TITLE: Ghosts of Christmas Yet to Come AUTHOR: Tarin Z. Kesumin E-MAIL: Muzinke@aol.com SUMMARY: The thing that you must remember is that Mulder was missing, to begin with. This one thing you must remember, or none of the events you are about to read will seem wondrous. KEYWORDS: Angst, MSR. CATEGORY: S, D (just a passing mention), Challenge-fic, Holiday-fic. SPOILERS: 'Requiem', 'Within' and 'Without'. RATING: R for reference to sexual situations, and language. DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, all mentioned members of the Scully family, Walter Skinner, John Doggett, and The Lone Gunmen are property of 1013 Productions and Fox Corp. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made by this story. Just spreading some holiday cheer. AUTHOR'S NOTES: At the end of the story. * * * Apartment of Dana Scully Saturday December 23, 2000 11:21pm "You have no messages." Not a surprise, really. The only people who bothered to call her at home these days were Skinner, the Gunmen, Agent Doggett, and her family. And everyone except Doggett, who as far as Scully was concerned would never set foot in her own home let alone her mother's, had been at Maggie Scully's annual Holiday party. Scully had been genuinely surprised at her mother's decision to require formal attire for all guests this year. When questioned, Maggie had airily told her daughter that she felt the need for a little "added festivity" this year. At the time, Scully had recoiled at the obvious motive behind Maggie's decision. In retrospect, however, she did finally have to admit that the swirls of velvet, silk, and combed wool drifting through her mother's tastefully decorated house had helped to lift her spirits. Even Matthew had looked dapper, carried in the arms of his uniformed father for all to admire. By the end of the evening, however, the tuxedo everyone had ooed and ahhed about had been creatively accessorized by several juice and chocolate syrup stains. Scully had sworn to herself as she watched Tara pluck at the sticky mess with a damp dishtowel, that her child would *not* be allowed to wear a tuxedo, for any reason, before the kid's senior prom. Either that, or Mulder could pay the cleaning bills out of his own paycheck. After countless encounters with slime, mud, and goo, he probably had some kind of agreement with his dry cleaner involving automatic deductions from his paycheck. Scully felt a grin tug at the edges of her mouth, and again wondered at her increasing ability to do so when thinking of her absent partner. Months after losing him in the desert sands of Arizona, she felt no less at peace with the his aching absence from her life. Her memories of him, and the warmth they brought her, however, did not invoke the slicing guilt they once had. As reluctant as she was to admit it, she was beginning to learn how to live without him. Uncomfortable with the turn her thoughts were taking, Scully absently ran her hand across the convex curve of her belly, smoothing the already stressed royal blue velvet against her tender skin as she made her way into the kitchen. Despite having amply sampled the many culinary offerings at the party, Scully found herself pulling open her refrigerator door in search of something more to appease the renewed buzzing of her stomach. Her deliberation did not last long; still moist from washing, the smooth red strawberries Bill and Tara had brought with them from California quickly caught her eye. Her stomach gurgled in anticipation as Scully drew the glass bowl from the top shelf, bumping the refrigerator door closed with a toss of her hip. Eagerly she tucked the first berry into her mouth, and savored the cool tangy flavor against her tongue for a long, sensuous moment before making her way out of the kitchen and into the shadowy dark of the living room. Reaching for the nearby light switch, she flipped the paddle upwards, and was instantly bathed in the soft glow of hundreds of glittering pinpricks. The tree was ridiculously large; it had taken herself and all three of the Gunmen to wrestle it into her living room. She had insisted, however, on decorating the monstrous conifer herself, placing each of the ornaments carefully on the individual boughs. Once finished decorating, she had stepped back to admire the ornamental patchwork whose collective stories and origins told the story of her life. The angel presiding over the chaos was a family heirloom passed on from her maternal grandmother. A red and black speckled terrapin proudly waving a 'Maryland' banner in its left foot. An amethyst crystal suspended on a deep purple velvet ribbon. The U.S.S. Morgan in detailed miniature. Santa Claus basking in a claw-footed tub, body submerged in the froth of a bubble bath. And last year's addition, a