Taming The Unicorn 1 (1/1) NC-17 MSR by imajiru imajiru@mindspring.com Rating: NC-17 MSR Summary: I - In which a wager is made, and a secret is revealed. NOTE: Please do not archive, repost or distribute elsewhere without my prior permission. CREDITS: My thanks and love to "Lone Editors/The Next Generation": CatheRaven, PRhino, Allie Allie Sidekick, and Chaos and Dee la Merc-Mommy, for service above and beyond the call of beta-readers; to PRhino, especially, for the story's title; and the eleven members of SKL who volunteered for hazardous cold-shower duty by pre-reading this (Alora, Bast, Idalia, Ithildin, Kira, Mary, Midge, NinjaBabe, Shirl, Tammy and Toni). DISCLAIMER: They're not mine. (Everyone knows that.) I'm not making any money writing fanfic about 'em. (This, too, should be obvious.) Commentary and criticism welcomed, suggestions entertained, flames cheerfully used to light cigarettes, at . -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- For Chaos Merc, in payment for services rendered -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Taming The Unicorn by imajiru I. The Challenge "You don't know what you're talking about," Scully ridiculed, taking another sip of her wine. It was a very good wine, and she had ingested enough of it to feel pleasantly buzzed -- distortion of reality wasn't usually her 'thing', but this time it was all right; she was with Mulder, which meant that she felt about as safe as she could possibly feel, and it had been a stressful couple of days. Couple of weeks. Okay, so life was always stressful... She glanced sideways at him and wondered why, after a solid week of working beside him, she always seemed to choose his continued presence over a change of scenery. It didn't really make sense... but here it was, Friday night, and here he was, sprawled on her couch, and it felt as good and comfortable and right as anything ever could. "Oh, c'mon, Scully," he protested -- slurring his words slightly; she hadn't been drinking alone -- "it only stands to reason. With insufficient data..." "Lack of experience is not the same as insufficient data," she parried. "Sure it is. In this case, there's no substitute for on-the-job training." Mulder shook his head, displaying honest puzzlement. "I don't even know why you're arguing with me, Scully." "Because you're *wrong*, that's why," she replied with total confidence, struggling to ignore the little surreptitious tingle of excitement that danced along her spinal cord. They were getting into interesting territory here, and she didn't dare let herself wonder where this might lead... He shook his head again. "No way, Scully," was his flat denial. "I'm sorry, but there's no way you're going to get me to buy your argument." Hmm. Now this was *very* interesting. "What if I could?" she said idly. "Huh?" Mulder finished the last of his wine, reached to pour himself another glass -- scowled at the empty bottle, picked up a fresh one and a corkscrew and began to wrestle with the task of opening it. "What if I could persuade you that I'm right?" The adrenaline tingle grew stronger, multiplying and intensifying into a butterfly-flutter of pleasant anticipation. She'd contemplated this, exercised her formidable curiosity to envision and picture something like this, but had never actually foreseen it happening... "Oh, sure, Scully." He cursed under his breath at the recalcitrant cork, redoubled his efforts. "How're you going to do that?" She almost laughed, but that would have spoiled the set-up. "Never mind that," she said mildly. "If I could prove to you that it's possible to have a sexually satisfying relationship with someone who's never experienced coitus..." "Can't be done." "...but if I *could*, what would be your side of the bet?" She settled back against the sofa cushions, awaiting his answer. The wine bottle, it seemed, was actively fighting his attempts to uncork it; the sardonic edge to his voice strengthened with his reply. "Scully, you call up Virgins-R-Us and find me one who knows how to give a decent blowjob, and I'll be your slave for life." She had to smile at that -- and inside her head, a part of her mind busily evaluated the situation at hand: worth it, or not worth it? In a split-second decision, she realized that there was no way she could pass up this opportunity; the terms of the wager were unenforceable, of course, but it would be a delight to tease him about it afterwards. //Okay, then,// she determined, and spoke up. "I'm a virgin," Scully said quietly. The cork chose that precise moment to relinquish its snug nest in the winebottle; the corkscrew flew out of suddenly slack fingers, and the bottle slipped to the ground and began spilling its contents over the rug. He turned to her, eyes wide and dark, and she knew that he honestly hadn't seen it coming -- the dazed look on his face was a treasure. "No..." "Yes," she told him. "Naaaaah...." Sheer disbelief, utter stunned shock, as if she'd suddenly revealed that she was a Reticulan spy... she thought with amusement that he probably would have accepted such news with far more equanimity. "Mulder," she said, very patiently, "there is expensive wine being wasted on the floor." "Huh? Oh." He retrieved the bottle, righted it -- there was still some left inside; he studied the flask for a moment, then tilted it to his lips and downed a few quick gulps. Looked at Scully, repeated, "Naaaah," and offered her the bottle. She accepted it, feeling somehow touched by the gesture -- sipped, then handed it back, for it was clear that he needed it more than she did. "Truly," she said. "*How*?" His tone was incredulous. "I mean, you've had relationships..." "As I keep telling you, it's perfectly possible to have a sexual relationship without engaging in intercourse," she informed him. "But *why*? I mean... I can't imagine anyone choosing not to..." The laughter bubbled forth before she could stop it. "Mulder, you're such a *male*," she scolded him lightly. "Thank you for assuming that it was my choice, though." "You didn't answer the question," he persisted; as the initial impact of her revelation faded, he was instinctively trying to unravel the inscrutable, tackling the matter as if it were an X-File. Which she supposed it was, in a way. "I'm waiting for the right man," she said simply, masking the twinge of pain that the statement evoked within her. Once, she would have said that she was waiting for her wedding night... but that was a hope she'd relinquished to the passage of time. As the years had passed, her virginity had seemed less of a treasure and more of a curse... but that wasn't relevant to the issue at hand, and she was disinclined to allow him to pursue that course of inquiry. He seemed about to, but then his attention shifted. "So, you're a virgin," he said, his tone of voice indicating that he found this to be a very odd thing indeed. "You still haven't proven the validity of your argument." So very pleased with himself, she noted; he seemed to think that he had won. Obviously, he wasn't expecting her to follow through -- she experienced a momentary pang of unease, wondering if maybe he didn't want her to? No, more likely it was the typical blindness, his smug conviction that he knew her thoroughly enough to predict her responses. Evidently, he'd fallen prey to the common misconception that the no-nonsense-professional side of her was the only side... and of course, there was the whole virgin-equals-prude fallacy that *every* man seemed to succumb to... she smiled. "Mmm," she said noncommittally, looking him over. Not bad, not bad at all. Upon their first meeting, she had automatically and ruthlessly placed him in the category marked, "Colleague: Do Not Touch" -- not without qualms, but it had been the most sensible course. But things were different now, they meant more to each other now... all that they had been through together, things that no one else could ever share, there *was* no one in her life but Mulder, and she liked it that way. Liked having him in her life. Liked being a part of his, no matter how complicated that made things sometimes. Just the thought of touching him was compelling. And the idea of wiping that smug little grin off his face, well, that held its own appeal... He shifted slightly, some of the complacency slipping away, as it began to dawn on him what she might have in mind. "Um, Scully..." "Mmm." She set down her wineglass, reached out with one hand and popped open the topmost button on his shirt. Mulder flinched -- no, it was a tremor, a long shudder that raced through him with lightning speed. Inexplicably, she felt a swift surge of desire flood her in response. "Uhm... Scully..." Language seemed to be failing him, she noted; not that this was surprising, considering that all the blood was leaving his skull and heading south. She stretched out her arm again, popped open another button; he shifted position again, uncomfortably, and she was delighted to see that the simple act of unbuttoning his shirt was having such a notable effect on him. "You don't have to do this." His voice was strained, a hoarse whisper, and the very sound of it set her afire. Trust Mulder to give her an easy out, at a moment when any other man would be cajoling her to continue; that in itself was terribly arousing. "Oh, but I want to." And that much was true; it wasn't about the bet, or at least, not merely about the bet. The prospect of teasing Mulder about his vow of eternal slavery was a peripheral matter... she didn't, wouldn't allow herself to contemplate the main issue, not at that moment. Instead, she let her fingers trail down to the last few shirt buttons, undoing them nimbly, with a twitch of her hand -- brought her hand to a rest at the waistband of his trousers, just above the solid contours of his erection, and felt him shiver again as her fingertips brushed against his stomach. "So," she said conversationally, toying with the button of his fly, "if I can make you scream in ecstasy, you'll be my slave for life; that's the deal, right?" "Sounds like a fair trade to me." Breathless, his voice, and tinged with humor -- anticipation mingled with apprehension, although it seemed to her at that moment that the thing he feared most was that she would change her mind. "Mmm." She unfastened the top button of his pants, and almost laughed as his hips moved involuntarily to meet her questing hand. It had always amused her, how easily and completely men were motivated by their glands. If she had been a different woman, she would have used that fact, as so many of her contemporaries did -- but the concept of screwing her way to the top of the heap was too alien for her to ever really comprehend; her soul wasn't hardwired that way. But it was definitely amusing, how easy it was to undermine male bravado with a few caresses and kisses applied to the right bit of flesh. She had acquired a certain skill through practice, and her studies of human anatomy had certainly helped -- and men who'd been certain that nothing less than intercourse could possibly satisfy them had been utterly mesmerized by her alternative. A compromise, on her part, more than anything else; a way to ensure that her silent vow of celibacy wouldn't dry up her social life completely. Even when she'd cared deeply for the man, she'd always felt a certain resentment that the compromise was necessary... This time, it was different. This time, it was Mulder, her partner, her friend. The