Taming The Unicorn 3: The Holiday Spirit

Where was he?!?

She should have called a cab. What on earth had possessed her to call Mulder? Somehow, she'd come to rely on him, and what a mistake that was. Become too dependent on anyone, trust anyone too much, and they were bound to let you down sooner or later...

Scully blinked back tears, told herself firmly that they were due to the stinging winter wind, and stared out at the snowy road.

The tow truck had been and gone, taking her car with it; she'd stayed behind, shivering beside the pay phone, because she'd already called Mulder, and she didn't want him to come all the way out there for nothing, and for some inexplicable annoying reason he wasn't answering his cellphone AGAIN, and (she vowed to herself) she was never ever ever going to do anything as stupid as relying on Mulder in an emergency, never again...

Churning snow and the growl of an engine distracted her from her thoughts; she looked up, and there was his car, pulling over next to the pay phone.

She ran to the car, tugged the door open and hurled herself into the passenger seat, not caring that she was getting snow all over the place, not caring about anything but the fact that she was finally warm and out of the rapidly escalating snowstorm. "Where the hell have you been?" she snapped.

"None of the major roadways have been plowed yet. I had to navigate between the snowdrifts." If there was a note of hurt in his voice, she refused to acknowledge it.

Something dropped onto her lap -- a big, fluffy towel; she took it and began to dry herself off as best she could, struggling to nurture her anger.

"Sorry to drag you away from the party," she lashed out at him, reminding herself forcibly why she was so angry.

"Oh, I wasn't at the party. It wasn't much fun after you left." He considered for a moment. "Of course, it wasn't much fun before you left, either," and the edge to his voice told her that he was nurturing some resentment of his own.

But what did he have to be angry about?!? "Sorry, but I'm not much for parties where the main entertainment is watching you flirt with the secretarial pool."

"Flirting with the secretarial pool is how I get our mail delivered in the morning, instead of midway through the afternoon," he replied, in a voice that seemed to her to be carefully neutral, "and how I get our requisitions pushed to the top of the heap in spite of all departmental policy, or hadn't you noticed? Besides," and again there was that sharp edge of underlying anger in his voice, "I didn't think you cared."

She cursed herself for giving that much away. "I didn't say I cared," she parried, even though it was a transparently obvious semi-lie. Score one for Mulder, she thought bitterly.

"You know," he continued, not deigning to notice her feeble comeback, "I can drive you home, or we can sit here bickering until the snow piles up around the car and I can't drive you home. Your choice."

"Take me home," she said sullenly, fighting back the tears that she could no longer blame on the wind. She'd planned their Christmas Eve to be so different; instead, everything had gone wrong. She'd thought she'd be saying those words to him in a completely different way, but instead...

He didn't notice her distress; he was busy starting the car and pulling it onto the road -- instantly, she realized how bad the weather had gotten since her car had broken down, and felt guilty for having attacked him for his lateness. Damn it, why should I feel guilty? At least I gave him a present!

She'd left it on his desk, where he couldn't possibly miss it, neatly giftwrapped -- but when she'd come in later, to see his reaction, the box had been gone, and he'd acted as if he'd never even seen it. Even if he hated it, he could have at least mentioned it... And it began to make sense when five o'clock came and went and there was no sign that he'd bothered to get her anything.

And then, at the stupid party...

How could he do this to me? she thought, turning away from him to gaze blindly at the fogged-up passenger window so that he wouldn't see that she was on the verge of crying. And why?

It was true that officially, they had no relationship -- had not even discussed the possibility of a relationship at all -- that in fact all they'd really had was a matched set of sexual encounters; that certainly didn't count as a commitment of any sort. But his behavior at the party had been so callous, so hurtful... it made no sense to her, why he would treat her that way; but the senselessness of it didn't mitigate the pain in the least.

She felt the car swerve, begin to skid -- quickly blinking back the tears, she turned to survey the road, to look at Mulder; but he was already pulling out of it, straightening the car and driving onward. This is terrible weather, she thought dismally, I shouldn't have dragged him out into it... Caring for him was such a habit, she supposed, that she couldn't stop doing it even when she was furious at him.

"Like I said, I had a little trouble driving over," he said, without looking at her, and his voice was cool and detached and laced with the particular brand of sarcasm that he used to mask pain.

"You didn't have to come and get me," she muttered, feeling sorry now for her earlier jab at him, but too angry about everything else to apologize for it.

