Simple Gifts -- Part 6a of 7 See Disclaimer in Part 1 Scully's Apartment 10:44 p.m. He knocked once before using his own key to let himself into her apartment so she wouldn't have to get up. As he entered, he saw that she was pacing the floor in front of the couch talking on the phone. Had to be her mother. And he could see a tear glistening on her cheek in the glow of the lamp next to the sofa. She walked over to him and put her hand on the receiver. "I'll be done in a sec," she whispered, giving him a watery smile. "No, keep talking," he answered back. "I'll just go in and heat this up a little for us. Go sit down and I'll bring it in." She nodded and reached out to squeeze his hand before going back to the couch--a gesture that brought a smile to his face. As she walked away from him, he noticed that she was wearing a t-shirt of his--a gesture that widened the smile already there and caused a pleasant stirring in his loins. God, she looked hot in his clothes! Picturing his wardrobe, he started to wonder what else he could bring her to wear. No doubt about it, the Knicks shirt. That blue with her hair and eyes? It could kill him even to imagine it. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and went to heat up their food. Her kitchen, as always, was spotless and he set the bag on the counter to unpack it. The container of chicken and dumplings was still slightly warm and he pulled it out and dug around in the cupboards until he found a saucepan. Dumping the contents, he set the burner to low and looked in the bag to find the cornbread. He found it, wrapped in plastic wrap and ready for a few quick seconds in the microwave. Also in the bag, to his surprise and delight, were an entire sweet potato pie and a can of whipped cream- -the squirting kind. He picked up the can and found the note taped to the side. *Hey, Slim, I heard this stuff ain't just for pie anymore.* He chuckled to himself and crumbled the note, shoving it deep inside the pocket of his jeans. Rosie, apparently, had a lot more confidence in him than he had in himself. But he had to admit, he liked the idea of the whipped cream. It made him think of the Knicks shirt again. Crumpled up on the floor. He stirred the mixture on the stove as it heated so that the dumplings didn't stick to the pan and when it started to bubble, he gave the cornbread a quick heat through. Just as he was bringing everything into the living room, he saw her place the phone on the coffee table. Although her face was stained with tear tracks, she didn't look upset but, rather, gave him an expectant look and he saw her nose twitch slightly as she tried to guess what he was bringing her. "Rosie's chicken and dumplings! You're amazing, Mulder. I didn't even know I wanted that till you brought it in. And cornbread. This is the only thing I can imagine eating now." Her voice was shaky, her tone indecipherable to him. "She said to tell you hi," he said, trying unsuccessfully to sound nonchalant. Finally, he gave up trying. "You okay?" "Yeah, I think so," she said quietly. "Mulder, this stuff..." She indicated a small sheaf of papers spread out on the coffee table. He shook his head. "Put it aside for a bit. Let's just eat first." Scully nodded in agreement and gathered everything together to clear a space on the table for Mulder to put the tray. They sat side by side, knees touching, and ate from bowls resting on plates on their laps. He almost forgot his own meal, just watching her attack hers. Slurping dumplings, mopping up gravy with her cornbread, making the occasional appreciative grunt, Scully was doing some seriously impressive scarfing. She'd told him she was ravenous and he searched his mind for just one other time when he'd seen her eat with such gusto. Well, there was that rib place in Wisconsin where, between them, they'd performed a major eating initiative on a rather sizeable plate of ribs. He remembered wiping the barbecue sauce from her face with his napkin and now, as then, she had a tendency to wear her food on the rare occasions that she ate like a linebacker, evidenced by the dribble of gravy at the corner of her mouth. This time, though, he ventured to do what he'd wanted to do then and swiped at the gravy with his thumb. "You dribbled," he said, noting her curious glance. "Hmm," she replied looking from his thumb to his face. Her expression told him that she was waiting to see what he would do with the gravy he'd removed. The right thing to do--the safe thing to do--would be to wipe his thumb on his napkin and continue eating. He rejected it immediately and brought his thumb to his mouth, licking the sauce off. Her smile told him he'd made the right decision. Was he imagining it or did he really catch just the slightest taste of her on his skin? Scully took the tray of empty dishes back to the kitchen and Mulder looked across at the sheaf of papers she'd placed beside her as they ate. It surprised him how little he was tempted to reach for them, to try and catch a glimpse of their contents. He found that he wasn't as curious about what they said as he was about whether Scully would choose to tell him. He still felt fairly sure that she would, although he could feel some part of himself trying to steel himself just in case she decided not to. She saw him looking at the papers when came back bearing two sweating glasses of ice water, handing his to him before she sat down. "Love Rose's chicken and dumplings, but she sure doesn't go light on the salt." She drank deeply from her glass and placed it on the table before them. "You could've read them, Mulder," she said, picking up the pages she'd lain face down on the sofa. He shook his head. "I don't make a habit of reading your personal stuff." She looked at him doubtfully. "You read what I wrote in the hospital in Allentown," she challenged. "You wrote that to me," he countered. "And besides, I stopped when..." She looked at him curiously. "When what?" "Nothing," he said quietly. "Look, it was a long time ago. W... you got through that." They both sat quietly for what seemed a long time, staring at their hands folded placidly in their laps. Mulder had almost given up hope that either of them would speak again when he spied her hand approaching him and he watched it come to rest on his with a gentle caress to his thumb. "Why the hell do we keep doing this, Mulder?" Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear it. "Things have happened to us, earth shattering things, and we never talk about them. We're blessed enough to make it through them, and then we act like they never happened. I had cancer, Mulder, and *we* got through it. I got through it and you got through it. But damn it, we could have gotten through it together." She drew his hand over to hold it between both of hers on her lap, her top hand rubbing gentle circles over his. "I know I was mostly to blame for that. I pushed you away and shut you out. I knew I was doing it at the time, but it just didn't seem like I could stop it. That was wrong and I'm sorry. But I didn't know what you were thinking or feeling then, either." How could he begin to describe what he'd been feeling? He hated even thinking about that time, let alone talking about it. But she was right. How long could they keep avoiding talking about these life-altering events? And why had they decided they needed to avoid them in the first place? Well, if he expected her to give him her heart, he would have to be willing to share his own. He thought about the night that he found her book on the bedside table in the hospital in Allentown. He closed his eyes briefly and could picture a whole page of it, word for word. Sometimes it sucked to be eidetic. He could see all the words in her pretty, precise, Catholic school handwriting--her neat and orderly-written goodbye to him. "I stopped reading when I..." He swallowed hard trying to force down the lump in his throat. "I stopped reading because it scared the piss out of me, Scully. You were going to leave that for me to have after you died. Reading it there, beside that empty hospital bed, it was too much like the real thing. It started to feel like you were already gone. And you know, I could picture it. That's what was really scary. I sat there holding that book, running the whole scenario in my mind. You know, like one of those daydream-y things you get sometimes. In my thoughts, I could see you getting thinner and sicker until they finally had to put you in the hospital. And I could picture your mom and me sitting by your bed. I didn't know Bill then, but I wouldn't have pictured him anyway. But I pictured your mom and me, each of us holding one of your hands. Then I pictured the heart monitor going off and I could hear the beep--droning on endlessly until I reached over and turned it off. I could see me standing there just in sheer disbelief that you were gone. And I could see me bending over to kiss you goodbye, and leaving your room, and riding the elevator and even getting to the door of the hospital. But I couldn't see any farther than that. There was absolutely nothing after that. I simply could not imagine the rest of my life without you. And that terrified me. I was so scared I could hardly breathe." He took a deep and shaky breath. "That's how I felt. Like my heart was being ripped out. And... you want to know how else I felt?" Looking down at her, he could see the tears brimming in her eyes as she nodded. "At the same time it was ripping my heart out, it was pissing me off." He hesitated, unsure how to proceed, and he felt her squeeze his hand in reassurance. "The things you wrote, Scully... they were beautiful. Things I never knew you thought, things I never would have guessed that you felt. But I was stealing them from you. You hadn't given them to me and the only way I could have them was if you died. They were beautiful words, but they were still goodbye. They were the words of someone laying down to die. You were going to go gentle into that good night and leave me with beautiful words. And it pissed me off and ripped my heart out and I went down to wait for you by Penny's room because I wanted to know why I couldn't have those words until you were dead. And I wanted to know why you were just rolling over. "I had it all planned out. I was going to tell you what I'd found at Lombard and you were going to get dressed and we were going to go there and take care of business. I actually thought that. Until you came out of Penny's room. Your back was to me and when you turned around... I could see it. You were sick. I got hit with one hell of a dose of reality. All I had was a vial of your ova, not even viable because I'd been carrying them around in my fucking pocket. A vial from a place that was surely swept clean of any evidence within an hour after they'd discovered me there. I had nothing. And you were sick and nothing I'd done or found could change that." Mulder could recall it all with perfect clarity--every word, every second, every agonizing breath of that encounter. His conscious mind had played it over and over again during the time she was sick. And his subconscious mind still showed it to him occasionally in dreams. "And you stood there and told me that those words weren't for me after all, that you were going to throw them away. And that hurt, Scully, that you were going to throw away the words you wrote to me. That if I hadn't stolen them, I would never have gotten them. That hurt. Hell, it still does. But it didn't hurt as much as the realization that you were sick, dying. Then you were spouting some bullshit about living with cancer and proving things to your family. And I knew then... I just knew that I had to play it however you had to play it. If you had to deny it, so did I because I had no other hope to give you. I was so afraid during that time that when... when the end came, you'd just bolt and you wouldn't let me be with you. I hoped... I hoped that if I went along with it the way you wanted it, you'd let me stay. So you came back to work and I watched there be less of you with every day that passed and it didn't seem like there was anything I could do but watch because I... because I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't find the answers. Not once during the whole damn thing did I ever know what to do." He fell silent on a sigh. "Not true, Mulder," Scully protested, shaking her head. "You did all I could let you do. And so much more. When the time came, when the answer was there, you found it. And you brought it to me and let me decide." He started to speak, but she placed her fingertips gently against his lips, not allowing him to interrupt her. "Don't even start, Mulder. I know you. I know what you're going to say. Yes, it was at the very last minute. If you'd just found it sooner... That's what you were going to say, wasn't it?" He nodded, not really needing to. "I told you. I *know* you." Her voice was low and gentle, and her words stirred something in his chest. She knew him. Scully knew him and knew she knew him. The thought brought a rush of emotions so overwhelming that he almost missed her speaking again. "Do you think it matters to me now that it was at the last minute?" she asked. "Do you think it ever mattered? It was this side of the line, Mulder, and three years later I'm still here. See?" She took the hand that was clasped in both of hers and brought it to her face so that her cheek rested in his palm. The touch of her skin against his palm jolted him momentarily into the now and sent him reeling off again almost immediately. He was feeling too much, more than his underused heart knew how to cope with. Scully knew him and knew she knew him. The only person in the whole world who did, who knew him. Truly his one in five billion. Scully knew him and she was still there. Despite him and despite her, despite the Bureau and the mutants and freaks and psychos, and despite Them--she was still there. He caressed her cheek once with his thumb before sliding his hand back to thread his fingers through her hair. Pulling her against him, he enfolded her with his other arm. Her hands were pressed against his chest and she rested her head on them and it felt as if he were wrapped all the way around her. "I'm so glad you're still here," he whispered into her hair as he nuzzled it with his nose. "I don't know where I'd be if you weren't. You're the best thing in my life, Scully. The only light there is." Cocooned, swaddled in Mulder, Scully felt his words stir individual strands of hair as they simultaneously entered her ears and touched her soul. She was the best thing in his life. Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought. In his life full of pain and loss and deceits and lies and manipulation, she was a light for him--his only light. And even though she'd doubted nearly every theory he'd ever proffered, argued with him, pulled him back at times when his only instinct was to hurtle forward, tried to keep him out of her heart, he still made his way back to her light. Because even as she was doing those things, she was protecting him, defending him, covering his back, doctoring his wounds, soothing him when she could, loving him. Loving him. The realization struck her with something akin to the feeling of entering a well-heated building on a bitingly cold winter day. Suffused in warmth. She loved Mulder. She was fairly certain that thought had come to her in dreams, the good ones, the warm ones. But she'd never before consciously admitted it and it elicited a small gasp from her. He must have heard or sensed her gasp for she felt his arms around her loosen, as if to pull away. In turn, Scully moved her arms from between them, twining them around his waist, holding him there--partly because it just felt so damned good to be enveloped in him. But mostly because she wasn't ready yet to face him, to look at him with eyes that loved him. She needed to process this strange new idea, to play with it in her mind, to test its truth as she, seemingly, was born to do. He didn't seem to mind that she didn't want to let go quite yet and she felt his nose resume its nuzzling in her hair, making her shiver just a little. Her mind kept repeating it over and over as if she were learning a strange, new language. After just a few times, it felt right--like the longstanding truth it was--and she was amazed at how easy it was to accept it. And how good it was. She loved Mulder. her rational side countered in that snotty tone she'd always hated. And the answer was surprisingly simple. Huddled inside the warmth of him, her heart felt warm, too. For the first time since... since... She could call up no point of reference for this feeling. Had her heart never before felt this? If so, this heat burned away any former feelings she'd ever had, and even the memories of them. There was absolutely no doubt that what she was feeling right now was past friendly, *way* past partnerly, and heading for the sublime. Another realization came to her, bringing with it a feeling that was a strange mixture of elation and regret. Mulder loved her. Just like he'd said in his hallway the week after she'd found him in the DOD facility. Just like he'd said in the hospital in Florida when she'd scoffed and dismissed him. Just like he'd said before the bee and the side trip to Antarctica. He'd told her over and over again and she'd never said it once. Many more times than that, he'd shown it to her. And he kept trying to tell her, warily and hesitantly, risking her scorn and desertion, without once ever receiving a verbal glimpse into her heart in return. Yet he'd never given up. And he'd just done it again. Suddenly she was aware of his apprehension. His breathing no longer matched hers. There was a tension in his arms as he held her, becoming worse the longer she remained silent within them. He'd put his heart out there one more time and she hadn't responded. It was time for her to start giving, too, to take the leap he had taken over and over. No walking away. The thought brought the return of the butterflies she'd felt earlier when he'd first arrived at her apartment. Excitement, fear, joy, adrenaline all coursed through her at the same time--a powerful cocktail that left her somewhat lightheaded and breathless. She relaxed her hold on his waist and felt his hands glide down her arms as she pulled away just enough to see his face. And what she saw there amazed her. To anyone looking at Mulder--anyone except her--it would seem as if his face were completely impassive. But it was his eyes that were playing out his every thought and emotion, almost like one of his slide shows. He looked at her and she could see the love that had been there for so long, but that she'd never allowed herself to see before. A gentle look that no one but her ever saw--because if was for her alone. And she could see his anxiety at her silence and the potential for regret in the creases of his forehead as he wondered whether he'd said too much again. And it she ached to have caused that. "I'm sorry Mulder," she said and she felt him suddenly make as if to move away from her. "No, no, no," she said, pulling him close again. "That's not what I meant. I mean, all those times you tried to tell me--you *did* tell me--and I.. My turn now, Mulder." She snaked her arm up between them to touch his face and wondered whether his skin was abnormally warm or her fingers were abnormally cold. But the contrast was electric, amazing. Almost as amazing as watching his eyes change color right before her from their usual hazel to a deep mossy green. She knew of his chameleon-like eyes, of course, but had she ever actually witnessed the transformation? Knowing full well that there was a scientific reason for it, for once she opted for magic. How could she possibly not... "Love you, Mulder." The words came out even as she thought them, whispered but not tentative in the least, and in the saying of them, elation won out over regret. She'd said it and it wasn't difficult in the least. She could feel the smile breaking out on her face as this newfound emotion took hold of her. Elation. He wanted to smile, but he was holding himself back. She could see it in the twinkle that was building in his eyes, but he couldn't quite let himself do it. "Say it again," he said, softly but urgently. "Please. It's the only way I'll know for sure that I'm not delusional. That it's not just another *gotcha big time* here." His plea tugged at her heart and she thought of all the things that had happened in his life that could make him doubt even his own ears, his perceptions. Well, not this time. This time there could be no room for doubt. She reached up to cup his face between her hands and locked her eyes to his. "Never about this. I said I love you, Mulder." And Scully saw it happen. She watched his face and saw him believe. It was the same expression she'd seen as she drifted in and out of consciousness on that ice field in Antarctica, when his faith had been reborn at the sight of something she hadn't seen--again. This time, though, the look was aimed at her and she was made aware, one more time, of what a powerful thing Mulder's belief could be. It had to be to sustain him for as long as it had. But she had little time to contemplate his belief before his mouth descended on hers and solidified her own belief. His kiss this time was different from any of the too few they'd shared thus far--resolute and certain, yet incredibly tender. A declaration of intent. For the first time, he didn't doubt that he could give her what was in his heart without fear of rejection because she'd told him she loved him and he believed her. He pulled away slightly to trail tiny wet kisses over her face, her eyelids, her forehead, until he reached her ear where his warm breath and lips sent delicious chills down her spine. "So much, Scully," he whispered. "Love you so much." And she was rocked to her very core at how it felt to hear those words from him and allow herself to believe them. Rocked by something she hadn't felt since childhood and never thought she'd feel again--sheer, undiluted bliss that seemed almost like a separate physical entity sharing her body. It felt like laughter, like balloons and cotton candy and roller coasters with big high drops and loop-the- loops. Did he feel it, too? Her answer was written on his face, plastered there, painted with neon colors. She thought she'd seen him smile before, seen him chuckle, seen him laugh. But nothing she'd ever seen had matched this. His teeth, his eyes, that fabulous mouth, his cheeks, his nose--hell, even his ears were in on this Muldergrin. She was absolutely dazzled by him and completely awed that it was she who'd brought him this amazing expression. But just as suddenly as it came, she watched it fade and found herself bereft at its loss. He smiled still, but she saw the change in his eyes--not in their color this time, but in their light. Scully had seen the look too many times not to know it for what it was. Confusion, uncertainty. "What?" she whispered, still gently smiling at him, but somewhat anxious just the same. He winced slightly and gave a self-conscious snort. "I don't have the first..." He lowered his eyes briefly but brought them right back to hers. This was obviously something he found difficult to say and she wondered if she really wanted to hear it. "I'm afraid I'm going to say something stupid here and completely blow this whole thing like I did on New Year's Eve." The words came out of him in a rush--the verbal equivalent of pulling a Band-Aid off in one quick swipe. It hurts less if it's fast. She sighed with relief and risked a small chuckle. This was something she could dispel right here as she'd already promised herself she would. "You didn't blow it on New Year's Eve, Mulder. Okay, maybe the undead in the closet thing was too much, but it was pretty much blown by that time anyway." "It was the end of the world thing, wasn't it? That was the stupid thing that time." Scully nodded. "But it wasn't you, Mulder, it was me. And Christmas and all the things that have been going on for so long. All the things I never told you." He looked at her curiously, but not in accusation. "Can you tell me now?" His tone was still and even, completely without challenge or demand. It said to her that he would accept it if she couldn't tell him, that the choice was hers. But could she? She almost wished he had demanded that she tell him, or at least asked her to. For given the decision, she found that it was more difficult to make than she had hoped it would be. She loved this man. She'd admitted it to herself and to him. Why should it still be so difficult to tell him her fears? It wasn't as if he wouldn't understand. Mulder knew fear, had borne it for longer than any one man should have to carry such a load. And he alone could comprehend what she feared. She wanted to tell someone, wanted it badly. And if not him, who? Karen the Bureau psychologist? Oh yeah, she could just picture that! Who except Mulder wouldn't have the psych ward preparing a room for her if she said something like that? End 6a of 7 ++++++++ Simple Gifts -- Part 6b of 7 See Disclaimer in Part 1 Taking a deep, trembling breath, she closed her eyes and willed herself to speak. "You said before that I'm the bravest person you know." He nodded in confirmation. "And it meant so much to hear you say that. But it's just not true, Mulder. So much of the time..." She realized that her head was bowed, her eyes squeezed shut and she made herself look up at him. If she was going to share this with him, he'd earned the right to see it in her eyes. "So much of the time I'm afraid, terrified. Sometimes it's all I can think about. I'm afraid for the world, for my family, for you, for me." She hesitated and her voice dropped to a whisper. "For us." "Scully..." he whispered and she watched his eyes fill with tears. "No," she said with a shake of her head. "I need to say this, please. And you need to know this. It could be dangerous if you don't know this, if you don't know how afraid I am. I'm not brave at all, Mulder. Sometimes I worry that I won't be there when you're counting on me." She lowered her face, hating that she'd had to make that confession. But he needed to know and she needed to admit it, having carried it around for so long. "You know, Scully, that may be the only thing in my whole life that I *never* worry about," he said simply, dropping his head to speak the words softly near her ear. "You've saved my ass so many times. No matter what kind of stupid shit I get myself into, you're right there to pull me out, kicking the ass of anyone who gets in the way--even when it's me getting in the way. You're the one who cares enough about me to save me, even from myself. That's as much a fact to me as Napier's constant is to you." He stroked her hair, rubbing his fingers gently over her scalp, and she couldn't help resting the crown of her head against his shoulder. But even the play of his fingers in her hair couldn't soothe her rushing thoughts. How could she be feeling so many different things at once? His words warmed her to her very soul and she wanted to be able just to bask in them. She had his trust, his love, completely and it filled so much of her. Except that small part that questioned how wise it was for him to trust her like that, when she was afraid so much of the time. And when he spoke again, it was almost as if he'd read her mind. "Being afraid doesn't mean that you're not brave. In fact, I think being brave means knowing what there is to be afraid of and still choosing to face it, to try and do something about it. Like you've always done, Scully. Like you keep doing. Like you help me do when I'm afraid." He tilted her face up to his and she saw love and admiration shining in his eyes, gold-flecked now in the light of the lamp beside the sofa. "You'll never be able to convince me that you're not the bravest person I know, so you might as well stop trying." And for the first time, she felt a shift in the feel of the fear that had dwelled within her for so long. That seemed sometimes to have such a tight grip around her throat that she could barely breathe. Of course she was afraid. There was much to fear. Mulder was afraid, too, though he rarely seemed to be. Any rational human being facing what they had experienced would be afraid. Their fears didn't reflect their weakness but rather, their humanity. Maybe if it was all right to have the fears, she could begin to allow herself to see what they were. Scully shifted away, loathe to leave the warmth of his arms, yet needing a little space to clear her head. She was going to tell him something that she'd never really allowed herself to think through because even beginning to examine the fears had always led to more of them. She turned on the sofa and bent her knees to sit cross-legged beside him. Grabbing the hand nearest her in both of hers, she found herself reluctant to abandon all contact with him when she'd waited so long to be able to have it openly between them. Surprising her, he turned, mimicking her seating, somehow managing to maneuver his much longer legs into the same position she had assumed, his knees touching hers. He brought both of her hands to rest on his knees, covering them with his own, and they leaned slightly toward each other, as if there were others around for them to keep secrets from. And she whispered as though that were true. "It's been there for a long time even though I tried to deny it, even to myself, for so long. But I couldn't anymore, not after Africa. Right at this very minute, Mulder, they have the ability to bring about the end of the world. The end of the fucking world. That's what I'm afraid of. One of the things. Sometimes it's the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning. What if today is the day? Other times it's just a random thought here or there throughout the day. And it's other things, too. It's not only because I've been gone that I don't have any food in the house. I don't... I don't buy very much stuff anymore. Because what if it's the end of the world and I have a refrigerator full of food? Is that why you don't buy food?" He gave a small shrug and she knew that she'd hit upon a truth about him. Silent, his attention focused on her words, he regarded her seriously and waited for her to continue. And, to her surprise, she found that she was eager to because she wanted to give these truths to him and he wanted to hear them. Her mind flashed briefly to the words she'd written to him so long ago in Allentown. *I feel these words as if their meaning were weight being lifted from me, knowing that you will read them and share my burden as I have come to trust no other.