person with whom she shared a closeness, an intimacy, unlike anything she'd ever known before. Sitting on her couch with his legs spread slightly, watching her to see what she would do next -- wanting her desperately, but perfectly willing to let her off the hook, because there was *trust* between them, and that trust was all that really mattered. She moved off the couch and knelt between his legs, one smooth graceful motion, all the while gazing at him and watching his face change from tentative hope to eagerness... she stroked his crotch, feeling the flesh straining against the fabric, the heat emanating from him, and felt an answering heat swelling within herself. His hand settled against the side of her head, and she stiffened against her will; she *hated* it when they grabbed her head and pulled her down -- but instead, his palm smoothed along her hair. "You don't have to do this," he repeated, and if his voice held the trembling resonance of his longing, it also contained deep sincerity. "Not to prove a point, Scully. Not on a bet." She blinked up at him, and all at once, it was all she could to to keep from bursting into tears. Instead, she rested her hands on his thighs, leaned forward and took the metal slide of his zipper between her teeth and very slowly, very carefully, pulled it down. This elicited a sharp sound halfway between a gasp and a moan, and she knew that she had taken him well past the point of even token resistance -- wondered briefly how long it had been for him, as she ran her fingers along his erection to gauge his sensitivity. A long time, she decided: that would have been evident from his reactions, even if she hadn't already known that his social life was as nonexistent as hers. She'd have to be careful, or else it would be over far too soon -- and she found that she was anxious to ensure that it was done right. Not to prove a point, not to demonstrate her skill to her skeptical partner, but because he deserved no less than the best she was capable of giving. She had the feeling that he was going to be very surprised at just how good her best could be. Very slowly at first, the barest gentle kisses, the slightest flicking of her tongue, and each small touch provoked what seemed to her to be an excessively strong reaction -- until she realized that her own body was responding just as fiercely. Autoeroticism was fine, but it was no substitute for the presence, for the touch of another. And all they had was each other, really, and suddenly in retrospect it made perfect sense that this should happen, that they should be together this way; for where else could either of them find a way to assuage the haunting loneliness that afflicted them both? Hands and lips and tongue and (very carefully) teeth; her attention focused on him completely, on his responses, to discern what he liked and when and how -- holding herself back, holding him back, prolonging the pleasure and intensifying the buildup of passion. His hands clamped down on her shoulders, fingertips digging into her skin -- there was an edge of desperation, growing stronger as she continued her ministrations. She had to admit (though only to herself) that she loved the feeling of power derived from this. Even the most domineering and arrogant man could be reduced to quivering jelly by the withdrawal of a warm mouth at a difficult moment -- it was her secret weapon, one she'd used without hesitation when necessary, but never without cause. Kneeling between Mulder's legs in a posture of supposed subservience, she felt a certain wicked pleasure in the knowledge that she *owned* him, body and soul. If she were to back away now, there would be nothing he wouldn't give her, nothing he wouldn't do to persuade her to finish the task... ...but that was something she wouldn't, couldn't do. Not to him. She did, however, ease off enough to bring him back from the point of no return, and secretly savored his soft whimper of frustration. Oh, but she would make it up to him... "Scully." His ragged whisper caught her by surprise, though she didn't know quite why; her eyes flickered upward to survey his face. Sweat-slicked, eyes heavy-lidded, completely lost in passion -- lost in her. Amazing, how much of a turn-on that was. Not wanting to spare a hand for herself, she adjusted her position a bit, squeezing her thighs together to create a certain pressure; she was as skilled at this as the other, had learned to find for herself the pleasure that so many men had been unwilling or unable to provide. The rationale seemed to be that a virgin couldn't possibly have sexual needs... more resentment, stored and never expressed. But again, this was different -- this time, she wanted it to be this way. Wanted to give Mulder this gift, unalloyed and without distraction; wanted him to take it, to accept what she was giving him without compensation. She didn't know quite why, but it was important to her somehow. All she wanted was to feel him trembling at her touch, to hear his cries -- she liked his repertoire of sounds, particularly this one breathy half-sobbing moan that happened when everything was just right... It was happening more frequently now, as she brought him ever closer to the precipice. Such power she held over him, yet she would not be content with anything less than complete ownership -- and he seemed perfectly willing to surrender; she sensed his restraint, as he fought to keep from thrusting into her mouth, struggled with himself to allow her to set the pace. Yet another manifestation of the trust they shared, and one that touched her deeply. However, it also meant that he still had some control left, and that was the last thing she wanted. She wanted him to be so far gone that pleasure was almost painful, that every fragment of his being was wholly consumed in his imminent climax. She wanted it to be the singular best sexual experience of his life, if possible: partly out of pride, to prove that she could, but mostly because she wanted... wanted... something inside her stopped her from taking it too far; there were depths that she wasn't prepared to probe. She could no longer deny, though, that she wanted him. More of him than this. But she could think about that later. Right now, she had Mulder right where she wanted him, completely at her mercy, and the effect was breathtaking -- sneaking glances upward, she thought that he was possibly the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen; she was almost sorry to bring it to an end, but the timing was right. He was ready, more than ready, and any further delay would be a cruelty. A little more pressure, a bit more suction, and something like a convulsion seized him; he cried out her name as the spasms began in earnest, and she rode it out with him, absently counting the contractions and congratulating herself for a job well done. //If not *the* best,// she estimated, //I'm definitely in the top ten.// She licked him dry, cradled his softening organ in a gentle hand as she sat back to check, and found her estimation confirmed -- he was sprawled on the couch, head thrown back, in an absolute languor; it looked as if he was trying to remember how to breathe. "Well?" she asked him lightly, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear him say it. It took him a moment to gather the strength to speak, and when he did, it was in a whisper she could barely hear. "Point conceded..." Scully smiled, rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet, and went to clean up. The tension in her body was easily dissipated by practiced fingers; she imagined that they were his fingers, and it was a simple thing to induce release. A few more minutes with toilet paper and warm water, and she was ready to face him -- a frisson of anxiety seized her as she examined her reflection in the mirror, wondering *how* she could face him, after this -- then reality set in, and she remembered that it was Mulder, her friend, and it was an easy thing to leave the sanctuary of the bathroom behind. She found him sitting on the couch where she'd left him, tucked in and buttoned up and looking almost respectable -- flushed, dazed, but otherwise normal. "Bathroom's free," she offered, and he nodded and went in. By the time he emerged, she was back on the couch, having opened a fresh bottle of wine and refreshed their glasses, and added a new bag of potato chips to the plethora of junk food adorning the coffee table. "I was thinking," she said, before he could speak, "do you want to order a pizza or something? I'm getting kind of hungry." Best to avert any impending discomfort before it could form; best to get things back on stable ground. Ordering pizza seemed like the perfect answer: something pedestrian, something familiar, that had absolutely nothing to do with virginity and blowjobs. He hesitated. "Sure," he said, watching her carefully. "I'll pay -- after all, I am your slave for life." And he waited, to see (she realized) whether she would acknowledge it or not; whether she would try to pretend that nothing had happened. She didn't have to think about her response. "Right," she said. "In that case, make it two pizzas. And a side order of garlic bread." Mulder's smile was like a sunbeam on a cloudy day, illuminating his whole face in a sudden warmth, and containing so much open affection that her breath caught in her throat. "Whatever you say, Scully," he agreed, as he came to sit beside her on the sofa. -------/end part I Taming The Unicorn 2 (1/1) NC-17 MSR by imajiru imajiru@mindspring.com Rating: NC-17 MSR Summary: II - In which the terms of the wager are defined. NOTE: Please do not archive, repost or distribute elsewhere without my prior permission. CREDITS: My thanks and love to "Lone Editors/The Next Generation": CatheRaven, PRhino, Allie Allie Sidekick, and Chaos and Dee la Merc-Mommy, for service above and beyond the call of beta-readers; to PRhino, especially, for the story's title; and the eleven members of SKL who volunteered for hazardous cold-shower duty by pre-reading this (Alora, Bast, Idalia, Ithildin, Kira, Mary, Midge, NinjaBabe, Shirl, Tammy and Toni). DISCLAIMER: They're not mine. (Everyone knows that.) I'm not making any money writing fanfic about 'em. (This, too, should be obvious.) Commentary and criticism welcomed, suggestions entertained, flames cheerfully used to light cigarettes, at . -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- For Chaos Merc, in payment for services rendered -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Taming The Unicorn by imajiru II. The Payback It was with him, every moment. It haunted him, the knowledge remaining uppermost in his consciousness despite any and all efforts to push it back. Scully, a virgin. His Scully. Scully of the amazingly talented tongue. Was a virgin. Pure and chaste and untouched... untouched... a delicate rosebud waiting to be lovingly coaxed to full flower; a luscious treasure ripe to be plundered. *His* Scully. It didn't compute. And yet it computed too well, spawning endless possibilities that latched into his hungry soul and burst forth into detailed imagery, almost more vivid than he could bear. They hadn't spoken of it since it had happened, though neither had there been any attempt to deny it -- and he had done his best to remain the mature, rational human being that Scully obviously expected him to be; but it was an uphill struggle all the way. Take, for instance, now. Driving a rental car, Scully sitting beside him -- he should have been listening to her, of course, paying attention to her summary of the case at hand, but instead all he could think about was her perfect mouth wrapped around him, and what it might be like to part her other lips and explore the untouched glory within... "Mulder!" Her voice sharpened enough to draw him out of his reverie; which was probably a good thing, he supposed, considering that it was already getting difficult to drive with the swelling between his legs. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" He sighed, and decided that the best defense was the truth. "No, I didn't, sorry," he said sheepishly. "I was... somewhere else, for a minute." She considered that briefly. "Was it a good place?" she asked finally. The sound of her voice, somehow innocent and sultry at once, brought him instantly to full arousal. "Ohhh, Scully, it was a wonderful place," he murmured without thinking... realized what he had said, glanced sideways and was somehow gratified by the fact that she was blushing violently. "Mul-derrr..." was her reply, striving to sound annoyed and only managing amusement. "Is that all you ever think about?" He considered honesty again, wondered if she was really ready to hear it. No, not now, and not this way -- but maybe soon. Maybe. If he could ever manage to figure out what precisely he wanted to say to her. "What do you think about, Scully?" he asked her, deflecting her question with his own. "Besides the case, you mean? which is what we should be thinking about?" she chided gently. "I think about... a lot of things." He noted her discomfort with interest. "Like what?" he probed. "Like the fact that my feet hurt," she responded, rallying to conceal whatever-it-was she was really thinking, "and my legs ache from walking, and you can't even be bothered to discuss the thin threads of logic that led you to drag me up here in the first place." But her heart wasn't in it, he sensed; she was more concerned with covering -- something. Still, he supposed she had a point; he spent the rest of the drive making a valiant effort to keep his attention focused on their work, and nearly succeeded. When they got back to the motel, however, he realized that Scully hadn't been exaggerating; she winced as she got out of the car, and he hurried to her side to assist. "I'm fine," she said predictably, while every unsteady step belied her words, and he slung his arm around her shoulders and helped her inside anyway. Easier and quicker to open his door than hers, and some of the color returned to her face when she was seated in the overstuffed chair, the weight off her abused feet. "I knew I should have returned these shoes to the store. They never did fit right," she muttered, by way of excuse -- so like her to fight against any semblance of weakness, to cover any small vulnerability. "I've always wondered how you manage to run in those things," he said conversationally. For the first time in weeks, the timing seemed right... a germ of an idea was taking hold in his mind, adapting itself to the plans he'd already formed for just such an occasion. He snatched up a couple of washcloths from the bathroom countertop, noticed that the ice-bucket was three-quarters filled with half-melted ice and cold water and took that with him, too. "Well, I won't be running in these," she grumbled, and leaned over to undo the offending shoes. "Scully." He pitched his voice to match the sharp tone she'd used earlier -- it worked; she paused, looked up at him. "Don't do that." "What? Why not?" She was perplexed -- more so when he seated himself cross-legged on the floor in front of her. Then it dawned on her; he could see it happening before he spoke the words. "I'm your slave for life," Mulder said, "remember?" Before she could decide to change her mind and release him from the promise, he slipped off her shoes, one by one; she was wearing stockings, and he removed those too, letting his hands trail along her legs longer than necessary. Dipping a washcloth into the icy water, he took her left foot into his lap and began to bathe it, massaging gently. He'd never been a foot-man, but Scully's were perfect -- //news flash,// he thought sardonically, because everything about Scully was perfect, and he was entranced, no, better make that obsessed... He could see all the way up her skirt, all the way to a gleam that might have been satin panties, and that tiny glimpse of fabric was unbearably arousing. She moved her foot slightly, wiggling her toes, rubbing against the bulge in his pants -- that small touch was enough to send a shudder of pleasure racing through him. With a strength of will he hadn't known he possessed, he moved her foot away, ignoring his body's urgent pleas. "It's your turn," he told her firmly, and looked up to see her startled expression, and the bright sparkle of unshed tears in her eyes. There was no protest in her tone, only a vast tenderness. "You don't have to do this." He remembered her response to those words, smiled up at her. "I want to do this," he told her, meaning it, and began working on her other foot. When he was done, he hesitated for a moment, wondering if she would go along with what he had in mind -- decided to chance it. He reached out toward her blouse, rested his hand against the topmost button and paused. "If my mistress would allow," he said, very softly. "Mulder..." Her reply was equally hushed. "Scully." //I would never hurt you,// he thought. //Would never take anything you were unwilling to give me. Do you know that, Scully? Do you believe it?// Then he felt her hand settle against the side of his face. "I trust you," Scully said. Something was constricting his throat; he couldn't answer. He turned his attention to her blouse instead. //Focus,// he admonished himself sternly. //One thing at a time. Buttons first, and be careful not to tear anything; she's not you, she *cares* about her clothes. Slide it off her shoulders; yeah, Scully, lean forward a little bit, that's right. Let me take this blouse off you, let me look down the front of your bra, oh, Scully, they're gorgeous... Steady, Mulder. Focus.// //The skirt next,// he decided, keeping up the internal running monologue as a way of distracting himself from the throbbing demands issuing forth from his groin. //Now this presents some logistical difficulty. Button at the back, then the zipper, okay, now Scully needs to lift her hips up... are you telepathic, Scully? And if you are, do you know what this feels like for me, undressing you this way? I've dreamed of this, Scully, between the nightmares; woken up in the middle of the night with a need that just won't quit, no matter how much of a workout I give my right hand -- but best not to think about that, not now. Focus on Scully, Mulder. Focus on her.// //Look at her, sitting in that chair in just her bra and panties; look at how exquisite she is. But the underwear will have to go -- not just yet; she looks a little nervous right now, as it is. And you still have to prepare things; better go do that now... you can't leave her sitting here half-naked in a chair, though, can you? Better do something about that.// He stood up, not bothering to try to conceal his arousal, wincing at the pull of tight fabric against oversensitized skin. //Don't think about that. Think about Scully...// She let out an involuntary little squeak as he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. //Set her down gently, gently. Yes. And cover her with the bedspread so that she won't get chilled. No, don't touch her breasts, no matter how much you want to. Stick to the plan.// "I'll be right back," he told her, and went into the bathroom, turned on the water in the tub and adjusted its temperature, testing the flow as cautiously as if he were preparing a baby's formula. When he was satisfied, he jammed the plug in the drain and let the tub fill, emerged to find Scully lying on one side, head propped up on her hand, waiting for him. "Do you have bubble bath?" he inquired. She was beginning to get the idea; her lips curved into a sweet smile. "In the green cosmetics case." He found the pouch in question, sorted through it -- a veritable treasure trove of female accoutrements, he discovered: foaming bath gel and cleansers and lotions, everything he might need for the occasion. //The perfect accessory for a willing slave,// he decided, and took the whole bag back with him. The recommended capful of bath gel didn't produce nearly enough bubbles, so he added a few more; when he was satisfied with the profusion of foam, he went to fetch Scully. "Your bath is ready, my lady," he told her, gently drawing aside the bedspread and savoring, for just an instant, the sight revealed. //Time to take off the bra; reach around to the back -- can't you stop your hands from shaking? There's the clasp; just a little tug... then ease the straps down.... ohhh, look at *that*.// His equilibrium faltered; he struggled to regain it. //Luscious, round, ripe, little rosy-pink nipples just begging to be kissed... these pants are far too tight. I should have changed into sweatpants before I started this. Twenty-twenty hindsight...// //Don't touch her, don't touch them; don't even look at them. Deal with the panties. No, don't let yourself think about the way she's arching her hips up toward you. Grasp waistband, slide down... look at that, she's a natural redhead. All those little ringlets, glistening... Focus, dammit. Focus.// He lifted her in his arms again; more prepared this time, she wrapped her arms around his neck and nestled into him in a way that made his heart and loins pound fiercely. How easily she yielded to him, and how completely -- his guarded Scully, as close-mouthed about her secrets as he was, yet in this she apparently felt no compunctions about allowing him free rein. She wasn't fighting him, wasn't helping him, was simply allowing him to do as he pleased... such trust, especially considering that there had to have been, in her life, at least one man who didn't want to take no for an answer. She had so much trust in him... The tub was two-thirds full, and as he set her down carefully in the hot water, bubbles spilled over and onto the floor. "Is the temperature all right?" he asked. "Perfect," and her sultry purr shot through him like an arrow, Cupid's arrow maybe, lodging in his groin and increasing the already unbearable ache. His pants were cut in such a way as to allow him precious little room for expansion, and his swollen cock was begging to be touched, any touch -- yet he knew that, like scratching an itch, there would be no stopping once he was started. And that would completely undermine the plan... The bubbles flowed around her and over her, concealing her from his view -- a bit of a disappointment, but it certainly made it easier for him. //First things first.// He poured a little scented bath gel onto a washcloth, rubbed it into a lather and began smoothing it over her shoulders, down her arms, with gentle strokes. She might not be as fragile as a china doll, but somehow he couldn't help but think of her that way. At least in this, where she was -- if not fragile -- nevertheless rather more delicate than what he was used to. //Scully, a virgin.