Rating: NC-17
Classification: MSR, Post-ep, AU
(Let's assume that Mulder and Scully could actually
start something good at this juncture.)
Spoilers: 'How the Ghosts Stole Christmas'
Summary: What were those presents, and how
did Christmas Day shape up for out two heroes?
Keywords: gifts both large and small

Feedback: alvaradomccain@earthlink.net

beta by the lovely sallie

There's a heavy snow falling In D.C., the heaviest in
years. Outside the apartment, thick, wet, flakes fall
fast and furious; blanketing the cars, the street lights,
the pavement. Hegal Place is quickly disappearing,
and the world is being made into white.

Pristine and still, it's a wintry counterpoint to a few hours
ago when Mulder and Scully lay bloody and dying--pseudo-shot
by each other in a hallucinogenic holiday murder/suicide pact.
They managed to agree that some unknown variable
induced this latest episode in their pair-bonded roadshow.

Arguing about ghosts will come later.

Currently, the two of them are listening to the dust collect
in Mulder's perennially cluttered apartment. They've
been silent for several long minutes, and the watery,
pale light of a winter dawn begins to creep across the room.
They're sitting side-by-side in the hush, wrapping paper
crumpled and tossed on the floor, cradling each of their
gifts in their hands.

They're also both grinning and holding their breath--
one wrong word will break the spell and they both
desperately want this spell to take hold. They've
have both been rabidly, privately in love with each
other for quite a while.

So rabidly, their personal lives contain little else but
each other. So privately, in fact, that they haven't been
able to bring themselves to do a damn thing about it.
Mulder did manage to get out a Demerol-laced 'I love you,'
a few months back, after being fished out of the Sargasso
Sea. Unfortunately, he didn't have the balls to follow
through, and Scully was too high-minded to take advantage
of a drugged man. And maybe afraid to find out that it might
not be true, once the hospital high evaporated, if she were
honest with herself.

Then there's that whole business of a global conspiracy
and fighting the apocalypse. Talk about limiting a person's
options. Who else could they turn to but each other?

But instead of hearts and flowers and profound declarations
of amor eternal, they each hoped their gift would be the
requisite last piece of the puzzle. They live for code
and innuendo. It's their native language.

Scully turns the object over and over in her hand.
It's scrimshaw, a mermaid with two linked rings etched
on her back, something New England sailors
fashioned on long, difficult journeys. A seafaring
man would carve figures every voyage, but only one
like this one -- for the love of his life. She knows its
significance, and knows he knows.

Mulder's counting on her figuring it out, and shifts so
that he can look her in the eye.

"It's beautiful...My God, Mulder..."

"So, I haven't screwed up, then?" Staring her down,
he's half expecting her to flinch. A lump starts to
form in his throat when she doesn't, inching close to
him instead. Her eyes are clear-blue, their expression
as serious as a heart attack.

"No, I'd say you figured out what I wanted...
wanted for a long time, actually." She rests her hand
on his thigh, which seems like an intensely erotic act
to both of them. "What about my present? Think it's
something you'll keep around?"

Sheathed in a parchment sleeve, he carefully pulls out a
leather-covered book, loosening the ties that keep it safe.
It's a small, perfect tome, with handmade papers,
hand-bound; it's a treasure that must be carefully opened.
He understands how important the unwrapping is.

Its secret is slowly revealed--it's poetry--Shakespeare's
sonnets. And the eminently practical giver has bookmarked
exactly the particular sonnet she wants him to see.

"I think I need you to read this to me..." handing it
back to her, waiting to see what she'll do.

Scully startles and tries to move back, maybe to gather
her courage, maybe to think of a snappy rejoinder,
but he won't let her get out of it. His proverbial
cat's out of the bag, and even though she's let him
know he wasn't insane to go for it, he wants her
intentions signed, sealed, and delivered.

He takes his hand and rests his fingertips at the base
of her throat, touching skin, feeling the life that pulses
there. "If you read it, then I'll know for sure..."

There's no turning back, so Scully carefully places her
gift on the coffee table, leans in closer to him
and opens the book. She starts off wavery, her voice
unsteady. "Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme."

She knows he's right, she needs to do this.
As she goes on, her voice becomes stronger, clearer.
The sonnet pledges love, devotion, and loyalty in
the face of destiny dangerous and forces cruel.
War, death, despair -- none of it has the power to
change the author's love. Her love.