* A truth she knew in dying that she'd cast aside when that danger was no longer immediate. But the fact was, he would willingly share the burden of any fear she had--of all the fears she had. He would have shared them then and he certainly would now. Scully swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat. "Holidays are the worst. Kurtzweill said it would happen during a holiday when people were away from their homes. For a long time, I tried to tell myself that we didn't know for sure that he was telling the truth. But they killed him, Mulder. They killed him because he talked to you and the little bit he told you turned out to be right on the money. I still tried to believe that it wasn't true, though. But after Africa, I couldn't deny it to myself anymore. I saw it. I saw the ship and touched it and I suddenly knew that it was true. I understood what it all meant. They could end the world and I was nearly half a world away from you. And all I could think about was getting back. I just left everything and got on the next plane. Because nothing I'd found could help you and..." She stopped, jolted by the realization that came to her mind. "And what, Scully?" he prompted her gently--as close to a demand as he would allow himself to get. His hands over hers were warm and she felt his fingers curl to grasp them. She shifted her own hands so that their fingers intertwined, and her palm rested against his. "What?" "And I... I couldn't stand the possibility of the world ending and not being with you when it did." She heard him issue a noise something like a sigh, something like a moan. He moved quickly, placing his outside foot on the floor, and pulling and turning her until she was nestled resting on her side against his chest. One of his arms clasped her tightly at the waist, the other pressing her head against his heart. "I know," he whispered and she could feel him shudder at the thought, pulling her even closer. And for the first time, she allowed herself to accept without question the comfort being near him brought her and found that it gave her the strength to keep going, as it always had. "Then when I got back here, they'd only let me see you for a few minutes, but it wasn't you. I couldn't see you in your eyes. It was like a shell of you and then they even took that away. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to find you. I didn't know the meaning of anything I'd seen. I just felt so damned... useless. And afraid." She issued a shudder of her own and this time it was she who tightened their embrace. "I don't know what I'd have done if I hadn't been able to find you," she whispered. "Then you were back and we were *us* again, like we used to be. Only better somehow." She pulled away slightly to offer him a hesitant smile, and was glad to see agreement in the smile he gave back to her. "Those weeks after you were back, when we knew for sure that you were getting better, I loved those weeks. Even the work felt new and fresh, like we were a team again." He nodded in accord. "I hadn't felt that for a long time. It was..." He paused as if uncertain whether or not to continue. "What?" "It was almost worth what happened to me to get that back." "No," she relied immediately and with vehemence. "They could have killed you and nothing would have been worth that. But during those weeks, I was so glad that you and I were better. There were so many times I wondered if we'd ever be there again, and I missed us." A small catch crept into her voice, although she didn't feel near tears. "And everything was okay when we were working. Most of the time I didn't think about it. It was when I was by myself--at the end of the day, early in the morning, stuck in traffic- -that the fear would come back, but I could usually push it back when it got too bad. Years of practice. Then pretty soon Thanksgiving was coming. A holiday where a lot of people are away from home. Thinking about it now, I don't believe it was even a conscious thing, not then. You wouldn't come with me to my mother's house for Thanksgiving." And suddenly they were just there, an onslaught of tears completely without warning. "What?" Mulder asked, a mixture of deep concern and confusion on his face, apparently as alarmed as she was by the sudden appearance of her tears. "What's wrong?" She shuddered again and felt his arms tighten around her in response, and she burrowed in against him. "I was mad, Mulder. I know, I ask you every year and every year you don't feel like you belong there. This year, though, it made me so mad, especially after everything we'd been through. But now that I think about it, maybe it wasn't anger so much as fear. What if Thanksgiving had been the day? My mother's house is forty miles away from you. We don't know how this might happen. We don't have a clue. What if... if all hell had broken loose that day? If it all fell apart at once, there'd be utter panic and chaos. Forty miles would be like... Even assuming we lived through the beginning, how would we ever have found each other? If it had happened while I was in San Diego, we'd never have found one another again." "I'd have found you." His voice was solid and certain and, once more, she found herself slightly envious of his ability to believe. Scully felt the cold hand of fear trying to break into the newfound warmth in her heart. She pulled away a little, needing to see his face. "How? We need a plan, Mulder. Some way to find each other if..." "Scully," he interrupted, pressing his fingers softly against her lips. "We can't live like that, trying to make plans for any eventuality. For me, if we did that... It would be like we were accepting that there's nothing we can do about this. And I refuse to believe that." Of course he refused to believe that. He was Mulder--as steadfast in disbelief as he was in belief. "Planning doesn't mean accepting. It means being ready. We... *I* need to be ready, Mulder. I need to know how to find you. Because I couldn't find you last time. And as afraid as I am that the world is going to end..." She paused and took a deep breath, biting back the tears that threatened yet again. "I'm even more afraid of it ending and not being with you when it does." This time it was Mulder who cried, shedding tears without shame. "Okay then, we'll make a plan. But never doubt that I'll find you, no matter what it takes." He was silent for a moment. "Is this what...? Your mother told me about Christmas. Did this...?" She understood the question he didn't quite seem able to form. She sighed deeply. "Christmas was so many things. I just shouldn't have gone and I knew it at the time. But it didn't seem like there was any way around it. I was worried about you--I guess on more levels than I even knew about. I missed you, too, and I hated the idea that you were back here all by yourself. And when I got to San Diego, it was other things, too. Bill ragged on me constantly. When we were all together, I just felt so separated from them. Because of what I know, what they won't know until it happens because they wouldn't believe me even if I could find some way to explain it to them." He nodded, a look of empathy on his face. "They were all sitting around, swapping stories and laughing, and all I could think about was... They didn't know it might be the last Christmas Eve like that because it could have happened the very next day. Or next Memorial Day or Fourth of July or Labor Day could be the end of the world. I'd look at them, my family, and I could picture them in my mind, like..." She paused as she felt her throat swelling with emotion. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard, knowing well the tricks of holding tears at bay. "Like that man from Rausch. They were singing Christmas carols and I was envisioning the end of the world. They sang *Joy to the World* and *I* heard end of the world. I swear, that's what I heard them sing, but they were acting like nothing had happened, so I knew I just imagined it. I was so scared." "That's when you called me," he said quietly. She nodded. "I just slipped away. I had to get out of the house, so I snuck through the kitchen and grabbed my coat to go out on the porch for some fresh air. I didn't think they'd even realize that I was gone, but Mom did. But, you know, I went back in not caring what they thought. I eeded to talk to you, and it was the first time I hadn't been afraid since the last time I talked to you. So, I went back in knowing that Bill would go ballistic on me, but that didn't matter. And he did, and I was doing okay with it, all the standard bullshit about you and my job and what a waste I'd made of my life. I was even okay when he brought up Emily." She felt his arms tighten around her, and saw just a shadow of doubt cross his face. "No, I really was okay." She looked deeply into his eyes, wanting to show him that what she said was true. "It didn't matter what he thought about Emily because I know the truth about her and so do you. That's all that matters. I was okay--holding my own in the whole thing--until he said that Melissa would still be here if not for me." A rogue tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek, but her voice remained strong. Mulder couldn't conceal his rage from her. His eyes flashed with it and she could see his jaw clench. "Your brother must have gotten every stray asshole chromosome in your family's entire gene pool," he said bitterly. "Now there's a theory I can believe in," she said with a laugh that felt unbelievable good to her. "My brother does have a tendency to be..." She paused, searching for the right word. "A dickhead?" he offered helpfully. "That works," she replied. She felt the grin on her face widen briefly but then grew serious again soon enough. "But I know why he feels the way he does, Mulder, I understand it. Melissa *was* killed because of choices I made. But he was wrong believing that she'd still be here, even if I hadn't chosen as I did. He was wrong but neither of us knew it at the time." "What do you mean?" he asked a perplexed look crossing his face. Scully disentangled herself from his warmth with even more reluctance than she'd felt before. Sitting up, she turned to face the coffee table, feeling his scrutiny of her every movement. She reached for the sheaf of papers that had somehow ended up back on the coffee table after they ate. "You haven't even asked me about this, Mulder," she said, somewhat in awe of his self-control. "Weren't you curious about what's here?" "Not as curious as I was about whether you'd tell me about it if I didn't ask. If you'd tell me about it just because you want to." His response made her heart swell with love for letting her decide, but at the same time with a melancholy feeling she couldn't quite identify. "Did you think I wouldn't tell you?" "Honest?" "I thought this was about honesty." He nodded, his eyes apologizing for his question. "I don't know how to explain. Right now, I know you'll tell me. But before, when your mom gave me the envelope, when I was bringing it here... Most of me was sure then, too. But part of me... I was trying to prepare myself in case you couldn't tell me, didn't want to. In case this became another one of those earthshaking things that we never talk about." How could she fault him for trying to prepare himself for something that had happened over and over between them? Maybe what was happening here would mean that they wouldn't feel this need to keep so much to themselves. She wondered how difficult it would prove to both of them to reveal the things they'd always kept hidden. She scooted back beside him, looking down at the papers she held in two trembling hands. "Mulder, Melissa left this envelope for Mom and me because she knew she was going to die." "She predicted her own death?" She had to smile a bit at Mulder's expression. Even in the midst of this, he couldn't help his finely-tuned professional interest in the strange and unusual. "No," she replied. "There's a letter from her inside, along with some other things. I'd rather you didn't read the letter. There are personal things in it to my mother and me. Stuff that should just remain between us. But I'll tell you what she said and show you this other stuff." Mulder watched Scully spread out some papers on the coffee table before them and he eased forward to get a better look. But he found he couldn't stop watching her. Hunched side by side over the table, he took in her profile, finally able to do so without worrying that she'd catch him doing it. She looked down at the papers and he watched her eyes move back and forth, though she'd certainly had time to read them several times while he was gone. Her eyelids fluttered in a movement only a little more obvious than the slight quivering of her chin. Would anyone but him even have seen these things, known what they meant? He'd seen enough medical records in his years of investigating to know with a mere glance what the papers were that she'd laid out. Melissa's name and date of birth were at the top of each of them. "Missy wrote the letter a couple of weeks before she was killed. She'd just found out... Her doctor had just told her she was entering the final stages of ovarian cancer." "Cancer? She had cancer?" "Yeah," she replied sadly. "At the very best, she had six months--more likely half that. She'd already been treated with chemo and radiation in California. She didn't want us to know what was happening. That's why she disappeared from our lives for so long. But it didn't work and she refused to take another course of treatment. She talked to other women who'd had the treatment and read about the survival rates and thought she'd do just as well with alternative medicine. That was just like her. But I understand why she'd decide to do that. The treatments are horrible." Her voice drifted away and he could see by her expression that she was recalling her own experiences with chemotherapy and radiation. Would Scully refuse treatment if her own cancer returned? He decided not to ask a question he might not be able to stand the answer to. Instead, he asked, "How do you feel about all this, Scully?" She shrugged her shoulders forlornly. "One way I look at it, this doesn't change anything.. My sister was killed ahead of her time when it was me that they were after. But in another way, it changes how I see everything. I talked to Mom and she said... She said that after she read Melissa's letter... She said it proved to her again how merciful God is. She believes