// It never seemed to quite sink in, startling him anew every time the thought crossed his mind. And had anyone ever treated her to the kind of luxuriant pleasure that she had given him? had anyone ever striven to please her with the same singleminded intensity with which she'd favored him? Possibly... but he was going to be even better than that hypothesized lover; he was utterly determined, in that regard. Not that the experience wasn't as much of a treat for him: the image of her luscious nudity had been branded on his consciousness, implanted into permanent memory. It was an image he knew he'd replay over and over, throughout a thousand lonely nights, as his hands struggled to emulate the ecstatic memories... an inadequate substitute for his true desire, but far better than nothing at all. He let his hands wander, ostensibly washing her, in reality using the washcloth as a flimsy excuse to touch her anywhere, everywhere... working up his courage and ruthlessly suppressing his longings, he turned his attention to her breasts, rubbing the washcloth lightly over the pert pink nubs that poked through a thin film of white foam. She gasped at the touch, and he filed away the information for future reference: in a little while, it would come in handy. Down, lower, reaching through the water to that lovely patch of auburn curls, making sure to devote the proper attention to every nook and cranny despite her involuntary squirming... He wasn't trying especially hard to arouse Scully, not yet, but it was happening anyway; and he rather liked the implications of that. Was it the experience of being pampered that she enjoyed? or was it simply the fact that *he* was the one doing it? He would have preferred the latter, but either was acceptable, as long as she was having a good time. The bubbles had dissipated by the time he finished with her legs and feet, and he dislodged the stopper to let some of the water out -- his shirtsleeves were soaked, bathwater wicking up past his elbows, so he shed his shirt and pitched it into a corner before continuing. Filling the tub a second time, he rinsed away the soap, then began on her hair -- //the hair on her head,// his mind filled in helpfully -- shampoo, and rinse, and conditioner, and rinse again, then a bathtowel turban to absorb the excess water and keep the sodden strands out of the way. One last warm-water rinse, and he lifted her in his arms, very very carefully because it would *not* do to lose his footing and drop her - - he was unprepared for the feel of her warm, wet skin against his bare chest, and the sudden wave of arousal left him weak-kneed and nearly made him drop her after all. Somehow, he managed to make it from his bathroom into his room, through the connecting doors and into hers, to set her down on the bed. "I'm going to get the bedspread all soggy," she protested mildly. "No you won't," he answered, darted into her bathroom with a couple of long-legged strides and emerged with the small pile of pristine towels that the maid had left while they were out working... working: it seemed a completely different world, one that they had left a thousand miles away... Toweling her off was almost as much fun as soaping her up had been; he discovered a couple of ticklish spots, and delighted in her giggles. And then she was dry, and he pulled aside the bedspread and quilt (which had after all become rather damp) and watched with hungry eyes as she wriggled onto the dry sheets. "Lie back," he said softly, and she did, stretching and settling into a comfortable pose -- so pale and perfect, displayed before him with a sort of innocent grace; she was gorgeous, and she had utter faith in him. A more irresistible combination, he could not imagine. //Where to start? Slowly,// he decided, stroking a relatively safe section of her upper thigh. Let his hand wander upward, over her hip, across her stomach... temptation overwhelmed him, and he cupped her breast in his hand and flicked his thumb across the nipple. Her sigh of pleasure startled him; it was such a soft sound, like the flutter of an angel's wings. So perfectly right for Scully. It was almost easy, after that, to focus on her needs to the exclusion of of his own. To watch her lose control, little by little. To feel her succumb to his caresses, and -- when he replaced fingers with lips -- to his kisses. Positioning became a little awkward, after awhile, because he didn't want to move to cover her, or rest his weight atop her, or do anything that might make her feel restrained or helpless, not even a momentary twinge of anxiety to mar her pleasure. Besides, it was too exciting to watch her squirming and writhing, her pale skin growing flushed and sweaty, and to know that he was the one making her feel that way. When he parted her legs and took his place between them, he felt a strange, breathless excitement seize him: as if he stood poised on the verge of some momentous discovery, some great revelation... again, it hit him, feeling (as always) as if it were the first time; //she's a virgin,// passed through his mind, and once more he experienced the same incredulous reaction. Not because it was so uncommon to encounter thirty-plus-year-old virgins, not for any reason so pedestrian as that -- but because this was the woman he'd seen face down impossible opponents and unreasonable odds with a courage and a strength that he'd come to take for granted. The thought that there was a part of her so pure and fragile and vulnerable, well, it was absolutely incompehensible. And there it was before him, virgin territory, glistening pink paradise... and for a moment, just a moment, he experienced a fierce urge to seize and conquer. //Typical male,// he thought absently, hearing the echo of Scully's voice in his head, She tasted so sweet, and she was so sensitive -- he found her rhythm and settled into it, vaguely surprised by how much he was enjoying himself. He'd never understood the antipathy that some men felt toward this act, but he'd never particularly sought out the experience, either -- it was just something to be done, a necessity of life, like the national anthem before a baseball game. In this particular case, he'd been contemplating it for some time, imagining it, visualizing... he'd spent an inordinate amount of time looking for an opening, a plausible excuse to make it happen, and had anticipated no inherent difficulty on his part in making it a good experience all around. What he hadn't expected was the realization that he would have been perfectly content to remain there indefinitely with his head buried between her legs, to the point where his own longings felt very remote. Even as the taste and scent of her set his every nerve ending alight, all he could think about was her pleasure. Her soft cry echoed in his ears, as her climax swept over her, a small helpless sound that pierced to the core of his soul. He adjusted his technique to allow for a certain amount of hypersensitivity and kept at it, and swiftly brought her back to that peak... the second time, he almost came with her, so caught up in her ecstasy that direct stimulation was unnecessary, empathy was enough. It took him a moment to recover from that, and to get a grip on his sudden desperate urgency -- and when he was certain he had regained control, he began all over again. If the pitch and volume of her cries was any indication, the third one was the most intense. Afterwards, he rested his head against her leg, his cheek pressed against her sweat-slicked thigh, savoring the lassitude in her, the satiated weariness. //Only the best for you, Scully.// And then he felt her hand settle on his head, stroking his hair gently. "Mulder," she whispered, and the sound of her voice and the nearness of that which he most desired were all at once more than he could stand; he knew that he had to get out of there *right now*, before he did something stupid and impulsive and 'male' that they would both regret. He scrambled out of bed and to his feet -- a flicker of hurt crossed her face, and he knew he'd been too abrupt. Carefully, he drew the covers up and over her, tucking them around her shoulders, pausing for a moment to let his hand wander along the side of her face in a gentle caress. "I'll be right back," he told her. "Mulder..." He glanced back, and read the silent offer in her eyes: a return of services rendered -- and oh, how he wanted it -- but no. This was for her, all for her. "I'll be right back," he repeated, and got out of there before he could change his mind. He made it into the bathroom somehow, closed and locked the door, reached down to unzip his fly -- but the need was too strong, and he couldn't take it anymore; he clutched at himself, pressing hard -- and the orgasm hit him like a sledgehammer, sending shudders through him, so intense that his knees nearly buckled under him, so powerful that he couldn't breathe. As it subsided, he found himself leaning heavily against the tiled wall. //Ah, Scully, what you do to me,// was his first coherent thought, filled with rueful wonderment. Even in the fierce grip of an overactive teenage libido, he'd never been quite so precipitous. But of course, since this was Scully, it was only natural. //Kind of like virgin territory for both of us,// he thought, as he cleaned himself up as best he could. A shower was definitely in order: a long cold shower, or better yet, a long hot shower, with visions of Scully's 'sugarplums' dancing in his head the whole time. Hmmm... the holidays were coming up soon, and these recent developments had the potential to completely redefine the concept of Christmas presents... New ground for both of them, for he'd never felt such a combination of tenderness and ravening lust, especially considering that the former overruled the latter almost completely. There had been that time in high school, where the girl had been upset, and all he'd been concerned with was whether or not he could use the situation to 'comfort' her -- and others since, episodes that in retrospect made him feel ashamed of his own selfishness. But then, from childhood onwards he'd been so alone, as if he were the only person in the world... easy, with that attitude, to treat others as objects. To disregard other people's feelings, because he was so wrapped up in his own. But this was Scully. And that made everything different. Everything. Idly, he wondered if she'd let him do it again, and how soon... He emerged from her bathroom, trying to ignore the discomfort of sticky underwear and a renewed hard-on, more concerned with checking on Scully -- and found her asleep, or almost; moonlight streamed through a small gap in the curtains, illuminating her sweet smiling face in an angelic glow. As he knelt beside the bed, her eyes fluttered open, and he smiled back, reaching out to brush away an errant strand of still-damp hair. "Get some rest," he told her, "you'll need it. Busy day tomorrow." Her hand wriggled free from the blankets, caught his and held it; her smile was radiant. "Mulder," she said. Just that, just his name, yet it conveyed so much. "'Night, Scully," and he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it -- and only then did it register that for all the intimacy they'd shared, and despite the fact that he'd pretty much given her a tongue bath from the neck down, they had never kissed. Not once, not ever. The thought of kissing her excited him and terrified him: there were implications in a kiss that they had somehow so far avoided. And if there had been a moment when it might have happened, it was gone an instant later, when her eyes drifted closed, succumbing to