flying saucer with red and green blinking lights around its circumference. And beneath the narrative of the tree and its ornaments settled carefully on the simple white skirt, lay a mass of brightly papered gifts, patiently awaiting their bestowal into the eager hands of her family on Christmas Day. All except two. Folding her feet beneath her, she settled herself at the foot of the tree, eyes never leaving the two mismatched packages set apart from the larger tumble of boxes and gift bags. Gingerly, Scully picked up the smaller of the two boxes from their place of honor beneath the Christmas tree. Turning it back and forth between her fingers, the gold ribbon glinting brightly in the soft yellow light of the Christmas tree lights. They had found it pressed back in the far corner of a desk drawer, while searching his apartment for evidence that might have been useful for Kersh's 'manhunt'. It was only weeks later, long after the focus had shifted to-and-from the Arizona desert, that she had been approached by Doggett himself. Mercifully, he had said nothing, simply handing her the box, tagged with her name, and leaving her in the office, alone. She winced slightly, belatedly realizing that the agents investigating Mulder's disappearance most likely used an x-ray to discern the contents of the box before deeming it irrelevant to the investigation. While her investigator's rationale understood the necessity, her heart protested at the unfairness. The box's contents were something private, its revelation meant to be shared solely between her and Mulder. And because of his blind, by-the-book enthusiasm, Doggett had destroyed the fragile intimacy of the gesture. *It doesn't matter*, she told herself firmly, forcibly pushing the melancholy thoughts from her mind, focusing instead on the feathery gold refraction of light from the ribbon upon her ceiling. Scully's gaze softened, blurred by a memory of a winter's morning, she no more than three, both Bill and Melissa already at school, her father away at sea. The youngest, and home alone with her mother for much of the day, Maggie had bundled little Dana in her yellow down parka, wool hat, and mittens, and brought her with her to church. She had fidgeted uncomfortably, her damp palms sticking against the glossy varnish of the unyielding oak pew on which she sat. Her scalp had itched terribly under the heavy wool hat she wore, as she crankily wished she had been permitted to bring her coloring book from the car. It had seemed like years before her mother reached for her hand and led her to the back of the sanctuary, to stand before the ordered rows of glowing votive candles. Dana had watched and listened, savored the brush of warmth from the flame and the hushed tone of her mother's voice at prayer, awed to attention by the sense of something powerful that she had been still too young to name. Sheltered within the golden glow of candlelight and whispered prayers, her mother had looked beatific, and for perhaps the first time, Dana had felt an undoubted belief in God. She had been longing for that innocent, unfailing belief since the moment she lost Mulder, and briefly after his disappearance, had made awkward attempts to force herself into a faith that she had long ago begun to question. *Hail Mary, full of grace*... The chill of his absence remained, and when it became clear to her there was no turning back to a God whose very origins she now questioned, she turned instead to the man in whom she had an unfailing trust. And simply allowed herself to hope. Scully's eyes again centered on the warbling gold dancing across her ceiling as she set the gift at her knees, leaving it there in favor of the larger red and green striped box. The content of this particular box was no mystery to her. This gift she had purchased, and would remain with its smaller companion, unopened, until the day its recipient could tear the paper from the box himself. She hadn't originally intended to buy him a gift. The traitorous thought had descended upon her while caught in the throng of color and cheer at Pentagon City. Would he or wouldn't he be home in time? Unable to bear the thought of the latter, she spent another hour fighting the crowds and searching the stores. For him. And the fruit of that labor would be waiting for him when he came back, she determined, placing the package beside the other. Both boxes would remain unopened until then, so that they could share Christmas together. She smiled then, a slow gentle smile that spoke silently of hope and love and longing. Closing her eyes against the sparkle of tiny lights before her, she let her thoughts drift away, carried haplessly along on the tide of muted colors swirling beneath her shuttered lids.... She came back to consciousness