CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE:

Martha's Vineyard
Massachusetts
December 24, 1986
Tuesday

Just south of Martha's Vineyard were the memories of his younger years, delicately trimmed with camp songs and activities such as snake-hunting out in the wilderness that formerly surrounded the state. There were also baseball games in the summer, his Dad as the pitcher, him striding onto their makeshift backyard field with his trusty baseball bat while he spit on the ground just like the professionals. There was also the aroma of baked oatmeal cookies in the autumn, his Mom playing Stratego and him losing to her while they watched the brown leaves fall to their demise on the ground outside. And the winters were his favorite – there were tasting the first drops of snow on his tongue, making wishes, opening presents, having his Mom and Dad laugh at his eagerness.

Now, like his Father and that home, they were all ghosts of a murky memory.

Mulder stretched his limbs out in the morning sun, marveling at the blanket of whiteness that had fallen on the estate just last night, filling up each corner of the backyard with pristine new snow which were mostly piled in the middle of the wide lawn. This was something he always missed in Massachusetts. It never snowed in Los Angeles. In Massachusetts, it snowed as if it was time for the next ice age.

He puffed a whoosh of air from his lungs, watching the frost claim his breath and making it visible to his naked eyes. Grinning like a kid who just received his first Christmas present, he rubbed his gloved palms together and bounded out of the front porch, towards the snowy grounds.

This was Christmas at its finest.

The invitation from his Mother came two weeks too late, when the whole crew of the Danced Yesterday movie had been heatedly debating whether they should get a vacation or not. Mulder received the invitation from Scully (who took the call) and it quickly made up his mind. Selfish, indeed, but he wanted the movie to be over soon so that later on, it could be given enough time to be perfectly polished in post-production.

But the Massachusetts Christmas invitation was too tempting to push aside. It had been at least three years since he spent the holidays out from other than his own home. The thoughts of snow, oatmeal cookies, and evening fire appealed to him so vividly he had to cancel everything else that was up for production. Everyone needed a break. He did, too.

Christmas at its finest, his mind rambled, as he sat down on the fresh snow, weaving his fingers through the whiteness and watching them as they disappeared beneath the cold. Los Angeles was loved for its balmy weather, but sometimes, he wished it would be gifted with snow. There's something utterly romantic and comforting about a white Christmas. Maybe it's the song.

"My, it sure went down hard last night."

The voice from the front porch made his head snap up, and he smiled slightly when he watched Scully take cautious steps down the front porch. Her red hair was kept under a tight green bonnet, matching the thick wool sweater that framed her figure like a perfect hour glass. Scully's petite thin form was padded with extra clothing, which gave off a healthier façade for the Spunk. He had been worried about her rapid weight loss lately. The practices and rehearsals had been grueling - even for him – yet, he tried making up for it by packing a lot of carbohydrates into Scully's meal to keep her energy and health up.

A few months ago, it would be so easy to ask her what's the problem, but during the past few days, it sure didn't sound like the best idea.

"It snows like no other here in Massachusetts." To illustrate his point, he padded through a handful of snow and lunged it towards a whitened green bush a few steps in front of him. It hit the plant square in the middle, rattling the whiteness that covered its tips. "Does it snow like this in Wales?"

"Oh," Scully whispered, grinning broadly at his question. "No, in Wales, sometimes it snows like death. Temperature drops to –15 degrees Celsius and we'll all have to huddle up in front of the heater to keep our bodies from hypothermic shock." Resting her shoulder on one of the two large wooden posts before the small flight of stairs, she watched Mulder as he rubbed his limbs against the soft flurries of paleness. There he was: a big child once again.

"It is very pleasant here in Massachusetts. I like the weather here," she admonished, still watching him with a small tight-lipped smile that showed her dimples.

Mulder nodded eagerly. "Yeah! LA's freezing cold without the snow. Some people like it - John, for instance loves that… he has chionophobia – snow phobia." At the sight of Scully's raised eyebrow, Mulder chuckled. "He once got frostbitten, the damn bastard. We had to fish him out of the undercurrent in Alaska years ago. That was our trip. After that he went to Mexico for a sunny vacation and met Monica."

"What do you prefer?"

"Both sides of this great country," he retorted, indignantly removing the gloved barriers of his palms and squashing his now naked flesh down the snow.