This is what she's tried to keep secret.

She's come to the end, and lowers her voice.
It's a caress, meant for him as she finally speaks
the words and seals her fate.

"You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes."

"Yes?"

She can't make out the exact color of his eyes
in this early morning light, but his gaze pins her
where she sits, and she feels hot and cold and so
goddamn alive, she can't help trembling.

"Yes."

He can barely make out what she's saying because
his heart's drumbeating has almost drowned her out.
She's telling him, making sure.

"Yes."

Mulder slowly takes the book from her hands, setting it
next to where she placed the scrimshaw. Then he's
anything but careful, pulling her to him in a joyful,
urgent, clumsy mess.


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Kissing her hard, he's a man unleashed. Gripping her
arms, he's trying to position himself---pulling her closer,
pulling her underneath as they become one with his leather
sofa. He can feel Scully lacing her fingers against the back
of his head, pressing into his scalp, urging him on.
His mouth eagerly explores her--lips, cheeks, jawline.
Biting down on her earlobe, he feels her shudder.
Hotly trailing down her neck, licking and kissing his
way down, down, murmuring her name over and over--
he shoves the collar of her shirt aside so he can get
at her shoulder, her collarbone.

Yanking the tail of her shirt out from the waistband
of her pants, he needs to have more of her. Snaking one
hand under the crisp cotton, he circles the skin of her
lower back. He captures a breast with the other, his fingers
swirling over a nipple. He's crazy with lust and doesn't
stop until he's forced to surface for air, with her
panting right along with him.

She's half lying down, half in his lap. This time, Scully
captures him, pressing her body into his. Teasing his mouth
open, she's nipping at him, running the tip of her tongue
along the fullest part of his lower lip--she's been hungry
for so long, too long to hold back now.

Angling his face, she feasts on a tender spot on his neck,
just below his jawline. One of her hands pushes up the back
of his T-shirt and she feels the scrape of his skin
underneath her nails as she rasps them up and down his
spine. She can feel them breathing heavily, she's pressed
so tight against him. The sound coming both of them
falls somewhere between groaning and laughter.

She's aching and wet, and the world is blissfully dwindling
down to what he's doing to her, the necessity of it--
sensation, pure and simple. It's quite a shock for her
when the memory of today's game plan hits her full force,
effectively slaking her libido.

Trying to shift gears, she wrangles around, but it doesn't
seem to help the situation. Mulder's responding enthusiastically,
and soon they're horizontal. He's on top--their hips are flush,
and there's incontrovertible, hard evidence of the effect she
has on him. Almost killing each other, combined with six
years of denial, is apparently one of the world's most powerful
aphrodisiacs.

Mulder's still in an altered state, aware of little else
except how easily his mouth is fusing to silk of her skin,
the heat of her lower back against his hand spread wide,
his cock pressing against her parted legs. Slowly, other
sensations seep into his consciousness. One is a small hand
pushing against his sternum and the other is Scully
saying, "Mulder, stop."

"What...too much? Too fast?...." He gradually pulls
back, rights himself and eases them both up into a
sitting position. "Tell me..."

"Mulder..." She is completely, utterly disheveled
and has never looked more radiant. She blinks
slowly, trying to catch her breath..."I gotta go."

Several long second pass, arousal rapidly plummets,
and familiar despair rapidly starts its descent. "Why?"
He can hardly speak. Fissures in his heart are forming,
breaking is just a matter of time. He squeezes
his eyes shut, grimacing as he braces for impact.

As if she reads his mind, she cups his face in her hands
and kisses him tenderly. "My family...the Scully clan
Christmas confab." She strokes his brow with a gentle touch,
"I have to go...but you better be ready for me."

His features relax, but he still doesn't open his eyes.
"Ready for you, Scully?"

"As in...I'm coming back later. We have some unfinished
business, if I'm not mistaken."

Relief washes over him, "I've been ready since the middle
of the Clinton administration, Scully---the first one---
and have every reason to believe we can finish what we've
started. And hell, yes, you're coming back, because I won't
be held responsible for my actions if you don't." Opening
his eyes, he gives her a broad, goofy smile, that just
about dissolves all her intentions to forge onward to
her mother's house.

