Teaser Gift for Tlynnfic
Teaser gift for tlynnfic
Title: The Backbone of Night
Author: SecretSanta
Pairing: Mulder/Scully
Rating: G
Spoilers: How the Ghosts Stole Christmas
Disclaimer: Don't own them.
"An anteater?" she asks, gazing down at the heavy, cream-colored certificate unfurled upon her lap.
"A giant anteater," Mulder amends. "I didn't skimp." He drums his fingers on his knees a little, his half-opened present resting against his thigh. "You're supposed to get a stuffed one as a representation of sponsorship, but they were all out of everything except meerkats and these yellow Panamanian frogs. Besides, I know you hate clutter." There is no place in her home for a stuffed toy. He glances surreptitiously at his knick-knacks and tiers of books, much of it frosted with a delicate film of dust.
"They're becoming endangered," she remarks, touching the National Zoo logo embossed on the corner of the paper. Who else but Mulder would adopt an anteater for her? And who else would know she'd love it?
"Habitat destruction," he says. "Illegal pet trade."
She looks up, surprised. "Pets? Really?"
"Really. Here I thought I was being all noble, forgoing the flashy wiles of the red panda or clouded leopard for the lowly anteater, and it turns out people are snatching them up to dress in dog sweaters." He shakes his head. "I am not hip to the trends."
Scully smiles at him. "It was a very good choice. Thank you for the anteater, Mulder. And for the candy." She picks up a plastic tube of tiny chocolate morsels, rattling it. "Are they cacao nibs?"
"Those are for your anteater," Mulder explains. "They're chocolate covered ants."
She holds the package up to her face and wrinkles her nose slightly as she inspects it. "Seriously?"
He shrugs. "Chuck Burks gets chocolate covered crickets from this place on 14th, and I thought maybe they'd have ants. Which they did."
"I don't think theobromine is very good for anteaters. It kills dogs, you know." Gingerly, she sets the candy back on the couch. "Mulder, why does Chuck Burks get chocolate covered crickets?"
"I've never asked. I'm afraid he might tell me."
She laughs. "Fair enough. Now finish opening your present." She feels unaccountably anxious and presses her hands between her knees to keep them still.
He tears the rest of the paper off the package, then grins at her. Cosmos he says happily. "A buddy of mine recorded it while I was at Oxford that first year and I watched it when I came home for Christmas break. Thanks, Scully."
She squeezes her knees a little tighter. "I ordered the whole set from PBS," she explains. "There are seven tapes and they send a new one every two to three weeks."
"I like the way Carl Sagan says 'billions,'" Mulder remarks, turning the tape over to look at the back.
Scully feels sleepy and glad. "Well, Merry Christmas, Mulder. All's well that ends well, right?"
He considers that, scant hours ago, they were bleeding to death on the floor of a haunted house. "I'd say so," he agrees, not wanting her to leave. "Why don't we watch the tape?"
She sighs and gives her watch a perfunctory glance, tickled that he's suggested it. "Mulder, it's late…"
"It was late when you got here," he points out, knowing his part in the game. "Come on, Scully. It's The Shores of the Cosmic Ocean. You can't say no."
She looks out the frost-patterned window at the lacy flakes tumbling down, gathering in puffs and drifts on the hard angles of the city. Even the roosting pigeons look beatific. "Okay," she concedes. "I hate driving in the snow."
Mulder hands her the tape. "Cue it up. I'll grab some refreshments." He gets up and walks to the kitchen, where a lurid Christmas-themed tin sits on his counter. Mrs. Eberstark from down the hall bakes him pfeffernusse and shortbread every year. There is a bundle of mistletoe and holly Scotch-taped to the lid of the tin, just above a garishly colored Rudolph. He considers it briefly, knowing it's as good an opportunity as any. He is certain she would not object. But he finds to his own surprise that he'd really like to just sit and watch Carl Sagan with her, knowing they'll be sneaking glances at one another during favorite parts. He tosses the wad of leaves into the trash can before grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge.
Scully's curled on the couch when he comes back, glowing dimly in the light of the fish tank. She has gathered all the wrapping into a tidy heap. He plunks the cookies down on the table and holds out a beer to her.
"No mulled wine?" she asks as she takes the bottle. "No eggnog?"
"What is 'nog' anyway?" he muses, sitting in the middle of the sofa. "Why the modifier?"
"The etymology is uncertain," she tells him, sipping at the foam and wishing she knew the answer.
Mulder passes her a cookie, which dusts her dark clothes with a fall of powdered sugar. He hits Play on the remote, watching Scully perk up at the music.
She is aware of his attention but not self-conscious of it. "These are such good cookies, Mulder," she remarks, her sibilants blurry. "I really need her recipes for my mom."
"I'll get them," he promises, as he does every year. He passes her a blanket, which she tucks around herself. Her feet peek out, and her left sock has a darned toe.