This alarmed Scully for some reasons. She half- stepped/half- ran down the creaky steps, landing in front of Mulder. Her legs gave underneath her and she fished for Mulder's hands in the snow, holding them up to her face. The cold frost of her breath met his pale cheeks, making an involuntary shiver attack his spine.

"Frostbite usually occurs when the skin does not have the necessary protection against the cold," she scolded, eyebrows meeting in dagger-like formations. Her tongue darted out to lick her drying lips.

Mulder rolled his eyes, pulling back his hands, pressing them once again down into the snow stubbornly.

"Temperature's only 4 degrees Celsius."

"Near freezing point. Enough reason to cover up."

"I'm not going to stay long enough. Just want to have some fun." His voice sounded bleated, as if a child complaining to his Mom that all he wanted to do was to take a peek of Santa's presents for him.

Scully responded as he expected. Hanging her head, she peeled off his discarded gloves from the snow-covered ground. "Body parts most affected are the hands, feet, ears, cheeks, chin, and nose, Mulder. I've been frostbitten before. In that damn –15 degrees snowfall back in Wales. It wasn't a pleasant affair," she said, keeping one glove in her back pocket. She lifted her behind to reach the other.

Mulder stuck out his lower lip. "Nose? Well, then, we know what part of me will get frostbitten first." When Scully didn't appear amused by his joke, he continued, "Look, I've never been frostbitten before. I'm fucking forty and I'm not starting now. Believe me."

"That's what I also told my… my Nanny back then. I ended up catatonic in an ambulance."

"What made you run out of a –15 degrees blizzard? Teenage angst?" Mulder caught some more fresh cold air into his lungs, looking away from Scully's beautifully flushed face. Damn. No more reminders for today.

Scully's eyes trailed his fingers, which were happily sinking up and down the same indentation they left on the white blanket. "Sure. Teenage angst. Stupidity. Insanity. You name it."

The vagueness of her answer made Mulder stop his hands for a moment, and then resumed it before she'd notice his wonderment. Her answers about her past had always been structured, secretive … mysterious. Like right now, he was asking for the reason why she ran out of her warm house in a blizzard, and all he's getting was how she regarded the experience.

Maybe that was one thing about her he would never figure out: he could never push her too hard to the brink.

"I'd name it if I was there," he said to lighten up the mood. Anything to set away the draft that was quickly consuming their companionship; anything at all to stir away from uncomfortable personal revelations.

"But you weren't," she pointed out, settling a finger on the tip of his nose. The scrape of soft woolly fabric on his skin sent another shiver down his spine that was worse than the last one. "So I'm here to personally make sure that you don't find yourself in that situation."

"You're here, Ms. Scully," A hand came up to grip her wrist, directing it down unconsciously to his chest. "Because I want you to taste my Mom's mouth watering oatmeal cookies. They're really good."

Actually, the real reason he brought her to this family dinner was because he couldn't bare spending the Christmas without her … and leaving her alone in LA to spend Christmas by herself was plain cruel.

"She really only bakes them during Christmas?"

"They're THAT good," he emphasized, prideful all around.

"Hey, Dana!" Emily's voice wafted from the porch. The floorboards creaked in protest as his daughter's very-pregnant form settled there.

Their heads whipped to the sound. His daughter saw their current positions and pressed the back of her hand to her cheek.

"Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

Mulder released Scully's wrist, suddenly conscious and suddenly dusting himself of the snow on his shirt. "No. We were just about finished," he lied. Finished was the subtlest way of finishing their conversation.

Scully squinted her eyes at his form before returning to Emily. "Anything wrong?"

"I want you to accompany me to the nearest store. Grandma needs something for the steaks tonight." Emily ran her knuckles over the large bulge of her stomach. "At least, someone can cash in on the register when I have the need to sit down."

Mulder quickly went up on his feet, dusting the remaining flecks of snow on his sweater, even if virtually, there were no more left. "Let me do this, Em. You should be resting."

Emily considered this for a second and then began to chew on her index fingernail. Mulder sighed disapprovingly. His only daughter's all waddled up into a pregnant bundle and she's still acting as if she hadn't graduated from junior high.

"No thanks, Dad. Grandma wants me to specifically do this." Her eyes bulged and eyebrows raised, her official 'you're-needed-right-there-please-get-a-hint' expression. Mulder eyed his daughter warily, and then without breaking contact with her, he darted out an arm for Scully to get herself up.

Spunk didn't even look at his offering as she pushed herself out of the ground, turning immediately towards Emily with a big grin.

