The Quest
Author: storybycorey
Rating: R
Timeline: Post IWTB, Pre-revival
Summary: This fic is for kateyes224, who requested a fic based on events which ALLEGEDLY may or may not have happened to me early this morning.
Mulder slays a dragon. Or something like that.
Scritch, scritch, scritch…
He wakes with a start at 2 A.M., suddenly quite certain the scratching he hears is not that of whichever random monster is inhabiting his dream, but that of something potentially much more terrifying right here in their bedroom.
Scritch, scritch, scritch…
The sound radiates from the corner of the room closest to his feet, in the vicinity of the old mahogany chiffarobe Scully dragged home from a flea market last year. He'd told her that thing was haunted the second he'd laid eyes on it, all draped in lacy cobwebs and feathery dust harkening back to the Reagan era.
Scritch, scritch, scritch…
It's somehow getting louder, either that or the sounds are becoming magnified by the hollow darkness and the quietness of Scully's calm breaths beside him (she'd sleep through a zombie apocalypse, he's convinced…). Regardless, his heart beats faster as he slides his hand across the sex-tangled sheets to squeeze her arm.
"Mmpff, M'lder…sleeping…," she mumbles in that quiet, sleepy way she has, while barely moving her lips.
Scritch, scritch, scritch…
The thing has got to be ten feet tall, he's certain. He squeezes her harder, more insistently. "No, Scully, wake up! There's something here!" he whispers urgently, cotton in his mouth as all the moisture in his body begins pooling beneath his armpits and along his hairline.
"S'nothing, g'back t'sleep…," she grumbles, and he realizes he's going to have slay this dragon alone. Or this ghost. Or whatever the hell is scaring him out of his wits with its incessant scratching at 2:00 in the morning on a Thursday night.
Scritch, scritch, scritch…
He fumbles on the nightstand for his glasses, and for once, is thankful for Scully's 'no clutter allowed on the nightstand' policy (he'll have to remember to thank her in the morning—that is, if he's still alive).
With trembling fingers and a body tensed and ready for attack (or at least ready to run for his life), he flicks on the bedside lamp. Dim light suddenly floods the room, but he's amazed to find only the long, dark shadows of the furniture greeting his frightened eyes. How could that be? He'd been sure—
Scritch, scritch, scritch…
He jumps from the bed, grabbing the afghan crumpled near his feet to serve as a suit of armor (it seems a logical choice at the time), bringing it up to his chest with fists clenched in terror. How in the hell is Scully still asleep?
Yet still, nothing appears. It looks as though he's going to have to brave this beast and approach. Drawing strength from the unassailable afghan, he edges his way across the carpet toward the corner of the room. He glances down and can see the knit-one-purl-two stitches jumping in time with his heart.
Scritch, scritch, scritch…
He grits his teeth. Now that he's closer, he's able to pinpoint the scratches more specifically. Whereas he'd thought they were originating from the haunted chiffarobe (she's getting rid of that thing TOMORROW, so help him), he now realizes they're emanating from the window beside it—more precisely, from the sheer lacy curtains that gauzily float before it.
He squints his eyes in the soft light and can swear he sees them moving—movement that looks unerringly like bony, brittle fingers tickling up the back, scuttling from bottom to top, but it's just the slightest bit too dark to be sure. He's beginning to feel a bit woozy.
Scritch, scritch, scritch…
There! The sound most definitely came from behind the curtain's peak, and was for certain accompanied by a very distinct shift of the cloth. He smiles for the first time since the beginning of his quest, feeling suddenly emboldened by his keen investigative skills. He may indeed have the strength and wit to defeat this monster.
Training his eyes on the prize, he reaches back to find the desk chair, then slides it beneath the window, still slightly wary of the chiffarobe to his right, but confident he's properly aligned for the kill. He drops the afghan (he's feeling especially bold by now), and steps atop the seat.
As slowly as the sun peeks above the horizon each morning, his hand reaches up. Up and up, until it's just barely resting against the fabric of the curtain. He sucks in one last deep, strengthening breath and nods his head.
Summoning every last ounce of his courage, he yanks the curtain aside, and—
"YEEEE-AAAAAAAHHHHHH!" He lets loose an embarrassingly high-pitched scream as something full of claws and fur flies out and lands directly on his nose, its nails clinging desperately to the rims of his glasses. He opens his eyes mid-scream and stares straight into the beady, evil eyes of—
"MULDER! WHAT THE…?" Scully bolts from the bed (exactly where was all her energy five minutes ago, he wonders?) and rushes over, as his violently-aggressive assailant leaps from his face and onto the floor.
With gasping breaths and frantically-beating heart, he looks down.
"Awww, it's a little baby squirrel!" Scully coos excitedly, "Look how cute! Quick, Mulder, grab me that afghan so I can rescue him…"
"Rescue him?" he scoffs, "That thing attacked me!" His knees are still a bit weak, though he puffs out his chest to make up for it as she cradles the fierce little monster in her afghan.
"Don't be silly! It's just a little baby! Here, follow me out and open the door for me so we can release him." She practically skips her way from the room (at least that's how he chooses to see it). Begrudgingly, he trails behind, complete with a sulk and a tremendously-bruised ego to match. He opens the door so that she and her absolutely precious cargo (gag me, he thinks) may pass.
Her pale blue panties peek from beneath her camisole as she crouches on the steps and bids their visitor 'adieu', but even that's not enough to keep him from brooding James Dean-like while he watches. The damn thing scurries off as sweetly as a kitten, and it makes him want to puke, quite frankly.
She turns with a satisfied smile on her face, and slowly saunters herself over to stand in front of him.
"That was quite a girly scream I awoke to back there, big guy…," she drawls, her finger trailing a path from his hip up his torso. The moonlight bathes her face, and he tries his damnedest not to shiver. Shivering isn't befitting of a mighty warrior such as himself, even one who has so recently lost in battle.
"The damn thing attacked me," he mutters with a scowl.
"Wellllll, you knowww…," she murmurs, cocking her head coquettishly to the side, continuing her finger's journey across his chest and up his neck, "I don't know many guys as competent at squirrel-slaying as you… Maybe if you take me back inside, I'll let you see what you can do about coaxing a girly scream out of me instead… Hmmm?" She grins up at him while raising that damn eyebrow (he's never been able to resist the eyebrow, much less while accompanied by pale blue panties and a camisole).
"Hmpff," he grunts, "Well, I suppose that could be arranged…"
He looks down his nose at her and tries his hardest not to smile, then swings her over his shoulder in the most heroic fashion he can muster. With her panties against his cheek, she plays her most compelling damsel in distress, laughing and squealing and coming remarkably close to emitting an even girlier scream than he did.
He doesn't stop until they reach the bedroom doorway. "One condition though, Scully," he says, "Tomorrow, that damn chiffarobe is going to the dump!"
Beware, all ye squirrels and monsters. Fox Mulder is the master of this house.