TITLE:  SUCH GIFTS AS THESE
AUTHOR:  JACQUIE LAVA
CATEGORY:  MSR
CLASSIFICATION: Post-ep for "How the Ghosts Stole Christmas"
RATING:  NC-17
Disclaimer:  Clones on loan

NOTE: Written for Fandomonium's S6 Virtual Season

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In the early hours of Christmas morning they're still sitting side by 
side, still talking softly about any number of things.  Neither has 
even thought to take their jackets off, ease out of their shoes, get 
more comfortable other than relaxing against the worn leather of his 
sofa.

In her lap Scully holds her gift, gently stroking a finger across the 
polished wooden surface.  He'd somehow remembered, during one of their 
past talk-a-thons, that she loved kaleidoscopes.  The one he's given 
her is especially fine, antique in style, made of rosewood with a thick 
crystal glass that reflects its myriad of colors and shapes in that 
never-ending pattern that fascinated her as a child and continues to 
hold her interest, even after all these years.   Her absolute delight 
at his thoughtfulness as she unwrapped it, manifested itself into a 
hesitant kiss on his cheek and a murmured, "Thank you, Mulder," into 
his ear.  The kiss had also prompted her to move closer to him in order 
to administer it, and as a result they now sit, touching all along 
their sides.

It's an additional gift that Mulder finds himself thankful for.

On the other side of him, propped against the arm of the sofa, his gift 
from Scully makes him smile more than once.  Not only the idea that 
she'd buy it, but the underlying reminder that one of these days he 
really needs to break down and buy a DVD player...

"Scully, you shouldn't have.  I know how you feel about 'guy flicks.'  
Probably the same way as I do, concerning 'chick flicks,' right?"  He'd 
held the DVDs in his hands, surprised and pleased that she'd thought to 
buy not only "Caddyshack," but "Blazing Saddles" as well.  "You'll 
watch these with me sometime, won't you?"  He was half-teasing, half-
serious. Always hopeful.

Scully had slanted him a droll glance.  "I'm making no promises.  
Besides, you still need to actually go out and buy a DVD player, 
Mulder."

"Well, I thought I'd also find one of those, maybe under my tree on 
Christmas morning..."

"You don't have a tree," she'd pointed out to him.

"Sad but true.  My holiday spirit leaves a lot to be desired, doesn't 
it?"

Scully had shaken her head firmly, had laid a hand over his and 
squeezed his fingers gently.  "No.  I don't think that at all, Mulder.  
Someone with no holiday spirit wouldn't have remembered not only my 
love of kaleidoscopes, but then going to the trouble of finding the 
nicest one I've seen in a long time."  She'd bumped shoulders with him, 
nudging at him until he'd looked up from their joined hands and caught 
her soft smile.  "Thanks again."

"Anytime, Scully."

In the past few hours they've fallen into silence several times, but 
it's been a good silence, permeated with that peculiar sense they both 
have of being able to converse without words.  Sometimes, Mulder thinks 
to himself, he enjoys the quiet as much as the noise.  

In all honesty Scully should have taken off right after they'd opened 
their gifts; he knows she's supposed to be at her mother's for 
Christmas Day gift exchange and dinner.  He also knows, without her 
actually saying the words, that right now she's content to sit next to 
him with her head on his shoulder, sometimes talking and sometimes not.  
Maybe it's all due to the escalating bad weather outside, but he'll 
take it, whatever the reason.

She's still holding his hand.  Another gift, he knows.

The falling snow outside his window duets strangely well with the 
static snow on his television set; they never bothered to turn it off.  
The winter storm watch is in full effect, with winds picking up and 
causing white-outs in several areas over DC.  She'll have to call her 
mother and let her know she's snowed in, for at least several hours 
more.  Whether or not she also tells her family that she's with him, 
well... that's her decision.  Mulder knows Mrs. Scully wouldn't worry 
about her daughter having to wait out a storm, as long as she's with 
him and not sitting alone in her own apartment.  He also figures her 
brother will be less than thrilled to hear the same news.

"I hate to think of you missing out on the family festivities, Scully."  
He's already said that to her a few times in the past couple of hours, 
and her reply is more or less the same one she gave him the first time 
he said it.

"If I'd really wanted to go, don't you think I'd have refused to join 
you on your little pre-holiday ghost busting?  Contrary to popular - 
and my brother Bill's - belief, I really do know how to say 'no' to 
you, Mulder."  Her voice holds just enough loftiness to challenge him.  
"Besides, holidays with the Scully clan are not all they're cracked up 
to be, trust me.  Mom always manages to make some vague yet well-
meaning comment about how it's one more Christmas and I'm still single.  
Charlie calls and gets me on the phone, then teases me unmercifully 
about the same subject.  A couple of years ago he had the nerve to ask 
me if I was gay."  At Mulder's choke of startled laughter, she nods and 
sighs in mild disgust.  "Oh, yes - he did.  Bill ends up glowering 
whenever my job, the FBI or your name comes up, and -"

He interrupts her, suddenly fascinated by the idea that he might be the 
subject of past Scully dinner conversation.  "I get talked about?  
Really?"

