(no subject)
like mismatched cards;
mulder/scully, the x files, AU
g; 1,232 words. this has all happened before, and it will continue till the end of all days, and even then, they are nothing but broken eggshells with nothing to lose but each other.
i haven't written a fic in ages, so i apologize if this is terrible.
She hands him the paper the next morning, her eyes sagging at the corners.
Too much time in this place, she thinks, as Mulder emptily flicks through the pages, disgust reflected in his face, too much time and slowly you end up burnt to the point that no balm can heal you.
The silence is unnerving, and Scully waits, her heart fluttering like the most delicate of butterflies in the cage of seamless bones and flesh. “You’re on the last page,” she says at last. “Underneath the NASA article.”
His laugh is almost too cruel, and his fingers cut through the pages like broken glass.
It’s only minutes later when Mulder finally gets up; his face is eclipsed in the dead light of the basement, showing all of his distinguishable features. His hair is the usual tangle of distress and confusion, his eyes, the pools of black they always have been. Beneath his rough jaw line, his tie is crumpled at the edges, like it has been sitting in the closet for far too long, unused, unseen. He sighs, crushes the paper and throws it in the basket. It misses.
Her mouth cracks open and Scully knows she’s gone too far when she asks the question, because Mulder hunches over and she sees the same look he gives every time she refuses to believe his crazy, refutable theories.
“No,” he replies, and his voice is just a dead drone, the humming of a tired bee. “I don’t know what to think at the moment.”
Her eyes don’t move, still staring at his blank face. It’s Monday in the morning and even in the tiny, cramped room they call an office, darkness looms like a mist, hovering around their crowded bodies. Mulder gropes blindly for another sunflower seed, chewing the edge of his nail now. He turns to make a ridiculous joke, but one look from Scully and they both know that there’s nothing really left to say.
“I’ll be back,” he says, and Scully beats her hands against his chest.
“You always say that. “ she tries not to let her voice crack, but even then, he knows, he always knows, because he’s Mulder and she’s Scully and nine years have passed by like torn pages from the calendar.
This has all happened before, and it will continue till the end of all days, and even then, they are nothing but broken eggshells with nothing to lose but each other. Her mind is a worn husk, unweaving threads and splitting at the frays. The last time was two weeks. Their anniversary had passed since then.
His fingers curl tightly around her wrists. “I promise,” and his lips gently move the threads of her hair back. She is too used to this pose, this stance.Behind the back of her eyes, memories of William swim again, and thank God he can’t see her face; they’ve been there too many times, too many to count, too many threads unraveled from her life.
They stand like that for a while, letting the morning sun pale over their broken shoulders. He repeats the words like it’s a prayer, but she knows him full enough to know that the only thing he believes in is her faith, and she is only holding on ever so slightly to the ends of this fragile lifestyle. Move on, they say but the truth is, they have nowhere to go home to.
But when he leaves her hand and he’s gone, just like that, she presses her thumb against her fingers so hard she swears she cuts off the circulation at one point. You’ve betrayed me, she screams against the pale walls. You’re gone and you’ve left me. Alone.
As a scientist, she can only focus on the outcomes. She tells herself that he’ll come back. He has to. It’s the only presentable option.
Two months later and the nightmares don’t stop.
Outside, it is pouring again.
His body is pressed closely to hers and she listens to him breath as the water patters endlessly against their windows.
“Do you think we’ll survive?”
Her face sours; this is the same question he asks over and over again until it’s finally December and destruction is only gaps away from their doors and she wants to hold his hand and breathe life and hope into this broken man, but she can’t. In actuality, they are both too tired, too exhausted to fight on. Yet somewhere in the warm tangle of sheets, the sweat of their bodies, the deep corners of their eyes, blood is freshly pumping in their veins, and they carry on. It’s the only thing they can do. There’s nothing else to hold onto.
She says nothing. The rain patters louder, but Dana Scully has learned how to shut away the painful sounds. She’s learnt how to do a lot of things since they’ve left, and lying is one of them.
