OctoberFicFest Day 10: Glide
It snows, more than she’s seen in a long time, and they stay indoors all day, reading and talking and watching old movies. Scully tends to the hydroponic garden and slow-simmers apples for applesauce. Mulder follows through on his promise and teachers her how to make latkes. The whole house is filled with the warm scent of apples and potatoes.
They enjoy each other late into the night, generating more heat than the little radiator. In the morning, the snow is frozen over, dry and crisp. Mulder tromps out into the snow and comes back with a grin and a sled, one of the long plastic ones that’s big enough for two.
“Should we?” he asks.
“Mulder, I can’t believe you’d even ask that,” Scully says, crossing her arms.
For a moment, his face falls, and then she relents. “Because the answer is obvious,” she goes on, “we absolutely should.”
They go out into the winter world with its knife edges, protected by their puffy coats and their sunglasses. Mulder drags the sled and gallops through the drifts like a child, crunching as he goes. She follows behind, stretching her legs to step in his footsteps. The rest of the surface is smooth, marred only by deer tracks and the flurry of feathers where the birds dove for berries lofting above the snow.
Scully braces herself between Mulder’s knees and they push off. He wraps his arms around her. The hill the cabin is built on is steep; they start out slowly, but gain speed quickly, flying across the driveway and through a path in the trees. There’s no good way to steer; leaning helps, but it isn’t particularly effective. Scully doesn’t care though she knows she should. Any number of things could happen to them on this sled: concussion, broken bones, breath knocked out. None of it matters in the moment. They are as close as she will ever get to flying under her own power, whipping through the woods on a way made smooth for them, for once.
She finds herself whooping,and Mulder hollers behind her, and the birds startle away from them. They slide all the way to the end of the driveway, the wind whipping past them. Mulder nearly crashes them into the mailbox. Scully laughs until she falls into the snow. Mulder clears the powder out of the hood of her jacket and rights the sled as Scully checks the mail. They don’t open it, but she’ll put it in a bin when they get back. There’s nothing addressed to them, of course, or even to their pseudonyms, but they keep it all together. She tucks it into a pocket as Mulder drags the sled back up the driveway.
“Again?” he asks.
She sets the mail at the edge of the porch.
“Take me flying, Mulder,” she says.