fatigue. "'Night, Mulder," she murmured. He waited until she was fully asleep before releasing her hand -- for a moment, he contemplated the idea of sitting there on the floor all night. It wasn't as if he was going to sleep that night anyway... but he had the feeling it would take both hands to deal with the residual effects of the evening's events. Both hands and a lot of hot water, or a lot of cold water, or very possibly both... but despite his anxiousness to get down to business, it was all he could do to force himself to leave. Spending the night kneeling at her bedside, just to hold her hand and watch her sleep? Not a problem. More like a gift. "Your slave for life," he whispered, very softly, so as not to disturb her slumber. But tomorrow was another day, one in which they would have to face the world in their FBI-agent facades and deal with the real world; Scully wouldn't appreciate having to deal with a partner who was both sleep- deprived *and* desperately horny, and it wouldn't be much fun for him, either. Trust. She was trusting him to handle this right, to not screw up the delicate balance of the tightrope they were walking by daring such intimacy. Mulder sighed, and left her room as quietly as he could, closing the door soundlessly behind him. -------/end part II Taming The Unicorn 3 (1/2) NC-17 MSR by imajiru imajiru@mindspring.com Rating: NC-17 MSR Summary: III - In which a holiday is celebrated, not according to plan. NOTE: Please do not archive, repost or distribute elsewhere without my prior permission. CREDITS: My thanks and love to "Lone Editors/The Next Generation": CatheRaven, PRhino, Allie Allie Sidekick, and Chaos and Dee la Merc-Mommy, for service above and beyond the call of beta-readers; to PRhino, especially, for the story's title; and the eleven members of SKL who volunteered for hazardous cold-shower duty by pre-reading this (Alora, Bast, Idalia, Ithildin, Kira, Mary, Midge, NinjaBabe, Shirl, Tammy and Toni). DISCLAIMER: They're not mine. (Everyone knows that.) I'm not making any money writing fanfic about 'em. (This, too, should be obvious.) Commentary and criticism welcomed, suggestions entertained, flames cheerfully used to light cigarettes, at . -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- For Chaos Merc, in payment for services rendered -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Taming The Unicorn by imajiru III. The Holiday Spirit, pt. 1 Where *was* he?!? She should have called a cab. What on earth had possessed her to call Mulder? Somehow, she'd come to rely on him, and what a mistake *that* was. Become too dependent on anyone, trust anyone too much, and they were bound to let you down sooner or later... Scully blinked back tears, told herself firmly that they were due to the stinging winter wind, and stared out at the snowy road. The tow truck had been and gone, taking her car with it; she'd stayed behind, shivering beside the pay phone, because she'd already called Mulder, and she didn't want him to come all the way out there for nothing, and for some inexplicable annoying reason he wasn't answering his cellphone AGAIN, and (she vowed to herself) she was never ever ever going to do anything as stupid as relying on Mulder in an emergency, never again... Churning snow and the growl of an engine distracted her from her thoughts; she looked up, and there was his car, pulling over next to the pay phone. She ran to the car, tugged the door open and hurled herself into the passenger seat, not caring that she was getting snow all over the place, not caring about anything but the fact that she was finally warm and out of the rapidly escalating snowstorm. "Where the hell have you been?" she snapped. "None of the major roadways have been plowed yet. I had to navigate between the snowdrifts." If there was a note of hurt in his voice, she refused to acknowledge it. Something dropped onto her lap -- a big, fluffy towel; she took it and began to dry herself off as best she could, struggling to nurture her anger. "Sorry to drag you away from the party," she lashed out at him, reminding herself forcibly why she was so angry. "Oh, I wasn't at the party. It wasn't much fun after you left." He considered for a moment. "Of course, it wasn't much fun before you left, either," and the edge to his voice told her that he was nurturing some resentment of his own. But what did *he* have to be angry about?!? "Sorry, but I'm not much for parties where the main entertainment is watching you flirt with the secretarial pool." "Flirting with the secretarial pool is how I get our mail delivered in the morning, instead of midway through the afternoon," he replied, in a voice that seemed to her to be carefully neutral, "and how I get our requisitions pushed to the top of the heap in spite of all departmental policy, or hadn't you noticed? Besides," and again there was that sharp edge of underlying anger in his voice, "I didn't think you cared." She cursed herself for giving that much away. "I didn't say I cared," she parried, even though it was a transparently obvious semi-lie. //Score one for Mulder,// she thought bitterly. "You know," he continued, not deigning to notice her feeble comeback, "I can drive you home, or we can sit here bickering until the snow piles up around the car and I *can't* drive you home. Your choice." "Take me home," she said sullenly, fighting back the tears that she could no longer blame on the wind. She'd planned their Christmas Eve to be so different; instead, everything had gone wrong. She'd thought she'd be saying those words to him in a completely different way, but instead... He didn't notice her distress; he was busy starting the car and pulling it onto the road -- instantly, she realized how bad the weather had gotten since her car had broken down, and felt guilty for having attacked him for his lateness. //Damn it, why should *I* feel guilty? At least I gave *him* a present!// She'd left it on his desk, where he couldn't possibly miss it, neatly giftwrapped -- but when she'd come in later, to see his reaction, the box had been gone, and he'd acted as if he'd never even seen it. //Even if he hated it, he could have at least *mentioned* it...// And it began to make sense when five o'clock came and went and there was no sign that he'd bothered to get her anything. And then, at the stupid party... //How could he do this to me?// she thought, turning away from him to gaze blindly at the fogged-up passenger window so that he wouldn't see that she was on the verge of crying. //And why?// It was true that officially, they had no relationship -- had not even discussed the possibility of a relationship at all -- that in fact all they'd really had was a matched set of sexual encounters; that certainly didn't count as a commitment of any sort. But his behavior at the party had been so callous, so *hurtful*... it made no sense to her, why he would treat her that way; but the senselessness of it didn't mitigate the pain in the least. She felt the car swerve, begin to skid -- quickly blinking back the tears, she turned to survey the road, to look at Mulder; but he was already pulling out of it, straightening the car and driving onward. //This is terrible weather,// she thought dismally, //I shouldn't have dragged him out into it...// Caring for him was such a habit, she supposed, that she couldn't stop doing it even when she was furious at him. "Like I said, I had a little trouble driving over," he said, without looking at her, and his voice was cool and detached and laced with the particular brand of sarcasm that he used to mask pain. "You didn't have to come and get me," she muttered, feeling sorry now for her earlier jab at him, but too angry about everything else to apologize for it. "Sure I did. I'm your slave for life, remember?" And the facade cracked as he spoke the words, revealing a depth of emotion that startled her: bitterness, slow-burning rage, and an anguish that easily matched her own. She stared at him, and wanted to hug him, to make the pain go away: wanted to wrap her arms and legs around him and pull him close, feel the strength and warmth of his body against hers: wanted to slam her fists into him and scream at him, "Why did you hurt me?" Instead, she did nothing at all, dividing her attention between the road and his driving, as the silence between them grew. By the time he pulled into her parking spot, the snowstorm was so bad that it was obvious Mulder would be sleeping in his car, or on her couch. "Come on in," she said ungraciously, resenting anew the fact that this homecoming was so radically different from the way she'd planned it, and made her way to the front door without looking behind to see if he was following her. She didn't look at him as he trailed her to her apartment door, as she fumbled with the key, as she strode inside and stripped off her coat. Only when she turned around did he come into her field of vision; and that was when she noticed that the walk from the parking lot had left him as soaked to the skin as she was, and that he was carrying a large bag. "What's *that*?" Mulder reached into the plastic shopping bag, drew out two boxes -- first the one she'd given him, and then another brightly-wrapped gift, which he tossed onto the couch in turn. "What do you think?" he shot back. "Y'know, when I envisioned us opening our gifts together, I didn't foresee things turning out quite this way." Scully stared at the gifts, resting haphazardly side-by-side on the sofa. "You bought me a present," she said, as if to herself. "Of course I bought you a present. As if I wouldn't get you a present." Then, all at once, the sarcasm left his voice, as if a light had suddenly dawned. "You *didn't* think..." She found herself unable to look at him. "I'm going to go change," she said instead, and disappeared into her bedroom as quickly as she could. Mechanically, she stripped off her clothes layer by layer. //He bought me a present.// And how *could* she have thought he'd forget? Not even at his most obsessive had he ever been *that* thoughtless... //But that doesn't explain his behavior at the party. Nothing could explain that.// Tears welled up in her eyes again. //In front of *everyone*, like he couldn't even bear the *idea*...// Clamping down on the emotion and sealing it away inside herself, she threw on an old pair of comfortable sweatpants and a loose shirt, ignoring the seductive outfit she'd laid out at the ready, and rummaged in the bottom drawer that contained Mulder's clothes -- contingency planning, the same reason why they had keys to each other's apartments, and copies of each other's eyeglass prescriptions in their respective wallets. She dug out a change of clothing at random and carried it with her when she emerged from her room. "Here," she said, and tossed the garments toward him; he caught everything except the shirt on the first try, scooped up the last item from the floor, and headed into the bathroom. While he was changing, she put on the kettle to boil -- almost as an afterthought, she turned on the oven and threw in the dinner she'd prepared in advance, back when she'd thought this was going to be one of their 'special' evenings. //Can't let perfectly good food go to waste.