6,11,17 -one of them or however many you wanna do!! For the I love you writing prompt xx
6. On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in your hair
“What if we got married?“
On a picnic table on the Canadian border, which they are skirting more out of boredom than actual necessity. It has been almost a year and neither of them will say it for fear of cursing themselves, but no one is coming for them. Don’t you ever want to stop? She’d asked him once, a long time ago. Just get out of the car? But he hadn’t wanted to and so she didn’t, and she thinks now she knows why. She thinks maybe they don’t stop because they don’t know what else to do.
“Why would we do that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if you’ve gathered, but I’m madly in love with you or something like that.“
“Really?” She shakes her head at him, steals the Coke bottle he’s holding and finishes it. “That’s embarrassing.“
“Why’s that?” He nudges her with his shoulder and she shrugs. The picnic table they’re at is half in shade, but she’s sunburned and brown. The tops of her shoulders and tip of her nose covered in innumerable freckles.
“I don’t really like you that much is all,“ she says with an air of mock sympathy. “Sorry.”
“I knew it. You just came along for the thrill.“
“Oh, yeah, you know how gas station food really gets me going.”
He laughs and she laughs with him, and she can count on one hand the number of times they’ve done that since 1999.
“I’m serious, Scully,“ he says, still smiling.
“Mulder,” she twists on the bench and pushes herself up so she’s sitting on top of the table, feet where she’d been sitting a moment before. She takes his face in her hands like a small child. “If I was going to leave you, I’d have done it already. I’d have done it in, I don’t know, 1994. I don’t need to marry you. I’ve been Mrs. Spooky for almost a decade.” She tilts her head to the side. “Plus, you’d probably be arrested at the courthouse which would, you know, kind of put a damper on my wedding day.“
He’s looking at her in that way that he’s always pretending he’s not. Or always pretended he wasn’t. It’s been a while, she thinks, or else she hasn’t been paying enough attention.
“I should have made you leave in 1994,” he says, quietly. He reaches up to touch her cheek.
“You wouldn’t have been able to get rid of me,“ she tells him.
She laughs. “For what?“
“I don’t know. Everything. Anything I’ve never apologized for before. For ruining your life and all that jazz.”
She tilts her head back, teasing. “Oh, so romantic.”
He winces and she sighs, shakes her head. “Hey,” she murmurs. “I love you, too.“
It’s June, and she wonders if he will ever stop thinking he doesn’t deserve her, deserve a simmering, endless summer. She thinks they never stop because they’re afraid of what would happen if they did. They’ve always bent to inertia. For a minute, for an hour, they sit on the picnic bench with an empty Coke bottle and let the world shift around them. She wonders at the delicate mechanics of staying still with him.