But Mulder is better. He has always been, as a profiler. And no matter how many times she shakes her head, his eyes scream liar, liar.
Behind the passengers’ seat, cardboard boxes clutter up the remaining space, and she wraps her tongue around the last drops of water.
“It’s empty,” she says redundantly, but his face is covered in maps and stars and nine minutes to care. The wear of Dana Scully shows between the slight wrinkles of her face and her tired eyes, and she is too lost to care, too far behind, caught up in running and running and running till her legs are nothing but the hot, fleeting wind she has been running her hands through since morning.
They haven’t said much on this drive. As usual, she brings her favorite books and novels, maybe a textbook on anatomy just to piss him off. Likewise, he does the same. The gold wristwatch. The pale blue shirt. The stubble that pokes brutally from his chin, the same stubble that scraped her raw yesterday night.
His laugh is as sudden as her surprise. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“As are you, Mulder.” Mind games, and she presses closer to him, despite it being so goddamn hot. She just wants to take off her pumps and smoke a cigarette. She hasn’t had a cigarette in years.
“The motel’s only about an hour away.” his voice unsuccessfully tries to sift through her reserve; fearing the worst, she looks away, biting her lip.
A part of her already wishes she were in the back seat, where there was more air to breath. Where she can be categorized and be simply left as nothing more than a mere file.
Mulder’s fingers tighten on the edge of the wheel as he steers past a couple of deer.
“Dana.” He says her name like it’s been rolled off his tongue freshly, hovering in the air for claims. It’s far too late for generalizations though. Dana Scully is more than just an X File, she is the manila folder everyone keeps at the bottom of their pile, pressed flat under the pressure of all the others.
“Mulder.” Her voice twists with sarcasm because they are in the middle of nowhere and he is calling her Dana and the radio is too soft and there are far less things to see in the landscapes of Alamo than she had thought. For a minute, she feels like kicking back alive. It's a natural reaction, this push and pull, this replaying of roles.
But Mulder is too busy, playing with his maps and his spaceship toys.
fin.
mulder/scully, the x files, AU
g; 1,232 words. this has all happened before, and it will continue till the end of all days, and even then, they are nothing but broken eggshells with nothing to lose but each other.
i haven't written a fic in ages, so i apologize if this is terrible.
She hands him the paper the next morning, her eyes sagging at the corners.
Too much time in this place, she thinks, as Mulder emptily flicks through the pages, disgust reflected in his face, too much time and slowly you end up burnt to the point that no balm can heal you.
The silence is unnerving, and Scully waits, her heart fluttering like the most delicate of butterflies in the cage of seamless bones and flesh. “You’re on the last page,” she says at last. “Underneath the NASA article.”
His laugh is almost too cruel, and his fingers cut through the pages like broken glass.
It’s only minutes later when Mulder finally gets up; his face is eclipsed in the dead light of the basement, showing all of his distinguishable features. His hair is the usual tangle of distress and confusion, his eyes, the pools of black they always have been. Beneath his rough jaw line, his tie is crumpled at the edges, like it has been sitting in the closet for far too long, unused, unseen. He sighs, crushes the paper and throws it in the basket. It misses.
Her mouth cracks open and Scully knows she’s gone too far when she asks the question, because Mulder hunches over and she sees the same look he gives every time she refuses to believe his crazy, refutable theories.
“No,” he replies, and his voice is just a dead drone, the humming of a tired bee. “I don’t know what to think at the moment.”
Her eyes don’t move, still staring at his blank face. It’s Monday in the morning and even in the tiny, cramped room they call an office, darkness looms like a mist, hovering around their crowded bodies. Mulder gropes blindly for another sunflower seed, chewing the edge of his nail now. He turns to make a ridiculous joke, but one look from Scully and they both know that there’s nothing really left to say.
“I’ll be back,” he says, and Scully beats her hands against his chest.
“You always say that. “ she tries not to let her voice crack, but even then, he knows, he always knows, because he’s Mulder and she’s Scully and nine years have passed by like torn pages from the calendar.
