neverrwhere replied to your post: Now soliciting either three word (obje…
The baseball bat is propped up against the wire fence, the arc lights long since switched off. The autumn crickets are still small, their chirps a soft wave that will be a roar before the month is out. Mulder sits on the damp grass, elbows resting on his knees, and Scully sits beside him, legs stretched out and ankles crossed, looking more relaxed than she has in an age.
Stars. Millions of them glittering against a velvet-black sky, and every few seconds —
"There’s another one."
Scully rolls her eyes, unseen, smiling in the darkness.
"Are you going to announce it every time?"
"No — another, right there."
She sighs loudly, fidgeting enough to feel that the dew has soaked through to her skin.
"They’re just fireflies, Mulder. You see them every year."
"And every year they’re just as beautiful as the last."
A beat, blessed silence; then Mulder, who’s never been able to let go the last word, says, “Did you know if you wish on a firefly, that wish will come true?”
"It will not."
"It’s true! Try it, Scully."
She can just see the outline of his face set against the light of a crescent moon, but she can’t see his eyes. Her own linger on the fullness of his lips…
"All right," she replies, low, and waits for the next little glow to come. She feels drowsy, languid in the late summer warmth - leans back on her elbows and looks up at the sky.
"There," Mulder whispers. Scully closes her eyes, makes a wish.
And when she opens them again, her wish has come true.