He's achieved a quick recovery, clearly, inspiring a truly
bizarre idea. She gives him the once over, contemplating
the extreme possibility. "Or you could come with me."

"So that Bill can deck the halls with my sorry ass?
I don't think your mother would approve."

"No, I don't suppose she would," she sighs. The image
of her brother glaring at the two of them across the
holiday dinner table is enough to snap her back to reality.
"I really do have to go..."

"Then you go, Scully." He gets up slowly and helps her
to her feet. "I'll be here, you know me."

"This doesn't feel right, Mulder." She's torn, the weight
of it makes her bow her head, tense under his touch.

"You being with your family is exactly the right thing,"
he leans in and whispers in her ear. "Go. Make merry.
Then get yourself back here---I'm not done unwrapping
my Christmas present." That's the exactly the right
response, he sees her relax and the beginnings of a
smile.

"Only if I can get my hands on the rest of mine."

"My, my, Agent Scully, there's an image that'll keep
my interest today. I think I can accommodate that
request."


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


He's standing against the doorjamb of his bathroom,
with his arms folded across his chest, watching Scully
finish pulling herself together. Standing at his sink,
her hair's combed, her face's washed, and makeup
applied. She finishes putting on her lipstick, noting his
surveillance with a sidelong glance.

"Mulder...are you finding all this fascinating?" She
gives him a little smirk, and turns away to blot her
lips with a tissue.

"Riveting, actually." He closes the distance between them
surprising her as she turns around. Before she can say
a word, he's cradling her face with both hands.

"I'll be careful," he promises, placing a tiny kiss on
the corner of her mouth, the tip of her nose, her temples.
"Stay."

"I can't." She looks up at him, feeling like they've
wasted too much time and promises herself he won't
ever have to ask her that again.

"I know, I thought I should still ask."

"Why?"

"Just making sure I'll get lucky tonight."

Now they're both laughing and he goes to the foyer
and retrieves her coat. She makes her way from
bathroom and meets him at the door. Slipping it
on, she's ready, and he holds open the door.
He's still watching her every move, but she doesn't
mind it.

"Mulder, can I ask you for something?"

"Anything...Everything."

The look from those eyes could sear the clothes
right off her back, and for a split second, she loses
her train of thought. She rallies, and gives him
a wicked look of her own.

"Eggnog."

"I'm sorry...you want what?" He likes the cagy
flirtation. Scully's trying her hand at a little
gamesmanship, and he decides to play along.

"Your heard me. Eggnog. Real. I'll be back by seven.
Have it here. I'll bring the Bushmills."
And with that, she makes her exit, and Mulder
shuts the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The weather's cleared and it's sunny--everything's
blanketed in smooth, shimmering white. The roads were
navigable--thankfully, plows had been out during the night,
and she'd made decent time getting to Annapolis. It's a
little after eight a.m., by the time Scully's knocking on
her mother's door. It takes some juggling, what with the
enormous armful of gifts. She's Auntie Day as well as
daughter, sister and noticeably single sister-in-law.

"Honey, is that you under all those presents?" Maggie
opens the door and ushers her daughter inside. She lets
her deposit all the gifts underneath the tree before she
wraps her arms around her. There's a balsam fir, huge and
glittery, with presents stacked knee-high around it.
The house is redolent with holiday smells--pine, cinnamon,
and cloves; Scully thinks she can also make out the scent
of coffee and bacon.

"Sweetheart, I was beginning to get worried... you
know everything starts around here as soon as it's
daylight. We've already done the first round of gifts."
Maggie searches Scully's face for signs of trouble,
and sees only happiness. She has an idea why, but
decides to say nothing.

Scully starts to explain, "Mom, I told you when I called
about Midnight Mass...I had to meet Mulder..." She feels
sheepish, partially because she's missed services, partially
because of arriving late, and mostly because she's convinced
her mother has intuited the monumental shift in her
personal life.

Bill and toddling Matthew have emerged from the
kitchen. Tara stayed behind, putting the last touches
on breakfast. "Brat! Finally...nice of you to stop by.
I heard that last bit. What did that sorry SOB of a partner
have you doing?"

Scully steps out of her mother's embrace, "Merry Christmas,
to you, too." Kneeling down, she holds out her arms and
her nephew waddles into her open arms.

"Hey, little plum...miss your Auntie Day, did 'ya?"
She refuses to look at her brother, and busies herself
with counting Matthew's fingers and toes.