This has all happened before, and it will continue till the end of all days, and even then, they are nothing but broken eggshells with nothing to lose but each other. Her mind is a worn husk, unweaving threads and splitting at the frays. The last time was two weeks. Their anniversary had passed since then.
His fingers curl tightly around her wrists. “I promise,” and his lips gently move the threads of her hair back. She is too used to this pose, this stance.Behind the back of her eyes, memories of William swim again, and thank God he can’t see her face; they’ve been there too many times, too many to count, too many threads unraveled from her life.
They stand like that for a while, letting the morning sun pale over their broken shoulders. He repeats the words like it’s a prayer, but she knows him full enough to know that the only thing he believes in is her faith, and she is only holding on ever so slightly to the ends of this fragile lifestyle. Move on, they say but the truth is, they have nowhere to go home to.
But when he leaves her hand and he’s gone, just like that, she presses her thumb against her fingers so hard she swears she cuts off the circulation at one point. You’ve betrayed me, she screams against the pale walls. You’re gone and you’ve left me. Alone.
As a scientist, she can only focus on the outcomes. She tells herself that he’ll come back. He has to. It’s the only presentable option.
Two months later and the nightmares don’t stop.
Outside, it is pouring again.
His body is pressed closely to hers and she listens to him breath as the water patters endlessly against their windows.
“Do you think we’ll survive?”
Her face sours; this is the same question he asks over and over again until it’s finally December and destruction is only gaps away from their doors and she wants to hold his hand and breathe life and hope into this broken man, but she can’t. In actuality, they are both too tired, too exhausted to fight on. Yet somewhere in the warm tangle of sheets, the sweat of their bodies, the deep corners of their eyes, blood is freshly pumping in their veins, and they carry on. It’s the only thing they can do. There’s nothing else to hold onto.
She says nothing. The rain patters louder, but Dana Scully has learned how to shut away the painful sounds. She’s learnt how to do a lot of things since they’ve left, and lying is one of them.
But Mulder is better. He has always been, as a profiler. And no matter how many times she shakes her head, his eyes scream liar, liar.
Behind the passengers’ seat, cardboard boxes clutter up the remaining space, and she wraps her tongue around the last drops of water.
“It’s empty,” she says redundantly, but his face is covered in maps and stars and nine minutes to care. The wear of Dana Scully shows between the slight wrinkles of her face and her tired eyes, and she is too lost to care, too far behind, caught up in running and running and running till her legs are nothing but the hot, fleeting wind she has been running her hands through since morning.
They haven’t said much on this drive. As usual, she brings her favorite books and novels, maybe a textbook on anatomy just to piss him off. Likewise, he does the same. The gold wristwatch. The pale blue shirt. The stubble that pokes brutally from his chin, the same stubble that scraped her raw yesterday night.
His laugh is as sudden as her surprise. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“As are you, Mulder.” Mind games, and she presses closer to him, despite it being so goddamn hot. She just wants to take off her pumps and smoke a cigarette. She hasn’t had a cigarette in years.
“The motel’s only about an hour away.” his voice unsuccessfully tries to sift through her reserve; fearing the worst, she looks away, biting her lip.
A part of her already wishes she were in the back seat, where there was more air to breath. Where she can be categorized and be simply left as nothing more than a mere file.
Mulder’s fingers tighten on the edge of the wheel as he steers past a couple of deer.
“Dana.” He says her name like it’s been rolled off his tongue freshly, hovering in the air for claims. It’s far too late for generalizations though. Dana Scully is more than just an X File, she is the manila folder everyone keeps at the bottom of their pile, pressed flat under the pressure of all the others.
“Mulder.” Her voice twists with sarcasm because they are in the middle of nowhere and he is calling her Dana and the radio is too soft and there are far less things to see in the landscapes of Alamo than she had thought. For a minute, she feels like kicking back alive. It's a natural reaction, this push and pull, this replaying of roles.
But Mulder is too busy, playing with his maps and his spaceship toys.
fin.