"Sure I did. I'm your slave for life, remember?" And the facade cracked as he spoke the words, revealing a depth of emotion that startled her: bitterness, slow-burning rage, and an anguish that easily matched her own.

She stared at him, and wanted to hug him, to make the pain go away: wanted to wrap her arms and legs around him and pull him close, feel the strength and warmth of his body against hers: wanted to slam her fists into him and scream at him, "Why did you hurt me?"

Instead, she did nothing at all, dividing her attention between the road and his driving, as the silence between them grew.

By the time he pulled into her parking spot, the snowstorm was so bad that it was obvious Mulder would be sleeping in his car, or on her couch. "Come on in," she said ungraciously, resenting anew the fact that this homecoming was so radically different from the way she'd planned it, and made her way to the front door without looking behind to see if he was following her.

She didn't look at him as he trailed her to her apartment door, as she fumbled with the key, as she strode inside and stripped off her coat. Only when she turned around did he come into her field of vision; and that was when she noticed that the walk from the parking lot had left him as soaked to the skin as she was, and that he was carrying a large bag. "What's that?"

Mulder reached into the plastic shopping bag, drew out two boxes -- first the one she'd given him, and then another brightly-wrapped gift, which he tossed onto the couch in turn. "What do you think?" he shot back. "Y'know, when I envisioned us opening our gifts together, I didn't foresee things turning out quite this way."

Scully stared at the gifts, resting haphazardly side-by- side on the sofa. "You bought me a present," she said, as if to herself.

"Of course I bought you a present. As if I wouldn't get you a present." Then, all at once, the sarcasm left his voice, as if a light had suddenly dawned. "You didn't think..."

She found herself unable to look at him. "I'm going to go change," she said instead, and disappeared into her bedroom as quickly as she could.

Mechanically, she stripped off her clothes layer by layer. He bought me a present. And how could she have thought he'd forget? Not even at his most obsessive had he ever been that thoughtless... But that doesn't explain his behavior at the party. Nothing could explain that. Tears welled up in her eyes again. In front of everyone, like he couldn't even bear the idea...

Clamping down on the emotion and sealing it away inside herself, she threw on an old pair of comfortable sweatpants and a loose shirt, ignoring the seductive outfit she'd laid out at the ready, and rummaged in the bottom drawer that contained Mulder's clothes -- contingency planning, the same reason why they had keys to each other's apartments, and copies of each other's eyeglass prescriptions in their respective wallets. She dug out a change of clothing at random and carried it with her when she emerged from her room. "Here," she said, and tossed the garments toward him; he caught everything except the shirt on the first try, scooped up the last item from the floor, and headed into the bathroom.

While he was changing, she put on the kettle to boil -- almost as an afterthought, she turned on the oven and threw in the dinner she'd prepared in advance, back when she'd thought this was going to be one of their 'special' evenings. Can't let perfectly good food go to waste. By the time he returned, clad in fresh clothes and rubbing his hair dry with one of her towels, she was curled up on the couch beneath the crocheted afghan her grandmother had given her ("I suppose there's no sense leaving this in your hope chest," had been Nanna's words, a tart sentiment that had forever tainted her memory of receiving the gift) watching a weather-alert in lieu of another rerun of "A Christmas Carol" or "It's A Wonderful Night". The presents he'd chucked onto the sofa had been moved, placed next to the tiny plastic Christmas tree on the end-table -- they would've been in the way anywhere else, according to Scully's rationalization.

"Tea's brewing, food's in the oven," she informed him tersely.

He stood there in front of her, deliberately blocking her view of the television screen. "Is there room for me, or should I sit on the floor?" he inquired, matching her blunt tone, and she moved her legs fractionally to give him space.

It was as if there was a foot-thick steel wall between them, so impenetrable was the silence. It felt unnatural to Scully; it hurt, and there was absolutely no doubt in her mind that it was hurting him too, even if he wasn't letting it show. Opening our gifts together, she remembered him saying, and wondered for the first time what plans he might have had for their evening. He'd never been much for celebrating holidays; he'd once told her that the only reason he bothered to observe any of the winter festivities were because she did, because things like Christmas presents and parties mattered to her. But if that were the case, then why...

The tea kettle began to whistle, and she started to get up; "I'll do it," said Mulder, sounding as if he was relieved for an excuse to escape her company.

"I don't like the way you make tea," she lashed out.

"Then I won't make you any," he snapped back, and stormed off.

