(no subject)

[dollsome]

Christmas ficcage, for those who asked awhile back. More to come! (I have been randomly and probably fleetingly blessed with the ability to write. How 'bout them Christmas miracles, eh?)

For agent_nica--



“We never change, do we?” It’s not a question, exactly. He holds the door open for her, like always; she steps inside and bells jingle, light and merry, as it swings shut behind both of them. They’re greeted by a could-care-less clerk and the faint, familiar hum of florescent lights. Judy Garland renders ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ incurably bittersweet from a crackling radio.

“What makes you say that?” he inquires, decidedly too awake for five thirty in the morning. A wry smile plays at her mouth as she watches him head over to the row of brightly lit refrigerators; there’s no missing the spring in his step. He’s definitely in his element, although she’s not sure what that says about him – not only willing but arguably delighted to get up in the wee hours of the morning, all in order to drive halfway across the country and investigate sightings of a malevolent Bigfoot-reminiscent creature guilty of terrorizing a public schoolyard.

Only Mulder.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she responds demurely as she trails after him. “A few days until Christmas; everyone who’s in their right mind is out finishing up last-minute Christmas shopping, and we’re at a pit stop in the middle of nowhere on our way to find Bigfoot. Again.”

“Who says we’re not finishing up last-minute Christmas shopping?” Mulder demands, spinning from a row of Sprites with flourish and presenting one to her. “Merry Christmas, Scully.”

“I’d prefer something a little more caffeinated,” she returns dryly.

“Picky, picky,” Mulder mutters under his breath as he turns away again to inspect the beverages with interest. “You didn’t ever by any chance wind up with a bunch of coal in your stocking, did you?”

She smirks and eyes a line of Cokes that look infinitely more appealing than usual. “Why?”

“You’re hard to shop for,” he informs her, turning around to flash her a grin. “I can see old Saint Nick getting a little pissed off.”

She rolls her eyes. “Seriously, Mulder. Doesn’t it seem like this could have waited ‘till January?”

“Are you kidding?” Mulder asks, considering a rootbeer with utmost concentration. “Bigfoot could have picked off half the second grade class by then.”

“Mulder.”

“What?” He decides against rootbeer and turns back to face her again. “Listen, Scully, if you really don’t want to be here, I can drive you back and then continue on solo.” He pauses for a second, and a lopsided smile takes up residence on his face. She curses him inwardly; that smile has just ensured that she’s signed on for the entire ridiculous Bigfoot endeavor. “I get it if you want to go do the Christmas shopping like a right-minded person.”

She pretends to take a moment to consider, just for dignity’s sake, before smiling back at him. “It’s all right. I think I can handle it.”

His grin widens. “I knew I could count on you.”

“As always.”

“Hey!”

She blinks, and they both turn to see the clerk glaring at them more animatedly than she would have expected possible.

“How ‘bout you and the missus make your holiday googly eyes at each other when you’re not standing with the refrigerator door open, huh?” he snaps. “That’d be real holly jolly.”

Mulder catches her eye for a moment, clearly amused, before shutting the door with flourish. “Merry Christmas,” he calls. The clerk grumbles something indiscernible in response before seeming to lose interest.

“Uh oh, Scully,” Mulder whispers, leaning in conspiratorially. “I think I might have just been degraded to the ‘naughty’ list.”

“You mean you weren’t there already?” she teases, slipping away from him to retrieve two iced teas.

“What exactly are you insinuating?”

“Never mind.” She turns back to hand him one of the iced teas. “Let’s get out of here, all right? We’ve still got a few hours of driving to do.”

Mulder nods in agreement, though the majority of his attention seems to have been captured by the iced tea. Deciding it’s best not to ask, she heads toward the check-out counter. The clerk glances up and scowls at her.

“Hey, Scully?” Mulder says from behind her.

“Yes?”

He catches up to her and waves the iced tea slightly. “You know what this means, right?”

Possibly.

“Caffeine?” she offers wryly.

He lets it go; just smiles and stands almost obediently beside her while she pays. It isn’t until they’re walking out that he decides to get difficult again. (Half a minute of agreeability, she determines, might be a new record.)

“Look up,” he instructs casually, his hand on the small of her back as they freeze for a moment in the doorway.

She’s pretty sure what to expect. Sure enough—

“Mistletoe,” she observes, as flatly as she can, and meets his gaze.

His eyes, predictably, are nothing short of alight with mischief. “You wouldn’t leave a guy hangin’, would you, Scully?”

She sighs in the most long-suffering manner she can manage, then stands on tiptoe and presses her lips to his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Mulder.”

“Merry Christmas, Scully,” he returns, smiling, and leads her back to the car.

Inside, the clerk frowns after them. “Damn newlyweds.”




For sunshine_queen--



If there is one thing that Jack Bristow has lost all tolerance for over the years, it is Christmas cheer.

Unfortunately, it has chosen to run rampant throughout A.P.O.

