From: jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu
Date: Mon, 07 Dec 1998 19:42:06 GMT
Subject: NEW! Christmas in Space (1/1)

Christmas in Space
by Jennifer Stoy (jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu)
Warning/Disclaimer: 1013/CC/FOX are the rightful owners of the X-Files
text, and I'm a textual poacher. I've appropriated Mulder, Scully, Dr.
Seuss, numerous name brands, Tori Amos, and the holiday season for my own
uses. However, I'm not getting paid, so don't sue. (PG MSR VR(H?)
Holiday-Fic, spoilers to Dreamland II, summary: Mulder and Scully get into
the good eggnog)

Look, ma, I wrote a slurpee! Yes, I'm unabashedly romantic about the
holidays, so send all death threats and stunned feedback to
jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu, and have a lovely season.

Christmas in Space

I am a creature of extremes. Until I was twelve years old, I wanted to be
a holy man. A rabbi, a monk, a missionary, it didn't matter. Then I woke
up one morning, changed my mind, and basically decided I was an atheist. I
know the obvious explanation here is that my sister's disappearance caused
me to lose all faith in God. It could be true in this case. But Fox Mulder
is famous for doing surprise 180s for no discernible reason.

Case in point: when I decided which college to attend. I got in everywhere
I applied, and it was a choice between Dartmouth, Harvard, and Oxford. I
decided Dartmouth. I wanted to go to Dartmouth, I was sure-- pretty damn
sure-- and then, well-- three days before D-Day, I marched up to my father
and told him I was going to Oxford. Case closed. This was after we'd told
our entire family and all my friends I was a Dartmouth man. Dad took it
fairly well, but Grandma Mulder pitched a fit and went to my cousin
Arden's graduation instead of mine. She claimed I was wishy-washy.

I'm not wishy-washy. When I make a decision, I'm absolutely sure it's
right, and I stick to my guns. It's just that I can change my mind when
I'm absolutely sure I was wrong. When I realized I was wrong about
extraterrestrials, I could see the perfection and logic of a government
conspiracy in lieu of aliens. It made sense. It was right. But the truth
is, EBEs exist. QED. I was wrong about being wrong. I've been wrong
before, I'll probably be wrong again. And I just don't do in-between. I
understand the principle of in-between; one of my roommates at Oxford was
a lit major who talked incessantly about deconstruction and the
instability of the text ad infinitum. But I like binaries: black/white,
good/bad, man/woman. It's how I exist. Postmodernism can go chase itself.

And so, I've had a conversion involving holidays. The holidays have never
had a pleasant connotation in my book. Count the catastrophes: Samantha's
disappearance around the time, dealing with a drunk father and a silent
mother during my teens, to say nothing of watching Scully lose her father
and Emily during Christmas. Before now, I was grinchier than the Grinch. I
got perfunctory gifts for my mother and Scully. Other than that, my
favorite holiday traditions involved the Eight Nights of Playboy's Finest
and breaking every candy cane I came across. I still don't like candy
canes. But I'm no longer the Grinch who stole Chanukah or whatever.

I really hate to admit this, but it was one of those 'It's a Wonderful
Life' type changes. One afternoon in early December, I was cruising the
local mall (actually, I was playing the flaneur because Mick at AirTouch
was fixing my cell phone) when I looked into-- God help me-- "Helen's
Holiday Hide-A-Way." So I was definitely feeling masochistic, okay?

So there I am, envisioning ways to destroy the hide-a-way, nothing too
grotesque: fire, earthquake, a swarm of killer bees, two really pissed off
Wienerschnitzel employees-- when I suddenly spot myself and Scully inside
that first circle of Hell. We were appraising ornaments.

I quickly realized it couldn't be my evil twin and my lovely partner,
though. The couple inside were looking at goofy reindeer ornaments with
smiles of delight. The real me would have been on the U.S.S. Enterprise
ornaments like ham on eggs, and Scully would have retaliated with dainty
Austrian crystal ballerinas. We'd end up completely at odds, and the
tree-- if we went with a tree-- would have to be neatly divided in half.
And we'd be thrilled about it.