slowly, allowing the familiar sounds of Alexandria at night to tickle against her ears as she lay, naked and warm, beneath Mulder's bedsheets. The awareness that she was alone dawned quickly, sparked along by the unshakable fear that his earlier presence against her had been nothing more than another all too vivid dream. Such dreams had both sustained and tortured her in the many months he had been missing. Heart hammering against her ribs, Scully reached out a tentative hand to the empty side of the bed. To her relief, the sheets were still warm to the touch; he had been here. It hadn't been a dream. And as her fear ebbed, she was able to take note of other clues: the dull ache in her thighs, the smell of him upon her skin, the rumpled clothing-both Mulder's and her own-littering the bedroom floor. And the unfamiliar weight against her neck, the belated Christmas present he had purchased so many months ago. Rolling to rest on her side, her hand fluttered to her throat, fingertips smoothing against the delicate links of silver and the demure, blue sapphire resting against her collarbone. She'd been shocked, to say the least, when her eyes finally alighted on the gift he had purchased months before his disappearance. Too extravagant had been her first thought, and had raised her eyes to him intending to say just that. But his look of naked adoration had eliminated any thought of protest, as she gathered her hair and allowed him to slip the necklace on. Shifting lazily in the bed, Scully caught the faint aroma of coffee wafting through the bedroom door. Smiling, she closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into the blankets, allowing herself a moment alone to luxuriate in the simple contentment that had been so long elusive. "Scully?" Her grin widened, hidden beneath the corner of the sheet, at the sound of her lover's hesitant voice. "You awake?" "Mmmm." Curling one hand around the edge of the blanket, she pulled it down enough to peer at him through a squinted eye. He stood at the door, head peeking around the jamb, hair a mass of brown spikes and tangles. He was adorably sexy first thing in the morning. "Maybe. Is that coffee I smell?" The mattress sagged, pulling her down towards him as he sat on the edge. "Fresh ground Colombian--decaf, of course," he stated matter-of-factly, before leaning down to a gentle kiss upon her lips. "Good morning, by the way." "It certainly is," she whispered reverently. "How long have you been up?" "Not long. Why, you miss me, Scully?" "Mmmm," she murmured, luxuriating in a full body stretch, savoring the solid warmth of his back against the round of her stomach. "Maybe." "Not so certain of yourself first thing in the morning, are you, Agent Scully?" "Shut up, Mulder, and get me some coffee," she said sweetly, giving him a not so subtle shove in the direction of the door. "I'll be right out." Rising from his perch beside her, he ambled slowly out the door, grumbling good-naturedly under his breath as he left the room. The foggy sounds of the radio coming to life and clinking earthenware followed his footsteps seconds later, and she felt her heart swell at the simple, domestic normalcy of it. It had been so long since anything in her life had seemed normal. Not that her definition would fit the public norm, anyway. She'd been reluctant for many years to give up the dream her parents had taught her to covet; standing now, watching dust motes drift in the sunlight from his bedroom window, she decided she had found something better- because it was real. She pulled herself from the bed with a reluctance borne of lazy weekends and excess sleep. The cooler air touched her naked skin as she again stretched her tired muscles, and tried to ignore the tingling itch of rising goosebumps on her skin. Reaching to her feet, she pulled Mulder's Oxford shirt from the jumble of hastily discarded clothing, and threw it over her shoulders as she left the bedroom, and drifted into the living room. And was greeted by a view of an alien-clad ass, as Mulder bent to place twin steaming mugs on the coffeetable. A feral grin bloomed upon her lips. "This morning is better than good, Mulder. From where I'm standing, I'd have to say it was fantastic." Unruffled by neither her presence or her candid remark, he straightened and turned to shoot her a sultry gaze. "What can I say, Scully, you have excellent taste in men's underwear." She merely snorted and shook her head in response. "I sincerely doubt, Mulder, that glow-in-the-dark aliens are the haute couture. My guess is that Gianni Versace would roll over in his grave at the mere suggestion." He sauntered over as she spoke, wrapping his arms loosely around her expanded waist. "But black silk, Scully. He'd have to agree that silk is one of the finest of