"Bill, aren't you glad to see your sister?" Maggie chides
her eldest and doesn't break eye contact with him.

"Yeah, mom, I am. C'mon, brat...get over here and let
me give you a hug." Bill swallows his temper, and waits
for his stubborn sister to acknowledge him.

Scully scoops up Matthew, holding him with one arm on
her hip, and walks over to her brother. Slipping the other
one around Bill's waist, she whispers in his ear as he
leans down, "Truce?"

He nods and pulls back, seeing the smile on her face
and her pleading eyes. "Yeah, Day. Love you, too.
Take off your coat and stay awhile."

Maggie leaves the two of them to help Tara set the table.


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Breakfast's finished, and for the last few hours,
the family's been camped out in the living room, opening
the last of the presents and reliving Christmases past.
Scully's pleased with the response to her choices--Irish
wool sweaters for everyone, tickets to the ballet for her
mother, spa day for Tara, a first edition book on naval
history for Bill, and for Matthew, enough educational
toys to stock a pre-school. She wonders when she'll
be able to make time to enjoy her gifts--the music of
Satie and Chopin, and Acqua de Parma bath salts and
lotion. For a second, she luxuriates in the mental image
of someone in particular drizzling scented water between
her shoulder blades, smoothing lotion down the curve
of her spine, and forces herself to shift gears.

The telephone rings, and there's joking and yelling
and clambering to see who'll speak first, when Maggie
informs the group that the caller is none other than
Charlie--stationed aboard the U.S.S. Derringer, in the
South China Sea. Using his natural charisma and gift
of gab, he managed to get himself patched to a land line.
Scully's the first to talk, and she's full of teasing
and sisterly advice. She wishes that he was here for
so many reasons, not the least of which is that she
could always be honest with him about what was going
on in her life. She thinks he'd like Mulder, they're
both a pain in the ass in the same way--charming, and
relentless when they go after something.

As Bill, Tara, and Maggie take their turns, she
climbs into her mother's overstuffed wing chair, and
coaxes Matthew onto her lap, ostensibly to see if he's
ready for a nap. Scully holds him close, and starts
humming and rocking him gently. She breathes in his
sweet-powder-baby smell, and wonders what he dreams
about. Trying to stifle a yawn, she feels her own
exhaustion finally catch up to her. Soon, the two of
the them are out cold.

Something stirring rouses her, and it's her mother
taking Matthew from her arms. She places him tenderly
in his playpen, covering her big boy with his quilt.

Scully gets to her feet and rubs her eyes. "Hmmm....
Sorry, Mom. I must've dozed off." She has no idea
how long she's been asleep, but she assumes it's been
awhile.

"It's OK, sweetie," Maggie whispers. "Looks like
the two of you could do with a nap."

"No, really, I'm fine." Looking around the room,
she notices Bill and Tara are nowhere to be found.
"Where are...?"

"I sent them to get some last-minute things for dinner.
I've got most of the preparation done, and we'll be ready
to eat at three." She takes her daughter by the shoulders,
"You, daughter of mine, are marching right to the guest
room, where you are going to get some rest."

"But Mom..." Scully's attempt at protest are cut off.

" 'But Mom' nothing...You, in bed, that's an order,
understood? I've got Tara to help me with getting
things ready and Bill can keep an eye on Matt.
Now, move it."

They both laugh softly as Scully lets herself be
steered to bed.

She undresses and lays her clothes carefully on the
chair next to the dresser. A quick shower is a must-have.
Damp and drowsy afterward, she crawls between thick
quilts and flannel sheets, thinking about scrimshaw
and sonnets before sleep finds her.


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Standing rib roast with a crown of rosemary, twice-baked
potatoes, roasted vegetables, wilted spinach--Maggie Scully
has done her usual Christmas turn. Bill brought a lovely
Merlot, and there was toasting to family and health and
happiness. When Maggie wished for each of her children
their heart's desire, she couldn't help but notice her
daughter smiling to herself as she sipped her wine.

A buche noel is waiting on a sideboard still untouched,
and there's coffee, but everyone's too stuffed to indulge
at the moment. Scully's shooing everyone else into the
living room, clearing off the remains of dinner. Once back
in the kitchen, she feels a twinge of guilt when she
imagines what Mulder's day was like.