He returned with two mugs, though -- hot chocolate, she noticed, when he set them down on the table; was that his idea of a compromise, an attempt to make peace? If so, she couldn't tell by the way he scowled down at her. "No marshmallows," he said. "What kind of house has cocoa and no marshmallows?"

Something inside her snapped; abruptly, she had had enough of his attitude. "Mine!" she shouted. "You're damned lucky that I didn't leave you outside in the snow; so shut up before I change my mind!"

"Oh, you mean the same way you left me at the party?" he countered furiously. "You're going to leave me sitting in my car the same way you left me sitting all alone at the bar like an idiot?"

"You left me standing under the mistletoe!" she yelled back, hating herself for being so upset, so helpless against the strength of her feelings. "You couldn't even bring yourself to give me one little kiss..."

"Of course not," was his incredulous reply. "Not in public."

Something in his voice made her look up, into his eyes -- and what she saw stunned her into silence; she couldn't define it, precisely, but it was deeper and stronger than anything she'd seen there before, and nothing like what she'd expected to find.

"I've waited for years for the chance to kiss you," he continued, in the same tone. "Do you really think I could trust myself to do it in front of all those people, and make it look like we were just friends? You think I wanted to share that first kiss with a crowd? Especially that crowd?"

She stared at him for a long, long moment, and this time she made no effort to hide the tears forming in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered finally. "I misunderstood... everything."

It was all beginning to sink in and make sense to him now, the same way it had come clear for her a moment earlier: the chain of events, one small communications-breakdown after another linking to form their disastrous evening, and how unnecessary and stupid it had all been. She saw the realization melt away the last of the ice in his direct gaze, dissolving the final remnants of the barriers that had formed between them, and the relief she felt was so overwhelming that she could no longer keep herself from crying.

"Hey..." His hands caught hers and tugged, and she let him pull her to her feet, and into his arms. "I didn't mean to hurt you; I don't ever want to hurt you..." She half- expected him to try to kiss her then, but instead he just held her, stroking her hair, her shoulders, her back, slow soothing caresses. So she rested her head against his chest and let the tears flow freely, just for a moment. "Scully, please don't cry," she heard him say, and the distress in his voice dried up the tears in her eyes -- his fingertips brushed across her cheeks and wiped away the rest. "I'm sorry..."

"Let's just forget it and try to start over, okay?" It wouldn't be the same, of course, as if everything had gone smoothly from the start; but they could still manage to salvage the evening. And later, maybe she would work her way back to her original plan... being close to him felt so good; she almost blurted it out right then, and barely managed to restrain herself. This is not the right timing, she told herself firmly.

"Good idea," he agreed, and to her surprise, released her from the embrace -- the room felt colder, without his arms around her. "You should drink your cocoa before it gets cold," he suggested.

She settled back on the sofa and sipped at the hot chocolate, and he got the box of Kleenex from the bathroom and brought it to her, even though she didn't need it any more; he retrieved the presents, too, and dropped both boxes in her lap. "Open it," he urged her, sitting down beside her and claiming half the afghan for himself.

Scully looked at the box, picked it up, examined it. The wrapping paper was decorated with orange and gold parrots, of all things, taped and folded just sloppily enough to make it clear that he'd done it himself... carefully, she slid her fingernail under the tape and began prying it off, and soon found herself staring at a nondescript brown box.

Opening it, she found -- eight little boxes lined up inside, each wrapped in a different colored and patterned paper, each with a different number, one through eight, written neatly on file-folder labels affixed to the top.

"When I was very young," Mulder said softly, almost as if he was talking to himself, "back in the days when my family used to celebrate the holidays, I liked Chanukah best. I liked the menorah, and the food, and playing dreidel for chocolate... and the presents. Every night after we lit the candles, we'd each get a present -- eight gifts, over eight days. I always thought that sort of made up for the fact that our holidays didn't include trees with pretty lights on 'em." A trace of a smile appeared on his face, for just a moment. "Anyway, I thought that this year, just for a change, I'd pick up an old, long-lost Mulder family tradition."

"I didn't know you were Jewish," she said, surprised.

"I haven't been much of anything for a long time. Go on, Scully; I want to see you shredding paper," and he grinned at her, an utterly irresistible grin that was meant to take her mind off the subject.

She smiled back, letting him get away with it. "Where do I start?" she asked him.

"At the beginning," he said, making her instantly curious as to the contents of box number eight.