fabrics. Tres chic." "Hmmm..." she murmured, pretending to consider his words as she ran her hands down his back and over the downy, cool fabric. "Oui, oui." The gentle rumble of his chuckling filled the room, vibrated against her pliant form as she leaned her weight against his. She felt his arms tighten possessively around her as he ducked his head to drop a kiss at the crown of her head. "God, Scully. You know how much I missed this?" Her own arms constricted around his chest reflexively in response, even as she nodded her answer. Scully spent several minutes in motionless quiet, straining to hear the steady sound of the Mulder's breathing over the babble of the radio. She seemed unable to take such minutia for granted any longer; Mulder's abduction had since stripped her of the overdeveloped sense of complacency she had been cultivating these past few years. "Dance with me, Scully?" he murmured softly, breath tickling against her ear and pulling her reluctantly back to awareness. Slowly, she became aware of the bouncy, rhythmic beat issuing forth from his stereo, and the gentle swaying of their embracing bodies in a half-time counterpoint to the music. "We *are* dancing, Mulder." "Not like this. With the music, Scully," he said, brushing his lips across her earlobe as he pulled back within the circle of her arms to gauge her reaction. She listened again to the instrumental playing on the radio, and fought the urge to roll her eyes. "You've got to be kidding me, Mulder; a tango?" "Not just any tango, Scully," he said with a lopsided grin. "The holiest of tangos: 'Hernando's Hideway'." "You've got to be joking," she stated flatly. He stared back at her in quiet response. Then, without warning, grabbed her left hand in his and swept her forward with several off- beat, rhythmless steps. "Are you implying, Scully," he said airily as he swept her around the room in a wild, loopy circle "that I don't know how to dance a tango?" It was a struggle for her feet to keep pace with his as he spun them sloppily about the room. She was struggling with equal determination, but less success, not to giggle at his antics. He seemed unfazed when his hip made firm contact with the corner of his desk, overturning a picture frame and leaving the desk lamp tottering uncertainly in his wake. His shin connected with the coffeetable a minute later, sloshing coffee over the rims of their forgotten mugs. On his second pass, his right foot made contact with the table leg, dislodging the now soggy TV guide and the remote control, sending both to the floor in a flutter of pages and crashing plastic. "I don't need to imply, Mulder," she said a bit breathlessly, as she eyeballed the destruction over his shoulder. "You've provided me with all the evidence I need." Loosening her left hand, her spun her under his arm before guiding her down into a deep dip. "I think I may be insulted, Scully," he breathed, leaning in to touch his nose to hers. "Poor baby," she said jutting out her lower lip in a playful pout. Taking advantage, Mulder honed in for a brief, gentle nip before swinging her upward and taking off for another sweep about the room, buoyed by her the sound of her laughter as it trailed at their heels. As they continued to swing and cavort, Scully lost focus of her surroundings, aware only of the overheated pressure of Mulder's hand gripping her own, the giddy light in his eyes, the hum of pure, unadulterated joy ringing in her ears. So wrapped in the heady thrill of the dance, Scully barely registered the cool press of something solid against the back of her thigh as Mulder arched her back over his arm. She felt the warm rush of blood to her face as she fell back, eyes watching as the room turned on its axis. He held her steady for only a few seconds, enough time for her to read the cover of a book scant inches from her nose, before it began to slip left, out of her field of vision. "Mulder," she called out gruffly, her vocal cords strained by her inverted position even as he began to pull her up. "Mulder, I think your book is about to fall off the table." His eyes met hers as she rose, before taking a cursory glance behind her. "Shit!!" he yelped in alarm, letting go of her instantly and making a dive for the stack of teetering journals, books and file folders. Unprepared for the loss of his nurturing embrace, Scully backpedaled unsteadily in an attempt to regain her balance, eyes wide at the spectacle before her. Falling to his knees, Mulder skidded several inches on the hardwood floor, arms outstretched towards his impromptu library, beseeching. Rapidly crawling the final few steps, he placed a steadying hand on the topmost book, wrapping his free arm around the body of the tower, an embrace Scully found amusingly similar to the way he