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155 Words: An Apocalypse, A Sprig of Mistletoe, and Thou

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"—So, I forgot to buy fucking mistletoe! We still have holly, ivy, a goddamned tree—" Alex stops, hearing his own strained pitch.

"Forget it," she says tightly, emptying the shopping bag. "It doesn't matter."

The dingy two-room apartment sparkles with her efforts. Who would've thunk Marita was a closet traditionalist? It's the first Christmas they'll spend together, and with the Antichrist possibly gestating under Scully's heart, he'd say it's 50-50 whether there will be another. So who gives a damn about a sprig of—


Taking in her flushed face, long with disappointment, Alex is lost for words. Jesus, Covarrubias can be such a girl sometimes...

He walks over to her. Marita sighs and flushes deeper. "Alex, really, forget it—"

He smiles. Fingertips cupping her chin, he leans down and whispers against her lips—tidings of comfort and joy, his voice rough with conviction:

"I don't need fucking mistletoe to kiss you."