[X-Files] Fanfic: Within; Without (Vignette, Mulder & Scully, PG)
Title: Within; Without
Author: colebaltblue
Pairing/Character: Mulder, Scully
Word Count: 1,054
Rating: PG
Spoiler Warning: no specific ones
Summary: A short vignette, which is probably set after Mrs. Mulder's death
Author's Notes: Thanks to TLynnFic for the beta
The rain pelted the windowpanes, running down in sheets and blurring the outside world. It was gray from the angry sea and churning sky and blots of darker gray of the rocks and trees that stood fast and stubborn against the storm. The house was chilly, the outside gray pushing in, invading the inside gloom occasionally brought into stark relief by flashes of lightning. It offered little comfort against the world outside.
Mulder lifted his fingers to the window and pressed them onto the glass, feeling the cold touch his bones. The glass was smooth but felt fragile, as if it might shatter at any moment and let the storm in. He could almost feel the water running down the other side of the clear pane. When he lifted his fingers away, they left marks in the faint condensation that coated the windows. He stared as they faded and thought of the ghosts that haunted this house.
He turned away from the window and looked over the room behind him. If he thought about it hard enough he could almost see his mother in the flowered chair with the Tiffany lamp on the antique table beside it. He remembered how she used to sit there, so cold and so still. He didn't know what she was thinking then and now he would never know. The colors of the room and its decorations were muted and appeared to have lost their battle against the dark world that surrounded them.
Mulder started as he heard a muffled thump and a soft "shit" from the kitchen at the back of the house. Scully emerged a moment later, cradling candles in her arms and holding a book of matches. He briefly wondered if those matches had ever been used to light the Spender's cigarettes. He wondered if it mattered.
Scully knelt beside the coffee table and dropped her load of candles onto it, each one's thump sounded loud in the empty room, louder than the noise of the storm outside. The match spit and hissed as Scully lit it. He watched the flame as it burnt brightly for a moment before extinguishing. She sighed and lit another one. This one maintained its feeble light just long enough for her to light one of the candles. It was as if the darkness itself were snuffing out the light. Scully continued her battle, sacrificing four more matches before the candles were finally lit.
The candles gave off a soft warm glow that lit up her face and hair, but failed to extend out. Mulder turned back to the window and caught the harsh light of the lighthouse as it swept past - so different than the softness of the light of the candles and the woman behind him. He felt her approach; her hand against his back was warm, but offered little protection against the cold from the window and the storm outside.
The power was out, he wasn't sure if it was because no one had paid the bill or if it was out because of the storm. It didn't really matter though. They had found a bit of wood on the back porch, covered in a tarp, and there was a small and decorative bundle next to the hearth. He supposed the next task would be to light the fire, but he simply didn't have the energy. He looked at the fireplace.
"Mulder." Scully's soft voice crept under the sound of the storm and into his body. Her hand stayed where it was. She didn't say any more, but he could feel the slow seep of heat as it moved towards his soul.
She turned and left, taking a candle with her. It was as if all the light had left the room and he felt the storm press in once more. He was as angry and churning as the world outside. He pressed his hand once more to the glass, and then laid his forehead against it, letting the cold in, feeling the beat of the rain as it hit the glass. To say, "it's not fair," seemed just so childish and he wasn't sure what wasn't fair, his mother dying with so many unanswered questions, Spender and his arrogance, his father and his destruction of the family, or even the child inside of him that wanted to switch places with his sister. He let the storm feel for him since he wasn't sure he even had the strength left to care.
Scully returned, without her light, carrying a few pillows and folded quilts. She knelt by the fireplace and stacked the wood. He watched, wondering if her father or brothers had taught her how to make a fire, and where they had learned the skill. No one had ever taught him how to build one. His family was good at leaving scorched paths of destruction behind them, he just wasn't sure if any of them actually knew how to light a real fire.
He heard the crackle of the kindling as it caught and lit, he saw the soft glow of the fire begin its fight against the gloom. Scully looked up at him and caught his eye, inviting him over to where she knelt.
Mulder turned and looked out the window and watched as the lighthouse made one, two, three rotations, he looked one last time at the rivers of water streaming down the glass and the angry whitecaps of the sea. Then, he stepped towards the encroaching light and warmth of the small fire Scully had built.
It was warm and soft and light near her and he sunk down onto the pillows and quilts she had laid down. She wrapped one around both of them and sat next to him, staring into the fire. Her heat began to gnaw away at the cold in his bones. He let his body touch hers, his face be tickled by her soft flame-colored hair. The fire heated his face and exposed hands. The darkness began its retreat, still present there, in the room, just behind him. The ghosts of the past hovered by the windows, the doors, and the Tiffany lamp, but here, next to a hearth he couldn't remember ever being lit in his adulthood, Scully kept them at bay and shut the storm out.