// By the time he returned, clad in fresh clothes and rubbing his hair dry with one of her towels, she was curled up on the couch beneath the crocheted afghan her grandmother had given her ("I suppose there's no sense leaving this in your hope chest," had been Nanna's words, a tart sentiment that had forever tainted her memory of receiving the gift) watching a weather-alert in lieu of another rerun of "A Christmas Carol" or "It's A Wonderful Night". The presents he'd chucked onto the sofa had been moved, placed next to the tiny plastic Christmas tree on the end-table -- they would've been in the way anywhere else, according to Scully's rationalization. "Tea's brewing, food's in the oven," she informed him tersely. He stood there in front of her, deliberately blocking her view of the television screen. "Is there room for me, or should I sit on the floor?" he inquired, matching her blunt tone, and she moved her legs fractionally to give him space. It was as if there was a foot-thick steel wall between them, so impenetrable was the silence. It felt unnatural to Scully; it *hurt*, and there was absolutely no doubt in her mind that it was hurting him too, even if he wasn't letting it show. //Opening our gifts together,// she remembered him saying, and wondered for the first time what plans *he* might have had for their evening. He'd never been much for celebrating holidays; he'd once told her that the only reason he bothered to observe any of the winter festivities were because she did, because things like Christmas presents and parties mattered to her. But if that were the case, then why... The tea kettle began to whistle, and she started to get up; "I'll do it," said Mulder, sounding as if he was relieved for an excuse to escape her company. "I don't like the way you make tea," she lashed out. "Then I won't make you any," he snapped back, and stormed off. He returned with two mugs, though -- hot chocolate, she noticed, when he set them down on the table; was that his idea of a compromise, an attempt to make peace? If so, she couldn't tell by the way he scowled down at her. "No marshmallows," he said. "What kind of house has cocoa and no marshmallows?" Something inside her snapped; abruptly, she had had enough of his attitude. "Mine!" she shouted. "You're damned lucky that I didn't leave you outside in the snow; so *shut up* before I change my mind!" "Oh, you mean the same way you left me at the party?" he countered furiously. "You're going to leave me sitting in my car the same way you left me sitting all alone at the bar like an idiot?" "You left me standing under the mistletoe!" she yelled back, hating herself for being so upset, so helpless against the strength of her feelings. "You couldn't even bring yourself to give me one little kiss..." "Of course not," was his incredulous reply. "Not in *public*." Something in his voice made her look up, into his eyes -- and what she saw stunned her into silence; she couldn't define it, precisely, but it was deeper and stronger than anything she'd seen there before, and nothing like what she'd expected to find. "I've waited for years for the chance to kiss you," he continued, in the same tone. "Do you really think I could trust myself to do it in front of all those people, and make it look like we were just friends? You think I wanted to share that first kiss with a crowd? Especially *that* crowd?" She stared at him for a long, long moment, and this time she made no effort to hide the tears forming in her eyes. "I'm *sorry*," she whispered finally. "I misunderstood... everything." It was all beginning to sink in and make sense to him now, the same way it had come clear for her a moment earlier: the chain of events, one small communications-breakdown after another linking to form their disastrous evening, and how unnecessary and stupid it had all been. She saw the realization melt away the last of the ice in his direct gaze, dissolving the final remnants of the barriers that had formed between them, and the relief she felt was so overwhelming that she could no longer keep herself from crying. "Hey..." His hands caught hers and tugged, and she let him pull her to her feet, and into his arms. "I didn't mean to hurt you; I don't ever want to hurt you..." She half-expected him to try to kiss her then, but instead he just held her, stroking her hair, her shoulders, her back, slow soothing caresses. So she rested her head against his chest and let the tears flow freely, just for a moment. "Scully, please don't cry," she heard him say, and the distress in his voice dried up the tears in her eyes -- his fingertips brushed across her cheeks and wiped away the rest. "I'm sorry..." "Let's just forget it and try to start over, okay?" It wouldn't be the same, of course, as if everything had gone smoothly from the start; but they could still manage to salvage the evening. And later, maybe she would work her way back to her original plan... being close to him felt so good; she almost blurted it out right then, and barely managed to restrain herself. //This is *not* the right timing,// she told herself firmly. "Good idea," he agreed, and to her surprise, released her from the embrace -- the room felt colder, without his arms around her. "You should drink your cocoa before it gets cold," he suggested. She settled back on the sofa and sipped at the hot chocolate, and he got the box of Kleenex from the bathroom and brought it to her, even though she didn't need it any more; he retrieved the presents, too, and dropped both boxes in her lap. "Open it," he urged her, sitting down beside her and claiming half the afghan for himself. Scully looked at the box, picked it up, examined it. The wrapping paper was decorated with orange and gold parrots, of all things, taped and folded just sloppily enough to make it clear that he'd done it himself... carefully, she slid her fingernail under the tape and began prying it off, and soon found herself staring at a nondescript brown box. Opening it, she found -- eight little boxes lined up inside, each wrapped in a different colored and patterned paper, each with a different number, one through eight, written neatly on file-folder labels affixed to the top. "When I was very young," Mulder said softly, almost as if he was talking to himself, "back in the days when my family used to celebrate the holidays, I liked Chanukah best. I liked the menorah, and the food, and playing dreidel for chocolate... and the presents. Every night after we lit the candles, we'd each get a present -- eight gifts, over eight days. I always thought *that* sort of made up for the fact that our holidays didn't include trees with pretty lights on 'em." A trace of a smile appeared on his face, for just a moment. "Anyway, I thought that this year, just for a change, I'd pick up an old, long-lost Mulder family tradition." "I didn't know you were Jewish," she said, surprised. "I haven't been much of anything for a long time. Go on, Scully; I want to see you shredding paper," and he grinned at her, an utterly irresistible grin that was meant to take her mind off the subject. She smiled back, letting him get away with it. "Where do I start?" she asked him. "At the beginning," he said, making her instantly curious as to the contents of box number eight. Box number one had shiny silver hologram wrapping paper; inside, she found a tiny scrap of paper that said, 'To Mrs. Spooky'. Removing it, she found a ring, one of the novelty pieces that was so popular nowadays: a neon-green plastic alien face stared up at her. "When you press the button on the back, the eyes flash," Mulder said, straight-faced; she laughed, and tried it out -- yes, they most certainly did. Opening box number two was more difficult wearing the big clunky ring, but she managed. This one was wrapped in purple-and-green striped paper, and when she opened it, she found what appeared to be a piece of paper folded into a very small bundle -- it turned out to be a gift certificate to one of her favorite stores. "That's to replace the stockings I ruined for you in Keanesburg," he informed her. The memory of that night sent a delicious shiver racing down her spine. "You didn't have to do that," she said softly, sincerely -- the loss of a pair of stockings had been a ridiculously small price to pay for the incredible pleasure he'd given her. "Sure I did," he said expansively, "this way, I don't have to feel guilty the next time I ruin a pair of your stockings. Open the next one." "I thought these were supposed to be opened one per night..." "Chanukah ended a week ago. Open it." Box number three bore a bright polka-dotted pattern, and contained multicolored bath-oil beads that very nearly matched the wrapping. Box number four was covered in happy-smiley-face paper, and held a bottle of scented bubble bath. Box number five had pink, green and purple zigzag-patterned paper -- //where did he *find* this stuff?// -- and inside it was a little heart-shaped box filled with bath crystals. "Subtle, Mulder." "Yeah, isn't it? Open the next one." Box number six, ensconced in crimson and orange tissue paper, held a bottle of strawberry-flavored edible massage oil. "*Real* subtle, Mulder. What's next, glow-in-the-dark condoms?" "Aww, you spoiled the surprise. Keep going." Reminding herself of the dangers of making invalid assumptions about her partner's behavior, she turned her attention apprehensively toward the seventh box; she pulled off the blue-and-white wrapping paper, and discovered what looked like more gift certificates: expecting to find a coupon for a sleazy sex shop, she was pleasantly surprised to find names like Blockbuster Videos and Loews Cinemas. "For when we hang out," Mulder said. "Joe's Amusement Arcade?" she wondered, sorting through the small stack of papers -- //he must be planning on 'hanging out' a lot,// passed idly through her mind, and realization filled her with sudden warmth. "Bet I can beat you at Pac-Man," he teased her. "Bet you can't," she responded swiftly. And found herself laughing. "Only you, Mulder," she said, "only you would give me edible massage oil and a pass to a video arcade in the same box." His returning smile was an enigma. "Keep going," he said, very softly. She stared at him for a moment, then picked up the last box. It was covered in shimmering gold foil, and unlike the rest, seemed to have been wrapped by someone who knew what they were doing. And like the first box, inside the eighth box, Scully found a ring. This ring shone brilliantly in the room's dim light, although it was far from ostentatious: two small emeralds flanking a modest diamond, in a demure setting. The kind of ring which she might wear with a business suit without drawing undue notice from colleagues, yet that would elicit all sorts of approving comments in any communal ladies' room. The sort of ring she might admire in a jeweler's window, yet would never consider buying for herself, even if she could afford it. Its design was almost -- not quite, but almost -- that of an engagement ring. "Do you like it?" "Mulder... how much..." "Do you *like* it?" repeated with gentle insistence. She gazed up at him, felt herself fall into his dark eyes. "It's beautiful," she whispered. He nodded gravely, took her hand in his, and very deliberately slipped the ring onto the third finger of her left hand; brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "I'm yours, Scully," he said, almost casually. "For life. You know that." As if in a dream, she felt herself raise her other hand to cover his. "We belong to each other," she said, and knew that it was true. //*Now* he's going to kiss me,// she thought. And he didn't. -------/continues in Part III 2/2 Taming The