Sorry Ive been gone so long! I hope you enjoy this one; it needs a title, though. I'd love to have a little contest if y'all want. Make your suggestions in the reviews and I will write a fic(let) for the chosen submission. Winner's choice of prompt, or mine. Either way :-)
Same disclaimers as before: I don't own anything X Files that someone else already owns. This is never for money; it's for you, for me, and for FUN!
She sits on the couch, legs tucked neatly beneath the flannel blanket he bought her, hands warmed by the hot tea in her favorite mug. Snow drifts past the windows in great undulating waves. Seven inches fell last night. The first of the year, and exceptionally late for their part of the country. She has wondered more than once if the invasion had anything to do with the change in weather patterns across the globe. Everything happened so fast, no one had time to notice anything outside their private tragedies.
With a great gust of arctic wind, the front door opens and he returns to her side, a freshly powdered load of split logs expertly held in crook of his arm. He swings the door closed quickly. The snow is dry and soft, the pillowy blanket of flakes scattering about the living room like dust fairies dancing in the summer sun's rays. Flame-warmed air quickly melts the tiny crystals mid-flight, but not before they catch light from the fire. For precious seconds, they float through the air like little lucent rainbows and she is hypnotized. Before they can fall to the worn hardwood floor they evaporate. Gone without a trace.
"Well, that's a lovely site."
His voice flows across her ears and her reverie is broken.
"Hmmm?"
He smiles. His face is so familiar, the angles and lines as known to her as her very own. When he parts his lips to speak again, he couldn't look any more like the man she loves, and her heart aches.
"You had a beautiful smile on your face for a moment. Took my breath away."
There aren't many things she remembers. Too much has happened to her. Too many scars. But she remembers how he used to tell her how much he loved to see her smile. How it took his breath away.
Turning away, she feels the tears fall quickly. Too quickly to hide, but there is no reason to shove them in his face. They are not his fault.
"I'm sorry. I've upset you."
"Don't do that, please. It's not your fault."
Moving to her side, he wipes the wetness from her cheeks and kisses her forehead. So familiar. So safe. So painful. A gentle squeeze around his broad shoulders is all she can manage, the physicality of his presence making her palms sweat and the blood in her veins run like ice water.
Too close.
Too close.
Things that get too close are always taken away.
He moves back, understanding and sorrow pouring from his gaze. When he tries to stand, she is instantly regretful; her hand reaches for his, holds him to her side.
"Now I'm sorry. Sometimes, it just gets...I'm sorry. Don't go."
A soft circle of movement across the skin of her hand and he's accepted both her apology and her invitation. Reaching across her to the end table, he finds the remote control and the television flickers to life.
"Are you ready?"
She isn't. She will never be. As much as she wants to hear him laugh again, it causes a pain so deep inside her. But she knows they need this.
"Sure."
Whining and humming issue from the ancient RCA video player and the rambunctious laughter of a father and his son fills the whole house. Across the screen, the love of her life chases their son around the front yard.
The boy squeals with delight and launches himself into a mountain dry leaves, his father close behind. The two wrestle beneath the pile, flailing arms and legs sending great explosions of color into the fall afternoon.
"This is my favorite one. We had so much fun that day, he and I. We all did"
The boy on the TV screen has emerged from the leaves, bits of brown and orange peppering his chocolate hair. His father lies as still as rocks. The boy giggles, scratches his nose and then looks questioningly to the camera. She hears herself speak, though the voice sounds joyous and foreign.
"Get him, silly!"
His confidence boosted by motherly reassurance, the boy turns to his father with nimble fingers poised to restart the tickling. The man explodes from his bed of earth, the boy shrieks and the two fall together back into the scattered leaves.
She hears herself laugh through the television. As always, when she thinks of the happiness the once held, the tears fall like rain. He slides his arm around her tiny frame, gently easing her into the empty space between them; she doesn't have the strength to fight him.
"I miss him so much."
He holds her tighter as her cries escape. They were so alike, father and son. And now there's only one...
"He loved you, you know. More than he thought he could ever love anything. Even me. You were everything he ever dared to dream could be real."
She looks into his eyes, the same shining emerald green as her own. They are the only feature not a carbon copy of his father. And they are what keeps her from falling into an endless dream world where Fox Mulder still lives.