“Merry, uh, Merry Christmas, Mr. Bristow,” Marshall says, and hands him a candy cane along with a report documenting the members of a terrorist organization they‘ve been trailing for the past week. “Sorry I couldn’t manage a more, ya know, a better gift, but -- you’re kind of hard to shop for. Has anyone ever told you that before? I bet you get that a lot. Not that it’s -- uh, a bad thing. It’s just that you’re all mysterious. And so, uh, I just went with, um, candy canes this year, because Mitchell is sick and Carrie kinda needed some help at home and I couldn’t really go all out, like all Super Marshall Christmas Extravaganza! Heh. But, uh, anyway, I tried to personalize anyway, and, well, I picked cinnamon flavour for you, because you’re kinda like that, you know? Like, kinda ‘ehh, I dunno!’ at first, but then you suck on it a little more and it’s like, ‘okay, maybe this isn’t so bad at all!’ Er, except for the sucking part, not with the actual sucking because that kind of sounds . . . Uh, happy holidays, sir.”

After waiting for a very tense moment to ensure that he has in fact finished, Jack responds, “Thank you, Marshall.”

Marshall grins. “No problem.”

Sydney is radiant at Christmas; the holiday is nearly redeemed by this in Jack‘s eyes. He overhears her discussing at length with Nadia the ideal gift for Vaughn; they range from ties to hockey tickets before segueing off into the ridiculous.

“Some of those boxers with little hearts all over them,” Sydney suggests, giggling; she catches Jack’s eye then and beams at him. He is reminded of her as a child, five and delighted at the sight of her parents partaking in an impromptu living room waltz to Walking in a Winter Wonderland.

He smiles back, slightly, and continues walking.

Arvin is not the sort to be truly charmed by holidays after all of these years, Jack suspects, but he puts on a convincing show of sentimentality for his daughter. After a conference meeting, he takes Nadia aside and requests that they have dinner on Christmas Eve with such earnest hope that she is rendered bright-eyed and smiling despite herself. Jack recalls that Emily had always loved Christmas, and wonders if perhaps fond memories actually instill a bit of truth in those sentiments. With Arvin, it’s hard to tell.

Nadia embraces the season with all the grace and sweetness that Jack has come to expect of her. There is something disarming and fluid about how easily she’s fallen into this new life; the familiarity of unconscious hand movements and gently lilting tones, the lines of her face at certain angles all stir undesired memories. He is perfectly aware of how wrong it is to suspect her simply because she is her mother’s daughter, and yet at times the likeness is so stunning that he finds himself caught in the peculiar mixture of suspicion and blind trust that had belonged solely to Irina before.

He takes unnecessary measures to avoid her, and catches himself studying her with a precise fascination when she is not aware of his attentions. He does not know exactly why he does this, and is not sure he cares to. Still, in moments of near-desperate rationalization, he considers: he is searching, most likely, for some flaw in her loveliness, the way he had when Irina had turned herself in to the CIA years ago. He cannot shake the sense that there is some fracture there, some slight imperfection which will betray her in time. It is a déjà vu of sorts.

On Christmas Eve, he stands in Sydney’s doorway, holding a book wrapped in silver paper and overcome with a sense of hopeless inadequacy. (He does not know if she will like the book, had only settled on it after being struck with an obscure sense of panic suggesting he would find nothing better, feels as though he should know her in trivial ways as well as crucial ones - she is his daughter, after all.) The sun is shining but it is an uncomfortable, halfhearted light; gentle rain showers have appeared on and off throughout the day.

It begins to rain again as he rings the doorbell the second time. He is about to turn, reaching the decision that it might be best to come back later, when a car door slams. He turns to see Nadia stepping out of the passenger’s side, her face lit by traces of a fading smile. Weiss is driving; he rolls the window down and Nadia leans in to kiss him before the car pulls out of the driveway and she continues up the walk.

She waves when she spots him.

“Sydney’s out with Vaughn,” she calls. “They’re getting drinks for tonight.”

“Ah.”

There can be no doubting her innocence, he concludes. She reaches the doorway and stands opposite him, delight lingering on her face, raindrops on her eyelashes and in her hair.

There is nothing to suspect.

“Perhaps you could tell her I stopped by,” he requests. When he is near her, he feels ancient, emotionless.

“Of course,” Nadia smiles, and looks down at the gift. “Would you like me to take that for you?”

“No need,” he says brusquely. “I’ll come back later.”

“All right.” And then, with a softly teasing sensitivity that is very much Laura’s-- “I’m sure she’d be much happier if you gave it to her.”

“Yes, well,” he answers uselessly. “Tell her I’ll be by.”

“I will.”

He has taken a step to go when she places a hand, lightly, on his forearm. Before he can quite register, she has leaned in, her mouth has brushed his cheek; things attain a certain clarity only as she pulls away.

She glances upward, purple scarf slipping slightly to reveal her throat. He follows her gaze and discovers that mistletoe hangs, quite docile, in the doorframe.

“Merry Christmas, Jack.” The words aren’t quite whispered, but something in them conjures that particular intimacy.

“Merry Christmas,” he responds evenly, his own words loud and brisk, possessed by the odd need to prove there is nothing to hide.

He hears the door close behind her as soon as he has descended the steps. It is a foolish notion, he supposes, to expect she might watch him go.

There is nothing to suspect. This is precisely why he does.