"Yes, really.  Don't take it personally, okay?  Bill always finds a way 
to get his shorts in a twist about something.  Usually he contents 
himself with nagging Tara or Mom, but when I'm around I guess I'm his 
main point of harassment."  The calm tone is belied by the tension in 
her shoulders, and Mulder can't help but feel badly that once again, 
he's managed to negatively charge her life, especially around her older 
brother.

Reaching out both hands, Mulder clasps her neck and starts massaging 
the tension away.  He's done this for her in the past and she's always 
appreciative of his ministrations, yet she'd never ask for herself.  
Sometimes he thinks Scully prefers to suffer in silence, taking little 
for herself when he's right there next to her and could easily soothe 
some of her aches.

Under his hands, slowly her tight muscles ease and she sighs again, 
this time in pleasure.  Her head bows forward, exposing the pale skin 
of her nape, her hair slipping over her cheeks as her body sways a bit 
with the rhythm of the massage.  Mulder leans in closer and presses his 
hands lower, now mid-spine where he can almost see that ball of tension 
breaking up, dissipating.   Her skin is like silk.  Another gift has 
been given to him... her trust; that he'll take care of her, watch her 
back in a wholly different way.

As his fingers move more gently, more of a caress than a massage, 
Scully leans back against him, her head fitting nicely into the crook 
where his neck meets his shoulder.  The quiet room is warm, the air 
still, their breathing oddly matched in tenor.  When Mulder's hands 
slide down her neck and over each shoulder, easing around to hold her 
against him, Scully places her palms over his wrists and her entire 
body relaxes, softens, molds to his.

Outside the window the storm beats harder; inside the apartment another 
storm is brewing, one of small indecisions and tentative questions that 
need to be put forth in words that suddenly seem to have dried up.  Yet 
perhaps if they did speak, whatever spell that currently holds them 
would pop, dissipate just like the tension in her shoulders.  Once a 
spell breaks, like a certain mood it's damned hard to get it back.  So 
they don't speak.  They simply stay close to each other, breathe in 
tandem; enjoy the shared warmth.

Mulder is so busy enjoying, he almost fails to notice that Scully has 
started playing with his hand, pressing hers over his as if to measure 
the difference in the size of their fingers.  She trails a curious 
thumb across the fine hairs on his knuckles and the tiny caress makes 
him shiver.  A pause, then she expels a soft breath and tries it once 
more, waiting for that little, telltale shiver.

When he does it again, she slowly turns in his arms; faces him, so 
close that he can count the number of darker blue striations in her 
eyes.  Her lips part on a sigh that feathers against his mouth, and as 
if in a daze he opens it and speaks in a low rasp, "I'm going to ask 
you something, Scully.  Are you sure you know how to say 'no' to me?"  
His eyes are locked to hers; his arms are still wrapped around her.  
It's been a night of gifts for him, one after another; one wrapped and 
others wonderfully spontaneous.  But like any greedy gift recipient, he 
wants more... just one more...

"Give it your best shot, Mulder."  That's not her voice, speaking those 
words; not in that thick, whispery throb that sounds less like his 
partner and more like a lover.  Her gaze holds his as tightly as his 
arms are now holding her.

Suddenly those words are right there, presenting themselves with simple 
joy, never having been lost in the first place.  Merely misplaced a 
little, buried a bit deeper than would have been comfortable to dig 
for.  That challenge he's been feeling ever since Scully told him she 
knows how to refuse him... well, he's been thinking on it, mulling over 
in his mind the stunning thought that - if given a choice between her 
family and a night of mysterious X-File-ish activity - she'd choose him 
without a backward glance or a regretful thought.  It's humbling and 
it's just the best gift of all... until he asks the question and waits 
for the answer.

"I want you to help me pick out a DVD player, two days from now... 
after breakfast."  His expression is a curious combination of 
determination and supplication, and all of the tenseness he'd eased 
from her shoulders has now lodged in his entire body.  He's afraid 
she'll misunderstand.  He's worried she won't misunderstand.  The words 
have needed to be said for months, but too many other occurrences have 
gotten in their way, stymied them, clogged their natural progression 
from his mind to his vocal chords.  But now it seems right.  Even 
masked as they are in vagueness, it's right.

Her head tilted to the side a little, Scully regards him seriously, 
weighing his request.  If she senses his worry she makes no comment on 
it, merely settling herself more comfortably in his arms, and asking, 
"Breakfast, huh?  Can I have it in bed?  Will you make me french 
toast?"

In bed?  She wants him to cook... and in bed?  

He nods, in a daze.  "Sure.  I can do that.  I even have bread.  I 
think.  Maybe even maple syrup.  Do you like maple syrup, Scully?"  
He's babbling inanely but can't seem to stop.

"Only if it's hot.  I like it to melt the butter."

