Title:	Tidings 
Author:  Kristin Mackenzie 
Rating:  NC-17 Category: 
Christmas.  MSR.  Angst. 
Archiving:  Gossamer yes, anyone else just drop me a
line to let me know where it's going.

Disclaimer:  Mulder and Scully don't belong to me.  But if CC wanted to put a
bow on Mulder and put him in my mailbox, I wouldn't complain.

Feedback:  Please?  krismackenzie@my-dejanews.com

Note:  Have you ever noticed, when you're writing, how things don't always
turn out the way you planned?

/\*/\*/\*Tidings*/\*/\*/\

She hadn't had the heart to put up the tree.  It would just have been too
festive. Nothing Christmassy at all, actually - no wreaths or candles, no
Mannheim Steamroller on the stereo.

Scully sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, and watched the silent snow
gathering on the window ledge.

Joy to the fucking world.

She'd gone to the Bureau holiday party last week, alone, and spent the entire
evening practicing the subtle art of lying through her teeth.  Where is Agent
Mulder, everyone wanted to know.  Haven't seen him around lately.

She avoided the little cluster of Assistant Directors and other executive
types stationed near the bar like a surveillance team.	Kersch had been
questioning her relentlessly, and Skinner's concern-filled eyes were just too
much to bear.

Mulder had been gone for nine days.

His apartment was empty and showed no signs of forced entry or other foul
play.  A few clothes were missing from the closet, along with his travel kit.
 He didn't answer his cell phone or return any of the voice mail she'd left.

Somewhere around day three, her anger had given way to a ceaseless, nagging
dread.

Scully had no idea where he might be.  On the fourth day, she'd called all
the area hospitals and police stations.  On the fifth day, she'd searched the
law enforcement databases for any John Does, dead or alive, fitting Mulder's
description.  She wanted desperately to file a missing persons report, but if
he was just pursuing a lead, letting everyone know that he was AWOL could get
him stuck with a worse assignment even than domestic terrorism.

Please, let him be pursuing a lead.  Let him be interviewing harmless UFO
observers in Arkansas.	I won't be mad that he ditched me, I swear.

She checked his email for clues and found nothing.  She went to the Gunmen,
who were extremely alarmed that he hadn't even told *them* were he was going.
 They promised to put out some feelers, but as of yet, had had no luck.

So now, day nine.  Christmas Eve.

She had his present; she'd purchased it back in November.  She'd seen it and
just had to get it for him, regardless of the price.  A cashmere sweater,
v-necked, in precisely the same shade of rich caramel as the flecks in his
eyes.  It lay, wrapped in silver paper, on the kitchen table.

Please God, I'll do anything.  Bring him back to me, or just give me some
clue where to find him.

She had slept only fitfully since about day 3, and hadn't even bothered going
to bed for the past two nights.  She could barely bring herself to get up off
the couch.

They'd agreed to spend Christmas Eve together, to exchange presents and drink
wine and eventually to fall into bed, wrapped in the warmth of flannel sheets
and each other.  "I like the idea of a holiday dedicated to love and joy,"
he'd said, grinning, when she'd asked him if he'd feel weird celebrating
Christmas.  He'd also pointed out that the date was originally that of a
pagan celebration in which debauchery and orgy figured prominently, and he
felt he could celebrate that kind of a holiday without qualm.

Scully felt tears very close to the surface.  It was not enough, it would
never be enough, the time they had together.  They lived dangerous lives, and
the odds were good that one of them would be taken suddenly, sooner or later,
leaving the other one to grieve.

Not now, not yet.  I haven't said everything, I haven't told him everything
that's in my heart.  I haven't had enough time to love him.

The tears spilled, burning against her cool cheeks.  She sank further down
into the sofa, burrowing in the old blanket, trying to push reality out. 
Exhaustion numbed her mind and clouded her senses, and slowly, relentlessly,
sleep overcame her.

/\*/\*/\*/\*/\*/\*/\*/\

She woke some time later and saw first that the snow had stopped.

