Chapter Text
She was arranging the neatly wrapped gifts under the tree, the room aglow with dim, shifting colors from the Christmas lights. The faint hum of the city outside barely reached her; inside, it was just her and the soft rustle of wrapping paper.
She picked up the one gift she’d chosen for Mulder, turning it over in her hands. Her fingers traced the edge of the ribbon, but her mind was elsewhere—still trapped in that house.
She couldn’t quite make sense of what had happened tonight—what had happened to them. It was supposed to be a calm Christmas Eve dinner with her family, the usual warmth and predictability. Instead, she had ended up in that haunted mansion with Mulder.
Were they really ghosts they’d encountered there… or had those spirits only mirrored the ones inside her own mind? The fragments of doubt, the flickering images of mortality, the quiet terror of a life half-lived?
Was her life really so small, so contained, that she’d chosen that over family? To follow him—always him—into his obsessions, even on Christmas Eve? Was that devotion… or dependency?
But then again, wasn’t he the only one who saw her?
Maybe it wasn’t codependency. Maybe it was something far deeper—something she didn’t have a name for yet. He filled the quiet spaces she couldn’t fill alone. He was her comfort, her chaos, her companion in the dark corners of the world.
The clock struck 2 a.m. She wasn’t the least bit tired.
Her gaze fell once more on the small, rectangular gift. It felt suddenly too heavy for its size.
She needed to see him—to prove to herself that what had happened wasn’t still happening, that they were alive, breathing, real.
Or maybe she just didn’t want to be alone tonight.
Scully stood, pulled on her jacket, and without another thought, left the apartment.
He was still sitting on the couch, exactly where he’d landed hours ago, his leather jacket creased and unzipped. The faint, flickering light of the television painted his face in shades of blue and gold, the sound of an old Christmas carol movie filling the quiet. His head rested against the back of his arm, eyes unfocused.
He wasn’t really watching. His thoughts were still trapped in the mansion.
He knew what had happened was real. He felt it in his bones, the same way he felt the weight of her disbelief pressing somewhere behind his ribs. It wasn’t the first time Scully refused to believe what her eyes had seen, but tonight it felt heavier—like she was pushing away something more than just the supernatural.
Sometimes, that scared him. Not the ghosts, not the darkness, but the thought of losing her. He had no doubts about her loyalty, but her relentless rationalism—her goddamned need for logic—might one day be the very thing that pulled her away from him.
And maybe those ghosts had been right. Maybe he was lonely.
Not lonely in the ordinary sense—he didn’t crave company, or family, or a warm body on the other side of the bed. He was lonely because without her, none of it meant anything. Without Scully, the work, the pursuit, the truth—it would all collapse into static.
He wasn’t desperate, but he was desperate for her.
Lydia’s voice echoed through his mind: “Maybe you two should have discussed your real feelings before you came out here.”
Had she seen through him that easily? Read his thoughts the way ghosts supposedly could?
What were his real feelings, anyway? Respect, admiration—sure. But also the aching desire to come home, find her there, and wrap his arms around her until the world made sense again. Too many nights he’d fallen asleep chasing that thought.
He sighed. Damn ghosts. They’d really gotten into his head.
The sudden knock on the door startled him. He froze for a moment, blinking at the sound, then stood up and turned off the TV. Silence fell heavy around him as he walked toward the door.
When he opened it, Scully stood there—hair tousled, breath visible in the cold hallway air, her expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and hesitation.
“I, uh… I couldn’t sleep. I was, um…” she sighed softly. ”Can I come in?”
“Yeah..” Mulder reached out, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder before drawing her into the apartment. He closed the door behind her, the soft click sealing them away from the rest of the world. They both looked exhausted—haunted, even—but somehow relieved to see each other.
“Aren’t you supposed to be opening Christmas gifts with your family?”
“Mulder…” She hesitated, her eyes searching his. “None of that really happened out there tonight… That was all in our heads, right?”
He paused, uncertain, caught between truth and her need for reason. “I—it must have been.”
“Mmm.” She gave a small, wry smile. “Not that, uh, my only joy in life is proving you wrong.”
He arched an eyebrow. “When have you proved me wrong?”
“Well… why else would you want me out there with you?”
“You didn’t want to be there?”
Scully had no answer. The silence between them pulsed—quiet but full of meaning.