"I was summoned," Mulder exclaimed in his lowest crescendo as he strode into his Mother's kitchen. He halted as his nose caught the scent of freshly-baked oatmeal cookies, delightfully mixed with the homely cinnamon perfume of the elderly woman that stood in front of the looming stove.

Mrs. Mulder checked on the crisping brown cookies and without looking at him pointed to the Christmas tree-styled dish rag hanging on the refrigerator handle. Mulder did as his Mother asked, grabbing the Christmas tree by its top angel and tossing it towards Teena.

His Mom caught it with a laugh, great reflexes in check. "Never underestimate your old lady, Fox."

He snickered, coming to stand beside her, resting one elbow on the tiled kitchen counter. "Never did, Mom." Which was true. His Mother didn't study jujitsu and karate in her middle age for nothing.

Teena smiled, crinkling the corners of her mouth, and then wiped her hands on the dirty rag. "I didn't summon you, Fox. I was trying to find a way for us to converse privately, without Emily, Jeffrey, or Dana."

"Is there something wrong, Mom?" Mulder asked, following his Mother as she sat down on the round kitchen table, taking a seat opposite her so that they could effectively converse without any barriers.

Teena handed Mulder a glass and poured sweet pink punch into it.

"No, nothing's wrong. I did talk to Emily about something when you were out yesterday."

In reflex, Mulder's heart suddenly began to play the bongo drums. "What's that?"

"She's very worried about you."

Oh, damn. There's that worry part. Again.

Mulder smirked, the upheaval tiresome in itself. "I specifically instructed Em not to worry about anything. It's not advisable in her condition."

"I worried a lot when I was pregnant with you and Sam."

"And look where it gotten you," he couldn't help pointing out, "A son who married too soon and a daughter that has been invisible for almost a decade."

"I'm proud of you - both of you." Teena took a drink of the punch herself, saying the next words into the glass: "It doesn't matter to me that Samantha was a drug addict or that you were." She gripped the glass tighter as she set it down the table. "You're changing the subject, Fox."

"Well, you can't blame me for trying."

"I won't. It's natural - I'm supposed to be on your side all the time." She flashed him a sly grin, taking away the pounding inside Mulder's ribs for the time being, at least. "Emily noted yesterday that you had been troubled lately, especially on the plane ride."

His mind racked the eventful plane ride, especially the part wherein a tremulous turbulence took over their aircraft. That one had him literally chattering his teeth. "Yeah, well, she was too. The damn plane shook my brain out of my skull."

"No, about other things … like about darling Dana."

Oh. Darling Dana. When his Mom started calling women Darling, it meant that she's already becoming attached. Not good at all. This wasn't part of his script.

Mulder sipped on his punch, cautiously weighing his words. "Darling Dana isn't so comfortable flying. I was worried about her so I sat down beside her to make sure she's fine."

"Emily was referring to the way you hesitate."

"Me? Hesitate?" The retort was supposed to sound incredulous, but it came out as pathetic as a mouse's squeak.

"Dana … I've noticed that she's a very troubled girl. She needs a lot of physical AND emotional attention - from you," Teena added in before Mulder got any second thoughts. "Your daughter also told me that you share a very different relationship with this lady … that you used to share this uniqueness with her."

"Mom, with all due respect to you and Emily - this is really none of your business."

"Fox, honey, it is my business… especially when my son's heart is concerned."

Oh, Fuck Fox! Now where did that come from?

"Close your mouth, honey. I know all about it."

Mulder did as his Mom asked him, having not even felt his jaw relax beforehand.

Mrs. Mulder resumed a haughty façade, tapping her well- rounded fingernails on the wood, creating an annoying scratching sound that pricked his ears.

"If you're going to ask whether Emily gave me a hint that she knows, no, she didn't. If you're going to ask me how I knew … well, I'm your Mother, for one."

"Mom," Mulder cleared his throat. His voice sounded something out of the junior high frog he dissected for Biology. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"No, what I'm trying to ask of you," she corrected, pinning a strand of white hair behind her diamond studded ear. Continuing this, her hand transferred to her eyeglasses, straightening it on her nose. "What are you so afraid of? Why are you pushing Dana away?"

Oh shit, there went his hands. Currently, they were a shaking pile of heap on top of the table, almost jostling the glass of punch before them. To hide this, he quickly darted them out of his Mother's view.

