Author:Becca.
Title: Anything But Grey.
Rating:G
Classification: V,A. Flickfic. Scully POV
Spoilers: FTF
Disclaimer and all that: Not mine, cc, fox and 1013's. Please don't sue.
Archive: Yep, go ahead, just let me know where.
Feedback would be lovely at nightgarden@hotmail.com

~~~
Anything But Grey.
~~~
I wanted to fill the sky in.

To paint it in a riot of oranges and pink, to flood it with crimson, till it bled across the clouds. I wanted the sky to shout, to yell from every corner, to blind me with its intensity.

I wanted it to be anything but grey.

It merged with the snow, the edges muddied and washed as if watercolour, pocketed by little flitting shadows that scurried away back into the feet of the hills. It swept low; I could have touched it, perhaps, reached out with my fingers and twirled it into a long skein of sky; to weave into a cloak of cold.

Cold. That's what it was.

Bone aching and chilling, like sitting in a freezer. And my lips were chapped and flaky and beginning to bleed at the corners. And I felt so small there, as if I was this tiny pin prick on a great sheet of billowing cotton. A pin prick who was beginning to bleed, just enough to turn the snow a swirly pink.

He'd passed out. And my leg was going to sleep.

But his weight there was somehow reassuring, even if he crushed me. Because it meant I could feel.

  It meant I was alive.

Alive. I would have shouted the word, twirled and run and laughed and yelled loud enough to crack the sky. The anaemic sky that did not seem bright enough or excited enough by what it had just seen. I wanted fireworks and carnivals. Ticker tape parades and music and dancing.

Instead I had Mulder, and I had the ice.

Which was fine. I breathed his scent in, musky and sweaty, the gore-tex smell overwhelming all that. I listened to his breathing, rough and husky and even, and I was amazed.

Amazed that he did all this, that he was here, in my arms, with me wrapped in his clothes. That the bruises that peppered his face, they were for me. He did this for me. I should have known he would.

I think, in that moment, I knew what it was to be loved.

Knew for sure. I always knew it ran deeper than that, always knew that we were, perhaps, too inextricably linked to ever pull apart. And that if we tried, we would crumble into piles of flyaway dust, that would flick away on the wind.

I would think we were the wind, the one that nibbled at us then, spiking our faces in slivers of cold. I would think  we were the wind if it wasn't such a quasi-poetic cliché. Instead I would rather think we were the sky, we were a mess of flurried colours; of reds and oranges and yellows and blues. And greys. Is that a cliché too? Is it tired to be awed, to be astounded by the kaleidoscope of fluttering colours and words, by the air?

I hope not. I'm tired of being tired.

I could have stayed there. If I had, I would have had the time to daub the horizon with a cacophony of dye, washed it in tints of  blushing colour. We could have lived on melted snow and imagination, him and I. Bled pink into the ice forever. Sent the grey running, so it would be just us and the smooth curve of the earth, and the blue of our fingers. Just us and the screaming sky.

  But we went. He woke up and we went.

But I wanted to stay.

I wanted anything but grey.

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end.
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