Mulder looked down, half-smiling at himself. “Oh, that’s, um… that’s self-righteous and… narcissistic of me to say, isn’t it?”
“No, I mean…” she said softly, a rare vulnerability threading through her voice. “Maybe I did want to be out there with you.”
Their eyes met, and for a moment neither of them spoke. The air between them thickened with something unspoken, something fragile but real.
Then Mulder cleared his throat. “Now, um… I know we said that we weren’t going to exchange gifts but, uh… I got you… a little something.”
With a shy smile, he held out a small, neatly wrapped tubular package—the size of a short paper towel roll.
“Mulder…” she whispered.
“Merry Christmas,” he said simply.
“Well, I got you a little something, too.”
Embarrassed, she reached into her coat and produced a small, rectangular package—the size of a book or maybe a videotape. He chuckled as they exchanged gifts, the tension easing into something lighter.
He shook his, teasingly, and she grinned—playful, for once. Then, like two kids caught up in the quiet magic of the night, they hurried over to the couch and began opening their presents side by side.
Outside, snow fell softly against the windowpane, blurring the world beyond. Inside, the air felt warmer—alive with a quiet, hesitant joy.
They sat close, knees brushing, paper rustling as they opened their gifts.
Mulder unwrapped his first—a slim, hardcover volume of The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry. He stared at it, then laughed softly.
“You realize this is cruel irony, right?” he said, looking up at her. “The story about two people who give up what they love most for each other?”
Scully smiled faintly, her eyes tracing the edges of his expression. “Maybe I thought you’d appreciate the moral.”
“Which is?”
“That sometimes the act of giving matters more than the gift.”
He looked at her for a long moment, something unguarded flickering in his gaze. “You know, Scully, you can be surprisingly sentimental when you try.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t get used to it.”
He grinned and reached for the wrapping on her gift. Inside was a small telescope—portable, compact, the kind meant for backyard stargazing. She turned it over in her hands, speechless for a moment.
“Mulder… this is…” She looked up at him. “You remembered.”
“I remember a lot of things,” he said quietly. “You once told me you missed looking at the stars as a kid. Thought maybe you’d want to start again.”
The warmth in her chest tightened. She set the telescope down carefully on the coffee table, her eyes catching his. “That’s… actually really thoughtful of you.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he teased, but his voice softened. “I can do sentimental too, you know.”
The snow outside thickened, pressing against the window like a muffled curtain. The only light came from the lamp near the couch, flickering across their faces.
Scully shrugged off her jacket and sank into the couch, drawing her legs beneath her. The soft lamplight caught in her hair. “This doesn’t feel like any Christmas I’ve ever had.”
Mulder tilted his head toward her. “No ghosts, no gunfire, no government conspiracies? Yeah, I can see how that’s unsettling for you.”
She gave a small laugh, the sound light and almost musical. “I meant—quiet. Simple. Nice.”
He smiled. “You make it sound like I planned it that way.”
“Did you?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
The silence lingered, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Scully reached out absently, brushing a fleck of paper from his sleeve. The movement was small, instinctive, but it made his breath catch.
She noticed. “You’re quiet.”
He met her gaze. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About how close I came tonight to losing you.” His voice was low, steady, but something raw lived beneath it.
She met his gaze - green eyes shadowed, tender, aching. For a second, the air between them stilled. “You didn’t,” she said softly.
“No,” he agreed. “But I thought I might. And that thought… kind of undid me, Scully.”
“Mulder…” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
He shook his head slightly, as if brushing it off. “Forget it. It’s late. I’m tired. Clearly the ghosts got me sentimental.”
But she didn’t let it go. “No. Don’t. I get it.”
Their eyes met again, and this time neither looked away. The tension was quiet but undeniable—like static before a storm.
Mulder exhaled softly and pushed himself up from the couch. As he stood, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and tossed it over the armrest. The movement was easy, unthinking, but Scully’s gaze followed him. Beneath the soft lamplight, the white T-shirt stretched across his shoulders and arms, the faint shadows tracing muscle and movement as he ran a hand through his hair.
“Coffee?” he asked over his shoulder, his voice roughened by the late hour.
She blinked, caught off guard by the simple offer. “You’re making coffee at four in the morning?”