"Is this the reason why you wanted Em and the others out of the house? To talk to me like this?"

Like when he was a teenager and he had his first crush, his first obsession. Like the time Teena discovered his addiction to heroine. Like the time she found out about Diana's pregnancy… like …

"Yes. If there were the 'others' here with us, you'd be too distracted - you already are with Dana."

"I'd…" he trailed off, raising his eyes up to the ceiling, studying the delicate squares that reminded him of golden-brown, sugar coated waffles. "I'd love to get advices from you, of course … but, hell, Mom," he bent down, staring at her similar hazel eyes, "I don't need one. I can handle this. What I feel for Dana … I could control."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"What?"

"You can't control what you are feeling for her. That's why you're doing the stupidest thing possible: pushing her away. I can see that you're hurting yourself and her - don't you see how much she feels for you?"

Mulder had to laugh at that. Laugh. Yeah, laugh. When Mrs. Mulder sternly sentenced her lips to thin lines, he stopped.

"What Scully feels for me is need. I'll admit that we both need each other. I bring her comfort as much as she brings me comfort. However, this cannot transcend how …how, uh, how …"

"How you feel for her."

He grinned sheepishly, finding more reasons to be awkward in the conversation. "Fine. How I feel for her." Awkwardness started to tighten its grip around his neck and he had to hide his face from his Mom, running both hands through his hair. "It's … it's … nothing, really. I don't want to bring her in."

"Bring her in?"

"Bring her into this. It's too deep that I myself cannot fish it out." He jerked strands of hair in between the ridges of his fingers. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation."

"Are you afraid that you don't know her enough?"

"No … oh God, Mom, can we end this right now?!" He rose up from his chair and resisted the urge to throw the damn thing to the wall. Heading right towards the door, Teena halted him with a hand to his arm, firmly pulling her back to the kitchen.

"Stop it, Fox. Stop this. I don't want to see you hurting yourself OR her."

Finding nothing else to snap back, Mulder straightened his form and turned around to stand face-to-face with his Mother. Mrs. Mulder stood up straight, matching his arrogant posture.

"I'm not hurting either one of us. I'm doing THIS for us!" he emphasized, making sure that they vibrated in the thin air as each was formed.

"Stop fighting. Stop waging this, this superficial war." Teena hesitated before reaching out to her son, placing a hand on the crook of his neck and shoulder. "Quit. For once in your life, quit, Fox. Do it for yourself … if not, for her. This is not going to get your anywhere. She needs you."

Mulder flinched at the words "need."

"Fox?" Mrs. Mulder said, gazing up at him worriedly. "Do you know that Dana writes?"

This caught his attention. With a finger to his chin, he remembered the night he discovered that there was a small, very promising write-up about Danced Yesterday in the Los Angeles Times and wanted to share it with her. He was halfway into her bedroom when he noticed that she was gathering pieces of paper into her old backpack, trying her best to answer him without him having to see that she was doing something. He ignored it and proceeded to read the article to her with infused glee and excitement.

"Yes, I do know that she writes these letters … but I don't ask, I don't think she'd like my invasion of her privacy."

"It's for her sister, Melissa. She told me," Teena simply put, her eyes warming at Mulder's second surprised face of the day. "See? All you have to do is ask her."

Mulder realized the weight of his Mother's words and suddenly felt his chest tighten, churning up his stomach with it. He broke free from his Mother's grasp, taking deep breaths, soothing himself. When he was already in a semblance of calm, he left the kitchen without any words.

The fire crackled in its own domain, seating itself in a throne of sooty wooden branches, gurgling more flames with each passing second that aimlessly passed. Its imaginary crown rose to greater proportions when Mulder inserted another freshly chopped log, tucking it firmly within the blazing inferno.

In response, the fire seemed to gurgle and then hampered back to its makeshift throne.

"Are you still cold?" Mulder said, his voice scratchy and low, positioning himself on the weaved rug Bill Mulder gifted Teena years ago from Persia. Resting his head on his hands, he rested one foot atop the other, watching his bare toes contrast against the fire's yellowness.

Scully laid stretched, facing him, one hand resting casually on her hip bone. "I'm not cold, Mulder. You are." That hand on her hip bone crawled towards her stomach, stifling a cough that threatened to dispute the silence surrounding them.

