Summary: Somewhere between “ashes to ashes” and “dust to dust” the cold crept under her skin.
Classification: VA
Rated: PG
Spoilers: Dead/Alive
Key Words: Implied MSR, definitely not sallie-safe
Disclaimer: 10:13 made this.
Summary: Somewhere between “ashes to ashes” and “dust to dust” the cold crept under her skin.
Notes: I thought this one was too short to warrant a beta. I jotted it down in a free moment a couple of weeks ago and finally decided to post it here. It’s set during the “dead” part of Dead/Alive so if the concept of Mulder’s short-lived death (no pun intended) freaks you out, you might not want to read it. If you do, please let me know what you think—I’m not sure whether to post it at Ephemeral.
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Scully closes her curtains at noon. She hates the reflection of light on snow.
There’s dirt beneath her fingernails. Since she’s not thinking about it, she can’t wash it out.
She makes tea instead, but doesn’t drink it. The mug sits on her coffee table and she sits on the couch.
And she sits on the couch.
Emptiness has made her inanimate. She sits on the couch and the clock ticks and the snow starts falling again outside.
Pure as the driven snow, Mulder called her once, while kissing along her thigh. At the time she laughed.
Now there is no laughter, but there are no tears either. There’s a dark apartment and a cooled mug of tea. There’s a chill wind outside. She knows this because she had to pull her coat tighter while standing in the cemetery.
Although her apartment is a warm contrast, she still feels the cold. Somewhere between “ashes to ashes” and “dust to dust” the cold crept under her skin. It sunk through her epidermis into the layers beneath, and she feels it sinking still, worming its way to her heart.
But Mulder is colder right now. He’s nothing but frozen flesh.
And there’s nothing overly harsh about this, nothing untrue. He simply isn’t Mulder anymore.
He’s gone.
There are no arms to enfold her now.
There’s nothing she can do but walk to the bathroom, lean her head against the toilet bowl and wait, and wait, until eventually her gorge rises. Her stomach empties and she doesn’t think about the
baby. The baby doesn’t make sense anymore.
When she brushes her teeth she avoids her eyes in the mirror. She’s horrified by the thought of her own eyes. How dead they must look. How shiny and sightless. How strange, in her living face.
She goes into her bedroom and turns off the lights, hiding under the comforter. It’s the darkest, warmest place she can crawl, but it isn’t enough.
When she closes her eyes she sees the glare of light reflected on snow.
She feels purified of warmth. Pure as the driven snow. Her emptiness is really a vacuum of pain and bitter cold.
Mulder is colder, she thinks, but he doesn’t feel it. That’s the difference between them now. He can’t feel his heart freezing over like she does.
He can’t feel it splintering in his chest.