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TITLE: Mixed Nuts
AUTHOR: Perelandra (pen_phile@hotmail.com)
CATEGORY: V/H, Holidayfic
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None.
KEYWORDS: UST galore. And FOOD. Yes, FOOD. Pure fluff.
SUMMARY: 'Twas the night before Christmas...
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris, 1013, and FOX.
But surely, you boys can give 'em to us for the holidays. We'll
grab 'em up faster than Furbys.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: For Sharon, whose ravings about food had to be the
cutest piece of feedback I have gotten, or ever will get. :) I just
*had* to write a food!fic just for you. Cue the mastications! :)
------------------------------
//'Twas the night before Christmas...//
Knock.
"I'm coming..."
Mulder's crooked smile, through the fisheye lens, spreads dangerously
into an exaggerated ear-to-ear grin as he postures for the peephole.
Funny. I'm used to getting late-night housecalls from Mulder, but
those rarely featured him sporting a toothy grin to rival any
third-grader.
Or a Santa hat.
Panicked visions of Eddie Van Blundht dance through my head as I
glance again at his ridiculous grin. Fearing the worst, I ready
my gun against imposters as I eye the lens warily.
"Mulder?"
"Happy Chanukah, it's Frosty the Snowman."
Whoever he is, he hasn't improved his sense of humor. Definitely safe
to open the door.
"Hey, Scully." His walk is definitely Mulder's as he strides
purposefully over the threshold. And what a sight he is.
Hoo boy.
The double whammy of colorblindness and bad taste seems tonight to be
a hurdle not only overcome, but damn near flown over. He wears his
usual -- tight -- black jeans, and a soft knit sweater that sports
the most incredible shade of indigo.
Boy, does he look good in indigo.
I stand back, feigning stunned surprise as I steal a decidedly
over-indulgent appraisal of his body. He seems sturdier than he has
been in years past, skin tanned to a magnificent golden-brown by
our recent traipsings around sunnier, drier parts of the country.
Tall, dark, muscular -- all the things Mom and Cosmopolitan Magazine
usually list as criteria for status as a Sex God.
Yes, I am definitely creating a most delicious vision of this man...
...until I remember that this is Mulder.
And he is wearing a Santa hat.
With lights.
"Mulder...what's wrong?"
"Nothing. What's cookin'?" He's halfway to the kitchen already,
enticed by warmth and oven smells.
"Just some dinner. My mother's coming tomorrow for lunch, and --
Mulder!"
He looks up guiltily from a heaping plate of stuffing he'd descended
upon like a piranha to a fresh side of beef. Mouth full, he gives
me the most irritatingly innocent look.
"What?"
"At least grab a plate. And a seat."
A shrug and a smile later, he's abducted half the food I'd laid out
on my kitchen table -- stuffing, mashed potatoes, some ham, pasta
salad, even part of a turkey breast I'd painstakingly marinated and
baked to perfection before my partner attacked it with a usurped
Ginsu knife. They huddle on his plate, awaiting consumption by an
oddly exuberant Mulder.
Well, it's not like it's a bad thing. Entirely. I get a glass of
water and set it by him. I am a good host, no matter how unexpected
the guest arrival may be. I sit across from him and watch closely
as he eats.
"Whairu koohidis nygniwaiz?" He attempts through a mouthful of food.
"What?"
He holds up a forefinger as he chews, swallows, and takes a sip of
water.
"Why are you cooking this tonight anyway?"
"Oh...well, I didn't feel like cooking in the morning. Besides,
Mom's coming over early tomorrow and we're having a little lunch
before Bill and the clan get into town."
"Ah." Insatiable curiosity fed and held back for now, he turns
back to his meal, then to the outer space of thought; then back
to me, quizzically.
"Aren't you going to have anything?"
"Well, Mulder, I'd like to have something left for my mother and
myself tomorrow. I'll just have a little pasta salad."
"Okay." The turkey doesn't have a chance as he attacks it with
gusto.
One thing about Mulder -- he throws himself into everything with
gusto. Wholeheartedly. It's an inherent impulsiveness, a
foolhardy ignorance of both caution and tact that can be both
endearing and infinitely annoying. Most times it gets us into
some really deep shit that leaves us running for our jobs, our
minds, our lives. At times like this, however -- eyes
half-closed and dreamy, taste sensations sending palpable waves
throughout his marvelous indigo-clad body, murmuring little sounds
of satisfaction as he pauses to wash it down -- his wholehearted
efforts seem divine.
"Have you tried the pasta salad yet, Scully? It's really good."
"No, I'm about to, Mulder, if you give me three seconds to try."
"Okay."
Mulder. Sometimes you can be so...so...
Oh.