Hearing the sounds of struggle from her throat, Mulder rose up to sit, scrutinizing the rashes on Scully's cheeks. "I … I really appreciate what you did for Emily yesterday." He made sure that she heard the ache in his voice, the guilt in each intonation.

Scully and Emily headed home alone yesterday from shopping, since Jeff decided that he was going to wait for the midnight sale of his favorite musical cassette tapes. Agreeing to this, the girls plowed through the snow, with Emily at the wheel. By mistake, his daughter shifted the car backwards during traffic and landed themselves into a heap of roadside snow, trapping the car efficiently there.

Knowing Emily's condition, Scully did all the job herself with the help of a few bystanders: pushing the car, getting the most snow on her face, getting wet with clammy water by the damn storeowner who didn't clearly see through his glasses that the moving snowman was actually a woman.

Those were just half of their misadventures.

Once they were home, Mulder was taken aback by the chattering Scully and had her back in the car for the hospital. When she was effectively talked into calming down by their impromptu trip to the hospital, she was diagnosed with frostbite (of all the things she could catch), suffered a mild fever the whole Christmas, and was now recuperating with inflammations on her pale cheeks.

Since she slept the whole day under Mulder's care, by nine in the evening, she was all up and chirpy. The household had gone to their respective beds, leaving Mulder to aid Scully's overactive energy from being bedridden for twenty-four hours straight.

Mulder grabbed the quilt from the loveseat behind them, draping it over Scully's thin body. She snuggled up into the warmth it bought, gazing up at him with her large baby blues.

"I really am," Mulder continued, "you did everything yourself … I mean, if that was anyone, she would've called for someone else to do all the pushing and all the …" Suddenly at lost for words, Mulder sighed deeply. "I just really am thankful."

"Frostbite's not bad." She coughed again, this time so hard that she had to put a hand on her chest. "… You know what could make me feel better right … now?"

"What?" Mulder eagerly asked.

"That you'd … get frostbitten too …" Another cough. Then a smile that ended all smiles.

Mulder thought about this. If Scully wanted him to go out there, soak himself in cold water and thrust himself into the snow for twenty-four hours, he'd do it. If Scully wanted him to go into that reigning fire and try to steal those damn logs, he'd do it.

"Hey, I'm just … kidding," she said, craning her neck up to watch his expression. "It was no bother, really. Emily was pregnant. I wasn't. You see?"

"And you got this fever during Christmas." He trailed a finger down her cheek lightly, mindful of the sensitive areas. "Some Christmas you got."

She closed her eyes when his fingertips rested on her porcelain neck, stroking lightly. He missed this, missed the physical contact with her. The last time had been in that damn airplane towards North Texas. How long was that ago?

Scully's scratchy voice shattered Mulder's reverie. "I got to taste your Mom's famous oatmeal cookies."

He applied pressure on where his fingertips were placed, over her clavicle, feeling the warm blood gushing across the intricate network of blue veins that were crisscrossing on her neck. Scully hitched a breath upon feeling this, only to be stolen by another mind-shattering cough. Mulder immediately pulled back.

"I wanted to bring you along to give you an acceptable Christmas. Something you'll remember, at least. Something that'll relax your tired physique," he chattered through her coughing, mindlessly saying those words without even stopping to think whether she understood him. "You've dancing hard the past months, and you, you have lost some weight."

To illustrate this point, Mulder touched her again, this time on her flat belly, stroking her the taut skin above her ribs. Her skin tensed as he stroked slowly, raising the turgid hairs on the back of his spine with what he's doing.

He should be the king of bravado, the man seating on that throne of fire in front of them. All he was doing right now was playing with fire, fire without bravado, fire without smoke with this woman, testing out his Mother's theory, that all he had to do was ask.

All I had to do was ask.

Scully's blistered face contorted into a strange expression as his hands dipped to her sides, holding her effectively to his body. He scooted a little bit closer to her, touching his hip bone with her waist, just enough to feel her warmth. To become familiar with it as he strangely once was.

"Scully?"

Another cough, gentling as his words came across her ear.

"Yeah?"

"How did you spend Christmas in Wales?"

This earned him the infamous Spunk eyebrow.

Mulder countered this with his also infamous puppy- dog face, engorged with pitiful hazel eyes and a jutting lower lip - one he'd never admit to doing and one she'd never admit to being totally vulnerable to.

As expected, Scully's eyebrow released its hold on her forehead, settling back to its original position. "A big Christmas tree, lots and lots of snow, eggnogs and gifts … nothing much. Nothing much to remember."

