********************************************************************* This author's e-mail address has changed to: xanaduxf@yahoo.com ********************************************************************* ***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter, and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it. ========== Mixed Drinks 3: Champagne and Orange Juice by shannono shannono@iname.com Vignette, Scully first person, Mulder/Scully UST/Romance Rated PG Spoilers (minor) through "How the Ghosts Stole Christmas" Summary: Scully second-guesses herself on the way to, and at, Mulder's. Third in the series. Author's notes: Once again unedited, so any mistakes and/ or confusion are my fault. And yes, champagne and orange juice together is actually a "mimosa," but that didn't fit the meter. Disclaimer: Ain't mine. Nuff said. ========== Champagne and Orange Juice by shannono I've been set up. And by my own mother, no less. Here I thought my only punishment for showing up late on Christmas morning was going to be that God-awful neighborhood party I've managed to avoid for a solid decade. *Nooo*, that's not enough for *her*. She's got to hand me a bottle of champagne and a handful of tiny confetti cannons and order me to go to Mulder's. Okay, so she didn't exactly order. But what else is "Here you go, Dana, and be sure to wish Fox a Happy New Year from me" supposed to mean? Knowing her, she'll call at 11:45 to make sure I'm actually there. Sigh. So here I stand outside his door, trying to come up with a better excuse for being here than "Mom told me to come." Oh well, nothing to do now but ... knock. I know he's in there. I can hear the television ... Oh. He looks surprised to see me. Not good surprised or bad surprised; just surprised. Neither of us says a word, but I lift the champagne bottle toward him slightly, and he steps aside and waves me on in. I make it about five feet before I stop. Is that a bottle of *rum* on his coffee table? I move over to look closer. It's rum all right, but the bottle's barely been touched. There's a dark drink in a rocks-style glass -- decorated with pictures of Marvin the Martian -- on the table next to it, and I realize it's a rum and Coke. Finally, Mulder says something. "Can I ... get you anything?" He sounds nervous. Unbelievable. "Actually," I say, turning back to face him, "Do you have any orange juice?" Oh boy, now he's really confused, but he nods anyway. I nod in response and head for the kitchen, setting down the champagne and confetti cannons on the end table as I go. I rummage in the refrigerator, discovering not one but *three* cartons, two of them sadly outdated. Luckily, the third is nearly brand-new and still fresh, so I take it out, then scrounge another of his souvenir-style rocks glasses from the cabinet. Mine features Pepe Le Pew. Lovely. When I get back to the living room, Mulder is holding the champagne, squinting slightly to read the label. Without looking up, he says, "And it's even Korbel." His voice is dry and bland, and I hear what he really wanted to say perfectly. He wants to know why I'm here and not with my mother or at some party. If only he'd seen where I was an hour ago ... "It's from Mom," I say, setting the glass and OJ on the coffee table without looking at him. "She said to tell you Happy New Year." I can just picture his face right now. He's wearing that mixture of confusion, doubt, and hesitant eagerness that looks so at home on him. Yes, Mulder, I want to be here, I want to say. But I figure actions speak louder than words, so I hold out my hand for the champagne. He hands it over, then simply stands and watches as I pry off foil and wire to reveal the cork. I refrain from shaking the bottle up, but the cork still gives a gratifying *POP* as it comes free. I pour the glass half-full, then set the bottle down and finish the drink off with the orange juice. I can't quite remember when I first had this particular concoction -- I think the official name is a "mimosa" -- but I've made it for years now on occasions such as this. I've never been a big fan of champagne, but this way, I like it. And champagne is, after all, traditional. I start to pick up my glass, then pause as I realize I'm still wearing my coat. So I shrug out of it first, tossing it across the end of the sofa, then pick up my drink and have a seat. Mulder quirks up one corner of his mouth. "Just make yourself at home, Scully," he says, moving around to sit at the opposite end of the sofa. I sip my drink, then point at the television. "Dick Clark is older than God," I say. "You should see that picture hanging in his attic," Mulder replies instantly, as if he's had that Dorian Gray reference in waiting for just such a moment. He picks up his own drink and takes a moderate swallow from it. I allow a half-smile to curve my mouth, then throw a glance sidelong at him. "Rum and Coke, Mulder?" I ask. His eyebrows raise. "Champagne and orange juice, Scully?" I tilt my head slightly in acknowledgement. "Guess mine's a little less common than yours," I agree. "But it's kind of a tradition, so ..." Mulder nods. "Same here," he says, looking down to watch his drink swirl around the inside of the glass. "You know I don't drink, but I started this, hell, fifteen years ago, at least. I have few enough traditions as it is, so I figure I'll stick with this one for a while." He takes another sip, and I follow suit, letting the fizzy liquid tickle my nose as I drink. Then, just as I lean back against the sofa to watch the countdown on the television, it hits me. I'm with Mulder. On New Year's. And I have no idea just what, exactly, is supposed to happen here. Jeez, I can't believe I didn't think of this before. This isn't just any old holiday. This is *New Year's*. Where everybody's just sort of required to grab the person nearest them at midnight and kiss in 1999. Slightly shaken and a little unsure now, I hazard a glance at Mulder. He's looking at me out of the corner of his eye, but when he realizes I'm looking back, he swings his gaze around to the TV again. Yeah, he's thought about it. Great. There is no way I can bow out of this gracefully. Not that I don't want to kiss him. That's not it at all. I just don't want it to be because of some tradition or something. I want it to be because we both want it. But I can't just get up and leave, and I know they're going to be showing closeups of every nutso couple on the street in New York licking each other's tonsils. So it will be impossible to ignore the subject entirely. I guess I could head things off with a nice, safe, partnerly kiss on the cheek right at midnight, before Mulder gets up the nerve to try anything else. Or ... I could kiss him *now*, so that traditional one won't be the first. I could do *what*? When did champagne start going to my head that quickly? Well, it's 11:43, so I'm a little short on time to make up my mind what to do. Choices: Kiss him now, then again at midnight. Kiss him on the cheek at midnight. Leave before midnight. Kiss him for real at midnight. This midnight deadline thing is making me feel like Cinderella. I glance at the television again. 11:49. Why don't I just go with it? I can always *blame* it on the champagne ... Okay. Here goes nothing. Drink on the coffee table. Turn towards Mulder, take his drink, set it down next to mine. Slide up onto my knees, put my hands on his shoulders, ignore the deer-caught-in-headlights look on his face, and ... Mmmmm. Good decision, Dana. Light brushes to start, but then Mulder seems to loose himself from his bonds and his hands come up, one to my hip and the other to the back of my head. His lips part, a low groan escaping, and he finally brings his tongue into play. God, I *knew* he'd be good at this. We're still touching only where our hands rest -- and at our mouths, of course -- so after another few moments, I pull back and catch his gaze. "Let's save something for the new year," I murmur, glancing over my shoulder just in time for the countdown to begin. I pick it up just after the way-too excited crowd: "Seven ... six ..." Mulder joins me then, and I turn back to him as we finish it together. "Five ... four ... three ... two ... one ..." "Happy New Year," I whisper. "Same to you," he replies, just as softly. And then we start our own new tradition.