She never let herself think about him on the holidays
before, telling herself there had to be some part of her
life that was sacrosanct, untouchable by him. But after
Antarctica, that need has been slowly eroding. Folding
the dishtowel, her thoughts drift to eggnog and good Irish
whiskey, the feel of her partner's mouth on hers, and
she remembers there's still some gifts that need to be
opened. Checking her watch, she sees it's almost five--
there's one last thing she need to do before she leaves.


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully's sitting in the quiet, perched on the edge of
her mother's bed. On her lap is a weathered photo album,
opened to pictures of her and Missy. There's one she needs
to find, has to see. It's the two of them, the Christmas before
she was killed. They're standing in front of the tree and
Missy's behind her, arms wrapped around her little sister's waist,
head poking above her shoulders. They're both mugging for
the camera, sticking their tongues out, going all out for effect.
As soon as the flash went off, Missy tickled her until she was
howling with laughter.

She tenderly strokes the image of her sister's face.
"Well, Ms. Missy, it's been a rough year. But there's
one recent development that should make you happy.
Finally took your advice." Smiling, she remembers her
sister daring her to 'go get that beautiful tortured soul
and cure what ails him.' Suddenly, senses there's someone
behind her. Turning around, she sees it's Bill.

"Mom's reading to Matt and Tara's watching 'It's A
Wonderful Life." He comes over and sits next to Scully.
"Wanted some time with her too, huh?"

Scully doesn't say anything, but carefully presses down
the corners of the picture so that it's secure.

Bill's voice is soft, much softer than Scully is used to.
"I don't blame you for what happened, I don't..."

Scully slowly closes the album, and sets it next to her,
and slides closer to her brother. "I know..."

Bill cuts her off, still almost whispering, but there's
vehemence fueling his words. "I blame him. For all of it...
Missy...what happened to you...that prick partner
of yours is the cause of it all."

Her spine stiffens at the words, and anger tightens
her jaw, makes the pulse in her temples throb.
She turns so she's facing him--when she speaks,
her words are clipped, and her voice ices over.
"Shut up, Bill."

He starts to respond, but she holds up her hand and keeps
going, insistent on making her point. She can feel herself
trembling--something's snapped, a line's been crossed and
there's no going back. "Don't...don't ever say that
again, not to me, not to anyone in this family. He's
fought the people who are responsible for what we've had
to endure...He's had losses you couldn't begin to
understand."

Bill can't take it, can't believe he's hearing this.
"You love him, don't you?"

"He's my friend, my partner..."

"Cut the crap, Day. Do you hear how you sound when
you talk about him? You should listen to yourself sometime...
I know he's in love with you. I saw how he looked at you
when you were sick..."

"What I feel about him is my business. And if you ever
attack him again, I will not be a part of your life."

"What in the hell are you saying?" He's getting
incrementally louder now, despite trying to keep himself
in check, trying not to lose it. "You'd turn your back
on us? Mom? Charlie? Tara and Matt?"

Scully's lowered her voice, and leans in to make her point.
"Not them. Just you."

"You don't mean that." This response has caught him totally
off-guard. He never meant for it to go this far. He loves
his family, his sisters, especially--but Bill Scully has always
needed the simple answer. Fox Mulder was the simplest
answer to the loss and grief his family's suffered.

"I've never been more serious in my life." There's nothing
but an expression of steely resolve in his sister's eyes.

No one says anything for what seems like a long, long time.

"Just tell me one thing, Day. Is he worth it?"

Scully exhales a long sigh, "Yes."

"I don't know if I'll ever be okay with this." He feels
tired, and sad, and swears to himself that he'll never
understand what his beautiful, brilliant sister sees in
that morose, crusading sonovabitch. But he loves her
enough to suck it up and keep his mouth shut.

"But you'll try, right?" She gets up and kisses him
on the cheek.

"Just promise me we'll never have to have a Hallmark
moment."

"I guarantee you, no one's expecting that..."

That gets a laugh from both of them.

Checking her watch, she sees it's about five. She picks
up the album and gives it to him, gently resting a
hand over his as he goes to take it.

"I should get going...We're good?"

"Yeah...yeah, we're good. Merry Christmas, Brat."

"Merry Christmas, big brother."

Scully turns and walks away, leaving Bill and Melissa
some time alone together.