"There is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice…" intones Carl from the television, lulling them into silence. They eat cookies and drink beer for the next hour, smiling here and there, sometimes leaning forward to rest their elbows on their thighs. Mulder blinks and rubs his eyes when the credits roll up. Scully stretches and yawns.
She takes her certificate of anteater sponsorship from the table and tucks the rolled tube into her coat pocket. Then she picks up the chocolate covered ants and pops the lid off to shake a few into her hand. She likes the faintly horrified way Mulder is regarding her. She feels bold.
"You aren't really-"
She raises her cupped hand and tips the candy into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "They're like little Raisinets," she says airily, swallowing. They don't taste like anything but slightly chewy chocolate.
He leans forward and runs a finger behind her ear where the skin is silky and fine. Her russet hair tickles the back of his hand. "Just checking," he says, a little too thickly. "You've fooled me once before with that."
Scully ignores the little flip her stomach does, and huffs a breath of chocolate-scented air at him. "Proof positive," she says. "And besides, that was your ear. They're not bad. Do you want one?"
They both wonder if he's going to kiss her.
He doesn't. Instead he sits back, contemplating the TV. "You enjoy them. I'll call you when the second tape shows up," he says. "You can come over and watch it with me."
She puts the ants in her pocket and stands, nudging her sensible shoes on over her thick socks. "I'd like that," she tells him, already anticipating next time. She'll bring popcorn.
Mulder gets up to follow her to the door. He opens it, fiddling a little with the lock to keep his hands busy. "Merry Christmas," he tells her.
"Come with me to my mom's," she says, pausing on the threshold. "You'd have fun."
He gives her a warm smile. "Thanks for the invite, but I…Chinese food with the Gunmen. It's a tradition."
On a whim, she leans forward to kiss his cheek. Then she walks into the hall without another word, turning to go to the elevator.
He watches her go, the rolled paper sticking out from her coat pocket like a treasure map, her hair skewed from being pressed against the couch. She moves with confidence, the suggestion of a sway to her hips, though it's nothing overt and she'd likely be surprised to discover it.
Scully's gotten all sleek and polished up since going into remission, he's noticed. Her hair's been looking expensive lately, her suits going from blandly professional to impressively tailored. She doesn't button her blouses primly to the chin anymore, and while the wicked shoes she's been clicking around in have been playing fast and loose with their height differential, she still stands a little too close when she's giving one of her endless droning rationalizations.
Mulder slouches against the doorway and grins a little, willing to concede that there is perhaps something paramasturbatory in his work after all.
Title: The Backbone of Night
Author: SecretSanta
Pairing: Mulder/Scully
Rating: G
Spoilers: How the Ghosts Stole Christmas
Disclaimer: Don't own them.
"An anteater?" she asks, gazing down at the heavy, cream-colored certificate unfurled upon her lap.
"A giant anteater," Mulder amends. "I didn't skimp." He drums his fingers on his knees a little, his half-opened present resting against his thigh. "You're supposed to get a stuffed one as a representation of sponsorship, but they were all out of everything except meerkats and these yellow Panamanian frogs. Besides, I know you hate clutter." There is no place in her home for a stuffed toy. He glances surreptitiously at his knick-knacks and tiers of books, much of it frosted with a delicate film of dust.
"They're becoming endangered," she remarks, touching the National Zoo logo embossed on the corner of the paper. Who else but Mulder would adopt an anteater for her? And who else would know she'd love it?
"Habitat destruction," he says. "Illegal pet trade."
She looks up, surprised. "Pets? Really?"
"Really. Here I thought I was being all noble, forgoing the flashy wiles of the red panda or clouded leopard for the lowly anteater, and it turns out people are snatching them up to dress in dog sweaters." He shakes his head. "I am not hip to the trends."
Scully smiles at him. "It was a very good choice. Thank you for the anteater, Mulder. And for the candy." She picks up a plastic tube of tiny chocolate morsels, rattling it. "Are they cacao nibs?"
"Those are for your anteater," Mulder explains. "They're chocolate covered ants."
She holds the package up to her face and wrinkles her nose slightly as she inspects it. "Seriously?"
He shrugs. "Chuck Burks gets chocolate covered crickets from this place on 14th, and I thought maybe they'd have ants. Which they did."
"I don't think theobromine is very good for anteaters. It kills dogs, you know." Gingerly, she sets the candy back on the couch. "Mulder, why does Chuck Burks get chocolate covered crickets?"
"I've never asked. I'm afraid he might tell me."
She laughs. "Fair enough. Now finish opening your present." She feels unaccountably anxious and presses her hands between her knees to keep them still.
He tears the rest of the paper off the package, then grins at her. Cosmos he says happily. "A buddy of mine recorded it while I was at Oxford that first year and I watched it when I came home for Christmas break. Thanks, Scully."
She squeezes her knees a little tighter. "I ordered the whole set from PBS," she explains. "There are seven tapes and they send a new one every two to three weeks."