that, Mulder. Merciful!" She spat the word out as if it were poison. "You don't believe that God is merciful?" "I don't know what I believe about God anymore." Her voice was small and weary, not just tired but weary to her soul. And it made him ache in some vague location that he'd never be able to physically identify if she asked him to. They'd had debates, quarrels, arguments, knock down drag outs over the existence of God through their years together. Some that they'd glossed over in their usual style, some that had hurt one or the other, some that had hurt them both, as they each clung to beliefs that were incomprehensible to the other. But the fact was, although he didn't fully comprehend her belief in something she couldn't see after all he'd shown her that she didn't believe, he suspected he needed her faith as much as she did. The rare times that she doubted tore at his heart because what little faith he could allow himself came only from her. How could he completely disbelieve something she so firmly believed in? Her existence, her continued presence in his life, was what kept open for him the possibility of a higher power out there somewhere. Sometimes when he let himself think about it, he could come up with no other reasonable explanation for this one good thing in his life. Her faith, so much a part of her, hedged his bet for him. If there was a heaven after all this, she'd find a way to get him in, not to make him spend eternity without her. Her God couldn't possibly deny that request from Scully, not after all she'd given-- all she'd had taken from her--in her quest to do the right thing. He could spout his theories, voice his doubts because in the end, his Scully would convince her God that his poor, worthless ass was worth saving. And maybe it was worth saving because, with Scully, he was trying to do the right thing, too. "Maybe..." He fumbled for the right words, not sure how to speak in terms he'd never used in reference to himself, but wanting to show that he understood the belief. "Maybe God was merciful, at least to your mother." She laughed bitterly. "Is this some newfound belief, Mulder, or have we done it so long that we just automatically assume opposite viewpoints?" Mulder chose to ignore the small but insistent pang her question caused. "I don't know that God doesn't exist. Maybe he or she or whatever actually does exist, but only for some people. Maybe God exists but just sits back and watches. Maybe there is a vengeful God out there and I'll burn in hell for the life I've led. I just don't know. Maybe it was God's hand or just the way everything turned out, but I can see the mercy in it." She looked at him with something like a desperate curiosity, as if hoping he could give her an explanation that that would hold open the door that was slowly swinging shut on her faith. And maybe he could. "I can see the mercy in it," he repeated. "If you'd been home that night, if they'd killed you instead of Melissa, your mother would have buried two daughters within the space of only a few months. I don't mean to be unfeeling here, you know that." She nodded. "But God or fate or just dumb luck took the daughter who was going to be dead anyway. Your mother still has a daughter, Scully. You're still here for her. Don't you think that was merciful for her? Don't you think she thanks her God for that every day?" He watched her luminous blue eyes mist over and marveled as a single tear slid down her face. He'd never seen anyone but Scully who cried like that, with one perfect, flawless tear. Like she'd shed when Modell made him point a gun at her. Like she'd shed as he held her in that empty hospital corridor in Allentown. Or in his hallway when he'd begged her not to leave him. Or the single tear that had fallen on his face, like rain on desert sand, when she'd found him after the smoking bastard had taken what he wanted and left him to die. How could she look so beautiful when she cried when everyone else looked so awful? "Your mom thanks her God for you every day, Scully. I know she does. I only hope she thanks her God for you from me, too." She smiled at him then and it lit his heart as her rare and gorgeous smiles always had. "Sometimes you're such a sap," she said, her voice thick and throaty with emotion, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. "I love that about you." She lowered her head a little and he knew that it was because she was blushing. And she jumped back to the topic just in time to save him from being sappy again. "Okay, I can see how Mom would see what happened as merciful. I just wish it felt that way to me. Somehow it almost... it almost seems worse that they killed her when she only had a few months to live. There's so much we should have gotten the chance to say and time was so precious." "It's always precious," he countered. "Or it should be. How do you know you would ever have gotten the chance to say those things? Melissa wrote you a letter. Maybe she wasn't planning on telling you at all. Maybe she didn't want to be treated differently just because she was dying and maybe that runs in the family." He gave her a weak smile and got the *eyebrow thing* in return which, in truth, was almost as good as a smile. "Scully, you never would have had enough time with her and there always would be things left unsaid. Melissa wasn't afraid of death, you know that. She believed it was just another phase in the order of things and that she'd be back. Hell, maybe she already is. There's mercy if you let it be merciful, sweetheart. We both know what the last months of her life would have been like." "Either in unbearable pain or so doped up that it wouldn't have been her anyway," she said sadly. He nodded. "And I think she would have been more afraid of that than of dying." "Yeah, maybe," she conceded. "But does that really change the fact that she died because of choices I made?" "No," he answered. "We make choices every day that we can't possibly know the consequences of. Maybe Melissa did die because of choices you made, but you couldn't have known that when you made the choices. And even though she was killed it doesn't mean the choices you made were wrong. Because in the years between then and now, you've saved lives, too. Lots of 'em. Was there just one choice that you think doomed Melissa? Even if you could, what would you do differently?" "I don't know," she admitted. "Of course you don't," he replied with quiet understanding. "Because there isn't one single thing that was the deciding factor in what happened to your sister. The world isn't cause and effect, Scully. It's cause and cause and cause and cause and effect. It's all tied together. A billion different things could have happened that might have changed it, or maybe not. What if the murderer's gun had exploded in his hand when he was doing a little target practice? What if Cancerman had been hit by a bus bending over to pick up his pack of cigarettes before he had a chance to give the order? What if Melissa had been stopped for speeding on her way to your house or run out of gas?" "None of those things happened," she protested. "But my choices did. This isn't some intellectual game here, Mulder. This is my sister we're talking about. And who are you to talk? We could say all those same things about *your* sister and the guilt you wear like a second skin about what happened to her." He felt his heart constrict in a pain that still surprised him even though he'd carried it for more than a quarter of a century. He watched her face register her alarm at what she'd said and he could see her mouth starting to form an apology. Shaking his head, he placed a finger against her lips. "No, don't apologize. God knows you have reason to believe that. But it's not the same as it was when we first met, back when you first came to me. I don't think it's about the guilt anymore. It was when we first met. But since then... all the things we've learned have shown that there was never anything I could have done about it. Now I just want to know what happened. That's the difference, Scully. You *know* what happened to your sister. Horrible as it was, you know. I just want to know." "Do you?" she asked quietly. And he comprehended the meaning behind her gentle inquiry. Even if the fate of Samantha ended up to be the same as Melissa's? "Yeah, I think so. Yeah. I've thought about the possibility that Samantha is dead. How could I not at least consider that? All the facts speak to that. But none of them speak to me and I can't stop looking until I find the thing that speaks to me. They've lied to me so many times about her, knowing that I'd run down whatever trail they said she was at the end of. And I did, and so did you. And they know I'll keep doing it, and we both know it, too. I hate that they have that kind of power over me--over us, because you've never left me alone in this. I hate that they know that I have to follow any lead they feed me. If I could just find out what happened to her, whatever it is, they couldn't hold it over us anymore. And..." He swallowed hard, suppressing a small shudder. "And I still think that when we find out what happened to her, we'll find out what happened to you, too. We've gotta know and somebody's gotta pay." He waited, giving her time to voice the denial that he hoped was no longer there. She didn't disappoint him, instead simply nodded without a word. "We have to find out what happened to you, and to Samantha, or everything that's happened to us will have been for nothing. And we're going to find out. You know, that used to be all that mattered." He touched his fingertips briefly to her face, and his heart leapt at the chill his touch caused her. "But now I want more. For so long I've known that having you in my life is essential, and you've been in my life and it's meant everything, even when it didn't seem like it to you. But I don't think I realized until I talked to your mother this afternoon that I want more. I want you in my life and happy. I want to be with you in my life and I want us both to be happy." "Mom told me some of what you talked about," she said softly. "That's good. Your mother is a remarkable woman, Scully. She helped me see a lot of things. One of the things she said was that we don't take the joy when it comes our way. She says when you don't have joy, you forget what you're fighting for and I think she's right. I think maybe that's the key. We've spent so much time denying what we feel, trying to keep our focus on the work, that the focus has become the focus. We're fighting so hard to keep fighting that we forget what we're fighting for. Isn't that what you were trying to tell me in the elevator that morning, when I first started hearing things? That you didn't know why you were still doing what you were doing? Why I was doing it?" "I was so tired then, Mulder..." she began. "I know," he interrupted her gently. "We both were. And that had to be part of their plan, too. To keep us off balance so much that even when we were in balance, we'd spend all our time and energy wondering when the rug was going to be pulled out from under us again. So afraid of it that we lost the times when there could have been joy, things that could pull us together. They've taken our joy and I want it back." "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die, eh Mulder?" She was attempting to tease him, as if to draw him away from the subject, as they'd both done so many times in the past. But he could see by her expression that she knew it wouldn't work. "That's not what I'm saying and you know it," he said, refusing to take the bait. "What I'm saying is, what would be so wrong with us being happy sometimes? That's not what's going to cause the end of the world. I'm tired, Scully. I'm tired of being consumed by the fear and the focus and I'm tired of seeing you consumed by them, too. Our lives are like endless penance and we didn't do anything wrong, except maybe what we've done to each other in all this. And I think we've paid for that in spades. I don't want more than anyone else has, but I'm tired of always expecting less. I just..." His voice faltered a little. "I just want to see you smile sometimes, Scully. Like the night we played baseball." And he got his wish as he watched her recall that evening so long ago and a watery grin emerged from her tears. "I accepted the gift," she whispered, almost as if to herself. "What?" he asked, confused. Scully closed her eyes briefly and he saw the tears shimmering on her eyelashes. When she opened her eyes again, they locked to his and her smile became wistful. "In the letter, Missy told me that life is full of gifts and that it's okay to accept them because they belong to us. She said that sometimes the best gifts are right in front of us and we don't see them because they're so close. I'm pretty sure she meant you, Mulder." She smiled at him, almost shyly. "She liked you a lot." He grinned back at her and sent out a quick thanks to Melissa's soul--wherever it was. "And your mother told me that sometimes people have to make their own joy, and I'm pretty sure she was talking about us. Looks like a couple of people who love us are trying pretty hard to tell us something. And I, for one, want to believe. But that's just the kind of guy I am." "Even I want to believe in that one," she replied. "Melissa used to love presents. I could never figure out if she liked getting or giving more. Her gifts were always special. She usually made them herself. I guess I never told you, but she was an artist. She used to do caricatures--you know, at Renaissance festivals, fairs, parties, things like that. She did her serious work in lots of media, but she earned her living doing caricatures. My dad kept wondering when she was going to get a real job, but she actually made pretty good money at it. So she'd make things for all of us, things that sometimes seemed bizarre when you opened them but the more you thought about them, you realized that she'd given you the perfect gift. She just *knew* things about people, Mulder, and she loved to give presents. She knew she wasn't going to make it until Christmas and she left presents for us. For the whole family. And for you, which I have to admit surprised me a little." "I know. Your mom told me and it surprised me, too. Did you open yours?" He smiled but not without a twinge of apprehension, for he wondered what else Melissa had known about him. He recalled how she came to his apartment that night to tell him Scully was going to die, to beg him to see her one more time to say goodbye, and how Melissa had read him like a book after knowing him only a few days. "No," she said with a shake of her head. "I wanted to wait for you. Want to?" "Why not?" he replied, curiosity winning out over apprehension. He watched her reach into the canvas bag that Maggie had given him and pull out two boxes exactly the same size and shape. They were wrapped in ribbons and bright foil Christmas wrap, unfaded in the years they'd spent in the steamer trunk. Scully looked at the tags and handed him the one with the gold and white paper, while the one she held seemed to be various shades of gray and brown, which told him it was some combination of green and red. Had she wrapped them that way on purpose? Could Melissa tell he was colorblind? Did it show in his aura? He examined the box, unwilling to shake it in case it was breakable. It was rectangular and not very deep and from its size and what Scully told him, he imagined it was a picture of some sort. And since the boxes were the same size and shape, hers must be a picture, too. "Who's first?" he asked and he felt a stirring in his heart like he hadn't felt since he and Scully exchanged Christmas presents the year before. Surprises were fun when they were from loved ones. "Together," she said, eyeing her own gift with guarded excitement, then raising her eyes to meet his once more. It's different for her, he thought. A present from her sister, so long dead. A communication she'd never expected, a final message. A present that was also a gift. She looked at him expectantly and he saw that, indeed, she wasn't going to start opening until he did. So he made an initial tear in the wrapping paper and they were both off, heads bowed, attention on the boxes in their laps. The wrapping gone, he lifted the lid of his box and pushed aside the tissue paper Melissa had used to protect the contents. As he'd guessed, it was a picture--a caricature as Scully had told him about--in a beautiful weathered wood frame, which he suspected that she made as well. He lifted the frame and brought it before him, amazed and charmed by what he saw. It was Scully and... him, he was sure. In the picture, Scully had a big head, as is common in caricatures. The facial features were remarkably accurate and drawn with love, for this gentle rendering of Scully was gorgeous, not crude or cruel as some caricatures seem. She was dressed in a white lab coat with a stethoscope in her ears, holding the other end to the chest of a fox--a grinning fox, also with a big head, who looked surprisingly like Mulder. The fox even had an FBI identification badge clipped to a collar around his neck and his grin showed both elation and adoration. The caption below the picture read, *She hears your heart.