Mulder clears his throat, unable to get out of his head the mental 
image of Scully draped in a sheet and nothing else, nibbling syrupy 
toast from his fingers.  "Well, then... I can handle that, I think.  
Butter and hot syrup.  French toast.  In bed."

Her smile blooms across her face, wide and warm, sweet and so damned 
sexy that his knees would buckle if he were standing up.  "Then I 
suppose I'm wrong, Mulder.  It seems I can't say 'no' to you."  She 
accompanies the confession with a trailing index finger again, only 
this time it smoothes across his forehead, down one cheek, until it 
rests against his lower lip.  There it waits, until he purses both lips 
and kisses it.  Then that finger hooks itself under his chin, drawing 
his face closer, until his mouth touches hers, at last touches, clings, 
parts... devours.  

His.  The gift he'd wanted all along, the best gift he could ever have 
received, the one he'd never dreamed of asking for because it seemed as 
if the timing was always so horribly wrong.

Until now.  This Christmas morning, dark and stormy out there, frigidly 
cold... the way his heart used to be.

Not any more.

********************

They don't bother leaving the living room.  Maybe Mulder's bed would be 
more comfortable but somehow making love on the sofa is more 
appropriate for them.  They've spent enough time sitting on it, side by 
side; eating, talking, even working from time to time.  Becoming 
intimate on it just adds another facet.

One by one, their garments are pulled, tugged at, removed and tossed to 
the floor.  Each has seen the other naked, no real surprises there.  
Six years of partnership in all kinds of situations has afforded them 
that level of trust.  But in the haze of desire, nudity takes on a 
whole new gloss.  

Her satin skin, firm flesh, each miniscule hair that dances along her 
spine, delights his fingertips when he runs them over her.  Her taste 
is tart yet sweet, a trace of perfume and the smoky flavor of her own 
arousal.  He wants to drown in it, let himself become saturated in her 
essence.  His mouth is eager, his need immense... he kisses her 
everywhere, on her mouth, her breasts, her sex.  There, most of all.  

The strength so apparent in his athletic body, the ropy muscles of his 
arms and legs, makes her heart pound in her chest as she looks at him.  
He's beautiful in his very imperfections; the combination of features 
that singly would seem less than attractive but when combined renders 
him astonishingly handsome.  She wants to feel him, every inch of him, 
over her, under her, inside her... God, yes, inside her.  Deep, very 
deep...

Her rosy nipples react to his touch, the careful nip of his teeth; his 
penis grows and thickens, cupped in her eager hands, stroked by her 
tongue.   It's basic biology and it's a ceremony, too; older than time 
and never more vital and urgent than right now, between two people who 
have put this need on hold for long enough.

Once again, words make way for deeds, silence reigns golden and their 
thoughts relay to each other so very easily.  With every deepening 
kiss, lingering stroke, demanding press of body to body, they're 
speaking for their hearts, a conversation that will find its definition 
in actual vocalization, later... much later.

Right now it's more important for him to feel what she alone can give 
to him when she holds him pulsing in her hands, curls her legs around 
him, arches up into that first blinding thrust of his.  Scully trembles 
a litany against his driving body; clings in both vowel and consonant 
with arms, fingers, lips... with voracious desire.  Without a word they 
trample six wasted years into the dust; they send unrequited emotion 
away from their heated proximity and into the snowstorm outside, where 
its coldness is much more suited.

Every deep movement against each other, hip to hip and sex to sex, 
takes them higher and higher, until nothing but moans and a single, 
breathless sob of completion can be heard in the silent room.  Holding 
on so tightly, refusing to let go even for one small second, Mulder 
finds his own pinnacle meshing with that of his lover's and pauses 
there, shattering inside, understanding at last that if nothing else 
good happens in his lifetime, this is one gift that can never be taken 
from him.   Looking down into Scully's eyes, heavy with pleasure and 
moist from her own release, he vows he's never seen a more beautiful 
sight.

He'll tell her so, soon.  After the loving, after their bodies cool and 
their minds are cognizant enough to form a coherent language.  He'll 
give her his own version of the gifts he's received.  Then he'll show 
her, all over again, just how necessary to his very existence those 
gifts really are.  He'll speak of love, and she'll believe.  

And breakfast... he'll make her breakfast.

"In bed, Mulder."  Her sleepy voice in his ear makes him realize he 
spoke those words aloud.  Mulder smiles down at her, still flushed from 
her climax, her damp body warm and soft against his, and decides that 
for her he could move mountains, forge lakes, melt a sea of butter with 
an ocean of hot maple syrup...

"Yes. In bed.  Which is where I'm carrying you, if I can regain enough 
strength to get up off this sofa."  He struggles to do just that, 
swaying on his feet a bit before bending over to slip his arms beneath 
her and lift her up, close to his heart.  

As he carries her into his bedroom, he murmurs, "Merry Christmas, 
Scully." 

She yawns softly against his neck.  "Merry Christmas, Mulder."

The dimly-lit room fills with their presence; the bed cradles them as 
they curl into each other's arms, and speak those other, vital words.


End