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