* The picture was signed and dated in the lower right hand corner. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation, the realization of one of the few real truths in his life. She'd heard his heart for a long time--even Melissa knew it. And tonight, she'd actually acknowledged it. Scully wanted to see the picture Missy had given Mulder, but she found she couldn't look away from her own. The frame was made of ornate silver filigree with mother-of- pearl inlays that must have taken her months to make. It was absolutely stunning, as so much of Melissa's work had been, and it warmed her heart to think that her sister had loved her enough to put so much into her gift. It warmed her heart, but not as much as what the frame contained. She'd always loved her sister's caricatures for they showed so much of what made her Melissa--her talent, her humor, her innate understanding of people. But this one made her heart beat faster, for it pleased her inordinately but at the same time, it scared her a little, too. This caricature was of her and Mulder. In it, she was sitting in an overstuffed chair, comfortable and old- fashioned looking, with an expression Scully could only classify as serene, content. In love. She'd drawn Mulder as a fox, curled up on her lap, gazing up at her as Scully stroked his fur. She loved the picture and she found that forgotten how talented Missy . Scully was especially intrigued by the drawing of Mulder, wondering how her sister had managed to give the fox Mulder's distinctive features without making it look grotesque or silly. The expression on the face of the fox *Mulder* was the same one she'd finally allowed herself to see that evening. Allowed herself to see and name for what it was. Melissa had seen it years ago. The scary part, though, was the caption. *He calms your fears.* How strange, years after she was supposed to receive it, to get her gift on this particular night. This night when she could finally admit to the truth of that statement. Received a year ago, even six months ago, this gift would have broken Scully's heart. It would have seemed like a hoax too cruel for her sister to commit, for a year ago she was gripped by fear--like hands that not only clenched around her heart but also covered her eyes, rendering her blind to any escape from it. Fear not only for the world, but also for them--as partners or friends. Fear that what they once had was damaged beyond repair. Mulder had found her at the end of the earth, yet at that time they seemed lost to one another even when in the same room. A year ago she would not have been able to stand the sight of Melissa's gift. Instead she'd received it this night, the night that she realized that, with him, her fears were calmed. Not gone, for there was much to fear. But not nearly so overwhelming, so weighty because he was here to help carry them. He was here and it was okay to be happy. He said so, so it must be true. Her mom and Melissa said so, too, so how could that be wrong? Melissa had given her this gift on exactly the right night, this January... She glanced at her watch and found that it was after midnight. This January eighth. The new Christmas to go with her new birthday, April twenty-fourth. She looked up to find Mulder looking alternately at the frame in his own hands and at her, and his smile turned up the voltage on her own. She felt the muscles in her face stretching with her grin, her eyes crinkling with it, almost amazed that her face still remembered how to do this, at how wonderful it felt. Could her smile possibly be transforming her face the way Mulder's was transforming his? Had she ever really seen him happy before this night? She could feel an energy rolling off him that fed perfectly into the energy that seemed to radiate from her. She felt happy. She felt free. She felt... powerful. And it was suddenly very clear to her, why those nameless men had done everything they could think of to keep this from them. There was power in this kind of joy. "It's the key to everything," she said, her voice hushed with awe. He nodded, understanding her meaning exactly, and threaded his fingers through hers, pressing their palms together, and they both felt the surge of the circuit completed--a tingle that caused them both to laugh simply because there was no other outlet for it. "What'd you get?" they asked simultaneously and laughed at that, too. Each offering the other the item in their hands, they both found that they were reluctant to release their clasped ones. Instead, they held the pictures up so that they could see them side by side, nodding appreciatively. "God, she's good!" they said in unison, chucking again. "Stop that!" "Really, Mulder," she said, trying to get her laughter under control. "I can tell you right now that this isn't going to work if we keep talking in stereo. I don't do that. It's just... it's just icky." "Icky?" he repeated, teasingly. "Is that a scientific term, Dr. Scully?" "Yeah," she retorted. "I read it in the last New England Journal of Medicine. You know what I mean, Mulder. It's creepy. It's saccharine. It's Danielle Steele. It's *Moonlighting* for God's sake. It's just icky." He threw his head back and roared with laughter. "There was something I kinda liked about *Moonlighting* although I could never figure out how two people who were so stupid could ever solve anything. They were glib but vacant--a bad combo. Cybill Shephard was hot, though." That earned him an elbow in the ribs and a grin. "We're nothing like them, Scully. We're lots smarter, I have better hair than Bruce Willis, and Cybill couldn't name all the phases of cell division if her life depended on it, which is why she is nowhere near as hot as you." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Gorgeous and brilliant. I never stood a chance." She blushed with pleasure at the same time she sighed and shook her head. "See Mulder? This could get icky. Saying the same things at the same time, you telling me I'm gorgeous, me telling you that watching your eyes change color might become my new hobby." "You never told me that." Now it was his turn to blush. "I want to," she answered quietly. "But it... it doesn't feel like us. I guess maybe I'm scared of this, too. I don't want to lose who we are now." "Even if we become something better?" he challenged her gently. "I understand what you're afraid of. I am, too. But look at us, Scully. Together we've trekked through cellars and sewers and deep dark woods with hardly a second thought, but we don't dare let ourselves be happy. I want to tell you you're beautiful. I want to tell you I love you. I would love to hear you say you love me. Maybe it doesn't feel like us because we never let it feel like us." She was silent for a long time, thinking about his words. "It doesn't have to change who we are," she said softly, and he knew it was to convince herself more than him. "Everything changes us, Scully," he said quietly. "You know we're not the same people we were when we started this. I understand the simultaneous chatting part, though, although I suspect that I have a higher icky tolerance level than you do, because I think it's kinda cute. But, there's probably not much chance that we'll spend a lot of time talking in stereo since our ideas are almost always diametrically opposed. I don't think that's going to change." She shook her head. "Nope. Science is still science." "Of course it is," he replied with a grin. "But it still doesn't explain everything," "I wouldn't have you believe anything else." she said simply. She looked down at the pictures they still held side by side in front of them. The looked like they belonged together. Even the frames were surprisingly complementary. "Pretty amazing, huh?" "Yeah," he answered, giving her hand a squeeze. "She knew even then. So did your mom." "So did we," she said, not without a little sadness for all the wasted time. But she pulled herself out of it because sadness had no place there with them on Christmas. "You know what, Mulder? I think I understand Missy's thing with presents. It's just damn good to get 'em. And good to give them, too." She smiled brightly at him and he didn't hesitate a second in returning one of his own. They sat in quiet contentment, appreciating their gifts and each other. "I have a theory," she announced suddenly, her tone conspiratorial. "Special Agent Dr. Dana Katherine Scully posits a theory," he said with a playful grin. "And what would the subject of this particular theory be?" "It suggests why they've never been able to beat us," she replied smugly. "Why they never will. Wanna hear it?" He nodded. "It's simple. They don't understand our calendar. They keep watching us and waiting for that major holiday, but they miss it because we usually work right through them. But then when they think things are quiet, we have the real holidays. They think my birthday is on February twenty-third, but we both know it's on April twenty-fourth. They think Christmas is on December twenty-fifth, when it's really on January eighth. It's the answer, Mulder. They'll keep watching us and we'll keep confusing them. We'll have Easter in August. Your birthday every week. Fourth of July on the seventeenth." She gave him an expectant look that brought a smile to his face. "I like it, Scully. I think it could work. I especially like the birthday every week as long as I get to pick the age I am and presents are involved. I think that'll confuse them all the more. But you have to have more birthdays, too." "Okay," she said agreeably. "But let's take care of Christmas first." Without warning, she stood up--so quickly that he didn't have a chance to release her hand and she fell back down, landing squarely in his lap. Never one to miss a golden opportunity, he pulled her face to his and kissed her soundly, liking this new position a lot. "Man, Santa finally came through. I've been writing, e-mailing for seven years. This is *exactly* what I wanted for Christmas." His voice was a whispered groan against her open mouth. "Mmm," she moaned her agreement, but suddenly remembered her initial intent. "Wait. I have real presents for you." His mouth smoothed kisses down her throat, moving the collar of her shirt aside to nibble on her shoulder a bit. "It don't get much more real than this, Scully," he muttered around a mouthful of clavicle. His tongue blazed up her neck, leaving a warm moist trail in its wake, as his lips found her earlobe, eliciting a breathless, throaty chuckle from her. "Wait, I want to give you your Christmas presents," she said with weak insistence--a tone she didn't even know she had. But then, she also didn't know that Mulder's mouth could do such marvelous things, although she'd long had her suspicions. He tried to sneak back to his new favorite spot at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, but she tiled her head, closing off his access. "You mean this isn't it?" His face clouded over like a stormy day. Scully pulled his head away and gave him a knowing smile. "I was thinking of more than just Christmas for this. You know, the gift that keeps on giving." "Oh, Scully, I like the way you think." He grinned and kissed her nose. He helped her to her feet and rose with her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Okay, you want to do presents? I can do presents. I have to go down to my car, though." "You brought my present with you?" she asked, excitement tingeing her tone. "Presents," he corrected her. "They've been in my car since... since I got 'em. I mean, would you keep anything that meant anything to you in my apartment? In case you haven't noticed, anybody can get in there and almost everybody has. Funny, they don't seem to fuck with my car, though. Except Phoebe, of course." "Don't even go there, Mulder," she warned, knowing it was only half in jest. She pushed him toward the door. "Now why don't you take your cute little ass down to the car and get my Christmas presents? We're way into Christmas here. Time's a-wastin'." He looked at her curiously. "Are you going to be bossy like this all the time?" "Don't go there, either. I think it's gotta be my turn, Mulder. I've been following orders from you for years." "That is such bullshit, Scully," he replied, looking back at her over his shoulder. They'd made it to the door and she handed him his jacket. "I never..." The door closing gently in his face cut him off and he laughed. He opened it again to find her standing on the other side, still laughing. "My ass is cute? Rosie told me you checked out my ass!" He closed the door before she could either confirm or deny and she heard maniacal cackling as he walked down the hall. Damn, busted by Rosie! Scully recalled the day she caught Rosie checking out Mulder's ass, too. Some things you never get too old to appreciate. It was, after all, a mighty fine ass. She looked around her living room, regretting