Then, as her eyes adjusted again to the darkness, she could make out a dark
form in the chair across from her.  Her heart lurched.	She'd seen her father
in that chair, the night he died.  Ohgodohgodohgod . . .

She sat up frantically, gasping, and Mulder was at her side in a second, arms
tight around her, stroking her hair.  "It's OK, it's OK," he whispered. 
"It's me, I'm here."

Scully clutched at him, feeling the smooth leather of his jacket and the
roughness of his hair beneath her fingers.  She pressed her lips to the warm
soft skin just beneath his ear, sobbing her thanks and relief as Mulder
hugged her even tighter.

"Scully, hey," he said in alarm, lifting her face up from his chest to brush
ineffectually at her tears.  "Don't cry like that.  I'm sorry, I'll explain
everything, but please - don't cry."

He held her as the sobs subsided, still stroking her hair.  She could feel
the warmth of him through his jacket and shirt, feel it radiating from his
hands where he touched her.

Thank you thank you thank you thank you

Finally she pulled away, swiping at her nose and cheeks with her shirtsleeve.
 "Mulder," she asked in her tear-thickened voice, "Where the hell *were* you?
 You scared me out of my mind, I thought - I thought ..."

His eyes glittered in the light from the street lamp outside.  "I had to go
alone, Scully, I'm sorry - my source wouldn't let two of us in."

"Your source?  What source?  For what?"

"I found it, Scully," Mulder told her gently.  His whole bearing was full of
wonder and he seemed somehow more alive than he had in months.	"I've got
evidence, digital files that back up the scenarios we've presented to OPR
regarding the virus carried by bees and the place of Gibson Praise in all of
this."

She gaped at him.

"It's pretty conclusive, Scully.  It could go a long way towards getting us
the X-Files back."  He watched her, waiting for some response.

Scully swallowed, hard.  Her eyes locked with his, searching, wondering,
wanting.  And then the beginnings of a grin twitched at her lips.  "Mulder,"
she whispered, putting out one small hand to touch his cheek.  "I'm glad
you're back."

Mulder took her hand in his own and turned his head to put a kiss in her
palm.  He pulled her towards him, looping her arm around his neck.  "Scully,"
he breathed against her cheek, "Everything's going to be OK.  I can feel it."
 His lips, warm, so warm, closed on her own, and she inhaled the familiar
dark scent, aftershave and car exhaust and leather, that was him.

His lips moved to her jaw and trailed down her neck, and she shivered.	Nine
days.  Fading away by inches at his touch.

Mulder's hands were wandering.	His fingers lit along the edge of her shirt;
she could feel the resonant warmth at her waist.  "Where's your Christmas
tree, Scully?" he asked, smoky-voiced.	"You always have one."

"It didn't feel much like Christmas," she said simply.	"Mulder, I was so
worried, so afraid, I -"

"Sssh."  He pressed his fingers gently against her lips.  "I'm sorry, God, I
am.  But it's going to be worth it, Scully.  We're going to get our lives
back."	His mouth replaced his fingers, against her own mouth once more, and
she felt his tongue flicker briefly against her lips.

Opening to him, opening, taking him in, lips and tongues busy, reassuring of
life and solidity.  Scully let her head tip back, let his hands work the
buttons of her shirt and spread it open, cupping her breasts, igniting . . .
it never got old.  Every time there was something more, some other dimension
to explore.

Tonight's dimension was joy.

Scully hadn't ever considered the fine shading between happiness and real
joy.  Like soap bubbles, light, wondrous, floating up and up in buoyant
fragility.  It caught at her breath and left her gasping.

Mulder had sprung open her bra with adolescent glee and was busy tonguing her
right nipple.  Scully reached out to push the leather jacket off of his
shoulders, down his arms, and began working industriously at the buttons of
his own shirt.

That initial contact of skin on skin . . . heady, intoxicating, warmth
against warmth.  Mulder pushed himself against her, flattening her breasts,
pressing his heart as close as possible to hers, and bent to kiss her again. 
The smooth muscles of his back twitched under her feather-light touch.

