All his Scullys: fic
Today, Mulder is making a fire in the yard. There is a strange elasticity in the air, a stretching of time and place and memory. The flames snap and flicker on the rush of fuel and his mind snaps and flickers on images of Scully through the years.
Naive in an ill-fitting suit, mouth popping open in disbelief. Still in a hospital bed, drifting away from life, from him. Bruised, bloodied but defiantly alive. Gossamer-fragile from a cruel disease. Bitter from betrayal. Brilliantly flirty, desperately sad, resilient and angry. All her selves. All the Scullys he loves curl through the tendrils of the fire. Slightly out of reach. Drifting away on the smoke before he can snatch them to his heart. Heat shimmies skyward. He closes his eyes, holding on to the pictures of her.
It’s only when her arms curl around his waist that time bends back to the here and now. Solid again. Warm and whole together. He tilts his head down and round to see her, rugged against the cold, hair bright as the fire.
God, he loves all his Scullys.