that she hadn't put up a Christmas tree this year. If she had, it would undoubtedly still be up. But knowing she'd be in San Diego, she hadn't bothered this year. She could do a few candles, though. That would be nice and she had literally hundreds of them, having accumulated them over the years with too few occasions to use them. Well, that was going to change. She ran to the cabinet where she stored the candles and opened the door. The scent that wafted out was slightly reminiscent of a head shop in the seventies. Too many different scents closed up together for too long. Grabbing a few, she closed the door as quickly as she could, hoping the scent hadn't overpowered the room. She placed the candles in what she hoped would be strategic places and went automatically to the CD player, not sure what to do. She wanted to put on some jazz, but knew that would feel too sleazy, too seductive. Which wouldn't be a bad thing some other time, but not tonight. Only one answer. Christmas songs. She certainly had plenty of those. And who else but Nat King Cole? Christmas-y but still leaving room for extreme possibilities. She smiled and headed for her room to get Mulder's presents, just as the velvet tones of Nat King Cole drifted out of the speakers. She pulled out Mulder's presents from their hideaway beneath her bed and brushed a few imaginary bits of dust from the surface of the paper. The larger box she'd had for some time, having bought the present shortly after Mulder's return when she was finally able to convince herself that he would, indeed, recover. The smaller box-- the glow-in-the-dark universe--she'd wrapped upon her return from San Diego. While she was pleased with her gifts to him, she suddenly wanted to give him more, knowing instantly exactly what that should be. She looked at the drawer of her nightstand, pausing only a moment before opening it and taking out a notebook. Opening it to the first page, she read the words, remembering the feelings behind them. Fishing around in the drawer, she found a pen. Then she sat at her vanity table, turned to the very last page and began to write. In her hurry, her words were less legible, but she knew that their meaning would be clear, for he heard her heart, too. Outside, Mulder popped the trunk and was surprised when the light came on over his head. He thought the trunk light had burned out a long time ago. He dug around through the stuff in his trunk, amazed at what he found. His trunk was similar to his bedroom, only in a more concentrated space. Two of the three books the Bureau Resource Library had been on his ass about. The purple sweats with the hole in the knee--his personal favorites. A file folder containing the report he swore to Skinner that he'd turned in and Skinner made him do all over again. A nine iron. He had golf clubs? Another Christmas miracle occurred when his hand emerged from a laundry basket holding a bottle of Chardonnay, with his Knicks jersey snagged on the neck. A bottle he couldn't for the life of him remember buying. "Melissa, is that you?" he called out into the quiet night, his face pointing upward. "Good one! So you think I should go for it?" He grabbed the shirt and wine, and set them to the side. Ah, finally. He pulled the plastic bag that held Scully's presents from the back of the trunk, glad that he'd thought to put them in a bag because they still looked good. He'd actually wrapped the two boxes himself, after a quick lesson from the grandmotherly lady who worked in the gift wrap booth at the mall. He managed to sweet talk her into letting him watch her wrap a few presents and then letting him try it. She helped him pick out some great paper and ribbons and decorations. It was almost a shame that she was just going to rip them open. Almost, but not quite, because he couldn't wait for her to open them. He felt much better about the whole thing after learning that the slippers had been a success. He stepped back, his hands poised to slam the trunk shut, but he hesitated, wanting to give her more, knowing exactly what, but wondering if he dared. Taking a deep breath, he reached back behind the spare tire, pulling out another, smaller plastic bag and sliding it into his pocket. It had been there in the back of his trunk for so long that the plastic had grown brittle, making a crackling noise even surrounded by the fabric of his pocket. He'd wanted to give this particular gift to her for a long time, but the time was never right. It felt to him like maybe it was right tonight, but what if it wasn't? If he brought it up, just the noise it made might commit him to giving it to her. He slammed the trunk closed, tired of second guesses and doubts. She loved him. She'd told him so, and she was the one who never lied to him. He sprinted across the street and up the steps to her building. End Part 6b of 7 +++++ Simple Gifts -- Part 7 of 7 See Disclaimer in Part 1 In the now Mulder uses his key for a record third time that evening, musing about how many times in the past he's let himself in by kicking her door in. This time, he kicks the door shut behind him, his hands full of presents and wine. Taking a deep breath, he looks around and smiles, remembering the scent from his wayward youth--eau de head shop. For once, he thinks things through and decides to forego the bong joke as he throws his jacket back over the armchair where Scully put it earlier. With soft lights and candles and Nat King Cole, things are shaping up pretty well and he doesn't want to take a chance of blowing it. The only thing that could be more perfect would be if she were actually in the room, too. "I'm back bearing gifts!" he calls out, resisting the *honey, I'm home* option. "Be right there," he hears her call back in return and smiles for no good reason whatsoever. "Take your time." He takes the presents from the bag, setting them on the coffee table. Realizing that the Knicks shirt is tucked under his arm, on impulse he rolls it up and shoves it down between the cushions of the sofa. He can retrieve it later if he finds he's misreading the situation. He takes the wine to the kitchen in search of a corkscrew and glasses, finding them with a minimum of difficulty. The cork leaves the bottle with a satisfying pop and he grabs the glasses, heading back to the living room. She is waiting for him when he comes back in, sitting on the sofa, her presents to him beside the ones he placed on the coffee table. Even too thin and too tired, her beauty takes his breath away. Smiling shyly at him, her skin is flushed, her eyes glittery. Her hair catches the glow of the candles, shining like it did in that shoddy motel room in Bellefleur, Oregon on their first assignment. Back when she was just pretty instead of beautiful. The night he'd first touched her skin, fragrant and velvety, and his reward for holding himself back from nuzzling his face against it was that that spot on her lower back became his for all time. He thinks, with a little effort, he could have gotten her into his bed that night and he thanks any entity that might be listening--benevolent, omnipotent or otherwise--that it didn't happened. Because if it had, she'd have been gone within a week. And right now he'd be... Absolutely no picture comes to mind because even his imagination, open to all extremes, can't conceive of his life without her. Scully watches him watch her and wonders what he's remembering. His scrutiny is intense- -disconcerting and compelling at the same time and she finds she can't look away from him. Doesn't want to look away from him. She knows that she is aware of him in a way that she never has been before, yet has always been aware of--since the night she felt his fingertips trace the bare skin of her lower back. As she tries to look closely enough to see if his eyes have changed color again, she notices something that had completely escaped her attention before. The tee shirt he'd been wearing beneath his jacket is another of his seemingly endless supply of gray ones, like the one she's wearing. And she can't believe how much it turns her on that they're wearing the same shirt. Somehow the awareness of her arousal arouses her even more but although she knows that she can act on it--that it would not only be accepted but welcomed--she still feels shy and self-conscious. "Wine," she says, immediately feeling foolish for stating the obvious but wanting to move the moment along, afraid that they might spend hours just watching one another. The butterflies return to her stomach like the swallows to Capistrano and she is alarmed, and a little thrilled, to realize how nervous she is about this. To her relief and delight, Mulder seems that way too. He looks sheepish and... and *smitten.* Smitten is a good look for him, especially since she is the *smittee.* "Yeah," he replies. "I found it in my trunk." He sits down next to her, his leg pressed up against hers and she's glad not to be able to think of a single reason to move away. In fact, she moves a little closer and isn't sure if the trembling she feels is coming from her or from him. "I've seen your trunk and that scares me." She smiles at his hearty chuckle. Usually it's Mulder who tries to alleviate nervous situations with humor, and she finds that it's a lot more fun than just clamming up like she usually does. Still admiring his smitten look, she wonders if she is wearing one of her own. Because she certainly feels smitten. "Have no fear, Scully. It was at the bottom of a basket of clean laundry. I'm pretty sure it's safe." He pours a glass and hands it to her before pouring one for himself. "Merry Christmas!" They clink their glasses together and drink deeply from the wine, neither of them complaining about the fact that they've talked in stereo once again. The wine is good--dry and crisp and chilled to perfection. Mulder's trunk, all purpose catch-all and wine cellar. Both are eyeing the four boxes on the table with curiosity and awkwardness. Was exchanging gifts so difficult last year? Finally, Mulder can't wait any longer. "Same as before? Together?" She nods and smiles as they each take the bottom one of the two boxes meant for them. "I hope you tipped whoever wrapped these, Mulder. They're beautiful." She runs her hands over the paper, fingering the sprig of plastic holly that adorns the package. "I wrapped them," he says, beaming with pride, and she wishes she had a camera to freeze this particular grin-- smitten and smug. She looks down at the box once again, even more impressed with it now that she knows he wrapped it himself. Impressed and touched, and as she feels her eyes mist up, she berates herself for her newfound emotionality. Then she berates herself for berating herself because this newfound emotionality is something she thinks she's yearned for a long time. This time, he makes Scully start ripping first, then dives in after her, attacking his present like a cat pouncing on a mouse. Nothing but the sound of tearing paper and Nat singing about the Little Drummer Boy. They both hit box at about the same time and lift the lids together, looking down and looking up in near mirror image. Ice skates. They'd each bought the other a pair of skates, his large and black and hers small and white. "I thought we should have a winter sport, too," she offers by way of explanation, envisioning them skating around a rink together, arm in arm, prosaically enough, to strains of *The Skaters Waltz.* "Winter sports are good," he replies grinning goofily, envisioning standing behind her, his arms enfolding her, teaching her the fine art of maneuvering a hockey stick. She toes off her slipper and grabs one of the skates from the box. Bending to slip it on her foot, she feels his hand as it grips her arm and she looks up to find his face near hers. Without a word, he takes the skate from her and reaches for her foot, his fingers grazing tentatively against her ankle. He asks permission with his eyes and she responds by twisting so that he can place her foot in his lap. As he rubs his hand across the top of it, he stops to give her toes a little squeeze and Scully realizes that this could be a lot more interesting than trying on the skate herself. "You need socks. There's a pair in with the skates." His voice is low and just slightly gravelly, and his attention to her foot makes her glad she gives herself the gift of regular pedicures. Her toenails are painted a vibrant red and coated over with a layer of gold glitter. In her staid life, bright toenails are her one concession to that side of her that would just sometimes like to go a little wild. She digs through the tissue in the box until she finds them. The thought strikes her funny and she's about to giggle, when the giggle dies abruptly in her throat and surprises the hell out of her by turning into a moan, as she feels him trail a line of small, wet kisses down the top of her foot from her ankle to her toes, now curling in bliss at this wonderful new sensation. He opens his eyes to find hers again and they are there in her beautiful face as she leans forward to watch him worship her foot. Wordlessly--and a little breathlessly he notices--she hands the socks to him and he pulls on the plastic connector until it snaps, making sure to take the little plastic tab out of the inside of both socks. He slides a sock over her foot, regretful to have to cover those delectable red-capped toes. Her foot is almost ridiculously pretty--tiny and narrow and almost as soft as his memory of the skin on her lower back--and he looks forward to spending some quality time with those feet later. Sliding the skate over the sock, he carefully adjusts the tongue and laces it up, making sure to secure it tightly enough at the ankle to give her good support. He squeezes along the outside of the boot, pleased with the fit and how pretty her foot still looks in the bright white leather. Running his thumb along the blade to test its sharpness, he pushes on it to be sure that it's safe. "Stand up," he says, taking her hands. "We won't know how it fits until you put some weight on it." She shakes her head. "Let's put one on you, too, then we'll both stand up. Come on, my turn." She holds out her hand, waiting for him to give her one of his skates. The look she gives him, gazing up from slightly lowered lids, sends a rush of blood to his loins immediately catching the attention of Mulder, Jr., who is amazed to find that the big guy isn't fighting this one off. "No, my turn," he replies with a grin as he stretches out to put a foot in her lap. She unlaces his shoe, pulls it off and drops it with a thud to the floor. Even in socks, she can see that his feet are a perfect match for his hands, slim and elegant, and she longs to pull the sock off and investigate further. But this isn't about feet. It's about skates and Christmas. But still, she can't help giving the sole a firm rub with her thumb from heel to toes and smiles at the instinctive curling of his foot. She holds the top of the skate boot in both hands and as he pushes his foot inside, she watches his face to judge the fit. His smile shows