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She makes a quick check in the living room, finding
Tara and Matthew conked out on the sofa. Planting soft
kisses on both of them, she grabs her coat and her
presents, getting herself ready for the drive back to D.C.
Making her way into the kitchen, she sees her mother's
pulled the remains of today's feast out of the fridge, and is
busily wrapping up two heaping plates of food with tin foil.

"Mom, what's this for?" This is way too much food for her
alone.

Without looking up, Maggie answers as if the answer
was obvious, "Honey, this is for you and Fox...for later."

"What are you talking about? I never said I was seeing
Mulder tonight."

"No, you didn't...But you are, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Scully feels
herself blush and starts fidgeting with the buttons on
the cuffs of her shirt.

Maggie hands her a large paper bag. "Here, hold this open,
let's put your things on the bottom, then the food on top."
She can see she's hit the nail on the head, as she places
everything safely inside. "You know something, Dana?"

"What's that, Mom?"

"Of all the kids, Bill and Missy could always get one over
on me....Charlie, every once in a while. But you were,
and still are, a really horrible liar...Never could fool me....
Tell Fox I said hello and wish him a happy holiday."

She kisses her mother's cheek, "I love you, mom."


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It seems more than slightly surreal, but here she is, standing at
Mulder's door. She's set the land speed record for the Baltimore
to D.C. commute, even managing to swing by her place.
Dashing inside, she stripped off her clothes, shimmied into
fresh bra and panties, tossed on jeans and a low-cut, gray sweater
with buttons up the front. Snagging the bottle of Bushmills
she'd bought months ago for some hoped-for, future special
occasion, she was back in the car and on her way to
Hegal Place in record time.

Bottle in one hand and bag of goodies in the other, she
consolidates her bounty and knocks on the door. Mulder flings it
open and ushers her inside. Taking the bag from her, he duly notes
the whiskey resting right on top, and sets it gingerly on the
floor.

Freshly shaved and showered, his hair's still wet and spiky,
and he's sporting a grin wide enough to split his face.
Wearing a white dress shirt, black slacks, he's barefoot.

"You're here...," He helps her off with her jacket, hangs it
on the hook on the wall. The sweater she's wearing definitely
scores some points, judging by the appreciative nod
he's giving her.

"I am." Her hair's windblown, and as she tries to finger comb
it, he stops her, smoothing the strands back into place himself.

"No cold feet, then." He catches her eye and waits to see
what she says.

"Nope, but it looks like you might be getting some."

He wants to run with the unintentional double entendre,
but doesn't. "I was just finishing getting dressed...Wait here,
I'll be done in a sec."

She stops him before he can go any where. "No, don't...
Let me join you," and kicks off her boots. She's a good
three inches shorter now. She wiggles her bare toes against
the ridges in the hardwood floor; she didn't bother to put
on any socks in her rush to get here.

"I like how you think." Mulder pulls her to him in a loose
embrace, and stoops down to confide in her ear.

"I've been a busy boy while you've been gone. Wanna see
what I've been up to?"

"Do I have a choice?" she teases.

"Scully, you wound me, and no, you don't. But before my
most excellent handiwork is revealed, let me put this
stuff away." He eases away and picks up the bag,
heading for the kitchen. Over his shoulder he yells,
"Don't move....Stay right there!"

Carefully taking everything out of the bag, Mulder sets it
all on his kitchen counter. He puts the plates in the fridge
after sneaking a good look, checks out the CD's, and
promises himself as soon as possible to help his partner
reinvent bath time with the rest of what must be her
Christmas gifts. Tucking the bottle of whiskey under
his arm, he's heading back like a man with a purpose.

She dutifully stays glued to the spot until he comes back.
As soon as he's in her line of sight, she starts tapping her
foot and motioning him over, all mock impatience. He
lopes over, slips behind her and cover her eyes with
his hands. "Start walking," nudging her forward with his hip,
bumping into her, as they shuffle across the floor.

"Where are you taking me, and what is this surprise
you've hatched?"

"Shhhhh...too much talking."

Getting her to the final destination is no mean feat, given
Scully's giggling, squirming and fidgeting. Mulder keeps the
prisoner under control, her eyes covered and pressed flush
against his chest. He makes sure they twist and turn their
way through the apartment, partially to throw her off, and
because he's enjoying the hell out of her rubbing up
against him.

