The start of something Post-Col
Scully had not seen the boy until he gasped in surprise -- the ice taking his feet out from under him. Sheâd been looking for game on the forested ridge the next valley over, and had been on her way back. Normally attuned to the woods around her, she had not known she was being followed. She whirled in surprise and watched him come down awkwardly on his ankle.
He was 13, maybe 14; on the raw edge of manhood, the pale wisp of whiskers just creeping out of wind-chapped skin. She already knew a bone had broken. It had wret the air with the same sound as a hound catching a treat mid-arc; wet and sucking, the carnassial snap of enamel meeting enamel. It would likely have to be set.
The boy whimpered from where he fell at the base of a large hemlock tree as she approached. He eyed her suspiciously as she whipped the cape from her back and settled it around his shoulders.
âWhatâs your name?â she asked, trying to distract him as she ran her hand slowly down his shin.
Mulder would be waiting in the rusted shack at the edge of the wood and he would worry if she came back after nightfall -- that was when the faceless men prowled, looking for survivors.
The boy winced and inhaled sharply as her fingers ran over the cleft where the fibula met the talus and she rocked back on her heels, eyeing the darkening horizon. Did he have people nearby? Could she leave him here without guilt?
âWilliam,â he finally croaked, his adolescent voice like a bullfrog. âMy name is William.â
Tunnel vision and tinnitus caught her like a noose around the neck â she would have passed out if she hadnât already been on her knees.
Many thanks to @frangipanidownunder for the @just-fic-already workshop. Tagging @red2007 @suitablyaggrieved @msrheadcanon @ceruleanmilieu @aloysiavirgata @teethnbone

