that she has chosen well. She is not as adept at lacing as he is and the process takes longer for her. The leg of his jeans covers the top of the boot and she must raise it to finish lacing the skate. Pushing up with both hands under the hem, she soon encounters the bristly hair on his calf, and the sinew of muscles well-developed with years of running. He sighs, a sound that makes her heart beat a little faster, and straightens his leg even more, causing her fingers to drift further up his leg. His skin is warm against her slightly cool hands. Meeting his eyes once more, she finds him grinning playfully and with just a hint of a challenge. Nope. Skates and Christmas--at least for the time being. She rakes her nails lightly over his skin on her way back down to finish lacing the skate, just to show him that she's not backing down, and she feels him shiver. Their skates ready, they clasp hands again and manage to pull themselves and each other to a standing position. Their ankles wobble slightly after many years of not being on skates, and it allows them an excuse to clutch at one another for support. Even though excuses aren't really necessary now, it somehow still seems right, like something they do. "How's it feel?" he asks her, looking down at their skates. "Feels great," she replies, bending at the knee to shift her weight experimentally. "How 'bout yours?" "Like it was made for me," he says with a grin. "So when do we go skating? Tomorrow?" "Don't you mean later today? Are there any rinks open on Christmas?" "They don't even know it's Christmas," he answers, mock scorn in his voice. "They'll be open because they think it's just Saturday. Will you go skating with me, Scully?" "It's a date." And they are both struck with the sudden and pleasant realization that it would be a date--something neither of them has actually dared to believe would happen between them. Their smiles are twin reflections of surprise and a giddiness they've never before allowed themselves. "I can't believe we both got skates," she says, falling back onto the sofa with a happy sigh and propping her foot up to admire her new skate. "I was just going to use my old ones from college. They still fit. Well, I know you didn't get me what I got you on the next one." Her other present is cube shaped. "The packages are completely different," he says, reaching for the shirt-sized box in front of him, enjoying this present thing immensely. Mulder tears into his second package, no longer bothering with niceties. This time, he gets to box first and laughs out loud when he sees his gift. "A glow-in-the-dark universe. This is so cool! You mom said that Matty's room has one and I wanted one, too." He looks at her, and sees she is paying more attention to getting to her present than to him and he loves the sight of her face in deep concentration as she slowly and carefully unwraps her present. "I'm glad you like it," she says, still opening her present, trying to keep the paper from this package more intact. She's never been one for keepsakes, for holding onto objects for sentimental reasons. But she thinks now that maybe that was because she'd never received the right one, for she finds that she'd really like to keep this wrapping paper. "Will you come over and help me put it up?" he asks suggestively, hoping for a yes, but keeping enough of a joke in his voice that she has a way out if she wants one, and she looks up at him from her task. Realizing an out when she hears one, she nixes it immediately. Not this time, not anymore. "Wouldn't miss it," she replies, looking down again and picking at a piece of tape with her fingernail. "Especially since you got rid of the waterbed." She looks up again and meets his eyes, preferring to project her suggestiveness in the way they've communicated for so long. "They're bad for you, ergonomically speaking, and highly overrated in other ways." She loves the look of eager pleasure that crosses his face. Mulder finally loses patience with the keepsake idea and reaches over to tear at the wrapping. "Hurry up. This is going to make you laugh." He can barely contain his own laughter. She gives up when she sees that he's ruined the paper anyway. Oh well, there will be other keepsakes. The paper gone, she stares at the box, which boldly proclaims that she is the proud owner of a home planetarium and she can't help the giggles that emerge from her. Leave it to Mulder to find the high-tech version of her gift to him. "Look," he says, excited as a kid. "It's this big globe thing with a halogen light inside and it shines the stars up on your ceiling. And you can change the settings. You can set it for the place and any date you want and it will show you where the stars were that night. Or even will be." And strangely, this intrigues and enchants her, the idea of falling asleep under the stars from any night in history on her ceiling. It enchants her almost as much as his excitement does. She's always been interested in, aware of, the stars. As the favored child of a Navy captain, she learned navigation by the stars at an early age and she still loves the fact that stars are both constant and mysterious. Suddenly the difference between their gifts strikes her and it gladdens her to realize how well they know each other. She's given Mulder stars that he can arrange any way he imagines. He's given her stars as they are perceived from earth--factual stars. Same concept, different viewpoints--as their partnership has been from the first. And she realizes that all the years she thought they'd never be on the same page, they were on the same page all along. She reads the lines and Mulder reads between them. Together, they can see everything. "I love this, Mulder," she says, her voice catching slightly in her throat, hoping he knows by her tone how much she means it. Then she remembers. She doesn't have to rely just on tone anymore. She can show him how much she loves the gifts he's given her, how much she loves him. Tucking a foot beneath her to give her a little more height, she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down for a Christmas kiss. His mouth against hers is warm and welcoming and she swoops in to taste every inch of it. The part of her mind that still has some semblance of rational thought wonders if every single kiss is going to be better than the one before it, for this is the best one of all. As she moves her mouth over his, varying the angles to make sure she finds all the hidden nooks and crannies, she feels him shift so that he can wrap both arms around her waist. However they soon find that her sitting on her foot and him twisted sideways is not the best they can do in this wonderful new situation they find themselves in. Never losing contact with her inquisitive little mouth, he holds her tightly and shifts again, bringing her around to straddle his lap. She remembers to lift the foot wearing the now cumbersome skate so that neither of them is injured by the blade. They both sigh their contentment at this intriguing new position as she settles more comfortably into his lap. Scully. He's kissing Scully. Scully is sitting in his lap and he is kissing her. And even more significantly, she is kissing him, in a way I adore you that is so thorough and Scullylike that it warms his heart at the same time it makes him incredibly hot. His hands, having declared independence from the rest of his body, roam up and down her back completely of their own accord. He feels her threading her fingers through his hair, her fingertips rasping his scalp. He always loves it when she touches his hair. Mulder's hair is silky beneath her fingers, as it always has been. She can recall each of the too few times that she's ever allowed herself to touch his hair. Never too often because it terrified her how much it affected her when she did, how much she wanted to plunge both hands into its thickness and warmth. And now she can and she does and he breathes out a low, satisfied sound that she breathes in, keeps for herself for a moment and gives back to him. His hands on her back seem to be chasing the chills that are now continually, deliciously running up and down her spine. She presses closer and she can feel the force of his desire and is amazed by it. Not that he feels it for she knows that if he is half as excited as she is, he's ready to go. No, she is amazed at the fact that it's there against her. That they're here, together in this wonderful new way. His hands find the hem of her shirt and easily slide beneath it for it's much too big for her. And, finally, they encounter what they've waited seven long years for and splay across her bare skin like weary pilgrims who've finally reached Mecca. In return, she presses against him and moves her lips across his face to his throat to nibble and lave the skin there. He can feel himself breathing as if he ran full-tilt for three miles as her mouth settles on a place at the base of his neck and he wonders if she's going to give him a hickey. No one has given him a hickey since the night of his senior prom. He's hoping for hickey as he tilts his head, a low hum coming from somewhere inside him. His hands, rediscovering their own power again, come up with a plan. One slowly pushes the fabric of the shirt up her back, while the other escapes to plunge between the sofa cushions. He tastes so damn good as she gnaws and licks the smooth skin of his neck. And there is something really wonderful about making him squirm the way he was doing it to her. She finds a particularly savory piece of skin and grazes her teeth along it, unable to believe what she's considering. She hasn't given anyone a hickey since that disastrous night with Marcus after her senior prom but she finds she wants to give it another shot. Sinking her teeth in just slightly, she sucks the tender skin into her mouth, tracing circles and figure eight's with her tongue. She feels him gulp in air and arch up against her with a groan and a whisper of her name. His hands are raising her shirt, trying to remove it, but she is reluctant to release her claim on his neck, although she knows that losing the shirt is a pretty good idea at this point in time. Finally she does and raises her arms to allow him to take it off of her. She pauses a moment to look at him looking at her and to admire the mark she's left on his neck before returning to plunder his mouth a little more. She's just settling in again at his mouth when, to her dismay, he pulls away slightly. Eyes still closed and about to protest, she is stilled by the feel of her shirt being placed back over her head. Wait a minute! Him putting clothing back on her is not in this scenario. Her eyes fly open, the hurt in them showing only momentarily before she looks down to see him trying to slip her arms into his Knicks jersey, and the hurt turns into glee. She sits back willingly and pulls the shirt over her torso, running her hands over the dark blue fabric with a grin. She giggles at the soft, fuzzy, slightly goofy look his face has taken on. "Another Christmas present for me?" she asks, her voice so low it startles even her. The giggle turns into a gasp as his fingers trail down the front of the shirt, lightly grazing her breasts on their way. His smile has changed from goofy to seductive as his eyes rake over her hungrily. "For both of us," he whispers and the love and desire in his eyes sets a blaze in her belly. "I knew you'd look hot in it." "I can have this?" she murmurs, bringing her face close to his. "You can have anything I own," is his simple reply. She smiles gently, hoping he sees the same love in her eyes that she sees in his. "You don't own much stuff, Mulder." "No, I don't," he agrees. "And you already own the thing that matters most to me." "Your shirt?" she asks, confused. "Yourself." And that single word removes the final brick in the wall she'd begun carefully constructing almost from the day she met him. "God, I love you," she says and without the slightest hesitation, she enfolds him in her arms and descends on his mouth, adoring it, adoring him. She feels her heart laughing, singing, and tears seep through the lashes of her closed eyes. "Love you," he whispers against her mouth, around her tongue and she understands him perfectly. And he kisses her and kisses her until this dizzy, lightheaded feeling seems like her normal state of being. His mouth is hot and tender and hungry and loving and demanding and giving. His kisses are everything she's ever needed and never felt. Finally, to his dismay, he finds he must break away slightly--to breathe, to process, to believe that this isn't just another of the sometimes painfully cruel dreams he has. He opens his eyes and just watches her. Her head is tilted back, her eyes closed, her skin flushed a rosy peach, and she is breathing rapidly through lips that are swollen with kisses. With *his* kisses. Her eyes open slowly and a tear that's been trapped in her lashes drops to her cheek and, unable to resists, he leans toward her and takes it onto his tongue. It tastes salty-sweet with her joy and lets him know that the time is right. He pulls her close to whisper in her ear, to inhale her scent, to have her near him at last. "I have another gift for you," he says softly, planting a chaste kiss behind her ear. "Yeah?" she sighs, her whispered tone matching his. She snuggles her pelvis against his and feels his come up to meet hers in a gentle rolling thrust. "I think I know what it is." "Hmm," he groans into her ear, and she can't help but pull him closer. "I bet you don't." "That's not for me?" she purrs, mock disappointment in her voice and she nudges against his hardness once more, making them both ache and burn. "It's for you," he replies breathlessly. "It's because of you. But it's not the gift." She pulls back and he sees her wondering look. "You want the gift now?" "You want me to have it now?" He nods. "I want you to have it forever." He makes to tip her off his lap, and sees the look of disappointment. "It's in the pocket of my jacket." She nods and slides to his side and the point of the skate blade accidentally pokes into his leg. "Hold it, you're going to hurt somebody with that thing." He catches her foot and quickly unlaces the skate, removing it and the sock and placing them back into their box. Leaning forward, he snags the fabric of his coat in the chair adjacent to the couch, as she sits beside him trying not very effectively to cover her impatience. Scully hears the crinkle of the bag as he takes it from his pocket and places it into her hand. "Sorry it's not wrapped," he says and she detects a hint of nervousness in his voice. She reaches into the bag and pulls out a box made of rose quartz, pale pink and gorgeous. All over its surface, in bas-relief, are carved what seem like hundreds of tiny, perfect roses. She gasps and brings it close to her face to admire its delicateness. "This is absolutely beautiful," she says, her voice struck through with wonder. "It came from my great grandmother, my father's grandmother," he explains softly. "I found it when I was cleaning