Unicorn 3 (2/2) NC-17 MSR by imajiru imajiru@mindspring.com Rating: NC-17 MSR Summary: III - In which a holiday is celebrated, not according to plan. NOTE: Please do not archive, repost or distribute elsewhere without my prior permission. CREDITS: My thanks and love to "Lone Editors/The Next Generation": CatheRaven, PRhino, Allie Allie Sidekick, and Chaos and Dee la Merc-Mommy, for service above and beyond the call of beta-readers; to PRhino, especially, for the story's title; and the eleven members of SKL who volunteered for hazardous cold-shower duty by pre-reading this (Alora, Bast, Idalia, Ithildin, Kira, Mary, Midge, NinjaBabe, Shirl, Tammy and Toni). DISCLAIMER: They're not mine. (Everyone knows that.) I'm not making any money writing fanfic about 'em. (This, too, should be obvious.) Commentary and criticism welcomed, suggestions entertained, flames cheerfully used to light cigarettes, at . -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- For Chaos Merc, in payment for services rendered -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Taming The Unicorn Part 3 (2/2) by imajiru III. The Holiday Spirit, pt. 2 "So, now I get to open my present, right?" he asked her, eyes alight with a child's eagerness. She sighed, and smiled at him. "Yes, you can open your present," she said, in a parent's patient, indulgent tone, and he grinned back at her and began tearing at the paper. Hard to read his expression as he opened the box, but she had the distinct sense that he was disappointed. "It's... a bathrobe," was his reaction. "It's a nice bathrobe," he added quickly, and she smothered her laughter; it was obvious that he hadn't caught on yet. He took the robe out of the box -- "Actually, it's a very nice bathrobe," he said thoughtfully, after due consideration. "There's something else in there," she said, in a very carefully even voice. Sparing her only a brief, puzzled glance, he reached into the box and found it: an ordinary silver coat hook, the type found at any hardware store, hook on one side and screw on the other, to be installed with ease on any wooden surface. Mulder held it up, examined it for a moment, turned to Scully with a quizzical look. "I don't get it," he said. "It's for the back of my bathroom door," she said, and indicated the other contents of the box with a wave of her hand. "That's... for you to keep here." And waited for it to sink in. Little by little, it did -- and she delighted in the way his face lit up. "You mean, I get to sleep over? On the *bed*?" "Or at the foot of it, slave-for-life," she teased, and he laughed and hugged her, hard -- //now he's *definitely* going to kiss me,// Scully thought, and was somehow unsurprised when once again, he failed to pick up on the cue. //Either he's extraordinarily dense,// she mused, //or he's got something up his sleeve; and either way, I might just have to shoot him before the night is over, if he keeps this up...// "This is perfect," he said into her hair, pulled back a little and pressed his lips briefly against her forehead. "Just one last thing..." He got up from the couch, went over to the chair he'd dumped his wet coat on -- //coat hooks, Mulder,// she thought ruefully -- and began digging through his pockets. "You got tape?" he wanted to know. With a sigh, she got up and went to fetch the roll she kept in her desk drawer. "What are you doing?" she asked him as she handed him the scotch tape. His hand opened, and she saw what he was holding: a sprig of mistletoe... "I lifted it from the party," he informed her. "It's not as if they needed it; there were already plenty of drunken clerical workers on their way to doing something they'll regret in the morning. Here, help me with this," and he handed the tape back to her. "Besides, tomorrow it'd be thrown out, anyway. Funny, isn't it? Three hundred and sixty-four days a year, it's just another plant that only a handful of pagan practitioners could care less about. Gimme a piece of tape, will you?" Recognizing his chatter as a sign of nervousness, she tore off a piece of tape and handed it to him; there were butterflies on maneuvers in her own stomach, as she realized the inevitability of what they were doing. This was it: this was definitely leading up to The Kiss. No ambiguity here, no subtlety, no question of will-he-or-won't-he -- Mulder was scotch-taping mistletoe to the threshold, and when he was finished, it was going to happen. The thought thrilled her, scared her, aroused her -- she felt as if she was sitting in the front seat of the rollercoaster, waiting for the ride to start, looking at that first big incline and thinking about the downslope on the other side. "More," he said, and she ripped off more pieces of tape, marveling at how her hands were shaking -- curiously, she glanced at his hands, saw that they were shaking even worse than hers were, and felt a wave of deep affection. There was something wonderful about knowing that her partner was as nervous as she was; after years of feeling isolated, in a world where there were twelve-year-old children with more sexual experience, it was nice to not be the only one trembling. "How does that look?" he asked her finally. "It looks," she said honestly, "like a wad of scotch tape with a leaf sticking out of it." "Well, it's the thought that counts." His eyes met hers. "So." "So," she echoed, as the butterflies began playing drum solos on the inside of her stomach. Mulder's hands rose, rested very lightly on her shoulders, one step away from being an embrace. "Last chance to back out," he said, trying hard to sound casual and not making it. "Yeah..." It wasn't too late, she realized. Either or both of them could walk away -- there would be hurt feelings for a little while, maybe, lingering sexual frustration; but their friendship, their rapport, would still survive. After this, though... it would be harder to repair any damage done, perhaps even impossible: even the smallest mistake could be their last, in so many ways. So much easier to stop now, to walk away... "So," he said again, his steady voice managing (to her ears) to convey anxiety and anticipation and tenderness and terror, all at once. "Still want me to kiss you under the mistletoe?" She gazed up and into his eyes, losing herself in their depths. "If you don't," she said, "I'll shoot you again." Somehow, apparently, she had chanced upon exactly the right thing to say: his soft laugh defused some of the tension that had laced the air with electricity. "If I don't shoot myself first," he added, and she smiled up at him, sharing the humor of it. Then his arms were sliding around her, pulling her closer -- she was acutely aware of his scent, aftershave and male sweat, and the heat that seemed to be emanating from his body -- or maybe it was hers; she couldn't tell anymore. His gaze was locked with hers, never wavering, searching her face for any trace of last-minute indecision right up until the last instant; //this is it,// she thought... The kiss began so slowly, just the barest brushing of his lips against hers, deepening gradually, inexorably -- and she felt herself yielding to that kiss, her body melting, molding itself to his. It wasn't enough: she found herself clutching at him, needing desperately to be even closer, to submerge herself completely in the rising wave of passion. His arms tightened around her hips, lifting her off her feet, crushing her against him with a matching hunger; she could feel his cock through his jeans, so hard it must have hurt, pressed against her own throbbing need, force and friction in just the right place at exactly the right time... and she cried out in startled ecstasy as a sudden sharp paroxysm of pleasure seized her, blossoming into orgasm. It was so intense that she was helpless to do anything but hang on to him as the spasms peaked, thinking dazedly, //ohmigod, I can't believe that I...// ...but any embarrassment she might have felt was instantly mitigated by the moan that wrenched itself from Mulder's throat as his body convulsed against hers. His shudders prolonged her own; she clung to him, feeling acutely exposed, and just as aware of his vulnerability. This was more intimate, somehow, than if they'd been naked together in bed as she'd originally planned. To discover that she was *that* susceptible to him, *that* desperate for his touch -- to have him know it, too -- and then to find that he felt the same way... She had never been so close to him, or to anyone. She rested her head against his chest, feeling his heart pounding fiercely, feeling as if her entire being was resonating in time with that rhythm... ...for a moment, it was as if she were seeing the tableau from an external vantage point somewhere near the ceiling: Mulder leaning back against the wall, herself collapsed against him... a perfect moment frozen in time; a turning point. Though where they might be going was anyone's guess -- she knew, suddenly and with perfect clarity, that this was a moment she would remember for the rest of her life as being the beginning of... something. Perversely, she felt the need to say something, to break the spell. "I think," she murmured, "that privacy was probably a really good idea." "You think?" Lazy contentment saturated his tone. "Yeah, I think we would've raised a few eyebrows." "This... never happened to me before," she said hesitantly, feeling shy but wanting to say it, wanting him to hear it. "Me either." He paused. "Y'know," and his voice was studiously casual, "I usually have more staying power than that." She laughed, hugging him a little harder so that he would know she wasn't laughing at him, or any inadequacy on his part. "I know," she said, "remember?" and he hugged her back, enfolding her in a feeling of warmth and security and utter bliss that she had ceased to believe existed outside fairy tales. "Scully," came the question finally, very quietly, "what're we going to do?" It was the very question she'd unconsciously been dreading -- and yet, at that particular moment, it didn't frighten her as much as it had. The problem was, she didn't have any answers. Or rather, she had too many. Finally, she gave him the only response she could. "I'm going to go check on the food in the oven," she murmured. "I think it's burning." "I think you're right," Mulder agreed. "Do I have other clothes here?" "Sweatpants," she told him, not bothering to list the rest of the inventory. "Good." But it was a long time before either of them moved to let go of the other. * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * "Food's good." "It's burned." "Well, it's good burned." "I could feed you cardboard right now, and you wouldn't notice." "Probably not. I'm always hungry, afterwards." The power had gone out while he was changing and she was salvaging their meal, so it was dinner by candlelight after all. 