So, yeah, yeah, yeah, they say in DC that Fox Mulder's heart grew three
sizes that day. It was an accident! I wasn't all that converted when I
retrieved my precious cell phone, grabbed some Chinese at the food court,
and went home. I can't explain how I woke up the next morning brimming
with Yuletide cheer. It might have been the Elvis; the clock radio was
playing "Blue Christmas" when I woke up. But the magic of the season had
me in its tinseled, consumerist clutches before I finished my shower.

On the way to work that day, between yodeling out White Christmas and Adam
Sandler's Chanukah song, I had two major epiphanies. One was much more
important than the other. I realized suddenly how hellish manic-depressive
Mulder-attention had to be on Scully. I adore her, I rely on her, but I
treat her-- oy. One day I'm declaring I love you, you're my one in five
billion, the next day, boom, I'm off with Diana Fowley somewhere. After
five years of that, I'm surprised I've only been shot once.

The second epiphany was the happy marriage of my new resolution to treat
Scully right and my new holiday fetish thing. Which is why it's December
22, and I'm sitting in my living room waiting for Special Agent Scully to
make her appearance.

She doesn't knock, of course. She simply lets herself in and stares.

"Mulder?" she asks, sounding faintly horrified.

"Merry Christmas, Scully," I offer lamely before she pins me to my spot
with her Glock.

"What are you and where's Mulder?" she asks.

"It's me! Uhhh-- your dog's name was Queequeg, and I once kicked it across
your apartment for pissing on my Bruno Maglis," I say as she eyes the
(fake) Christmas tree. I'm very proud of that little tree. It's decked out
in every Hallmark keepsake Trek and alien ornament I could find, and at
least some of the lights are blinking. Plus, there are a few uber-cheesy
ornaments I'll have to explain to her later, like the "Our First
Christmas" one. "We do this whole identity affirmation thing a lot. You
chained the last Mulder imposter to my bed. It was a nice touch."

She nods slowly, and eyes the tray of Christmas cookies sitting on the
coffee table.

"They're from a tin!" I protest. "Last month, remember, I was in the
Bermuda Triangle. When I was in the hospital, out of my mind on opiates, I
told you I loved you, and I mean it Scully, I love you."

"Why is this place decked out like Vegas, Mulder?" she says, finally
lowering the gun. "Are we having the long-promised 'I Hate the Holidays'
fiesta?"

"No. Just the opposite as a matter of fact."

"Mulder, you once told me that if you'd been the Grinch Who Stole
Christmas, you not only would have burnt the Who's presents, you would
have beat up Cindy Lou Who for good measure," Scully says.

"Well, I had this revelation. Two revelations, actually. Butter cookie?" I
ask. "There's eggnog in the fridge."

"Okay. So explain these revelations," she says, taking the tray and
sitting back in my chair. "Go get me some eggnog, Mulder."

I walk to the kitchen, over her complaints. "I can't believe I didn't
realize it was you right off. Your apartment is still a mess, despite the
glittery facade. And you're still a lousy host. Now get me the eggnog and
revelations, Mulder. The cookies aren't *that* good."

I present her with a cup of eggnog and sit directly in front of her. Her
bright blue eyes meet mine, and she absently licks off a nog moustache
while staring me down.

"Well, I had this sudden realization. I love the holidays. I watched _A
Christmas Story_ twice this weekend. I did *this*. I even seriously
considered caroling."

"This is sudden."

"I know. It's very me. I realized that, too. I never do anything in
moderation. It's always one extreme or the other, which often results in
me not treating you very well."

"Mulder--"

"One day, I'm all about appreciation and adoration, but a lot of the time,
I ditch you, I belittle you, I make life difficult. It's not right,
Scully. I love you too much to--"

"Mulder, hush!" she snaps. "You've said I love you three times tonight.
Mulder, I already understand your whole yo-yo personality. I'm glad it's
finally become glaringly obvious to you, too. But don't you-- don't you
dare use the phrase I love you without realizing what it means to me."

