A MERRY LITTLE...
By Char Chaffin
MSR, PG-13, Vignette, Post-Ep for "How the Ghosts Stole Christmas"
Additional Spoilers:  Small, for "Triangle"

Christmas in July?  Sure, why not?  

DEDICATION:  For Gina Rain, a Fourth-of July Baby.  Happy Birthday,
Gina!  I would have written you another star-spangled fic but I know
HTGSC is your fave ep!

Disclaimer:  Clones on Loan

Summary: Welcome, Christmas...


****

It has snowed all night.

In the early hours of Christmas morning they sleep, cuddled in on
the old sofa.  Outside the cloudy windows of his living room, snow
piles itself on the narrow window ledge, blankets the streets below. 
A lone city plow chugs up and down along the pavement, scraping and
flinging the grey slop against any hapless vehicles whose owners were
stupid enough to leave them parked alongside the curb overnight.

The chugging plow doesn't wake them.  At four in the morning,
nothing would, because they've had a busy night.  

Curled up together, lying face to face on the wide, sagging sofa,
his feet hang off the edge, just a little.  He'd bent his knees
enough to assure he wouldn't fall off, and as a result those knees
ended up pressed comfortably between her legs.  She would be
surprised and a little shocked to see the intimacy of the position
they've slept in, all night long.  But she doesn't awaken, and
neither does he.  It was a long night for both of them and they'd
been sleep-deprived for weeks. Nothing in the room will disturb them;
not the muted television, now tuned to a silly info-commercial, not
the phone, not a soul in the hallway outside the door.  

It's silent, as early Christmas mornings should be.  They both
breathe deeply, noses almost touching, arms wrapped tightly, hands
clinging easily to one another.  And if they could look down at
themselves and see the picture they make, there on the sofa... they'd
both be jumping to their feet in embarrassed confusion, eyes darting
about the room, looking anywhere than at each other.

Or not.

Maybe they'd be shocked.  Maybe not.  After all, they've had almost
six years to familiarize and resign themselves to the feelings they
raise, almost without effort, in each other.  How many times has he
gone to the wall for her?  How many times has she returned the favor?
And here they are, on a holiday morning when both of them have family
obligations elsewhere.  She should have been on the road driving to
her mother's, hours ago, and he should have at least made an effort
to spend Christmas with his mother, too.  Yet, here they are.

The gifts they gave each other sit side by side on the dusty coffee
table, touching casually.  Their shoes lean together on the floor,
his sneakers and her ankle boots.  Her coat is tossed over a chair,
her keys half spilling from one of the pockets.  He never bothered to
hang up his own jacket and it's partially buried under hers.

Rather like the way she has ended up, partially buried under him on
the sofa.  If she could see herself, she'd be appalled at her lack of
decorum.  She'd blush sixteen shades of red.

Or not.

Maybe they'd both be just fine with what could very well be a new
phase in their relationship.  Maybe they'd both think it was about
time.  The love has been there for longer than either would care to
admit.  Never spoken of aloud, except by him during a fevered and
drugged confession in a hospital bed... still, the words were always
hovering along the surface of their individual reality.  Of course,
she accepted his avowal with sarcastic disbelief, while inside she
trembled from the way those words made her feel.  Of course, he
thought about it later, what he'd said to her - and he'd been aghast
at his own carelessness in verbalizing what he'd managed to keep
hidden within, figuring she might never be ready to hear and thus
accept it from him.   

In the larger scheme of things, it no longer matters all that much. 
The love is there and they both know it.  At four in the morning on
Christmas Day, with their mouths almost touching and their dreams
making those lips curve a bit as they sleep, anything could happen
when they awaken.  Anything could be said in groggy awareness as they
open their eyes and look at each other, focusing in on the fact that
they're lying together on Mulder's sofa, legs entwined and hands
holding on, sharing the same breath.

They spent Christmas Eve together.  If they'd stayed in the house on
Larkspur Lane, they'd have surely joined the ranks of star-crossed
lovers who honored their pact to remain together in life or in death.
Of course, it was merely another ghost story.  Of course, it never
happened.  They just spooked themselves silly, that was all.  It's
easy enough to do.  Mind over matter and all of that kind of thing. 
They did it to themselves.

Or not.

It doesn't matter, for unknowingly they have upheld the legend of
that haunted old house.  Simply by falling asleep in each others'
arms, they began a sort of tradition.  Whether or not they keep it
going, year after year, well... that's up to them.