This pasta salad's good. Real good.
That new recipe I got from Kimberly at BSU now seems more like
instructions for a magic spell. There's a fine combination of
garlic, spices, and olive oil that, once achieved, embody a
Platonic ideal for one's taste buds; and by God, I seem to have
found it. A little moan can't help but escape from my lips as
I taste -- no, *experience*, this little piece of decadence that,
if not already, should be considered a sin.
I close my eyes and thoughts of Rome, Milan, Venice dance around
my tastebuds; accordions and visions of tall, dark, indigo-sweatered
Romeos cater to the perfect ambience in my little corner of Heaven.
Damn, I love food.
"Scully?"
A little chuckle sends me crashing back to reality; and I find
Mulder, fork halfway up to his lips, staring at me with this
delightfully amused look on his face.
"I take it the pasta's good?"
He's having fun. Oh, most definitely having fun. The blush creeps
up my cheeks and I, as nonchalantly as I possibly can, daintily
consume the last bite of pasta.
"It's pretty good. Kim knows her stuff."
"Uh-huh." He polishes off his mashed potatoes.
It's burning in me. I have to inquire. "Mulder, why on earth are
you wearing that ridiculous Santa hat?"
"Not just any Santa hat." He flips a switch in the hatband, and
digital mambo and Austin Powers lines spill out like college
students after a night in Tijuana.
I can't help but laugh. He's a novelty shop poster boy. But that's
Mulder for you.
"Mulder, you're nuts."
"No, these are nuts." He procures a can of mixed nuts, sporting an
enormous red bow. "Merry Christmas, Scully."
"Nuts. How definitely appropriate."
"I used to eat them a lot when I was a kid -- they're roasted and
canned back in Chilmark, and sold exclusively at the general store
there."
"Well, thanks." I open the can, half expecting a gag worm to jump
out; and, finding none, pick out an almond and pop it in my mouth.
The deep, woodsy flavor conjures pleasant thoughts of wood fires,
country houses, and snuggling under indigo blankets. Very, very
pleasant indeed...
"I take it they're good?"
"Huh? Yeah, how'd you figure?"
"You're drooling."
"Oh." My mind was definitely beginning to wander. Nothing like
getting to the heart of the matter to keep me in the present.
"So, Mulder...what really brings you here tonight? Don't you dare
tell me it's a case or some ghost story..."
"No, no, nothing like that at all."
"Well? Why then?"
"Well, first of all...may I?" He reaches for the nuts.
"Of course."
He takes a cashew and pops it between sated, meal-swollen lips.
"First of all, did you know that an annoying number of my favorite
cafes and restaurants are closed on Christmas Eve?"
"That explains the food."
"Are you kidding? I was about ready to eat my fish. Good thing I
caught you cooking when I did."
"...Yeah. Good thing." Right. "So, what else, Mulder?"
"Well..." A silence as he takes an almond from the can and plays
with it between his teeth, sending it into the recesses of his
mouth with a flick of his tongue. He really should stop doing that
if he knows what's good for him...and me.
"Well?"
"Well...it's Christmas, Scully..."
"Yes it is, Mulder..."
"And...I just didn't feel like spending it alone." A crunch as he
bites down on the almond, then he lapses into silence, staring
shyly on the floor.
Oh, Mulder. A wave of pure compassion flows right through to the
depths of my soul. We've spent so much time with our work, with
this business of saving the world, the truth, and the American
people that sometimes I'd lose sight of the things that, in the
moment, didn't really matter. I've watched him wrestle with his
own personal demons so much that the human things, even so simple
as a Christmas alone, would pass beneath my notice.
I don't quite know what to say.
"I thought you were Jewish, Mulder," is what I manage.
He takes out a small plastic dreidel and spins it listlessly.
"Mazeltov."
I reach out and squeeze his hand, hoping that such a simple gesture
could possibly convey any inkling of what I feel.
"You can spend Christmas here any time, Mulder. And, of course, you
can come to lunch with me and Mom tomorrow, if you like."
"And Bill?"
"You can sneak out the back door."
"Thanks." He reaches over and we embrace, warmly; he brushes his
lips against my cheek lightly, tenderly. Unspoken, solidified,
cemented -- for life. I smile, for the world now, at this moment
in time, is banished of shadows and is thorougly, completely good.
We build a fire and sit for a long time on my couch under the
blanket, munching on nuts and talking about nothing at all. Just
the two of us.
It's a good Christmas this year.
**
"Hey, Scully, feel like checking out some haunted houses?"
"Shut up, Mulder."
**
END!
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"Mixed Nuts" (1/1)
by Perelandra (pen_phile@hotmail.com)
(
geocities.com/xmas_files)