"How can that be? Are you that selective in your memory?" He couldn't help snickering as he was reminded of his Producer's 'selective amnesia.'

"No." Her response was registered too quickly, too defiantly. "It's just that there's not much to remember at all from our Christmases."

She trembled against his grip - from the cold or from his presence, he had no idea - and without further intuition, Mulder laid down beside her, wrapping his strong arms around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer to his front. Scully's involuntary reflex was to push him away, but when his lips rested on the back of her neck, she digressed into his grasp, falling once more into his warmth.

They both gave themselves minutes to adjust to the nearly pristine sensation of being this close to one another again. Mulder calmed himself down, burying his nose into the scent of her, her unique scent – strawberry-syrup shampoo, processed cucumber bath gel, baby powder to ease away the stickiness of wearing wool.

This was how it should be. Not him pushing her away or vice versa. This. Her in his arms, under his care, within his love. No further ado, please. He didn't care anymore about pulling her into the depth of what he's feeling. As long as she didn't get any idea that there was a different, hierarchic aspect to their relationship, everything's all right. Everything could be as it was.

No one's getting hurt. No one's falling. No one's getting too involved.

With a half-sigh/half-moan, Scully sank into his arms like a pillow, moving her softness against his muscles. Mulder smiled into her skin, gripping her closer to his body. His mind was too tired to process what they were doing, his body too tired from a whole day of playing nanny to even contemplate on reacting, yet his heart was alive - pumping swiftly into her shoulder blade.

"Christmas had been a boring holiday for my family. My Mother died during the holidays when I was barely two-years-old. My oldest memories of December are of my older brother and sister bickering, my other brother crying in our Nanny's arms, and of a white coffin surrounded by wreaths of lilies in front of me." Scully spoke softly, tenderly, that it even eased the obvious pain she was feeling from this memory. Her voice almost fell in synch with the threatening fire, bouncing wicked shadows on their skin.

But what surprised him the most was that Scully was even telling him a story. She usually was not very excited about her past. She'd rather hear about his misadventures than tell hers.

"Your Mom's dead?" Mulder asked, stroking the tender part of her stomach. He felt Scully's muscles tighten underneath his touch.

"Yes, in case I haven't told … you." Scully rested a hand over his to halt him from stroking. "Christmas brings with me the memory of sobbing … lost … I was screaming my head off for hours searching for my Mother. I was rarely out of her arms when I was a baby. I was always at her bosom, clinging to her for everything I got. She was my life."

"You love her very much. You spent so little time with her and yet, you still love her as if you see her every day."

"There comes a point that sometimes I think it's not worth it - to continue loving a ghost. To continue giving her my life. But I've learned that there are many reasons for undisputed love, Mulder," she breathed out, turning around in his embrace. Mulder tensed when her action came over him.

Scully wanted to face him … after months of hiding from her, after months of pushing her away - this was too raw for him. Too intense. Mulder resisted this, pinning her midway, her back to the floor.

"Mulder?"

"I'm … I'm sorry, I know I've been an asshole the past months … but Scully," he trailed off, suddenly finding his throat dry. Dammitt. He closed his eyes in fervent prayer, going over imagined choices of getting out of this situation:

A. An alien abduction scenario, complete with those idiosyncratic reports of bright white lights and hollow figures that suspiciously resemble Peewee. He was sure that Scully wouldn't be able to save him.

"Mulder," Scully hushed him. This enabled her to complete her turn, facing his fearful facial expression, setting her nose directly on his. For a moment Mulder had an attack of insecurities - from his too big of a nose, Scully's outpouring of care for him, his large toes, his deep love for her, this …

B. How about a terrible snowstorm? A terrible, terrible one that they'd have to panic and stand up almost immediately. They'd try to find ways to pack in the heater, to do something other than lie down in the damn rug - wait, then they'd find more time to talk about this because they'd surely be stranded.

He was going say it now. Complete with the British accent: Fuck. Fuuuuck.

"You mean a lot to me, probably more than anyone else I've ever encountered in my life, except for my Mother." She sighed, brushing away a strand of brown hair from his eyes. He fidgeted when her skin mingled with his, his nose sniffing unconsciously the scent of cucumber. "And I know that you have your own reasons for doing whatever you're doing. I stopped complaining about the way you're treating me because I understood that I'd have to give you the space to think about the situation - whatever it is - if I ever want to find out about it."

