A Dull Rumour of Some Other War

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/312286.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: The X-Files
Relationship: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Character: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully
Stats: Published: 2009-01-13 Words: 1621

A Dull Rumour of Some Other War

by Stephen Greenwood (Stephen_Greenwood)

Summary

December 21, 2012. Doomsday. But nothing happened.

Notes

Last time I checked, I didn't own them. I'm fairly sure I still don't. I don't own Wilfred
Owen's 'Exposure' either - although there are no direct references, apart from the title, the
similarities are noticeable and intentional.

Thanks to Lily Bart for the beta and the constructive criticism contained within. All errors
remaining are mine. I take full responsibility, officer.

The sun rises. Reds, oranges and yellows paint the darkness, taking extra care to erase the starry
pinpricks of light from the black canvas, transforming it into a landscape admired by artists and
early risers alike.

Despite the beautiful, almost ancient image, it is ultimately unremarkable. Regarded as a naturally
occurring event and often ignored, it is taken for granted that a new day dawns with no external
forces playing a part other than planetary orbit and axis tilt. Only if something was to go wrong
would man be aware. And by then it would be too late, and no Armageddon mission would make a
difference. But the odds of something catastrophic happening are slim and so ignorance is bliss, at
least in most cases. Few dare to dream of a time they might not open their eyes to the welcoming
rays of sunshine in the early hours, so when the sun rises on a cold December day in 2012, hardly
anyone bats an eye.

But this particular sunrise is noteworthy because, by all rhyme and reason, it should never have
happened.
*****

A woman sleeps alone in a bed meant for two. Her breathing is low and even, the rise and fall of
her chest steady and relaxed. She has spent the past decade looking over her shoulder; worry
etched itself on her face, becoming her unwanted yet necessary companion. It is only right that she
has some time to herself, is allowed to sleep unencumbered; after all, her waking hours are filled
with paranoia and nerves of steel, with observant eyes and alert instincts. In sleep, she trusts herself
to let down her carefully guarded walls, to permit both her exhausted mind and body to shut down,
to refresh. She knows herself well enough to be guided by her gut in moments of drowsiness, and if
someone were to enter the room, she would be awake and prepared before they could say ‘boo’.

Yesterday, a man lay beside her, around her, and they held each other close for what they silently
feared would be the last time. December 21, 2012. Doomsday. They had listened nervously to the
radio all day, waiting for the War of the Worlds moment when everything would change. As night
drew nearer, when the dreaded day began to fade, everything was as it should have been: no
strange occurrences, no destruction of cities or felling of landmarks. Autonomously, they had
prepared for bed and a restless night, certain of an extra-terrestrial interruption before daybreak.

But nothing happened.

Still she sleeps on, undeterred by her partner’s absence, by the loneliness present in the
mistreatment of a bed too big for her alone. In another tale, she would be abruptly woken by a
blood-curdling scream or the empty echo of a gunshot, and she would scramble to her feet to rush
headlong into the next Thing. There is almost always a Thing.

But nothing happens.

*****

The poignant triumph of dawn begins to grow. A lone shadow stretches across the wooden porch.
Although it is winter and the light hours are later in their arrival with each passing day, those first
weak rays are worth getting up to watch. There is no wind, just a faint breeze every now and again
that adds to the chill. He is prepared for the cold, his hands stuffed into the deep pockets on his
thick coat. He is fairly certain, if she should find him, she would chide him for not wearing a hat;
he has heard the lecture so many times he finds he can argue with her even in her absence.

He attempts to reign in his emotions, knowing that he cannot afford to get ahead of himself, that
ultimately this means little, but even he cannot stop the elation from spreading through his body.
He had half-expected to wake this morning to a burning wasteland, humanity in disarray thanks to
some alien beings hell bent on claiming the ruined planet as their own. Earlier, when his eyes had
sleepily blinked and finally focused, he was mildly surprised to see the room exactly as it had been
left the night before. His lover lay beside him peacefully, her hand resting just above his navel.
Hurrying to the window, he had seen the white expanse of immaculate snow-covered fields
innocently looking back, and from that moment he had dared to hope.

Their humble abode is remote, far enough away from the winding lane that no passing car can
detect a residence. The closest neighbours are a ten-minute walk away, fifteen or twenty when the
snow is high enough to cover the top of his boots. He is aware of their isolation, thinking it both
welcome and inconvenient. The portable radio he lugged outside earlier is plugged in and instead
of static, as one may expect, the sound of a hot little jazz number flows out of the tinny speakers.
So far this morning he has heard of Obama’s latest plan to cut gas prices, the loss of another
solider in Afghanistan, and how it is only two shopping days until Christmas.

No mention of invaders from outer space.

*****

It is mid-morning when she finds him outside, his skin tinged pink from the elements. The old
wooden chair cannot be comfortable but there he sits, his long legs casually sprawled in front of
him. Wordlessly, he looks up and sends her a brief smile before returning his attention to the calm,
blanketed landscape before them. She too takes a moment to simply be, to believe what her eyes
are telling her.

There is life after the end of the world.

She drops a kiss to the top of his head and his arm sneaks around her waist, pulling her onto his
lap. She goes willingly, thankful for his heat and his solidness, and in a rare moment she allows
herself to relax, just a little. His chin rests lightly on her shoulder. No words are exchanged as none
are needed; they both require time to adjust, to accept the dawning of a new day and a new era, one
which neither had expected to live to see.

Suddenly a small dot appears at the edge of the field closest to their home. It darts erratically,
stopping, pausing seemingly at random, before dashing off and repeating the cycle again. They
watch and imagine the snow becoming tainted by the tiny paw prints, too far away for them to see.
The squirrel draws closer, either unaware of its scrutinisers or just not caring. It stays for ten or
perhaps fifteen minutes before scampering off out of sight. She squeezes his hand, causing him to
smile and kiss her neck. They continue to watch the fields.

But nothing happens.

*****

Neither knows why the colonisation, which had sounded so concrete, so set in stone, has not taken
place. The silence seems too loud. They are curious, nervous, scanning the stillness for a sign. He
never had the chance to say ‘I told you so’, and, for once, he can let it slide. This is one time he is
grateful for being wrong, one time he will happily admit it.

Their shared sense of unease abates, albeit slowly, as the minutes tick by. Will he ever stop
thinking of it as borrowed time? He suspects not. He will always be waiting, trying to prepare
himself for the end, or at least the battle running up to it, and until he hears of either their
disinterest in Earth or their new date for invasion, he will not rest. He cannot afford to. He knows
he is no Superman; the world is not his alone to save. Still, he feels as though he owes it to himself,
to his partner, to his son, to step up to the plate and fight for them.

But that time is not now and he decides to take the day off to celebrate their continued existence.
So they might not have balloons and streamers, but the pizza guy could deliver on Saturdays and if
they want music they can always tune in to whichever frequency the radio picks up first or put a
CD on the stereo. It probably won’t be much of a party but as far as impromptu occasions go, this
one could be worse.

And still nothing happens.

*****

Tonight, when the darkness approaches once again, they will retreat inside and turn on all the
lights. They will take off their heavy layers of outdoor clothing and stamp their feet, trying not to
trudge mushy snow into every room of the house. A fire will be lit and they will sit on the couch,
basking in its warmth, becoming drowsy and content. Their skin, frozen by the elements better
than any plastic surgery, will begin to thaw and the numbness will abate, and he will be able to feel
it when her hand strokes his cheek and their lips touch. He might murmur about now having to buy
her a Christmas present, and if he does, she will smile and tell him she already has everything she
needs.

They will savour each other, long, slow caresses across smooth skin that leave trails of fire in their
wake. They will worship each other as reverently as ancient cultures worshipped their gods. It will
be a celebration, and they will be thankful instead of thinking of what could and what may still be.
No elegy will play tonight; no body will lay in eternal rest under frozen earth. Maybe they won’t
get out of bed tomorrow but it will not be because they are dead: it will be because they are more
alive than ever.

For once in their busy lives, nothing happens.

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