"I like the way Carl Sagan says 'billions,'" Mulder remarks, turning the tape over to look at the back.
Scully feels sleepy and glad. "Well, Merry Christmas, Mulder. All's well that ends well, right?"
He considers that, scant hours ago, they were bleeding to death on the floor of a haunted house. "I'd say so," he agrees, not wanting her to leave. "Why don't we watch the tape?"
She sighs and gives her watch a perfunctory glance, tickled that he's suggested it. "Mulder, it's late…"
"It was late when you got here," he points out, knowing his part in the game. "Come on, Scully. It's The Shores of the Cosmic Ocean. You can't say no."
She looks out the frost-patterned window at the lacy flakes tumbling down, gathering in puffs and drifts on the hard angles of the city. Even the roosting pigeons look beatific. "Okay," she concedes. "I hate driving in the snow."
Mulder hands her the tape. "Cue it up. I'll grab some refreshments." He gets up and walks to the kitchen, where a lurid Christmas-themed tin sits on his counter. Mrs. Eberstark from down the hall bakes him pfeffernusse and shortbread every year. There is a bundle of mistletoe and holly Scotch-taped to the lid of the tin, just above a garishly colored Rudolph. He considers it briefly, knowing it's as good an opportunity as any. He is certain she would not object. But he finds to his own surprise that he'd really like to just sit and watch Carl Sagan with her, knowing they'll be sneaking glances at one another during favorite parts. He tosses the wad of leaves into the trash can before grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge.
Scully's curled on the couch when he comes back, glowing dimly in the light of the fish tank. She has gathered all the wrapping into a tidy heap. He plunks the cookies down on the table and holds out a beer to her.
"No mulled wine?" she asks as she takes the bottle. "No eggnog?"
"What is 'nog' anyway?" he muses, sitting in the middle of the sofa. "Why the modifier?"
"The etymology is uncertain," she tells him, sipping at the foam and wishing she knew the answer.
Mulder passes her a cookie, which dusts her dark clothes with a fall of powdered sugar. He hits Play on the remote, watching Scully perk up at the music.
She is aware of his attention but not self-conscious of it. "These are such good cookies, Mulder," she remarks, her sibilants blurry. "I really need her recipes for my mom."
"I'll get them," he promises, as he does every year. He passes her a blanket, which she tucks around herself. Her feet peek out, and her left sock has a darned toe.
"There is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice…" intones Carl from the television, lulling them into silence. They eat cookies and drink beer for the next hour, smiling here and there, sometimes leaning forward to rest their elbows on their thighs. Mulder blinks and rubs his eyes when the credits roll up. Scully stretches and yawns.
She takes her certificate of anteater sponsorship from the table and tucks the rolled tube into her coat pocket. Then she picks up the chocolate covered ants and pops the lid off to shake a few into her hand. She likes the faintly horrified way Mulder is regarding her. She feels bold.
"You aren't really-"
She raises her cupped hand and tips the candy into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "They're like little Raisinets," she says airily, swallowing. They don't taste like anything but slightly chewy chocolate.
He leans forward and runs a finger behind her ear where the skin is silky and fine. Her russet hair tickles the back of his hand. "Just checking," he says, a little too thickly. "You've fooled me once before with that."
Scully ignores the little flip her stomach does, and huffs a breath of chocolate-scented air at him. "Proof positive," she says. "And besides, that was your ear. They're not bad. Do you want one?"
They both wonder if he's going to kiss her.
He doesn't. Instead he sits back, contemplating the TV. "You enjoy them. I'll call you when the second tape shows up," he says. "You can come over and watch it with me."
She puts the ants in her pocket and stands, nudging her sensible shoes on over her thick socks. "I'd like that," she tells him, already anticipating next time. She'll bring popcorn.
Mulder gets up to follow her to the door. He opens it, fiddling a little with the lock to keep his hands busy. "Merry Christmas," he tells her.
"Come with me to my mom's," she says, pausing on the threshold. "You'd have fun."
He gives her a warm smile. "Thanks for the invite, but I…Chinese food with the Gunmen. It's a tradition."
On a whim, she leans forward to kiss his cheek. Then she walks into the hall without another word, turning to go to the elevator.
He watches her go, the rolled paper sticking out from her coat pocket like a treasure map, her hair skewed from being pressed against the couch. She moves with confidence, the suggestion of a sway to her hips, though it's nothing overt and she'd likely be surprised to discover it.
Scully's gotten all sleek and polished up since going into remission, he's noticed. Her hair's been looking expensive lately, her suits going from blandly professional to impressively tailored. She doesn't button her blouses primly to the chin anymore, and while the wicked shoes she's been clicking around in have been playing fast and loose with their height differential, she still stands a little too close when she's giving one of her endless droning rationalizations.
Mulder slouches against the doorway and grins a little, willing to concede that there is perhaps something paramasturbatory in his work after all.