His hand trailed down along her ribcage to the waistband of her leggings, and
pushed impatiently at the clinging material.  He broke their kiss, smiling,
eyes shining, and used both hands to finish undressing her with a single tug.
 Scully toed the leggings and panties away and lay before him, breasts rising
and falling with her uneven breaths.

"Beautiful," he murmured, bending low to place a single, reverent kiss on the
flat plane of her belly.  He stood up, eyes never leaving hers, and used one
hand to pull open the top button of his jeans with a small muffled pop.  Slow
pressure, and another pop.  A breath before the next one.

Scully smiled, enjoying the impromptu strip tease.

Mulder had finished with the buttons, and grinned evilly as he moved to push
the jeans down over his hips.  He stopped suddenly, a look of annoyed
puzzlement crossing his features.  Quickly, impatiently, he bent to tug off
his shoes and socks, returning to an upright position with a sheepish look
that made Scully laugh.

"Hurry," she breathed, still laughing.

Mulder shucked his jeans and boxers in short order, and moved back to the
couch to cover his body with her own.

Scully could feel in exquisite detail the small crisp hairs on his thighs and
the  strong muscles of his abdomen.  She arched up against the thick hardness
cradled in the crease of her hip, making Mulder groan involuntarily.

His hand, God, his hand was creeping lower, and he had pushed himself
slightly away from her to allow himself access.  Incredibly gentle, brushing
lightly between her legs, she wanted, wanted . . . without warning, one
finger slipped inside her, pressing up, making her writhe.  His big, callused
thumb, brushing paradoxically lightly against her clit.

Mulder's eyes were heavy, half-shut, but she could see him watching her
intently from beneath spiky lashes.  His mouth, full lower lip slightly
swollen where she'd nipped him earlier, hung open just a little bit, and his
breath came in short pants.  She felt the heavy hardness between his legs
twitch against her hip.

She reached down and took his hand away from her.  "Mulder," she hummed, in a
tone he couldn't fail to understand.

He settled himself between her thighs and lifted his eyes back to hers.

Thickness, hot hard thickness that filled her completely in one stroke. 
Scully arched to meet him, clutching at his back, at his buttocks.  This was
joy, then, this feeling so consuming and so far from peaceful.	She wanted to
shout, to scream, to cry, and thought she might break apart from the pressure
of holding it all in.

Mulder was moving against her, gasping, kissing her neck and jaw and nose and
even her eyebrows.  His face wore an expression she'd never seen , and she
knew he was feeling it too, this feeling that was almost unbearably intense.

Brightness.  Scully barely noticed when Mulder slid a hand between them and
used his thumb to stroke her, but she felt the overwhelming jolt of urgency
that the action produced.  He was hammering into her, bringing her with him,
urging her to feel it, feel it . . .

Scully felt the wetness on her cheeks and was surprised to discover that the
tears were her own.  Mulder was hovering over her, breath still ragged,
watching her with concern.

"Hey," he said, bending to kiss her nose.  "Think I lost you there for a
moment.  You OK?"

She nodded.  "Yeah.  Just stay here with me for a second, OK?"

"I'm not going anywhere, Scully.  Relax, 'K?"

Scully let herself melt into his embrace.

/\*/\*/\*/\*/\*/\*/\

The sun was just beginning to color the frost on her windowpane when she woke.

Alone.

She was fully dressed, the blanket clutched to her face damp with tears.

Scully pushed herself off the couch, head whipping around.  "Mulder?" she
asked the silence.

The air in the apartment was still, undisturbed by any presence other than
her own.

It was floating up, away, out of her reach.  Scully sank back onto the couch
with a low moan, a kind of keening.

Day ten.  Christmas day.

Joy was an illusion.

/\*/\*/\*End*/\*/\*/\

Feedback to krismackenzie@my-dejanews.com
Hope everyone's holiday season is truly joyous.