Box number one had shiny silver hologram wrapping paper; inside, she found a tiny scrap of paper that said, 'To Mrs. Spooky'. Removing it, she found a ring, one of the novelty pieces that was so popular nowadays: a neon-green plastic alien face stared up at her.

"When you press the button on the back, the eyes flash," Mulder said, straight-faced; she laughed, and tried it out -- yes, they most certainly did.

Opening box number two was more difficult wearing the big clunky ring, but she managed. This one was wrapped in purple-and-green striped paper, and when she opened it, she found what appeared to be a piece of paper folded into a very small bundle -- it turned out to be a gift certificate to one of her favorite stores. "That's to replace the stockings I ruined for you in Keanesburg," he informed her.

The memory of that night sent a delicious shiver racing down her spine. "You didn't have to do that," she said softly, sincerely -- the loss of a pair of stockings had been a ridiculously small price to pay for the incredible pleasure he'd given her.

"Sure I did," he said expansively, "this way, I don't have to feel guilty the next time I ruin a pair of your stockings. Open the next one."

"I thought these were supposed to be opened one per night..."

"Chanukah ended a week ago. Open it."

Box number three bore a bright polka-dotted pattern, and contained multicolored bath-oil beads that very nearly matched the wrapping. Box number four was covered in happy-smiley-face paper, and held a bottle of scented bubble bath. Box number five had pink, green and purple zigzag-patterned paper -- where did he find this stuff? -- and inside it was a little heart-shaped box filled with bath crystals.

"Subtle, Mulder."

"Yeah, isn't it? Open the next one."

Box number six, ensconced in crimson and orange tissue paper, held a bottle of strawberry-flavored edible massage oil.

"Real subtle, Mulder. What's next, glow-in-the-dark condoms?"

"Aww, you spoiled the surprise. Keep going."

Reminding herself of the dangers of making invalid assumptions about her partner's behavior, she turned her attention apprehensively toward the seventh box; she pulled off the blue-and-white wrapping paper, and discovered what looked like more gift certificates: expecting to find a coupon for a sleazy sex shop, she was pleasantly surprised to find names like Blockbuster Videos and Loews Cinemas. "For when we hang out," Mulder said.

"Joe's Amusement Arcade?" she wondered, sorting through the small stack of papers -- he must be planning on 'hanging out' a lot, passed idly through her mind, and realization filled her with sudden warmth.

"Bet I can beat you at Pac-Man," he teased her.

"Bet you can't," she responded swiftly. And found herself laughing. "Only you, Mulder," she said, "only you would give me edible massage oil and a pass to a video arcade in the same box."

His returning smile was an enigma. "Keep going," he said, very softly.

She stared at him for a moment, then picked up the last box.

It was covered in shimmering gold foil, and unlike the rest, seemed to have been wrapped by someone who knew what they were doing. And like the first box, inside the eighth box, Scully found a ring.

This ring shone brilliantly in the room's dim light, although it was far from ostentatious: two small emeralds flanking a modest diamond, in a demure setting. The kind of ring which she might wear with a business suit without drawing undue notice from colleagues, yet that would elicit all sorts of approving comments in any communal ladies' room. The sort of ring she might admire in a jeweler's window, yet would never consider buying for herself, even if she could afford it.

Its design was almost -- not quite, but almost -- that of an engagement ring.

"Do you like it?"

"Mulder... how much..."

"Do you like it?" repeated with gentle insistence.

She gazed up at him, felt herself fall into his dark eyes. "It's beautiful," she whispered.

He nodded gravely, took her hand in his, and very deliberately slipped the ring onto the third finger of her left hand; brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "I'm yours, Scully," he said, almost casually. "For life. You know that."

As if in a dream, she felt herself raise her other hand to cover his. "We belong to each other," she said, and knew that it was true.

Now he's going to kiss me, she thought.

And he didn't.

"So, now I get to open my present, right?" he asked her, eyes alight with a child's eagerness.

She sighed, and smiled at him. "Yes, you can open your present," she said, in a parent's patient, indulgent tone, and he grinned back at her and began tearing at the paper.

Hard to read his expression as he opened the box, but she had the distinct sense that he was disappointed. "It's... a bathrobe," was his reaction.

"It's a nice bathrobe," he added quickly, and she smothered her laughter; it was obvious that he hadn't caught on yet.

He took the robe out of the box -- "Actually, it's a very nice bathrobe," he said thoughtfully, after due consideration.

"There's something else in there," she said, in a very carefully even voice.