He reflexively locked his irises with her, searching for the truth in her words. What he saw would probably be the most compelling message he had ever seen in another person's eyes - pure, stripped-down, basic love. He cannot define its nature or its inhibition - whether it's for friendship or passion; however, he didn't care. That softness in her eyes made his own water.

C. Stay where he was now and let her listen to his heart. He might not be able to find the words today… but at least, he could show her.

C's definitely the best choice of them all.

Mulder used all of his faltering will to pause the tears underneath his eyelids. Even if it didn't really matter - Scully saw his eyes watering anyway - he still didn't want to show her the underlying vulnerability he possessed when it came to her.

"Sorry, Scully," he repeated, climbing his fingertips up to the middle of her shoulder blades, letting it stay there for a few minutes, until he pushed her towards his form, drawing her in a warm hug. It was warmer than the fire's caress; warmer than the quilt.

She should feel his love. If not hear or know or see, at least feel. No one deserved this more than her.

His face was in her hair, breathing in her unique scent. With a muffled voice, he was able to talk. "You'll always be important to me. I'm so sorry. I'd … I'm … I really am."

"Oh Mulder … I never held you at fault." She gently pushed his head away from her and once again took in his hazel eyes. "It's Christmas. We shouldn't be doing this to ourselves. We should be happy."

Mulder withered a smile. "I'm … I'm happy."

If she asked him to define happiness, he'd be able to answer it in three words: Dana Katherine Scully.

But she didn't and he secretly was thankful because he wouldn't know how to get those thoughts off his tongue anyway. All smoke and no fire. Some bravado Superman had.

Scully's smile morphed it into a lilies and carnations grin on her face. "I'm happy too, but happy as in happy. Christmas happy."

"So happy you would probably believe that there's Santa Claus?"

She giggled, girly and spunky at the same incredulous time. "Yeah, I guess. Whatever."

Mulder agreed softly, gathering her within his arms again, once again in their favorite spooning position. When their breaths settled into a steady rhythm, he began to murmur in his lowest tone. All the while, he stared outside of the window beside the fireplace, watching as snowflakes kissed the native ground, gathering themselves in opaque blankets of whiteness in front of the house, reminding him of something stored away years ago: "My Dad was a special kind of man – he stood out in a crowd. You'd enter a multitude of people and get swarmed in the middle, yet you'd feel that he'd be somewhere in that sea of strangers. He was a familiarity, a piece of home anywhere you go.
"He told me to promise him that I find myself a decent family - a beautiful girl and lots of children. He dreamed of a large house that had twenty kids running around bearing his surname. A big man with simple dreams. He wanted me to study Psychology, to learn French, so we could share this secret language. Dad spoke three languages. He wasn't as good as Monica Doggett, but just as graceful.
"He was gone when I completed my course, gone when I was able to speak French fluently, gone when I had Emily. I didn't have a decent family, I didn't get a beautiful girl and lots of kids , … but at least, he could've seen where I am now."

"I'm sure that wherever he is, he's very, very proud of you."

He smiled at that, murmuring the next words into the back of her neck. "There … there's this something he told me during our last Christmas together. It was past midnight and we were seating in front of the fire, trying to warm up. He told me, 'Mort mai recevoir mon corps au loin certains jours, mais mon aimer volonté être en au langer, en au flocon de neige, en au flamme, en au coeur... toujours chuchoter leur vérité pour vous, mon garçon.'"

He heard Scully return his smile. "What does that mean?" she asked.

"It means 'Death may take my body away someday, but my love will always be in the wind, in the snowflakes, in the flames, in your heart ... forever whispering its truth to you, my boy.'" Mulder swallowed as these words stirred something deep inside of him, a feeling that he hadn't awaken in a long time. "Took me five years to figure out. As soon as we crept up back to our beds, I wrote it down so that I will never forget to translate it someday. Thank god for my good memory.
"If you ask me if it's worth it - to love my father with this intensity even after he had died - yes, it is. And yes, there are many reasons for undisputed love, Scully."

Right at that moment, a snowflake dragged down the windowsill as the fire gurgled embers once more.

Mulder kissed the back of Scully's head, listening to her breathe slowly, coughing sometimes, afterwards making throaty sounds that told him that she had fallen asleep.

And yes, there were so many reasons for undisputed love, Mulder thought as he gazed at Scully's sleeping form, too much to count.

END OF CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE