Cold - Requested by Anonymous - January 7th, 2019
Season 4 - Cancer
She felt like she was freezing every second of everyday. As if with every pound the cancer took away from her, her body temperature dropped a degree. Ten pounds, ten degrees. She knew that was scientifically impossible, but it was easy to fill herself with the theory being she was hollow. There was plenty of space now.
She used to have a heart that would race in excitement, blood that would pump so hard she could hear it in her ears, desire that would coil in her gut at a familiar baritone saying her name. Now there was nothingness, a bleak landscape she used to fill with hopes and dreams that were now unattainable.
She felt like she was dying.
She knew she was.
She couldn't even cry for herself anymore, the tears were probably frozen. She'd established a fortress of one. Her defensive barriers to frigid for anyone to possibly chip away.
All hail Dana Scully, the one and only Ice Queen.
She was so thin now, her bones felt like razor blades beneath her skin and she was more than ready to use them to cut whoever got too close. At least Mulder was used to pain by now. If he wasn't feeling it from the way she jumped away from his touch and the icy glare she sent his way at the slightest mention of the unwelcome guest in her body, she knew her words would. She was cold to him now. Sometimes he flinched at her callous comments as if she had burned him, a blush simmering on his cheeks as he tried to hide his impassioned response.
She resented him for being able to feel warmth.
What she wouldn't give to feel alive. Even for just one moment.
When she was in girl scouts, she learned how to make a fire. Rubbing objects together until the friction created sparkes that eventually engulfed everything up in flames. When she was little she took pride in starting the fire for her family on camping trips, the warmth covering them all like a blanket as the heat kissed their skin and orange danced in their eyes. Later she sought the familiar intensity as she ignited a fire in the heath of her home, usually foreshadowing the passion she'd soon give herself.
She thought eventually ice might melt under enough friction, maybe the tips of her fingers would get at least a little wet if she rubbed that spot between parted legs with enough vigor. But the meds didn't allow it. She could rub until her fingers snapped and she'd never melt. There would be no spark. There would be no flames.
The closest thing she had was the red line that trickled down her upper lip, painting the portrait of a woman still alive.
At least for now.