Finally, he positions her in just the right spot
and stops moving. Standing on the threshold of his
bedroom, it's time to see if all his hard work pays off.

"You're making me crazy!" she pleads.

"The very words I long to hear...."

"Mulder!"

"Okay, if you insist....One....Two....Three," whipping away
his hands with a flourish.

Scully's mouth drops open and she's silent and stunned.

The ceiling is strung completely from front to back with tiny,
twinkling lights. Mulder's hung the stars for her.

Sitting on the dresser, next to a couple of coffee mugs,
is an ice bucket holding two quarts of Bluebell Farms
Best Ultra Rich Eggnog. Next to it is a tiny Norfolk pine,
tiny red circles hanging from its branches.

"Not what you expected?"

"More...she murmurs, "It's so much more..."

Walking to the dresser, he sets down the bottle, and
beckons her with a crook of her finger. In an instant she's
there, pulling him down to her level and kissing him slowly,
over and over, not planning on stopping until he's been
properly thanked.

He could take her to bed right now, peel off their clothes
and dive into her body, but he wants her to have everything,
including the memory of a night of celebration. So he stops
her with gentle brush of his fingertips against her lips.

"I'm not finished yet." She smiles up at him, daring him
to explain.

"Neither am I, Scully, but there's a tree requiring your
inspection, and I believe there's also eggnog as per your
request."

"And then?"

"I'm sure we can come up with something....You look
thirsty." He leads her to the edge of the bed, and she
climbs in, piles the pillows against the head board and
settles back, preparing to be waited upon.

While he pours some of Bluebell's finest and Bushmills,
she takes a closer look at the little evergreen and its
decorations. The ornaments--there's something oddly
familiar about them--cherry-red, round, with a hole
in the middle. It dawns on her what, in fact, they are.

"Mulder...those ornaments...are they...?"

He was wondering how long it would take her to figure it
out. "Lifesavers."

"But, Mulder, there's got to be dozens hung on there." This
is not the oddest thing she's seen in six years, but it's one of
the most inspired. His Q rating is skyrocketing, and she
has every intention of spending the remainder of the night
making him a happy, happy man.

"Seven dozen, for the record...Let's just say that convenience
stores in Alexandria in the last twelve hours have experienced
record sales of a certain candy. Strung 'em myself, with my
own thread, I might add."

She imagines him driving around his neighborhood, hitting
one 7-11 after another, a man on a mission. Then carefully
stringing each one, setting them in place amongst the branches.
The tree...there's something about the tree, too. She knows
the florists were all closed today. She starts to ask him
something,
when he climbs into bed next to her, a mug in each hand, hands
her one, and makes a toast.

"Cheers."

She clinks her drink to his, "Cheers."

Recognition hits her. "The lobby at the Bureau...you didn't..."

He tries look as bland and innocent as possible. "What?"

"You stole a tree from the holiday display!" Not really
shocked, she's looking forward to hearing how he'll explain
this latest transgression.

"I have every reason to believe that certain flora at headquarters
may have been contaminated with ectoplasmic residue. I explained
to the guard on duty that I would have to take a sample for
spectrographic analysis. I'm holding it here, for safekeeping,
until the lab opens tomorrow."

"Mulder, that is quite possibly your personal best as far as
b.s. is concerned."

With that, Scully lifts her drink and takes a hefty swig,
and keeps drinking until there's not a drop left. Mulder follows
suit behind her. It's rich, sweet, and laced with enough liquor to
give each of them a jump start on a nice buzz.

Taking the mugs, he places them on the nightstand. She's
slid down so that she can get a better look at her home-strung
heaven on the ceiling. He tucks a pillow underneath her head,
grabs one for himself, and the two of them lay side by side
staring upward. Placing her hand on his chest, they label
the constellations in the stillness that surrounds them.

"Cassiopeia," he insists.

"Ursa Major." she parries.

"Ursa Minor." He'll offer a compromise to keep the peace.

"Frohike?" She's trying to figure out where he got Italian lights
on a major holiday, with all the hardware stores closed.

"He owed me a favor."

"Mulder..." Desire is blooming inside her, and she knows what
should happen next. She wants to stop talking about the stars,
she wants him.

"Yeah, Scully..."

"Make love to me..."

These are four words he'll remember above all others.


