moments they are pseudo-MulderandScully. At least that’s what he tells himself. MulderandScully. Not DavidandGillian.
They are naked in this photo, embracing in the next. One shoot follows another and the gestures become familiar, comfortable. She fits so easily into the curve of his body, her skin cool against his own, and while the reporters scribble things about difficult on-set relationships the cameras record the truth. He assures the reporters that he and Gillian are professionals, that they don’t need to be friends outside of work, and the words are dutifully printed next to glossy photos of him gazing at her as she rests in his arms. Sometimes Gillian laughs when she sees those articles. Téa never does.
The Mulder-costume is just as important for these photo shoots because Mulder’s love for Scully is safer, softer, less tortuous. Even if Mulder and Scully are star crossed, he and Gillian aren’t even in the same galaxy. It’s slipping though, his Mulder armor. It’s becoming too much a part of him to be so casually pulled on or off.
David wonders if the magazine editors will ever get tired of spreads featuring them half-naked and entwined, and if tabloids will ever stop hinting at affairs on the Vancouver set. When he complains about it to Chris one morning, Gillian arches an amused eyebrow - little pieces of Scully have begun to creep into her off-screen personality and he finds it unnerving - and Chris tells him to suck it up and promote their show. He argues a minute half-heartedly, aware that he sounds ridiculous. Gillian is giggling quietly at his expressions of distaste, and Chris eyes him knowingly. He is suddenly completely fed up with everything and everyone.
He leaves for his trailer then (later Gillian will say he flounced off, but that’s not true because he definitely does not flounce) and spends the afternoon learning his lines and playing basketball with Mitch and trying not to think about his other co-worker.
The exasperation is necessary - he clings to it. He clings to his frustration with the fixation much of the world seems to share about whether Mulder and Scully have gotten into each other’s pants. He holds it close because there are moments when Mulder slips away and he’s just David, just David who’s married but happens to both love and hate his costar. The frustration is a persona that he adopts, much as he embraces Mulder’s outlandish ideals and absolute trust in Scully.
Gillian can laugh at the parade of articles detailing their offset feud and sizzling on-screen chemistry. She can throw her head back with glee, the sunlight glinting off her hair turning it the shade of blood. She laughs because that’s who she is, and because holding him, being close to him, doesn’t seem to haunt her. He wishes it wouldn’t haunt him, that he could lay in the fake morgue or on the bed or whatever location it is this time and forget what it feels like to really hold her, to be DavidandGillian rather than MulderandScully.
It’s worse though when the sense memory of those few nights shoves its way into his consciousness while they’re shooting, when Mulder is meant to be comforting Scully and David is definitely not meant to be wanting Gillian. But the quirk of her brow or the smell of sweat on her skin will throw him right back to her soft weight in his arms or the crescent shaped marks she left on his back.
They started at the breaking point and there was nowhere to go but down.
It was all feet kicking clothes away and fingers digging into hips, shading towards violence in their hurry. They slammed into each other and tore each other apart and were reborn. He dwarfed her, as he always had, but this time it left him reeling with pleasure - the image of her arching under him in complete surrender is one he often relives.
They didn’t make love, didn’t ‘make’ anything. They fucked, bitter and hurt and too full of lust to bear it any longer. They destroyed everything, watched their world shatter around them. The red of her hair, dyed that special Scully shade of fire, was like blood spread across the pure white of the pillowcase. A sacrifice on their alter of bad decisions and inevitable outcomes.
He bit and grabbed and generally treated her with much less reverence than Mulder would have Scully. This was Gillian - she looked fragile but was made of stone. This was hate and love and lust rolled into one predestined fuck. He watched the blue of her veins through her pale skin; saw her hearts’ blood moving through her. Her lower back was bare and he wished a tattoo marred the soft skin there.
They’d been moving toward this since Dana Scully shook hands with Fox Mulder in his basement office.
It wasn’t love, he told himself, wasn’t anything like what he felt for Téa. He and Gillian were fierce and raw and brutal. She made his blood spin in his veins and his throat clench in rage.
David wants to forget, wants to love Téa with his whole heart and forget that he and Gillian could fight and fuck until the end of days and never tire of each other. He wishes he couldn’t remember her writhing over him, or the porcupine-like bed head she had woken up with the next day. He wishes he could shed Mulder, who is always under his skin wanting her.
He’d hoped, once their whatever it was was over, that that would be the end. She would be out of his system and he could be Mulder without worrying about his reactions to Gillian. Now he can only wonder at how he could have been so stupid. If anything, the wanting is worse.
