x-files fic: it's light and colors that make us see
it's light and colors that make us see
Author: allibabab
Rating: PG
Word Count: 140
Summary: Unexpectedly, a sound. (MSR)
A/N: I am alive! I am in England! And this is the first thing I've written in months and months, even as short as it is. This is my take on Annie Proulx writing X-Files fanfic, or really just a bad imitation of her distinctive style. You decide.
it's light and colors that make us see
A cloudy afternoon, the grey hanging low and heavy. Her hair, his tie, the wind like a river between buildings and their shoes click-clacking on pavement.
His apartment all painted in browns, color like decay and abandonment; her hair, burnt and sparking. Their voices murmur low, muffled by the walls and ceiling; years of quiet talking and their ears now accustomed to straining for sound.
Unexpectedly, a noise: sharp and bright, yellow sunlight sweeping in from behind a darkened curtain. She laughs, her throat moving, her head thrown back. He watches.
And then he moves, smoothly, fingers separating her hair like a comb, the tips like flashes of electricity, and he opens her mouth under his. A nose against her cheek.
"Mulder," her voice breathless, hands clutching his collar, a question dangling.
"You laughed," he says.
It happens simply.
Author: allibabab
Rating: PG
Word Count: 140
Summary: Unexpectedly, a sound. (MSR)
A/N: I am alive! I am in England! And this is the first thing I've written in months and months, even as short as it is. This is my take on Annie Proulx writing X-Files fanfic, or really just a bad imitation of her distinctive style. You decide.
it's light and colors that make us see
A cloudy afternoon, the grey hanging low and heavy. Her hair, his tie, the wind like a river between buildings and their shoes click-clacking on pavement.
His apartment all painted in browns, color like decay and abandonment; her hair, burnt and sparking. Their voices murmur low, muffled by the walls and ceiling; years of quiet talking and their ears now accustomed to straining for sound.
Unexpectedly, a noise: sharp and bright, yellow sunlight sweeping in from behind a darkened curtain. She laughs, her throat moving, her head thrown back. He watches.
And then he moves, smoothly, fingers separating her hair like a comb, the tips like flashes of electricity, and he opens her mouth under his. A nose against her cheek.
"Mulder," her voice breathless, hands clutching his collar, a question dangling.
"You laughed," he says.
It happens simply.