****

Mulder stirs first, rousing himself from another dream where Scully
is in his arms and her body is pressed tightly to his; where her lips
travel over his face and fasten on his mouth, kissing him deeply. 
Where his hands clench and then tug at her clothes, removing them
quickly, too quickly, causing buttons to rip off a shirt and a zipper
to snag on delicate panties.  

Ask him if he's had this dream often, and he'll respond with an
abashed grin and a fast nod of his head.  But not right now, because
he's awakening from such a dream and his hands are full of more than
just his mangled spare couch-pillow... they're full of Dana Scully. 
His head is too busy to nod since his brain has fully engaged use of
it, forcing sleep-gritty eyes to widen in shocked delight; in
fearsome thankfulness.  

Asleep, in his arms, those tempting lips of hers close enough to
lick.  His partner.  His friend.  Scully.

This close, he can see the fine, golden eyelashes that grow at the
outer edges of her eyes, tiny little hairs that she'd no doubt miss
with her mascara wand.  He can count seven or eight freckles that she
probably covers with makeup every morning, thinking perhaps they're
too childish for a grown woman and Federal Agent to have on her face.
He can smell traces of the soap she used yesterday, the lemon of her
shampoo and the floral overtones of her body lotion. 

This close, he can hear the soft breath that whispers in, sighs out,
fills her lungs and causes her breasts to rise and fall against his
own chest.  He can feel it, too.  It enchants him.  It's a press of
her, a small invasion of his personal space that he decides she can
infiltrate any old time she'd like to.

This close, he can enjoy the warmth of her, wound into his arms,
right into him as if she belonged there each and every night.  Her
hair, falling over one cheek, silky on her skin.  Her hand, resting
on his shoulder, holding him closely even in her sleep.  Her legs,
cradling his, opened enough to allow room for his knees to bend,
keeping his feet from hanging off the sofa.  He was going to get rid
of it - the sofa, that is - and buy a new one.   But now, maybe he'll
alter his plans.  Right now this old sofa feels pretty much like
heaven.

Utterly relaxed, completely soft and pliant, not a tense muscle
anywhere; limp, boneless.  Dana Scully when she sleeps is a delight
he'd never thought to experience, at least not anytime soon.  Oh,
he'd hoped.  What red-blooded man wouldn't hope, when paired with a
woman like Scully?  He's done his share of wishful thinking.  But the
reality is so much more than any wishes he could ever think up.

He should wake her.  She could still make it to her mother's, in
time to dole out the gifts he knows are stashed in her back seat. 
She'd get a good dinner, for her mother is a wonderful cook.  Turkey
and stuffing and those creamy mashed potatoes, probably an apple pie
for dessert.  Gifts under the tree with her name on them, a stocking
hung on the mantle filled to bursting with all kinds of fun things,
all for her.  Hot toddys and eggnog spiced with a touch of rum,
holiday carols playing in the background and the sound of laughter in
the foreground, as her family rips into Christmas with both hands and
mounds of torn wrapping paper and discarded bows all over the floor.

He should wake her.  She's missing Christmas, and all because she
didn't want him to walk into that old house by himself.  

He should wake her, for it's his fault she drove to Maryland in the
first place.  She'd be with her family right now if not for him.  So
he should make sure she gets there.

He doesn't want to wake her.  He doesn't want her to leave.  He
doesn't want her to do anything except stay curled into his arms.

"I don't want to."  He mouths the words against her temple, holding
her, cradling her carefully.  She sighs in her sleep and snuggles in
a little closer, her hand slipping to his neck and curving under the
collar of his tee shirt.  Bare skin.  Her warm hand on his bare
skin.  

He doesn't want to wake her.  She's going to miss a family Christmas
because he can't bear to let her go.  He can't offer her a single
holiday thing; not even a wilted little poinsettia in a cheap grocery-
store pot.  He has little or no food in his cupboards and probably
some sad-looking ancient Chinese take-out in the fridge.  The only
gift he's bought this year has already been given to her, and he
doesn't own any Bing Crosby or Mel Torme holiday music.  What he has
in the way of viable Christmas cheer could be balanced on the head of
a pin with room to spare.  He's a selfish bastard, because it's now
five in the morning and she could be on her way to her mother's house
and he doesn't want to let her go.

Lying there on his rather lumpy sofa, Mulder thinks back over the
evening's 'festivities.'  Hell of a way to spend a Christmas Eve, but
it's par for the course, he supposes.  Since when has anything in his
life been regular or normal?  Busting ghosts in an abandoned
mausoleum of a house, inhabited by two smart-aleck spirits who enjoy
playing nasty tricks on young couples.  Not that he and Scully have
ever been a young couple... but Maurice and Lyda didn't know that.  