Sparing her only a brief, puzzled glance, he reached into the box and found it: an ordinary silver coat hook, the type found at any hardware store, hook on one side and screw on the other, to be installed with ease on any wooden surface.

Mulder held it up, examined it for a moment, turned to Scully with a quizzical look. "I don't get it," he said.

"It's for the back of my bathroom door," she said, and indicated the other contents of the box with a wave of her hand. "That's... for you to keep here." And waited for it to sink in.

Little by little, it did -- and she delighted in the way his face lit up. "You mean, I get to sleep over? On the bed?"

"Or at the foot of it, slave-for-life," she teased, and he laughed and hugged her, hard -- now he's definitely going to kiss me, Scully thought, and was somehow unsurprised when once again, he failed to pick up on the cue.

Either he's extraordinarily dense, she mused, or he's got something up his sleeve; and either way, I might just have to shoot him before the night is over, if he keeps this up...

"This is perfect," he said into her hair, pulled back a little and pressed his lips briefly against her forehead. "Just one last thing..."

He got up from the couch, went over to the chair he'd dumped his wet coat on -- coat hooks, Mulder, she thought ruefully -- and began digging through his pockets. "You got tape?" he wanted to know.

With a sigh, she got up and went to fetch the roll she kept in her desk drawer. "What are you doing?" she asked him as she handed him the scotch tape.

His hand opened, and she saw what he was holding: a sprig of mistletoe... "I lifted it from the party," he informed her. "It's not as if they needed it; there were already plenty of drunken clerical workers on their way to doing something they'll regret in the morning. Here, help me with this," and he handed the tape back to her. "Besides, tomorrow it'd be thrown out, anyway. Funny, isn't it? Three hundred and sixty-four days a year, it's just another plant that only a handful of pagan practitioners could care less about. Gimme a piece of tape, will you?"

Recognizing his chatter as a sign of nervousness, she tore off a piece of tape and handed it to him; there were butterflies on maneuvers in her own stomach, as she realized the inevitability of what they were doing. This was it: this was definitely leading up to The Kiss. No ambiguity here, no subtlety, no question of will-he-or- won't-he -- Mulder was scotch-taping mistletoe to the threshold, and when he was finished, it was going to happen.

The thought thrilled her, scared her, aroused her -- she felt as if she was sitting in the front seat of the rollercoaster, waiting for the ride to start, looking at that first big incline and thinking about the downslope on the other side.

"More," he said, and she ripped off more pieces of tape, marveling at how her hands were shaking -- curiously, she glanced at his hands, saw that they were shaking even worse than hers were, and felt a wave of deep affection. There was something wonderful about knowing that her partner was as nervous as she was; after years of feeling isolated, in a world where there were twelve-year-old children with more sexual experience, it was nice to not be the only one trembling.

"How does that look?" he asked her finally.

"It looks," she said honestly, "like a wad of scotch tape with a leaf sticking out of it."

"Well, it's the thought that counts." His eyes met hers. "So."

"So," she echoed, as the butterflies began playing drum solos on the inside of her stomach.

Mulder's hands rose, rested very lightly on her shoulders, one step away from being an embrace. "Last chance to back out," he said, trying hard to sound casual and not making it.

"Yeah..." It wasn't too late, she realized. Either or both of them could walk away -- there would be hurt feelings for a little while, maybe, lingering sexual frustration; but their friendship, their rapport, would still survive. After this, though... it would be harder to repair any damage done, perhaps even impossible: even the smallest mistake could be their last, in so many ways. So much easier to stop now, to walk away...

"So," he said again, his steady voice managing (to her ears) to convey anxiety and anticipation and tenderness and terror, all at once. "Still want me to kiss you under the mistletoe?"

She gazed up and into his eyes, losing herself in their depths. "If you don't," she said, "I'll shoot you again."

Somehow, apparently, she had chanced upon exactly the right thing to say: his soft laugh defused some of the tension that had laced the air with electricity. "If I don't shoot myself first," he added, and she smiled up at him, sharing the humor of it.

Then his arms were sliding around her, pulling her closer - - she was acutely aware of his scent, aftershave and male sweat, and the heat that seemed to be emanating from his body -- or maybe it was hers; she couldn't tell anymore. His gaze was locked with hers, never wavering, searching her face for any trace of last-minute indecision right up until the last instant; this is it, she thought...