I nod, and take a deep breath. I can either win big or lose Scully for
good right here. Surrounded by blinking lights and Burl Ives.

"I'm not, and never would, use that phrase lightly. But I want to know
what it means to you and to us," I say slowly.

"It means this is for real. It's not something you say because you're in
love with life and the holidays all of the sudden, or because your
therapist advised it to help you. When you tell me you love me, you better
god-damned well mean it. And it has to be for me and not for you, Mulder.
Do you understand?"

"I do. Scully, you are the most important person in my life ever. And I
know sometimes I can be a real jerk, and I'm not good enough for you--"

"Mulder," she interrupts again. "You're plenty good enough, if you mean
it. I need to know it's you and not the eggnog."

"I hate eggnog. I got it for you. And I mean it. I love you."

She just sits back in her chair, stunned. She shakes her head.

"Scully?"

"I don't know what to say," she whispers. "Wow. We had the talk and the
world didn't end."

"Well, maybe it will once you see what I got you for a present," I say. I
scramble over to the tree and pull out a long, flat box, wrapped in silver
foil and a red velvet bow. The determined confusion on her face is
delightful as she tries to reason out what I got her. She deftly-- maybe
eagerly-- unwraps the package with her graceful, beautiful fingers, and
opens the pretty box underneath. I grin at her sudden disbelief at
seeing-- twelve slips of paper. She picks one up at random and reads.

"Good for ten bagels from the Bagel Factory," she reads. "Mulder--"

"Real cream cheese included."

"You didn't just redo the twelve days of Christmas, did you?" she asks,
waving the slips of paper at me. "Hmm-- five golden rings-- oh. So
instead, I get one golden ring and two sets of earrings-- from Tiffany's!
Mulder!"

"I know. It's corny," I apologize with a nasty grin. "Like for the twelfth
day, a dozen long stemmed roses will be delivered to your desk on January
3rd. It's not original. I got it from a book, but--"

"What do I get tonight?" she asks, waving away my doubts. "One dinner,
cooked and presented by you."

I jump up. "Shit!"

"What?"

"I left dinner in the oven and it's burnt," I say, rushing into the
kitchen. Yep, definitely ruined. "God, I suck. I'm the worst wannabe lover
ever."

She follows me and stands there silently. I realize eventually that she's
trying not to laugh. Her face is shaking like a bowlful of jelly.

"Mulder, you-- if I didn't already love you, this would be a major
recommendation for it. Really," she says.

"But I burnt dinner."

"We'll make do. That's sort of us, isn't it?" she asks. "I kind of have a
craving now for breakfast anyway. And Mulder?"

"Yeah?" I ask, placing the burnt meal in the trash and the dishes in the
sink.

"I love you," she says. "And I mean it."

I bite my lip. Good night, I'd better not cry. I put the last dish into
the sink and turn around. Scully is waiting. I reach out and squeeze her
hand.

"You want breakfast? Let's go to House of Pies," I say, not letting go.
"Breakfast every hour."

She squeezes back. "It could save the world."

So we go. I order pumpkin pie, she orders Belgian waffles with whipped
cream and strawberries. We talk some, we drink hot chocolate-- House of
Pies has great hot chocolate. I break the little candy canes our waitress
gives us. We hold hands and look out the window.

Yeah. It's official. I love the holidays.

The End
Notes: The title is a subtitle of a Tori Amos B-Side, "Purple People."
Yeah, I slapped myself for being so cliche, too. Let's see, what else.
House of Pies really exists, but it's in Houston. The hot chocolate really
is amazing, I would have tried the pie, but the time I went, I was broke
and carsick at the time, so next time, definitely. This one's for my
parents, who buy twelve-foot Christmas trees and love Disneyland. (Me,
too.)