He half-smiled. “I make terrible life choices, Scully. Why stop now?”
That earned the smallest laugh from her—quiet, familiar.
He disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of cupboard doors and the soft clink of mugs filling the silence. The old coffee maker sputtered to life, its hum steady and comforting. She leaned back on the couch, watching him move—unhurried, calm, the domesticity of it strangely intimate after the chaos of the night.
When he returned, he carried two steaming mugs, a faint curl of heat rising between them. Without a word, he handed one to her. Their fingers brushed as she took it, the contact brief but charged.
He sat down beside her again, closer this time. As she took the first sip, the warmth spread through the quiet space between them. She had loosened a button on her white blouse, her collar slightly open, her hair falling loosely around her face. The faint scent of her perfume—something warm and understated—carried through the air, mingling with the aroma of coffee.
“Not bad,” she murmured, words soft as the steam that rose between them.
He tilted his head, pretending offense. “You sound surprised.”
“I am,” she said, smiling into her mug.
He grinned, his eyes tracing her face for a beat too long before looking away. The soft glow from the lamp caught on her skin, and for a moment, he wondered if the ghosts had been right about at least one thing—loneliness had a way of vanishing when she was near.
“You know,” she said, half-teasing, “for someone who doesn’t believe in the Christmas spirit, you’re not doing too bad tonight.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he murmured. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
She smiled, lips curving slowly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
They sat in silence again, the snow still falling outside, the radiator humming softly.
He was the first to speak. “Why did you come here, Scully?”
“I told you—I couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s not the only reason.”
She hesitated, then sighed, unguarded. “No. It’s not.”
The quiet between them deepened, dense and full. His eyes searched hers—not teasing, but open, wondering.
“I keep thinking about what that ghost said,” he said finally. “About loneliness.”
“They were manipulative,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
“Maybe. But maybe they were also right.”
Scully’s fingers traced the rim of her mug. “Loneliness isn’t something you fix by chasing ghosts.”
Without realizing it, she had shifted closer. Their thighs touched, their shoulders brushed. The distance between them had all but dissolved, he could feel the faint heat radiating from her body, the whisper of fabric against his skin each time she breathed. His posture was relaxed, but his attention fixed on her.
Scully’s gaze flicked to his mouth, then up again to meet his eyes.
“You ever think maybe this…” her voice faltered slightly, “whatever this is between us… isn’t just proximity?”
He looked at her for a long moment. “I think,” he said slowly, “it’s the only thing that’s real.”
Something in her softened at that. She exhaled, eyes closing briefly, as if surrendering something long held back.
When she opened them, he was still there—waiting, never pushing.
Her hand came up, brushing his cheek, the contact brief but electric. He turned into it, eyes half-closing, his breath warm against her palm.
“Mulder,” she whispered, a teasing edge in her voice, “promise me you’ll never pull a gun on me again… not even on Christmas Eve.”
He chuckled softly, a low, warm sound, and his eyes softened as he looked at her. “No promises,” he said, his tone just as playful, yet there was something in his gaze that betrayed how much he trusted her.
She smiled faintly, leaning closer. “I’m serious.”
He didn’t reply with words this time. Instead, he tilted his head toward hers, and their lips met in a slow, tentative kiss, testing, gentle. When they parted, neither spoke. She stayed close, her forehead resting lightly against his. With eyes shut, they let the closeness settle around them, savouring the unspoken connection.The small space between them filled with mingling breaths, a quiet, charged pause.
Scully parted for a brief moment to set her mug carefully on the coffee table, freeing her hands. Without a word, she leaned back into him, cupping the back of his head as she pressed her mouth to his. The kiss was firm, more certain this time, the intensity of their shared emotions pouring into it.
He responded instinctively, his hands grabbing her waist and drawing her closer, grounding her to his firm chest. The whimper escaped her lips as his tongue darted inside her mouth. His body shivered at the sound, a jolt of closeness left them both breathless.
Their kissing deepened fast — breath quickening, tongues and teeth clashing in a rhythm that blurred the line between urgency and surrender. Hands roamed freely, tracing the heat beneath the thin fabric that barely separated skin from skin. Time slipped away, meaningless in the haze of their fevered exploration.
Her fingers trailed down from his shoulders, over the tense lines of his sides, until they found the hem of his shirt. In one swift, determined motion, she slid beneath it and pulled it over his head, breaking their kiss for the first time.