Gillian always seems to realize when those memories assault him, whether by some small physical cue or because she’s simply psychic when it comes to him. She gets a gleam in her eye, one part desire, two parts warning. Because those days are behind them now, or at least they are supposed to be. Supposed to be because of a brand new ring on his finger and a string of failed relationships trailing in her wake.
Supposed to be because together they will never be anything but destructive, full of passion but too ready to spill blood at a moment’s notice.
They are filming another episode in the woods - Chris seems almost to have a fetish for getting Mulder and Scully lost in the woods - and the bugs are eating him alive while Gillian films a running scene with one of the guest actors. He’s glad of the break, of the chance to rest for a minute.
He slaps an ambitious mosquito, sees the drop of blood well up on his skin and drip onto the dirt. He hates these bugs, just like Mulder. The August sun is hot and he loathes Vancouver just a little bit more every day.
Gillian runs by him, cameramen trailing behind her. He watches her bones move beneath her skin, and wonders when biology turned into something beautiful.
Brett calls for a break and she comes to sit by him, shedding her parka with a groan of gratitude. They are silent, but she’s sitting a little bit closer than necessary.
With a glance around them at the disinterested crew she leans against him. He is surprised, but casually gathers her up so that they’re pressed together, from shoulder to hip. Her exposed skin is warm and soft against him. And she's hot and blinding in his arms; smoothes her hands down the front of his - Mulder’s - puffy coat, and lets them come to rest over his heart.
It jumps under her palms. Their eyes lock; blue focusing on hazel without regret. He tucks a strand of bright red hair behind her ear and wonders if they are MulderandScully right now or DavidandGillian, and if he’ll ever really know the difference.
I wrote:
Title: The Year After the Year of Living Dangerously
Fandom: X-Files RPF
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Definitely don't own them.
Image: park
Summary: He wears the persona of Mulder as a suit of armor then, hoping to convey through the bad ties and the obsession with little grey men that it�s Mulder who loves Scully and definitely not David who loves Gillian.
There are days that David Duchovny really hates being Special Agent Fox Mulder. Hates putting on the Armani suit and the G-man sunglasses and playing brash and intense and tortured. Days that he hates the Vancouver set and everyone in a fifty mile radius.
Some of the worst are the fourteen-hour days, when they fight monsters in the forest and spend hours wet, muddy and miserable while Chris laughs with the glee of a madman. Then there are days when they don’t leave the stuffy basement office set and he can feel the walls start to close in on him.
But the days he hates the most are the ones where he has to pretend to be in love with Gillian. When Chris takes it in his head to throw the fans a bone and use shape-shifters or kitschy birthday gifts or whatever to hint at Mulder and Scully’s true and tragic love. The episodes dealing with Scully’s cancer were the worst - all longing looks and soft touches and it almost killed him.
He wears the persona of Mulder as a suit of armor then, hoping to convey through the bad ties and the obsession with little grey men that it’s Mulder who loves Scully and definitely not David who loves Gillian. His blood pounds into his skull, naming him: “liar, liar, liar.”
A small, traitorous part of himself likes those moments - he can be close to her as Fox Mulder, can rest a hand on the small of her back and tuck hair behind her ears, tiny gestures of affection and friendship, and he revels in the closeness. He can be close to her as David Duchovny as well - he holds her for photo shoots, endless ones. But even in those moments they are pseudo-MulderandScully. At least that’s what he tells himself. MulderandScully. Not DavidandGillian.
They are naked in this photo, embracing in the next. One shoot follows another and the gestures become familiar, comfortable. She fits so easily into the curve of his body, her skin cool against his own, and while the reporters scribble things about difficult on-set relationships the cameras record the truth. He assures the reporters that he and Gillian are professionals, that they don’t need to be friends outside of work, and the words are dutifully printed next to glossy photos of him gazing at her as she rests in his arms. Sometimes Gillian laughs when she sees those articles. Téa never does.
The Mulder-costume is just as important for these photo shoots because Mulder’s love for Scully is safer, softer, less tortuous. Even if Mulder and Scully are star crossed, he and Gillian aren’t even in the same galaxy. It’s slipping though, his Mulder armor. It’s becoming too much a part of him to be so casually pulled on or off.
David wonders if the magazine editors will ever get tired of spreads featuring them half-naked and entwined, and if tabloids will ever stop hinting at affairs on the Vancouver set. When he complains about it to Chris one morning, Gillian arches an amused eyebrow - little pieces of Scully have begun to creep into her off-screen personality and he finds it unnerving - and Chris tells him to suck it up and promote their show. He argues a minute half-heartedly, aware that he sounds ridiculous. Gillian is giggling quietly at his expressions of distaste, and Chris eyes him knowingly. He is suddenly completely fed up with everything and everyone.