had been holding her earlier. "Got yourself a few good books there, Mulder?" She said, raising a delicate eyebrow for punctuation. He slowly pulled his feet under him and rose to stand, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the precarious pile, as if sheer will would keep it from toppling. "You know me, Scully. Gotta make up for lost time." Her face fell at what was left unspoken, and she shivered under a momentary chill. When he turned to face her a moment later, however, the melancholy had vanished from her visage, and had been replaced by a look of invitation. Her heart thrilled at his acceptance, her eyes smiling as he sauntered over to her before casting a final, fierce look over his shoulder to the offending pile of publications. "Maybe we should just stick to the basics," he said sheepishly as he again gathered her body close to his. Scully settled happily into the renewed embrace, resting her hands against his bare chest, and gazing up at him with wide eyes. "We seem to do the basics pretty well, don't we?" "You know what they say, Scully. Practice makes perfect." The cliché hung in the air for several heavy seconds, and Scully felt their weight pressing against her chest despite the protection of Mulder's presence. Blinking rapidly against the burgeoning moisture at the corners of her eyes, she slid her arms around his shoulders and buried her nose against his sternum. "We're so out of practice, Mulder" she whispered sadly. "Oh, Scully," he whispered with similar longing, wrapping his arms about her slight frame in a voracious hug. Again, he took up a gentle swaying, rocking her as a mother might a teething infant. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," he murmured over and over again, the words blurring together into a comforting, resonant melody. She said nothing, her thoughts muddled and slow with emotions too painful and private to express. Instead, she tightened her grip on his waist, and placed whisper-soft kisses above his heart, against his breastbone, at the base of his neck. He grew silent as she stilled in his arms, resting her cheek against his chest, relishing the coarse itch of his hair against her skin as he breathed. "I'm sorry, too, Mulder." she finally whispered, closing her eyes and succumbing to the unbridled current of emotions she no longer had the strength, nor the desire, to conceal.... Scully's nose twitched fitfully in a fruitless attempt to dislodge a stray lock of auburn hair from its perch upon her face. As her eyelids began to flutter with the first signs of wakefulness, Scully raised a limp hand to brush the offending strands back against her ear. "Mulder?" she called in confusion, raising herself onto one elbow as she perused the empty room with muggy eyes. She took in the pair of boxes, still resting beside her now prone body, the glittering constellations of lights on her Christmas tree, the fruit bowl dewy with condensation. And with a sinking heart, realized that she had fallen asleep under the tree, dreaming of the only thing she truly wanted in this season of magic and miracles. For a moment, Scully found herself wishing that when she was eight years old, Bill had never told her there was no such thing as Santa Claus. In the next, she was in tears, struggling awkwardly to rise to her feet under the weight of her distended abdomen. He'd been gone six months, a time both long and terrible, and, short and hopeful. Would he so gracefully allow himself the luxury of learning to live without her by his side? It wasn't a question worthy of her consideration; the answer was plainly, painfully obvious. Inhaling sharply, Scully raised her head, and met head-on the piercing, anguished eyes of her reflection. And smiled. "There may be a Santa Claus, after all." * * * End. * * * NOTES: This story was begun in response to a challenge issued by the X-Files Quill and Scroll Society. Required story elements are as follows: 1) a string of Christmas lights, 2) a slow, sexy tango to the tune of "Hernando's Hideaway", with Mulder wearing nothing but black satin boxers with glow-in-the-dark aliens all over them, 3) Mulder and/or Scully in formal dress, 4) a sapphire necklace, 5) a bowl of fresh strawberries, and 6) a huge stack of books about to fall over. A motley crew, if I ever saw one. Hopefully, I've been able to put together a plot that pulls them all together, and isn't too ridiculous. This has been my first attempt at challenge-fic, and it's been, well, a challenge. But an enjoyable one. Of course, couldn't have done it without the help of my diligent, tireless beta, Suzanne, who's been with me from outline to finish. Thank you, thank you!! 'Tis the giving season, so give the gift that keeps on giving-feedback! Happy Holidays, and thanks for reading!!