They froze — eyes locked, chests heaving. His gaze had changed; dark now, heavy with something primal, dangerous. She felt it, matched it, and without breaking that charged connection, she lifted her own shirt slowly, deliberately, revealing the smooth pale skin beneath.
He swallowed hard, his thoughts scattering like ash. He couldn’t comprehend it — what was happening in front of him, what she was doing to him — only that he was powerless to stop it.
“Scully…” — a breath more than a sound escaped his lips — before claiming her mouth again. Rising from the couch, he lifted her effortlessly, and her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. The movement pressed them closer, and she felt the hard strain of his arousal against her. A low, involuntary growl escaped her throat, swallowed by his kiss. Her fingers tangled in his hair, gripping hard as a rush of heat unfurled deep inside her, fierce and consuming.
Still locked in a kiss, he carried her toward the darkened bedroom. The moment they hit the bed, it gave beneath them, rippling under their weight. He hovered over her, his breath uneven, his mouth trailing along her jaw, her throat — finding the wild, frantic pulse beneath her skin. Each touch felt like a claim, a question, a promise.
Her fingers slid to his waist, fumbling at the edge of his jeans as she started unbuttoning. He caught her hand, stopping her — and for a second, the air changed. Their eyes met in the dim light. Hers were fierce, unguarded, blazing with need; his, dark and uncertain. Her flushed face, her tousled hair — she was a vision that undid him completely.
“Scully…” His voice was rough when he finally spoke. “Are we… really doing this?”
Her breath came shallow, her lips parting around a single word that sounded more like a plea than an answer. “Yes.”
And with that, the distance between them shattered. She pulled him back into the fervent kiss as he pulled off his trousers, then his boxers freeing his straining erection. The rest of her clothes followed, the last barrier between their heated bodies fell away, leaving nothing but skin, breath and the pulse of something inevitable between them.
She drew in a sharp breath as his mouth landed on her puckered nipple. The air seemed to thicken, charged with heat and the weight of everything unsaid. His touch made her arch toward him, a broken sound escaping her lips —”Mulder…” half-whisper, half-prayer — filling the silence that surrounded them.
His hands explored her as if memorizing her shape, his touch both reverent and desperate. When his fingers reached her wet entrance, she met him with a sharp intake of breath, her body responding before words could form. The air between them vibrated with want, every heartbeat drawing them closer to the edge of control.
He looked into her eyes — wide, dark, her pupils dilated— and whatever restraint he had left began to unravel. He circled around her clit before slipping fingers inside of her with ease. She rolled her eyes, moan escaping her lips. “Oh God… Mul…” Her body twitched under the ministrations of his fingers, her fists clasped the sheet under her, her pelvis jerking up, urging him on.
His body trembled at the sight before him — at the realization that he could touch her, make her respond, draw those sounds from her that left him undone. His erection was almost painful, pressing into her thigh as he fervently worked her opening.
“Jesus, Mulder!!” she groaned as a shudder tore through her, her hands finding him, pulling him closer as if to anchor herself. He pressed his lips to her shoulder, tasting the salt of her skin while the tremor of her breath moved through both of them.
She was still trembling when she shifted, rolling him onto his back and straddling him. For the first time, he saw her fully — unguarded, luminous in the half-light - her perky breasts, her alabaster skin, her freckles. His breath caught; she was all grace and power, every movement deliberate, every glance a challenge.
Her touch was slow, her fingers tracing a path down his chest, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. She pulled herself up as she reached between them, taking his swollen length in her hand. He drew in a sharp breath, his self-control hanging by a thread as the balance between them shifted completely.
She licked her lips, eyes locked on his, letting the slow, deliberate gesture speak louder than any words. She didn’t waste any time as she coated the tip of his member with her fluids before sliding it slowly inside of her. She whimpered at the intrusion as he probed inch by inch, adjusting herself to his size.
The energy in the room intensified, every movement and touch charged with urgency and desire, leaving them both breathless.
“Ughh..” His breath caught, his mind stuttering under the intensity of the moment - feeling her, being inside of her, was almost unreal. He let her lead, letting her set the pace, never rushing, never pushing. He pressed himself against her, his hands on her hips trying to steady his trembling body, grounding himself in the warmth and weight of their shared closeness. Every heartbeat, every shallow breath made it harder to think, harder to resist the pull between them.