The kiss began so slowly, just the barest brushing of his lips against hers, deepening gradually, inexorably -- and she felt herself yielding to that kiss, her body melting, molding itself to his. It wasn't enough: she found herself clutching at him, needing desperately to be even closer, to submerge herself completely in the rising wave of passion. His arms tightened around her hips, lifting her off her feet, crushing her against him with a matching hunger; she could feel his cock through his jeans, so hard it must have hurt, pressed against her own throbbing need, force and friction in just the right place at exactly the right time... and she cried out in startled ecstasy as a sudden sharp paroxysm of pleasure seized her, blossoming into orgasm.

It was so intense that she was helpless to do anything but hang on to him as the spasms peaked, thinking dazedly, ohmigod, I can't believe that I...

...but any embarrassment she might have felt was instantly mitigated by the moan that wrenched itself from Mulder's throat as his body convulsed against hers.

His shudders prolonged her own; she clung to him, feeling acutely exposed, and just as aware of his vulnerability. This was more intimate, somehow, than if they'd been naked together in bed as she'd originally planned. To discover that she was that susceptible to him, that desperate for his touch -- to have him know it, too -- and then to find that he felt the same way...

She had never been so close to him, or to anyone.

She rested her head against his chest, feeling his heart pounding fiercely, feeling as if her entire being was resonating in time with that rhythm...

...for a moment, it was as if she were seeing the tableau from an external vantage point somewhere near the ceiling: Mulder leaning back against the wall, herself collapsed against him... a perfect moment frozen in time; a turning point. Though where they might be going was anyone's guess -- she knew, suddenly and with perfect clarity, that this was a moment she would remember for the rest of her life as being the beginning of... something.

Perversely, she felt the need to say something, to break the spell. "I think," she murmured, "that privacy was probably a really good idea."

"You think?" Lazy contentment saturated his tone. "Yeah, I think we would've raised a few eyebrows."

"This... never happened to me before," she said hesitantly, feeling shy but wanting to say it, wanting him to hear it.

"Me either." He paused. "Y'know," and his voice was studiously casual, "I usually have more staying power than that."

She laughed, hugging him a little harder so that he would know she wasn't laughing at him, or any inadequacy on his part. "I know," she said, "remember?" and he hugged her back, enfolding her in a feeling of warmth and security and utter bliss that she had ceased to believe existed outside fairy tales.

"Scully," came the question finally, very quietly, "what're we going to do?"

It was the very question she'd unconsciously been dreading -- and yet, at that particular moment, it didn't frighten her as much as it had. The problem was, she didn't have any answers. Or rather, she had too many.

Finally, she gave him the only response she could. "I'm going to go check on the food in the oven," she murmured. "I think it's burning."

"I think you're right," Mulder agreed. "Do I have other clothes here?"

"Sweatpants," she told him, not bothering to list the rest of the inventory.

"Good." But it was a long time before either of them moved to let go of the other.

"Food's good."

"It's burned."

"Well, it's good burned."

"I could feed you cardboard right now, and you wouldn't notice."

"Probably not. I'm always hungry, afterwards."

The power had gone out while he was changing and she was salvaging their meal, so it was dinner by candlelight after all. 'Let's have a picnic,' had been Mulder's idea, so they'd spread out the food on the carpet, next to the wine stain that she'd never gotten around to cleaning, because she'd found to her chagrin that she liked looking at it and remembering how it had gotten there...

It seemed that the storm was abating somewhat; the howling of the wind was calming, no longer rattling at the windows with such force. "Hey," said her partner, reaching out to rest one hand on her knee. "After we eat, let's go out and play in the snow."

"We'll freeze," she said reflexively, smiling despite herself.

"We still have heat and hot water. We can warm up afterwards. Warming up will be fun." His eyes twinkled at her. "We can try out your new bubble bath."

"We could do that without freezing first..."

"Aw, come on, Scully." He took her hand and held it, fingertips stroking her palm lightly. "I want to play in the snow with you."

He looked beautiful in the candlelight, she thought: clad only in the worn sweatpants, his skin gleaming, making her want to set aside her dinner and begin on him instead, chest and shoulders and neck for starters... and with that irresistible little-boy smile, the bright happy sparkle in his eyes that she'd so rarely seen, he managed to look both adorable and sexy at once.

"But you'd have to get dressed," she said reasonably. "I like you better this way."

She could tell that he was pleased by that remark. "Well, what's this, then?" he asked, catching the hem of her shirt between his fingers. "Equal rights, and all that..."

"Equal rights, or equal opportunities?"