out my father's house on the Vineyard before I sold it." "Mulder, I can't..." Tears spring to her eyes and when she looks at his face, she knows that she'll accept it, that she must accept it. "Are you sure?" "Open it," he requests. The box has a hinged lid and she lifts it carefully, anxious that the hinges might be weak with the age of the box. Inside nestled on a bed of plush, cream-colored velvet, rests what may be the loveliest ring she has ever seen. A large sapphire--she has no idea of carat sizes-- flanked by two baguette cut diamonds only slightly smaller than the sapphire, set in a platinum setting. "Oh!" she gasps, not knowing whether from the beauty of it or her surprise at seeing it there. She finds she can't look away from it, but can't quite bring herself to touch it, either. It is absolutely stunning, the deep blue of the sapphire a dramatic contrast to the sharp white of the diamonds. The butterflies make an unprecedented fourth appearance in her stomach, bringing reinforcements with them this time, and in her shock she wonders what the collective adjective for butterflies is. Mulder looks at the ring briefly. It's been a long time since he's opened the box and looked at it. But its impact on him is not so profound, for he's seen it many times since childhood, when his mother would occasionally wear it. She returned it to his father after the divorce. He watches Scullly's face as she stares down at it, a hundred different emotions playing in her eyes, none of them staying long enough for him to be able to interpret it. She doesn't seem aware that another of her single, perfect tears is sliding down her face. And this time, he is afraid to taste it, waiting for her reaction, wondering if he might have done the wrong thing again. Finally she looks up at him and everything is in her eyes-- hope and fear and joy and confusion and certainty. How can so much be there? "What does this mean, Mulder?" He knows all the sounds of her voice, knows that this is the studied neutral tone, the one she uses to ask questions she's not sure she wants the answers to. And he knows this might be the most important question she's ever asked him and the most important answer he's ever given. "It means..." he hesitates. "It means whatever you want it to mean, Scully." He shivers slightly, remembering that he once said those same words to her under radically different circumstances, after Jack Willis had died. He sees her eyes widen and knows she remembers, too. "It means, if you said you'd marry me today, I could have us to a Justice of the Peace by ten o'clock. If that's not what you want, it means that I thought of this ring the first time I ever got a good look at your eyes. It means I love you and I want whatever you want. It means you're the only person in the world who could wear this ring." He watches her face and sees when she finally gets the nerve to touch the ring, running her fingers lightly over the stones but not picking it up. "Shouldn't it go to Samantha?" she whispers. Mulder shakes his head. "It goes from eldest son to eldest son. It was always supposed to go to the love of my life." His voice seems thick and heavy in his throat. The love of his life. She is the love of his life. She smiles, overjoyed at her complete lack of doubt in his words. "And you are mine," she says with the same absolute certainty with which she spoke those words a few months before. And when he bends to kiss her, she is ready for it, welcomes it, relishes it. And when he pulls away, she is breathless--from the kiss, from what she is about to say. "I have another present for you, too." She bends over to reach beneath the couch, bringing out a flat brown paper bag. Her hands tremble somewhat as she hands it to him. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a blue covered notebook, knowing immediately what he holds in his hand. He can feel the astonishment on his face as he looks to her for confirmation that this is what he thinks it is and she nods. He opens the top cover and recognizes the handwriting and the words immediately--words he'd read beside her empty hospital bed in Allentown, Pennsylvania when they both knew she was dying. *For the first time, I feel time like a heartbeat, the seconds pumping in my breast like a reckoning; the numinous mysteries that once seemed so distant and unreal, threatening clarity in the presence of a truth entertained not in youth, but only in its passage. I feel these words as if their meaning were weight being lifted from me, knowing that you will read them and share my burden as I have come to trust no other. That you should know my heart, look into it, finding there the memory and experience that belong to you, that are you, is a comfort to me now as I feel the tethers loose and the prospects darken for the continuance of a journey that began not long ago, and began again shaken and strengthened by your convictions. If not for which I might never have been so strong now as I cross to face you and look at you incomplete, hoping that you will forgive me for not making the rest of the journey with you.* He reads the words slowly, this time without the fear that she will come upon him stealing them. A tear falls, hot with the bitterness escaping his soul, and he wipes it away quickly. Not because he is afraid that she'll see it, but because he doesn't want it to fall on the paper and smudge the ink. He looks up to see her watching him as he reads, her eyes directed at the page, the rose quartz box clutched in both hands in her lap. Turning the pages of the notebook he finds entries later than the last one he'd seen in the hospital. Not only did she not throw it away, she kept on writing in it. Glimpses of the dates reveal that the writing is sporadic, but that throughout the whole thing, she uses the word *you.* She'd always written to him. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest and as he longs to read the words, at the same time he is terrified to do it. So much has happened between then and now. But either way, he can't do it here, can't make her sit here watching him as he learns the secrets of her heart. The secrets she says can be his. They look up at the same time, and their eyes lock as they have a million times over their long years together. His eyes can always find hers--in a crowded meeting room, at the end of a long corridor, in his mind's eye when the need is there. "Mine?" he asks on a whisper, his hand unconsciously swiping back and forth on the page. "It's always been yours." She lifts one of the hands resting on the notebook and raises it to her lips for a kiss. She has his full attention when she says, "There are things in here that will hurt you, Mulder, things I wrote in reaction to times that you hurt me, too. But there are some happy times in here, too. I think you need to know about both sides, but when you read it, I want you to remember that we made it through everything. We're right here right now." "Do you want me to read it now?" She shakes her head. "Not all of it. But I'd like you to read what I wrote tonight. It's on the last page." She watches him turn the pages and drop his head to read in the dim light. As he reads, she looks at the ring again. Finally, she dares to take it from it's velvet bed and she hooks it over her index finger to bring it before her face. She clasps it in the palm of her hand and feels the stones warming against her skin. Mulder looks down at the page. He sees that she wrote this in a hurry, probably while he was down at the car. It is Scully's handwriting, but slanted slightly to the right with hurried points on some of the words. Over the past few years, he's noted subtle changes in her handwriting. Several times he was tempted to take samples to a handwriting analyst for interpretation of the changes but not only would that be a huge betrayal of her trust, but part of him hadn't been sure he could stand the answers he might get. He takes a deep breath and reads the entry, so brief in comparison to some of the others. *January 8, 2000 *Happy New Year, Merry Christmas! *It's a long strange road we've been traveling, that we keep traveling. I just read the words on the first page. Three years since then, Mulder. Three years and at that time I thought I'd be lucky to get three months. Back then I looked at you incomplete. That's not who I see in you tonight, or who I see now as I look in the mirror at my own reflection. Tonight I can finally allow myself to believe that, for some reason, I actually do complete you. And I hope I can finally tell you that, for reasons I also don't understand, you complete me as well. I don't understand them, Mulder, but not only do I accept them, I rejoice in them. *I'm glad I was wrong three years ago. You were right when you said that this was meant to be a nicely worded goodbye. But luckily, maybe blessedly, I'm still on the journey. I want you to know that I'll stay on the journey for as long as it takes, wherever the road goes, for it's become my journey, too. Not just because of what's happened to me, but because I have to be with you. The only one in the world who knows me. *You know this will be difficult sometimes. We'll still argue and we'll still disagree because that's who we are. But always know, in any battle--I am for you. Your side is mine. And for any important question, the answer is Yes. *I love you. *P.S.: I've decided that your birthday is next Wednesday. How old will you be?* He laughs his delight out loud, though tears stream openly down his face. And as she watches him she can see the years drain away until she sees the man who laughed in the rain with her all those years ago. Only more, because there is love in these laughing eyes. She looks again and sees he has crinkles in the corners of those eyes and she loves them. She's watched them form, knows what's happened to cause them, what's happened to both of them. They've earned their scars and their wear, paid for with their youth. They've earned who they are and they've earned one another. She goes willingly, eagerly, when he pulls her back into his lap, for a deep kiss that speaks of love and gratitude. She sits there for once at his eye level, her arms resting on his shoulder and for what seems a long time, they just look at each other. His eyes are serious, pensive, and she can feel him looking into her. And it is a surprisingly familiar sensation. Has he always been able to do it? "You are for me," he whispers, trying it out, testing the truth of it. And it feels good and true. "Always," she replies without hesitation and watches the smile spread across his face, joyous and just a little mischievous. "And on any important question the answer is yes?" Scully nods, knowing what is to come and she is both anxious and anticipating. "I believe there's an implied question on the table," he says, serious once again. And she's glad for this tone. Although she knows he would not choose now to be whimsical and flirty, it calms her apprehension to know by his tone and demeanor that he is absolutely serious about this. It is an important question to both of them. The ring is still clasped in her palm and she opens her hand to see it again. She closes her hand again, giving the ring a squeeze then lifts one of Mulder's hands to drop the ring into it. "The answer to any important question is yes," she says in confirmation. She extends both of her hands, palms down before him. It's up to him to choose the hand on which she'll wear the ring. She has given her answer and his action would ask the question. He understands what she is asking and goes unerringly for her left hand. He raises her ring finger to his lips and gives it a reverent kiss before slipping the ring onto it. Surprisingly, and not surprisingly at all, it is a perfect fit. She leans forward and captures his lips with her own and she feels him pulling her close to him, leaning into the cushions until they are nearly reclining. And suddenly she is filled with joy, moaning, laughing, weeping against his mouth as he is against hers. She wants this, wants it more than she knew she was capable of wanting anything. She thought the wanting was gone forever, having died shortly after the last of her expectations. But it's there and with the knowledge that she can have what she wants--at least for now--is a joyous thing. A gift that she can accept because it belongs to her. Mulder feels as though he has always wanted. It never died within him, simply hovered there in his existence taunting him making him believe in what others saw as impossible just on the chance that the endless wanting might be quelled. But the years of longing had never felt like this, like the taste of her mouth, open and giving against his. Like the feel of her warm small hands easing under his shirt to finally give him the touch he'd never had. He pulls away, needing to ask, and her mouth finds a place at his throat, making it difficult for him to speak. "Does this mean Justice of the Peace by ten?" A yes springs instantly, impulsively, to her lips, but she bites it back. So long, it's taken so long to get to this place. But finally here, she wants to explore it, to explore who they are becoming, especially to explore him. "Let's go skating first and see where it goes from there," she whispers and is relieved to see the understanding in his eyes. He is eager to explore, too, and the proof is pressing insistently against her, his hands pulling at her recently acquired Knicks shirt, just as hers are tugging at his gray tee. They burn for each other. They are sliding off the couch, threatening to become wedged between it and the coffee table and she realizes that this is not how it should be. This time that they've waited for, fought for, almost died for should be something special for both of them. "Mulder," she says, chuckling at his grunted response and the feeling of his stubbled cheek against the sensitive skin of her neck. "Make love with me under the stars." He pulls away to read her face and knows instantly that the home planetarium doesn't have a chance of matching the stars in her eyes. He helps her ease off him and she stands taking his hands to help him to his feet. He's forgotten that he's still wearing a skate and nearly falls, but she is there to catch him--as she always has been. "Why don't you take off the skate and I'll go in and set up the stars." She picks up the box and looks at the photograph on the outside, determining that it shouldn't be too complicated. "I already programmed in a date," he says. He sits down and begins untying the skate's lace, his eyes never leaving hers. "March 6, 1992," she says, not even needing to see his nod. "Good choice." She wonders briefly what Missy would have seen in the stars on that first night of their partnership. He watches her head toward her bedroom as he drops the skate into the box and hurries after her. There are still gifts left to give and receive and he doesn't want to miss a single one. THE END Thanks for sticking with me this far. Hope you liked it. If so, I'd love to hear about it. jtfilipek@yahoo.com