Author: colebaltblue
Pairing/Character: Mulder, Scully
Word Count: 1,054
Rating: PG
Spoiler Warning: no specific ones
Summary: A short vignette, which is probably set after Mrs. Mulder's death
Author's Notes: Thanks to TLynnFic for the beta
The rain pelted the windowpanes, running down in sheets and blurring the outside world. It was gray from the angry sea and churning sky and blots of darker gray of the rocks and trees that stood fast and stubborn against the storm. The house was chilly, the outside gray pushing in, invading the inside gloom occasionally brought into stark relief by flashes of lightning. It offered little comfort against the world outside.
Mulder lifted his fingers to the window and pressed them onto the glass, feeling the cold touch his bones. The glass was smooth but felt fragile, as if it might shatter at any moment and let the storm in. He could almost feel the water running down the other side of the clear pane. When he lifted his fingers away, they left marks in the faint condensation that coated the windows. He stared as they faded and thought of the ghosts that haunted this house.
He turned away from the window and looked over the room behind him. If he thought about it hard enough he could almost see his mother in the flowered chair with the Tiffany lamp on the antique table beside it. He remembered how she used to sit there, so cold and so still. He didn't know what she was thinking then and now he would never know. The colors of the room and its decorations were muted and appeared to have lost their battle against the dark world that surrounded them.
Mulder started as he heard a muffled thump and a soft "shit" from the kitchen at the back of the house. Scully emerged a moment later, cradling candles in her arms and holding a book of matches. He briefly wondered if those matches had ever been used to light the Spender's cigarettes. He wondered if it mattered.
Scully knelt beside the coffee table and dropped her load of candles onto it, each one's thump sounded loud in the empty room, louder than the noise of the storm outside. The match spit and hissed as Scully lit it. He watched the flame as it burnt brightly for a moment before extinguishing. She sighed and lit another one. This one maintained its feeble light just long enough for her to light one of the candles. It was as if the darkness itself were snuffing out the light. Scully continued her battle, sacrificing four more matches before the candles were finally lit.
The candles gave off a soft warm glow that lit up her face and hair, but failed to extend out. Mulder turned back to the window and caught the harsh light of the lighthouse as it swept past - so different than the softness of the light of the candles and the woman behind him. He felt her approach; her hand against his back was warm, but offered little protection against the cold from the window and the storm outside.
The power was out, he wasn't sure if it was because no one had paid the bill or if it was out because of the storm. It didn't really matter though. They had found a bit of wood on the back porch, covered in a tarp, and there was a small and decorative bundle next to the hearth. He supposed the next task would be to light the fire, but he simply didn't have the energy. He looked at the fireplace.
"Mulder." Scully's soft voice crept under the sound of the storm and into his body. Her hand stayed where it was. She didn't say any more, but he could feel the slow seep of heat as it moved towards his soul.
She turned and left, taking a candle with her. It was as if all the light had left the room and he felt the storm press in once more. He was as angry and churning as the world outside. He pressed his hand once more to the glass, and then laid his forehead against it, letting the cold in, feeling the beat of the rain as it hit the glass. To say, "it's not fair," seemed just so childish and he wasn't sure what wasn't fair, his mother dying with so many unanswered questions, Spender and his arrogance, his father and his destruction of the family, or even the child inside of him that wanted to switch places with his sister. He let the storm feel for him since he wasn't sure he even had the strength left to care.
Scully returned, without her light, carrying a few pillows and folded quilts. She knelt by the fireplace and stacked the wood. He watched, wondering if her father or brothers had taught her how to make a fire, and where they had learned the skill. No one had ever taught him how to build one. His family was good at leaving scorched paths of destruction behind them, he just wasn't sure if any of them actually knew how to light a real fire.
He heard the crackle of the kindling as it caught and lit, he saw the soft glow of the fire begin its fight against the gloom. Scully looked up at him and caught his eye, inviting him over to where she knelt.
Mulder turned and looked out the window and watched as the lighthouse made one, two, three rotations, he looked one last time at the rivers of water streaming down the glass and the angry whitecaps of the sea. Then, he stepped towards the encroaching light and warmth of the small fire Scully had built.
It was warm and soft and light near her and he sunk down onto the pillows and quilts she had laid down. She wrapped one around both of them and sat next to him, staring into the fire. Her heat began to gnaw away at the cold in his bones. He let his body touch hers, his face be tickled by her soft flame-colored hair. The fire heated his face and exposed hands. The darkness began its retreat, still present there, in the room, just behind him. The ghosts of the past hovered by the windows, the doors, and the Tiffany lamp, but here, next to a hearth he couldn't remember ever being lit in his adulthood, Scully kept them at bay and shut the storm out.