"Both? Either." His hand slid under her shirt, up over her stomach; two fingertips stroked the underside of her breast unobtrusively. "Why should you have all the fun?"

"You've forgotten what I look like, so soon?" Absently, she set her empty plate aside, out of the way with the rest.

"Oh, I'll never forget that," and his eyes took on a faraway look, slightly glazed, the expression that came over him at work sometimes when he was imagining her naked (any time she'd confronted him, he'd always denied it, but she knew it was true). "Scully, classic works of art should be displayed so that they can be appreciated."

"So now you're putting me on a pedestal?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at him, enjoying the conversation tremendously.

"Well, if I want to see more than the top of your head..." and she slapped at him; he dodged, laughing.

"Height wasn't a problem for you earlier," she pointed out, stretching out next to him on the afghan.

"That's because I'm adaptable, and you're light." He reached out, traced her cheekbone with one finger. "Everyone's the same height lying down, though. And this is so much better for my back."

"Gee, if you've strained your back, maybe you'd better not exert yourself any further tonight," she said, with exaggerated concern.

"They say exercise is the best way to avoid repetitive stress injuries," he countered swiftly.

"Really? Who's saying that, d'you know?"

"Well, somebody must be saying it -- Scully, don't confuse me."

"But you make it so easy..."

"We were talking," he overrode her, "about your shirt."

"What about my shirt?"

"Well, it's opaque."

"Transparency isn't generally one of my criteria when I'm shopping for clothing."

"I know," said so forlornly that for the barest moment, she felt guilty about it. "But that's easy to fix. From now on, I'll buy all your clothes for you."

"Mulder, you would dress me in black lace and Saran Wrap," she scolded him mildly.

"Saran Wrap," he repeated thoughtfully. "You got any?"

"No," she said quickly.

"You're lying," spoken with certainty.

"Mulder, listen to me. There will be no utilization of kitchen supplies, do you understand? There will be no plastic wrap, no tin foil, no wax paper. There will be no jelly, marmalade, or syrup of any kind; there will be no whipped cream, sour cream, cottage cheese or Velveeta. Is that clear?"

He was grinning ear-to-ear by the time she finished. "Cottage cheese?" he repeated.

"A girl's got to watch her weight," she replied, not missing a beat.

"Velveeta?" he pursued.

"You've never had nachos?" she said innocently, and he burst into laughter.

"Please tell me you don't like jalapenos," was his next request, laced with trepidation.

"Well, used very judiciously, the effects can be interesting... No, really, you'd be surprised," in response to his obvious apprehension.

"Scully, you've got a better imagination than I do. I wouldn't have thought of the Velveeta. And definitely not the hot peppers." Casually, nonchalantly, he reached out and began to unbutton her shirt.

She glanced down at his hand, thought about trying to stop him just for the sake of form, decided against it -- he might actually take her seriously. Instead, she reached up and ran her fingertips along his forearm to his elbow, up to his shoulder -- "Actually, I prefer Cheez Whiz," she said.

As her hand slid down his chest, his eyes shut briefly, involuntarily, and he shivered. Inspired, she leaned forward and kissed him there, lips surrounding his nipple, tongue caressing the nub -- his body stiffened from head to toe in response, some parts considerably more than others. "Scul-ly," she heard him moan, voice rising on the last syllable, conveying an urgency that she found tremendously appealing.

He hadn't been less than half-erect since their kiss under the mistletoe; she'd been enjoying the view, and had longed to explore the territory further. Now, feeling his hard-on pressed insistently against her, it seemed only proper to reach between them and slide her hand over the cotton fabric, examining the contours...

"How much do you like that shirt?" she heard Mulder ask, his voice distinctly unsteady.

"Not very," she said.

"Good," and his hand caught the front and pulled; the remaining buttons went flying off to random corners of her apartment. "It looks much better on you now," and she laughed, then cried out softly as he applied his lips to her breast.

It turned into something resembling a wrestling match, a mock-battle to see who could make the other moan the loudest, fought with hands and tongues, playful teasing and laughter punctuated by passionate cries and the occasional witty remark -- she'd never realized that sex could be less than serious; she'd never had so much fun before. And then suddenly he was on top of her, in the classic position, and abruptly laughter was the furthest thing from her mind.