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She's still on her back, and he props up her with more
pillows--her smile blazes in the flicker of their
private starlight.

"Hey," he whispers, lowering himself onto her.
"Time to tell Santa if you've been naughty or nice."

His brain spins with scent of her, warm and musky,
skin dappled and alive as shadows dance over
her. These are pieces of her he'll carry in his heart
until the last of time slips away.

They start laughing, and she looks like a woman who
has gotten everything she ever wanted. Scully pulls his
head down, and presses her face into the curve of his
neck and brushes her lips, dry and warm, in the notch
above his collar bone again, and again.

All the urgency of the early morning is gone, as they free
each other from their clothes. Mulder's rolled onto his back,
and pulled Scully on top, so that she's straddling him.
The light from above dots her pale skin as he slowly unbuttons
her sweater. As each button's undone, he lingers, drawing
down his fingers against each newly revealed spot. Finally,
the sweater's unbuttoned and hanging loosely from her
shoulders. His hands stroke both breasts, swirling over the lacy
fabric, his fingers closing tightly over her tightening nipples.
Her eyes partially close against the sensation.

Capturing his hands, she kisses his fingertips.
"Not fair," she says, shaking her head. "Your shirt's gotta go."

Scully's deft hands unbutton the front of his shirt. Pushing
aside the cool cotton, she leans down and kisses the smooth
plane of his chest, hears his heart beat, kisses it again. Then
she takes each arm, unbuttons the cuff and presses her
mouth to his pulse, "Mine," is all she says. As soon as the
word escapes, Mulder's arms swoop around her tightly, pulling
the front of her body against him. Then their mouths plunder
one another until they're both wound tight and breathless.
Soon they're a tangle of arms and legs, their hands fumbling
at zippers, pushing down the rest of their clothes until the
offending garments are completely off and shoved aside.

Lying face to face, he almost can't believe this is finally
happening, finally real. He takes her hand, wrapping it
around the hard length of his shaft. Dragging the tip of
her thumb up and down, she cradles his thrusts, closing
her palm around him. Her fingers circle the head of his cock,
feather light at first, then more deeply, as he moans in her ear.
Drawing a deep uneven breath, he shudders out, "Only you."

Rolling underneath him, she wraps a hand around the back
of his head, bowing his body toward to hers. His hand stroke
the length of her thighs, up and down, in a slow torture, Parting
her legs for him, reaching for him, she begins to slip his cock
inside her. She's molten honey, tightening around him as
he inches down, down, down---until he's buried inside her.
Angling himself, rubbing against her clit, it's going to happen
soon--they're trembling--they're edging toward a supernova.
Then it hits, hits hard, expands, contracts, rolls in on itself
and the universe condenses to this room, the fused knot
of their bodies.

They're heaven, they're a world being born.


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She sits up and reaches for the covers. Mulder only lets her
go for a second, though. Grabbing her and the comforter,
he cocoons the two of them in a jumble of bedding and
post-coital bliss. Arms and legs wrapped around her,
he announces, "I'm not letting you out of this bed."

She's wriggling against him, scooting up so that she can look
him the eye. This is not an unpleasant experience for
either of them.

"Ever?"

"Not in the foreseeable future."

"We have jobs, you know..." She starts to run her
fingers through his hair.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." He feels his body
relax into the warmth of the bed and her body.

"I brought food."

"Partake of love's food with me."

"Oh, brother."

"Not the response I was looking for, Scully." He tries
to stifle a yawn unsuccessfully.

"Mulder, when's the last time you slept?"

"I'll sleep later...this elf's gonna rock your world."
His eyes slip shut, he can't help it. Blinking slowly,
he tries to rouse himself. He's been up for 48 hours,
he's pushing forty, and just had the first orgasm--
with a partner--in years.

Scully croons in his ear, low and hypnotic. "Mulder...
listen to me...Time to close your eyes..." For once,
he does what he's told.

"Scully..." Her name's a slurred whisper.

"Shhhhhh." Soon the shallow pull of his breath
tells her he's on his way to surveilling St. Nick 
in his dreams. Kissing him softly, she settles down, 
ready to join him.


FIN

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

This is dedicated to author extraordinaire, jenna, whose
brilliant story, 'The Stars Are Not Wanted,' is filed under
'Love's Object Lesson. '