As she adapted to him, she started to move slowly, her hips circling on top of him. She quickly found her rhythm, her movements grew more confident, hands pressing against him as if anchoring herself. He mirrored her, matching her pace, and the room filled with the sound of their quickened breaths, soft gasps, and the unspoken electricity between them.
As her movements faltered, uneven and breathless, she collapsed on his chest as he started to push fervently up inside of her. Her body tensed, hands clenching his hair, her lungs fighting for air.
“Jesus, Mulder!” Pressed against him, she let muffled cries escape into his neck, raw and unrestrained, each one carrying the weight of everything she felt.
He shifted her quickly onto her back, holding her close as the heat between them surged. He pulled up her legs around his waist, sliding deeper into her and continued pumping fervently. Every last trace of restraint fell away, leaving only the fierce, consuming pull of desire and need. The penetration was untamed, feral, filling her up to her cervix, heat boiling in her swollen clit.
“Fuck, Mulder!” her cries became louder, the heat pooling in her lower belly. She felt as if she might ignite from the intensity coursing through her.
Heat coiled through him, uncontainable, and he felt on the brink of exploding as her slick inner walls started to shrink and pulse around his straining penis, swallowing him deeper with every movement.
“I’m gonna… Mulder…” Her voice trembled with need. “Come with me,” she breathed, holding him close, pulling him toward the edge, her nails scraping his back. “Aghhh…!!” She tensed, her back arching into him, her eyes rolled back, her breath stuck in her throat as she exploded around him.
“Aghhh Scull…Fuck!” It was too much to hold back — the heat, the tension, the pull between them — and his body betrayed him. He trembled, letting out a guttural groan, her name tearing from his lips as the intensity consumed him. His hands clanched at her hair, his mouth on her neck as he pushed last time before he spilled over - his mind combusted, leaving only fire and pulse.
Spent, they lay together in the dark room, quiet except for their uneven breathing and the soft sound of snow tapping against the windows. Mulder shifted slightly and pulled Scully close from behind, wrapping his arm around her. She rested her head against his chest, and for a long moment neither spoke, just felt the presence of the other.
It was a small comfort, but it was enough. In that embrace, neither of them felt lonely—not tonight, not ever when they had each other. The world outside could be cold and distant, full of ghosts and questions, but here, they had something solid, something real.
As some time passed, the faint light of dawn began to seep into the room. Outside, the sky was heavy with clouds and snow, still dark and quiet, but the early morning glow started to soften the shadows, brushing the room with pale, silvery light.
Scully shifted slightly, still nestled against him, and inhaled before letting out a slow, deliberate exhale. “Mulder… do you… want to come with me to my mother’s place today?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “You mean… right after this?” He gestured vaguely to the space between them, a half-grin tugging at his lips. “I mean, I’m not exactly dressed for a family breakfast. And, um… your brother might, ah… formally disapprove of my presence.”
Scully pressed closer, just enough to ground him. “He might, yes. But I want you there. I don’t care about Bill.”
Mulder let out a low, incredulous laugh. “You want me to invade your mother’s peaceful Christmas with… Bill’s suspicious glares? I should be flattered—or terrified. Maybe both.”
Scully tilted her head at him, expression patient but firm. “You don’t have to be either. Just come.”
He leaned slightly, tracing her arm with his fingers in a small, absent gesture of comfort. “You’re serious?”
“As serious as you are,” she replied softly, voice full of quiet warmth.
He stared at her for a long moment, then exhaled, shaking his head with a mix of bemusement and surrender. “Fine. I’ll go. But if Bill tries to start anything, I’m holding you responsible.”
She smiled faintly, shifting gently in his embrace to face him, and placed a soft, lingering kiss on his lips. “Deal.”
He let out a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against hers. “You really do know how to get your way.”
“I just want you there with me,” she murmured, her hand brushing along his arm.
For a few moments, they stayed like that, wrapped in the quiet warmth of the room, the pale dawn light filtering through the snowy windows. Their fingers brushed, bodies pressed together, sharing the comfort of being close.
He leaned in briefly, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “Merry Christmas.”
She returned the smile, her voice low and warm. “Merry Christmas, Mulder.”