The last remnants of their clothing was on the other side of the room: just his body against hers, skin against skin. His hard cock pressed into her swollen labia, and a sharp thrill of excitement shot through her -- this is it, it's going to happen -- coupled with a vague resentment, for she'd never actually gotten around to telling him about the last 'Christmas present' she'd planned, she'd never given him permission; and it seemed that he was going to take it anyway. This is what I wanted, she reminded herself forcibly, determined to be flexible, to not beleaguer the finer points when she had, after all, planned this very occurrence.

Instead, he surprised her yet again -- shocked the hell out of her, actually -- by shifting slightly, repositioning himself between her legs so that there was friction without penetration, angled to make accidental entry unlikely. "Okay?" he asked her, and moved a little, so that she could get a feel for what he was proposing; his shaft stroked her clitoris, eliciting a sharp gasp of startled pleasure. "I told you," he continued, in the same breathless voice, "I don't ever want to hurt you."

She gazed up at him, and felt a sudden burst of tenderness -- who else but Mulder? -- and contemplated, for a moment, her original plan -- no, it's all right, Mulder, go ahead, do it -- then realized that she was being given a gift that she could not turn down. The gift of choice, of time; of his acceptance, without requests or demands or ultimatums... and she pulled his head down into a kiss before he could see the tears in her eyes.

They fell into a slow rhythm, and she felt herself slowly sinking into absolute bliss. There had always been a certain tension involved, for her, waiting to see if the guy would take things further than she wanted to go; she'd never felt comfortable enough to be able to let down her guard. Certainly, she'd never allowed anyone else this close... Trust. She'd had friends, a close and loving family, had never been prey to Mulder's brand of paranoia; she'd thought she'd known all about trust. And then she'd met Mulder, and found out about the kind of trust that placed lives and hearts and souls in the hands of another with utter confidence, and now everything was different.

Bliss escalated into paradise -- it might have been a climax, or multiple orgasms, or simply a taste of heaven: it went on forever and consumed her totally, and Mulder was there with her, and if she had become lost there with him and never found her way home, she would have been more than content...

...but eventually, reality faded back into focus, the soft scratchiness of the afghan under her, the weight of his body above her, the warm stickiness between her legs, and then his lips claiming hers in a long, slow, lazy kiss.

"Damn, you're good," she sighed, completely without meaning to -- and would have been thoroughly embarrassed, except for the fact that Mulder was obviously delighted.

"So 're you." His arms and legs wrapped around her, and he pulled her sideways and over and half on top of him. "Equal rights," he murmured, "you can lie on me for awhile if you want."

"You make a good pillow," she said sleepily, making herself comfortable.

"Mmm. You make a good blanket." Mulder yawned. "'M hungry; is there any of that fettucini left?"

"In the fridge."

"Mmm." And with that, he was asleep; she smiled, and followed him.

She woke up in her bed, with a distant memory of being carried there; she turned her head and saw an empty plate and fork, and surmised that he'd found his midnight snack. Dull grey daylight assailed her tired eyes, and Mulder was nowhere to be seen -- and nature called: she dragged herself out of bed and into her bathrobe, and went to answer.

As she headed to the bathroom, she could hear the sound of the television in the other room. So, she thought, the power's back on, and tried not to feel vaguely hurt by the fact that he hadn't been there when she woke up.

But she emerged to find him standing outside, waiting for her with a mug of coffee; she took it and sipped and smiled up at him, and he kissed the top of her head.

Following him into the living room, she caught a glimpse of the snowfall outside. "Looks like I'm not going to make it to my mother's today," she said ruefully.

"Looks like you're not going anywhere," he agreed, looking as if he was trying very hard to sympathize with her plight.

"Looks like I'll just have to stay here with you, instead," she confirmed, and he grinned and hugged her.

They drank coffee together, and ate leftover dinner for breakfast; and she kept catching the gleam of the ring on her finger, his ring, the one he'd given her. It sparkled brilliantly, and it made her tingle all through to look at it, and still she didn't dare to think of what it might have meant, or worse, what it might not have meant.

The one thing she knew it meant was that Mulder had gone to the trouble of selecting it, and the expense of buying it, to commemorate a holiday that meant nothing to him, without expecting or looking for anything in return -- and that made it the most precious gift anyone had ever given her, regardless of its price.

Merry Christmas, she thought to herself, gazing across the table and watching him shovel noodles into his mouth. The best one ever.

After breakfast, they tried out her new bubblebath, and his new bathrobe, which (with uncanny foresight) she had selected precisely because it was big enough to enfold both of them at once.

And then they got dressed, and went out to play in the snow.

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