He leaves for his trailer then (later Gillian will say he flounced off, but that’s not true because he definitely does not flounce) and spends the afternoon learning his lines and playing basketball with Mitch and trying not to think about his other co-worker.
The exasperation is necessary - he clings to it. He clings to his frustration with the fixation much of the world seems to share about whether Mulder and Scully have gotten into each other’s pants. He holds it close because there are moments when Mulder slips away and he’s just David, just David who’s married but happens to both love and hate his costar. The frustration is a persona that he adopts, much as he embraces Mulder’s outlandish ideals and absolute trust in Scully.
Gillian can laugh at the parade of articles detailing their offset feud and sizzling on-screen chemistry. She can throw her head back with glee, the sunlight glinting off her hair turning it the shade of blood. She laughs because that’s who she is, and because holding him, being close to him, doesn’t seem to haunt her. He wishes it wouldn’t haunt him, that he could lay in the fake morgue or on the bed or whatever location it is this time and forget what it feels like to really hold her, to be DavidandGillian rather than MulderandScully.
It’s worse though when the sense memory of those few nights shoves its way into his consciousness while they’re shooting, when Mulder is meant to be comforting Scully and David is definitely not meant to be wanting Gillian. But the quirk of her brow or the smell of sweat on her skin will throw him right back to her soft weight in his arms or the crescent shaped marks she left on his back.
They started at the breaking point and there was nowhere to go but down.
It was all feet kicking clothes away and fingers digging into hips, shading towards violence in their hurry. They slammed into each other and tore each other apart and were reborn. He dwarfed her, as he always had, but this time it left him reeling with pleasure - the image of her arching under him in complete surrender is one he often relives.
They didn’t make love, didn’t ‘make’ anything. They fucked, bitter and hurt and too full of lust to bear it any longer. They destroyed everything, watched their world shatter around them. The red of her hair, dyed that special Scully shade of fire, was like blood spread across the pure white of the pillowcase. A sacrifice on their alter of bad decisions and inevitable outcomes.
He bit and grabbed and generally treated her with much less reverence than Mulder would have Scully. This was Gillian - she looked fragile but was made of stone. This was hate and love and lust rolled into one predestined fuck. He watched the blue of her veins through her pale skin; saw her hearts’ blood moving through her. Her lower back was bare and he wished a tattoo marred the soft skin there.
They’d been moving toward this since Dana Scully shook hands with Fox Mulder in his basement office.
It wasn’t love, he told himself, wasn’t anything like what he felt for Téa. He and Gillian were fierce and raw and brutal. She made his blood spin in his veins and his throat clench in rage.
David wants to forget, wants to love Téa with his whole heart and forget that he and Gillian could fight and fuck until the end of days and never tire of each other. He wishes he couldn’t remember her writhing over him, or the porcupine-like bed head she had woken up with the next day. He wishes he could shed Mulder, who is always under his skin wanting her.
He’d hoped, once their whatever it was was over, that that would be the end. She would be out of his system and he could be Mulder without worrying about his reactions to Gillian. Now he can only wonder at how he could have been so stupid. If anything, the wanting is worse.
Gillian always seems to realize when those memories assault him, whether by some small physical cue or because she’s simply psychic when it comes to him. She gets a gleam in her eye, one part desire, two parts warning. Because those days are behind them now, or at least they are supposed to be. Supposed to be because of a brand new ring on his finger and a string of failed relationships trailing in her wake.
Supposed to be because together they will never be anything but destructive, full of passion but too ready to spill blood at a moment’s notice.
They are filming another episode in the woods - Chris seems almost to have a fetish for getting Mulder and Scully lost in the woods - and the bugs are eating him alive while Gillian films a running scene with one of the guest actors. He’s glad of the break, of the chance to rest for a minute.
He slaps an ambitious mosquito, sees the drop of blood well up on his skin and drip onto the dirt. He hates these bugs, just like Mulder. The August sun is hot and he loathes Vancouver just a little bit more every day.
Gillian runs by him, cameramen trailing behind her. He watches her bones move beneath her skin, and wonders when biology turned into something beautiful.
Brett calls for a break and she comes to sit by him, shedding her parka with a groan of gratitude. They are silent, but she’s sitting a little bit closer than necessary.
With a glance around them at the disinterested crew she leans against him. He is surprised, but casually gathers her up so that they’re pressed together, from shoulder to hip. Her exposed skin is warm and soft against him. And she's hot and blinding in his arms; smoothes her hands down the front of his - Mulder’s - puffy coat, and lets them come to rest over his heart.
It jumps under her palms. Their eyes lock; blue focusing on hazel without regret. He tucks a strand of bright red hair behind her ear and wonders if they are MulderandScully right now or DavidandGillian, and if he’ll ever really know the difference.