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palmaceae.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
crack_van2007-08-22 03:08 pm
palmaceae.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2007-08-22 03:08 pm
Entry tags:
Pascal's Wager by prufrock's love (PG-13)
Fandom: THE X-FILES
Pairing: Mulder/Scully
Author on LJ: unknown
Author Website: Increasing Workplace Productivity
Why this must be read: Prufrock's love does an amazing job yet again in this fine example of the Mulder-returns-post-Requeim genre. There's an insecure, insomniac and not-too-together Mulder, a baby that came out of nowhere and Scully trying to take care of it all, plus the return of the shape shifting aliens and some good mytharc. This is an incredibly rich and detailed story that I'm still reading over and over again, because it's just that good.
When Scully first brought me to her apartment after the
rehab unit at the hospital said - uh, insisted - I could
leave and stop causing trouble, I'd noticed one new
addition. Something that didn't blend with all the Winnie-
the-Pooh crap single mothers are required to have for five-
month old babies. In the kitchen, on the stove that Scully
never turns on, was a new thing that you set hot dishes on
that read 'Martha Stewart doesn't live here.' It was
probably a gift from her mother and I have a suspicion that
Martha Stewart is really one of the superhuman shape-
shifting aliens I dimly recall, but regardless, I liked
that Scully got that out of the way right up front.
Martha Stewart doesn't live here - there would be no tatted
lace doilies cunningly made into toaster cozies, no mashed
potatoes made from actual whole spuds and riced with heavy
cream and organic home-grown chives, and no hand-quilted
baby comforters painstakingly embroidered with the ABCs
which Emma would just puke on indiscriminately.
My mother would have been appalled. Mom was big on
doilies.
In this apartment, the lady of the house carries a gun and
opens the drawer beside the refrigerator where she keeps
all the take-out menus when she asks what I want for
dinner. If what she orders doesn't suit me, I could get up
and make my own damn bowl of Frosted Flakes. She finally
resorted to a scalpel to get into the supposedly 'child-
proof' baby aspirin drops yesterday, glaring at me, daring
me to say a word about her surgical or mothering skills.
In the hospital, I know she thought I was still too groggy
to notice, but one of my first memories is her taking out
my stitches with one hand, holding a week-old baby up to
nurse with the other, and going over the finer points of
dating corpses by the life cycle of the flies on them on
the phone.
Martha Stewart doesn't live here, and no one seemed to be
suffering for it. While I'm at the Hallmark store looking
for that card I thought was such a good idea two hours ago,
I'm going to see if they have a hot plate thingy that says
'Ward Clever doesn't live here, either. Actually, his
insecure alter ego, Fox Mulder, doesn't even live here. He
has his own apartment in Alexandria, but he likes it here
much better and he'd like to stay; he's just not sure how
to ask.'
rehab unit at the hospital said - uh, insisted - I could
leave and stop causing trouble, I'd noticed one new
addition. Something that didn't blend with all the Winnie-
the-Pooh crap single mothers are required to have for five-
month old babies. In the kitchen, on the stove that Scully
never turns on, was a new thing that you set hot dishes on
that read 'Martha Stewart doesn't live here.' It was
probably a gift from her mother and I have a suspicion that
Martha Stewart is really one of the superhuman shape-
shifting aliens I dimly recall, but regardless, I liked
that Scully got that out of the way right up front.
Martha Stewart doesn't live here - there would be no tatted
lace doilies cunningly made into toaster cozies, no mashed
potatoes made from actual whole spuds and riced with heavy
cream and organic home-grown chives, and no hand-quilted
baby comforters painstakingly embroidered with the ABCs
which Emma would just puke on indiscriminately.
My mother would have been appalled. Mom was big on
doilies.
In this apartment, the lady of the house carries a gun and
opens the drawer beside the refrigerator where she keeps
all the take-out menus when she asks what I want for
dinner. If what she orders doesn't suit me, I could get up
and make my own damn bowl of Frosted Flakes. She finally
resorted to a scalpel to get into the supposedly 'child-
proof' baby aspirin drops yesterday, glaring at me, daring
me to say a word about her surgical or mothering skills.
In the hospital, I know she thought I was still too groggy
to notice, but one of my first memories is her taking out
my stitches with one hand, holding a week-old baby up to
nurse with the other, and going over the finer points of
dating corpses by the life cycle of the flies on them on
the phone.
Martha Stewart doesn't live here, and no one seemed to be
suffering for it. While I'm at the Hallmark store looking
for that card I thought was such a good idea two hours ago,
I'm going to see if they have a hot plate thingy that says
'Ward Clever doesn't live here, either. Actually, his
insecure alter ego, Fox Mulder, doesn't even live here. He
has his own apartment in Alexandria, but he likes it here
much better and he'd like to stay; he's just not sure how
to ask.'