(no subject)
For this week's 15minuteficlets -- season 8 X-Files-ness. Ooh, ahh.
(I CAN'T WRITE ANYMORE.)
"Scully?"
She turns away and closes her eyes; his breath is cold against the back of her neck.
He persists. "When're you gonna give up on me?"
She takes a steadying breath. "Mulder--"
"Well, sooner or later, you're going to have to." There's a sharpness to the words that chills her. "And you know it, Scully. I know you do."
"I--"
"You buried me," he cuts in, half-mocking, and she squeezes her eyes shut tighter. Pulls the blanket up to her neck (she's just a child on nights like these). "They put me six feet under. You were there, Scully."
"I know," she whispers: to quiet him, more than anything else. Her fingers struggle blindly for a moment before closing around her cross. "But you're here now."
"Am I?" She remembers barbeque sauce and one dazed 'I love you' and baseball and Mulder -- Mulder, holding his hand out to her, smiling, teasingly suave. They've only danced together once. It's sad, she thinks. Unfair, and now--
"Am I really here?" he presses; his hand is cold, smoothing back her hair. "Maybe you're just crazy, Scully. Maybe you've finally lost it."
"Why do you do this?" she inquires, and her words are trembling and frail and maybe she has lost it, lost him, and is there a difference, is there anything anymore?
He presses his mouth lightly to the back of her neck. "Wake up."
Her eyes flutter open. The alarm clock is shining 3:49; delicate streams of moonlight leak through her window.
She sighs, and pretends that one day this might end.
--
word: haunted
(I CAN'T WRITE ANYMORE.)
"Scully?"
She turns away and closes her eyes; his breath is cold against the back of her neck.
He persists. "When're you gonna give up on me?"
She takes a steadying breath. "Mulder--"
"Well, sooner or later, you're going to have to." There's a sharpness to the words that chills her. "And you know it, Scully. I know you do."
"I--"
"You buried me," he cuts in, half-mocking, and she squeezes her eyes shut tighter. Pulls the blanket up to her neck (she's just a child on nights like these). "They put me six feet under. You were there, Scully."
"I know," she whispers: to quiet him, more than anything else. Her fingers struggle blindly for a moment before closing around her cross. "But you're here now."
"Am I?" She remembers barbeque sauce and one dazed 'I love you' and baseball and Mulder -- Mulder, holding his hand out to her, smiling, teasingly suave. They've only danced together once. It's sad, she thinks. Unfair, and now--
"Am I really here?" he presses; his hand is cold, smoothing back her hair. "Maybe you're just crazy, Scully. Maybe you've finally lost it."
"Why do you do this?" she inquires, and her words are trembling and frail and maybe she has lost it, lost him, and is there a difference, is there anything anymore?
He presses his mouth lightly to the back of her neck. "Wake up."
Her eyes flutter open. The alarm clock is shining 3:49; delicate streams of moonlight leak through her window.
She sighs, and pretends that one day this might end.
--
word: haunted