If indeed they were ever there, in that house, leading him and
Scully on some kind of bizarre wild-goose-chase.  Mulder's still-
aching muscles tell him it happened, somehow.

All he needs to consider is the way the evening has ended.  All he
need concern himself with is this morning, a brand-new day facing a
possibly-massive shift in his relationship with Scully.  And as soon
as that thought pops into his head, another one comes right behind
it, nipping furiously at the rightness of it all: how like him, to
make much out of very little.  So they fell asleep on the sofa, and
in the process snuggled down and got comfy together.  So what.  Like
he's never slept with a woman, before; never fallen asleep in front
of the television with a girl in his arms.

 the tiny hopeful voice whispers, 

 the nipping fury - now dubbed 'Sense' - whispers, 

Mulder resists rubbing his suddenly-throbbing temples.  This is
beyond ridiculous.  Here he is on Christmas morning, holding someone
he loves in his arms, and he's fighting with himself.  Instead of
taking the situation at face value and enjoying it for what it
represents, he's tossing monkey-wrenches into it left and right. 
This doesn't have to mean a damned thing other than two exhausted
people who stayed up way too late and fell asleep, during which time
they subconsciously got as comfortable as they could on a ragged old
sofa.  That's all this has to mean.

Oh, but look at her, sleeping next to him.  So soft and warm,
feeling so very right in his arms.  As if she's slept there, always. 
As if she'd never want to sleep anywhere else.  

He should wake her.  This isn't fair.  Maybe it's still snowing
furiously outside and the roads would be at impasse anyhow, but
Scully should have the right to make the decision whether or not to
chance driving on them in an effort to salvage enough of the holiday.
At the very least he should wake her so that she can call her mother
and explain what happened.  

He'll wake her.  It's only right.  It's the unselfish thing to do...

Then she presses her lips into his neck and sighs against his skin. 
She rubs her mouth along the faint line of stubble there, tightens
her hold on his shoulder, stretching her legs a bit, adjusting
herself until she's more firmly nestled into the sofa, and into the
circle of his arms.  Another sigh, another warm puff of breath.  

Jesus.  He can't let go of this.  He just can't.  It's asking more
of him than he's capable of giving.  He's a damned selfish bastard,
he admits it.

With that small morsel of self-honesty declared, Mulder gives in -
just a smidgen reluctantly - to the inevitable, and decides he'll
chastise himself at greater length later this morning.  For now,
Christmas has come and filled his stocking to overflowing.  He'd be a
fool not to accept it.  He'd be a fool to let it all go.

He's no fool.  Mulder closes his eyes and rests his forehead against
Scully's, and lets himself doze off.  

****

She awoke first.  At least, she thinks she did.  She's not sure of
the time, but it's still dark outside the window, so it has to be
fairly early still.  Aching in several places, still Scully finds
herself so very comfortable on Mulder's old, worn-out sofa.

Mulder's sofa.  Mulder's arms, his body, engulfing her, keeping her
warm.  His somewhat elegant hands, one up behind her back, one high
on her hip; resting in place as if they belong right there.  She can
feel his legs between hers, knees bent a little.  She can feel how
his chest expands and contracts against her, as he breathes.

She should be shocked, appalled, that she's in this very
unprofessional and questionable position/situation, with her partner.
Instead, she's fighting back a drowsy smile, to think they both fell
asleep so trustingly, in each others' arms.  Partners they are and
might have been at first, but friends, they'll ever be.  And her
friend's unconscious offering of himself as a sleeping pillow helped
her to achieve a good night's sleep.  She sure isn't going to
complain about it.

Look at him.  Through slitted eyes, Scully does just that.

In the dimness of a single lamp on the desk across the room, she can
see the shadow of beard on Mulder's face.  She knows from experience
that it's not as rough as one would think stubble should be.  She
recalls the press of his unshaven cheek against hers, more than once
when she was in the hospital fighting the cancer that threatened her
life.  He'd often sit up with her all night, and he'd lean over her
when he thought she was sleeping; press a kiss to her cheek.  More
than once, that kiss and that stubbled cheek would be damp with his
own tears.  He never told her he was there, and she never challenged
it.  She merely accepted the comfort and the unswerving support of a
man whose love she knows she has.

He got her through it.  Scully smiles a little, remembering.  Mulder
always gets her through it...