'Let's have a picnic,' had been Mulder's idea, so they'd spread out the food on the carpet, next to the wine stain that she'd never gotten around to cleaning, because she'd found to her chagrin that she liked looking at it and remembering how it had gotten there... It seemed that the storm was abating somewhat; the howling of the wind was calming, no longer rattling at the windows with such force. "Hey," said her partner, reaching out to rest one hand on her knee. "After we eat, let's go out and play in the snow." "We'll freeze," she said reflexively, smiling despite herself. "We still have heat and hot water. We can warm up afterwards. Warming up will be fun." His eyes twinkled at her. "We can try out your new bubble bath." "We could do *that* without freezing first..." "Aw, come on, Scully." He took her hand and held it, fingertips stroking her palm lightly. "I want to play in the snow with you." He looked beautiful in the candlelight, she thought: clad only in the worn sweatpants, his skin gleaming, making her want to set aside her dinner and begin on him instead, chest and shoulders and neck for starters... and with that irresistible little-boy smile, the bright happy sparkle in his eyes that she'd so rarely seen, he managed to look both adorable and sexy at once. "But you'd have to get dressed," she said reasonably. "I like you better this way." She could tell that he was pleased by that remark. "Well, what's this, then?" he asked, catching the hem of her shirt between his fingers. "Equal rights, and all that..." "Equal rights, or equal opportunities?" "Both? Either." His hand slid under her shirt, up over her stomach; two fingertips stroked the underside of her breast unobtrusively. "Why should you have all the fun?" "You've forgotten what I look like, so soon?" Absently, she set her empty plate aside, out of the way with the rest. "Oh, I'll never forget *that*," and his eyes took on a faraway look, slightly glazed, the expression that came over him at work sometimes when he was imagining her naked (any time she'd confronted him, he'd always denied it, but she *knew* it was true). "Scully, classic works of art should be displayed so that they can be appreciated." "So now you're putting me on a pedestal?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at him, enjoying the conversation tremendously. "Well, if I want to see more than the top of your head..." and she slapped at him; he dodged, laughing. "Height wasn't a problem for you earlier," she pointed out, stretching out next to him on the afghan. "That's because I'm adaptable, and you're light." He reached out, traced her cheekbone with one finger. "Everyone's the same height lying down, though. And this is *so* much better for my back." "Gee, if you've strained your back, maybe you'd better not exert yourself any further tonight," she said, with exaggerated concern. "They say exercise is the best way to avoid repetitive stress injuries," he countered swiftly. "Really? Who's saying that, d'you know?" "Well, somebody must be saying it -- Scully, don't confuse me." "But you make it so easy..." "We were talking," he overrode her, "about your shirt." "What about my shirt?" "Well, it's opaque." "Transparency isn't generally one of my criteria when I'm shopping for clothing." "I know," said so forlornly that for the barest moment, she felt guilty about it. "But that's easy to fix. From now on, I'll buy all your clothes for you." "Mulder, you would dress me in black lace and Saran Wrap," she scolded him mildly. "Saran Wrap," he repeated thoughtfully. "You got any?" "No," she said quickly. "You're lying," spoken with certainty. "Mulder, listen to me. There will be no utilization of kitchen supplies, do you understand? There will be no plastic wrap, no tin foil, no wax paper. There will be no jelly, marmalade, or syrup of any kind; there will be no whipped cream, sour cream, cottage cheese or Velveeta. Is that clear?" He was grinning ear-to-ear by the time she finished. "Cottage cheese?" he repeated. "A girl's got to watch her weight," she replied, not missing a beat. "Velveeta?" he pursued. "You've never had nachos?" she said innocently, and he burst into laughter. "Please tell me you don't like jalapenos," was his next request, laced with trepidation. "Well, used *very* judiciously, the effects can be interesting... No, really, you'd be surprised," in response to his obvious apprehension. "Scully, you've got a better imagination than I do. I wouldn't have thought of the Velveeta. And definitely not the hot peppers." Casually, nonchalantly, he reached out and began to unbutton her shirt. She glanced down at his hand, thought about trying to stop him just for the sake of form, decided against it -- he might actually take her seriously. Instead, she reached up and ran her fingertips along his forearm to his elbow, up to his shoulder -- "Actually, I prefer Cheez Whiz," she said. As her hand slid down his chest, his eyes shut briefly, involuntarily, and he shivered. Inspired, she leaned forward and kissed him there, lips surrounding his nipple, tongue caressing the nub -- his body stiffened from head to toe in response, some parts considerably more than others. "Scul-ly," she heard him moan, voice rising on the last syllable, conveying an urgency that she found tremendously appealing. He hadn't been less than half-erect since their kiss under the mistletoe; she'd been enjoying the view, and had longed to explore the territory further. Now, feeling his hard-on pressed insistently against her, it seemed only proper to reach between them and slide her hand over the cotton fabric, examining the contours... "How much do you like that shirt?" she heard Mulder ask, his voice distinctly unsteady. "Not very," she said. "Good," and his hand caught the front and pulled; the remaining buttons went flying off to random corners of her apartment. "It looks much better on you now," and she laughed, then cried out softly as he applied his lips to her breast. It turned into something resembling a wrestling match, a mock-battle to see who could make the other moan the loudest, fought with hands and tongues, playful teasing and laughter punctuated by passionate cries and the occasional witty remark -- she'd never realized that sex could be less than serious; she'd never had so much *fun* before. And then suddenly he was on top of her, in the classic position, and abruptly laughter was the furthest thing from her mind. The last remnants of their clothing was on the other side of the room: just his body against hers, skin against skin. His hard cock pressed into her swollen labia, and a sharp thrill of excitement shot through her -- //this is it, it's going to happen// -- coupled with a vague resentment, for she'd never actually gotten around to telling him about the last 'Christmas present' she'd planned, she'd never given him permission; and it seemed that he was going to take it anyway. //This is what I wanted,// she reminded herself forcibly, determined to be flexible, to not beleaguer the finer points when she had, after all, planned this very occurrence. Instead, he surprised her yet again -- shocked the hell out of her, actually -- by shifting slightly, repositioning himself between her legs so that there was friction without penetration, angled to make accidental entry unlikely. "Okay?" he asked her, and moved a little, so that she could get a feel for what he was proposing; his shaft stroked her clitoris, eliciting a sharp gasp of startled pleasure. "I told you," he continued, in the same breathless voice, "I don't ever want to hurt you." She gazed up at him, and felt a sudden burst of tenderness -- //who else but Mulder?// -- and contemplated, for a moment, her original plan -- //no, it's all right, Mulder, go ahead, do it// -- then realized that she was being given a gift that she could not turn down. The gift of choice, of time; of his acceptance, without requests or demands or ultimatums... and she pulled his head down into a kiss before he could see the tears in her eyes. They fell into a slow rhythm, and she felt herself slowly sinking into absolute bliss. There had always been a certain tension involved, for her, waiting to see if the guy would take things further than she wanted to go; she'd never felt comfortable enough to be able to let down her guard. Certainly, she'd never allowed anyone else this close... Trust. She'd had friends, a close and loving family, had never been prey to Mulder's brand of paranoia; she'd thought she'd known all about trust. And then she'd met Mulder, and found out about the kind of trust that placed lives and hearts and souls in the hands of another with utter confidence, and now everything was different. Bliss escalated into paradise -- it might have been a climax, or multiple orgasms, or simply a taste of heaven: it went on forever and consumed her totally, and Mulder was there with her, and if she had become lost there with him and never found her way home, she would have been more than content... ...but eventually, reality faded back into focus, the soft scratchiness of the afghan under her, the weight of his body above her, the warm stickiness between her legs, and then his lips claiming hers in a long, slow, lazy kiss. "Damn, you're good," she sighed, completely without meaning to -- and would have been thoroughly embarrassed, except for the fact that Mulder was obviously delighted. "So 're you." His arms and legs wrapped around her, and he pulled her sideways and over and half on top of him. "Equal rights," he murmured, "you can lie on me for awhile if you want." "You make a good pillow," she said sleepily, making herself comfortable. "Mmm. You make a good blanket." Mulder yawned. "'M hungry; is there any of that fettucini left?" "In the fridge." "Mmm." And with that, he was asleep; she smiled, and followed him. * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * She woke up in her bed, with a distant memory of being carried there; she turned her head and saw an empty plate and fork, and surmised that he'd found his midnight snack. Dull grey daylight assailed her tired eyes, and Mulder was nowhere to be seen -- and nature called: she dragged herself out of bed and into her bathrobe, and went to answer. As she headed to the bathroom, she could hear the sound of the television in the other room. //So,// she thought, //the power's back on,// and tried not to feel vaguely hurt by the fact that he hadn't been there when she woke up. But she emerged to find him standing outside, waiting for her with a mug of coffee; she took it and sipped and smiled up at him, and he kissed the top of her head. Following him into the living room, she caught a glimpse of the snowfall outside. "Looks like I'm not going to make it to my mother's today," she said ruefully. "Looks like you're not going anywhere," he agreed, looking as if he was trying very hard to sympathize with her plight. "Looks like I'll just have to stay here with you, instead," she confirmed, and he grinned and hugged her. They drank coffee together, and ate leftover dinner for breakfast; and she kept catching the gleam of the ring on her finger, *his* ring, the one he'd given her. It sparkled brilliantly, and it made her tingle all through to look at it, and still she didn't dare to think of what it might have meant, or worse, what it might *not* have meant. The one thing she *knew* it meant was that Mulder had gone to the trouble of selecting it, and the expense of buying it, to commemorate a holiday that meant nothing to him, without expecting or looking for anything in return -- and that made it the most precious gift anyone had ever given her, regardless of its price. //Merry Christmas,// she thought to herself, gazing across the table and watching him shovel noodles into his mouth. //The best one ever.// After breakfast, they tried out her new bubblebath, and his new bathrobe, which (with uncanny foresight) she had selected precisely because it was big enough to enfold both of them at once. And then they got dressed, and went out to play in the snow. -------/end part III