He's so warm.  She knows it's chilly in the apartment because Mulder
keeps the temperature low through the winter.  He's not a cheapskate
by any means; his body heat simply runs a little high and he's more
comfortable within a cooler atmosphere.  She'd be chilly, if not for
the radiating warmth from his body.  It feels so very good.  She
doesn't want to move an inch.

  

This is the first time they've fallen asleep together.  She should
mark it on her calendar.  Scully fights back a snicker at her own
foolishness.  She's slept with a few men, after all; this is just
another night of staying up far too late, letting weariness overtake
her and crashing hard on a friend's sofa.  Nice of Mulder to offer
his arm and his pillow; nice of him to let her sleep undisturbed.

Nice, hell.  This is heaven.  She doesn't want to get up.

Look at him.  He's such a beautiful man, and he hasn't a clue of his
strong appeal.  Mulder never has been a conceited person.  He walks
through life doing the job, living one day to the next; donning his
suits in the morning and haphazardly choosing some wild and tacky
necktie to fling around his neck. More often than not she has had to
straighten the knot herself, after he walks through their office
door.  It's become a little joke between them.  He nicks himself
shaving; he often gets bad haircuts.  Nothing he does, by accident or
by design, changes the overall look of him; that down-to-the-bone
handsomeness and blatant masculinity that makes women of any age
stare at him, yearn for him.  If she told him, he'd be mortified.

He has no sense of style when it comes to apartment decor.  Scully
doesn't have to open her eyes and look around, to bring his rooms to
mind.  Nothing much on the walls, to speak of.  He seldom remembers
to wield a duster and his kitchen is cluttered with items that should
be behind closed cupboard doors instead of strewn about the counters.
There's a coating of kitchen-grime on an Oster blender that she could
swear he's never used.  About the only thing well-tended in the
entire place, is his aquarium.  Mulder cares for his fish, probably
more than he cares for himself, since the only bedroom in the
apartment - up until very recently - didn't even have a bed in it.

He's so warm.  Scully can't resist inching closer to him, sighing
softly when he tightens his arms, expels a deep breath, his mouth
coming to rest against her temple.  Who'd have thought Mulder would
be a snuggler in sleep?  It's delightful. 

She should get up and get on the road.  Her mother knows about the
delay; knows there was heavy snowfall in the DC area last night. 
Scully had the forethought to call her before she decided to head
over to Mulder's place.  Her mother won't be worried except for
wondering when her errant daughter plans on arriving with her booty
of Christmas presents, and celebrating like a dutiful Scully family
member should be celebrating.  Tara and Matty are already there, and
Bill probably is as well; he had to take a later flight because of
unforeseen job complications.  Charlie promised to make it if he
could get away; Scully has no idea if he's flown in yet or not.  Her
family awaits.  She should get going.

Oh, but it's so warm and comfy, here.  Outside the snow falls in
thick sheets; more than likely the roads are a complete mess.  She's
heard at least one plow slogging along, probably flinging churned-up
sludge all over the cars parked on the street.  She did the right
thing, taking a cab over here.  Mulder probably thinks she drove
herself.  She's glad she didn't. 

She needs to go.  Who knows how long the snow will come down like
this?  It's a sure bet the cabs are out running around, sliding all
over the roads in this icy crap.  Scully represses a shudder at the
thought of having to ride in the back of one of DC's finest kamikaze
taxicabs, all the way to her apartment, then all the way to her
mother's.  With loads of wrapped gifts, no less.  What a hassle. 
What a pain in the -

No, that's not fair.  It's Christmas Day.  The hassle of traveling
in a winter storm pales next to the bounty of familial harmony and
love, right?

Right?

  

She has to be honest with herself.   Her coat is out of reach across
the room; her boots, too.  She's curled into the arms of a man she
rapidly comprehends means the absolute world to her.  He's so very
alone; she knows he won't be heading to his mother's for the
holidays.  He never does.  When asked, he always gives a self-
depreciating shrug and a crooked little smile; replies that he's got
'plans.'  And she knows damned well he doesn't.  He'll sit in this
cold apartment and feed his fish very diligently, watch some stupid
paranormal show on the boob tube and maybe eat a Hungry-Man dinner. 
He'll fall asleep on the sofa, lulled by the lights from his aquarium
and the flickering dregs of whatever info-commercial has been left on
the television screen.  If he sleeps at all, for Mulder still suffers
from bouts of insomnia...

If she can't reach her coat and boots, then she can't get up and
leave, can she?  After all, it would be criminal to awaken Mulder
when she knows he desperately needs his sleep.  Scully snuggles a
tiny bit closer and tries not to smile when she feels the way Mulder
unconsciously mirrors her movement.

He smells so good.  He always smells good, but somehow the natural
musk created from a night of sleep is intensely attractive to her. 
It's the softness of washed cotton mixed with the scent of his skin. 
Mulder rarely wears any kind of after shave or cologne because he
seldom remembers to slap it on.  Sometimes she'll discover a trace of
it when she leans over the desk to point something out on his
computer monitor. She wonders if he realizes she leans in closer than
she really needs to.  Not because she forgot her glasses and she has
to be nearer to the screen... more that she needs to be closer to
him.  To absorb his scent.  Like a cat sniffing out the choicest
catnip, she supposes.  And if he ever found out, she'd be the
mortified one.

She should leave, get going.  It's probably five or so in the
morning and if she's lucky, she'll make it to her mother's in time
for a mid-morning breakfast.  If she gets on the road - okay, if the
cab she hires gets on the road - by seven, she could be at her
mother's door by possibly nine.  All right, maybe ten, considering
the way it's still snowing.

Snowing.  She could stay right here; it's no doubt safer than trying
to travel in this white shit.  She hates slogging around in the snow.
No doubt her mother would understand and even feel better knowing her
daughter was smart enough not to trust a maniac cab driver, zipping
through clogged streets and along slippery interstates with summer-
weight tires on his ten-year-old hack.  

  

She knows what she's doing... excusing away what she doesn't want to
face.  She loves her family but Scully is no fool.  Bill has this
annoying habit of talking down to her about her job.  Tara wrings her
hands and tells Bill to shut up, when he acts that way.  Matty is
still very young and hasn't a real clue what Christmas means, other
than ripping into his gifts, gnawing on some turkey and then filling
his diapers with whatever he processed from the dinner he gnawed on. 
Charlie sits back with that cute little smirk on his face, snotty
enough to egg Bill on and savvy enough to step in and defend his
sister's choice of career as well as her partner, when she finally
sends him one imploring look.  And her mother, well... she lets it
all go in one ear and out the other, as she has done for most of
their lives, probably as a self-defense mechanism.  She'll flatten
Bill if necessary but for the most part she probably agrees with him.
She might harbor a bit of fondness for Mulder and she might be proud
of what her daughter has accomplished thus far in her career, but
Maggie Scully won't champion any one of her children to the exclusion
of the rest.  During the holidays she'll do what she can to keep the
peace.

Scully doesn't want to face that mess.  She really doesn't.  How
uncomplicated it would be to just stay here, celebrate a quiet
Christmas with the one person who needs her more than any single
family member.  Maybe there isn't a tree, and no stocking to dig
into, no presents to open.  None of that is necessary to her.  They
can figure out something to eat easily enough and there's always some
kind of holiday movie marathon playing on one or more television
channels.  She could stay here, be with Mulder; be safe and warm and
content.  Maybe go to her mother's tomorrow, have a belated
Christmas.  Mom would understand.

It's better that way.  Scully stretches a little and sighs,
pretending she's doing it in her sleep.  She adjusts her body a
little, feeling Mulder's respond in sleep against hers, hearing the
deep breath he takes.  It's a good thing, she decides, now drowsy
again.  She's so warm.  And she feels so needed.

She likes it, this feeling of being needed.  With Mulder's forehead
resting gently against hers, Scully drifts off.
 
****

As if on cue, they both awaken at roughly the same time.  Eyes
opening, a little cautiously.  His sport a bit of bluish shadow under
each one, and his jaw is dark with a night's worth of stubble.  Hers
are smudged a bit with the mascara left over from the day before.

Still holding each other closely, hands resting on shoulders, hips. 
Legs entwined.  It doesn't occur, to either, to let go.  If awareness
brings a touch of embarrassment, neither has reacted to it.  Yet.

She clears her throat.  "Good morning."  She's not sure what else to
say.

His mouth curves a little; a sleepy smile.  "Morning."

Silence.  They can't look away; two pairs of eyes are intently
staring.  It's cool in the room but they're so very warm in the self-
imposed cocoon they created between themselves, all through the night.

He doesn't want to move in inch.  Neither does she.  And it seems
easy enough to stay right where they are, as tentative smiles become
outright grins.  

He rests his forehead against hers, and she sighs when he does. 
"Merry Christmas, Mulder."

He bites back a laugh of pure joy, and responds sedately enough. 
"Back at you, Scully."

End

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