TITLE: Fast Away the Old Year
Passes
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL:
ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/Sk
RATING: R (as in Rright!). M/Sk. This story contains suggestions of
slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing -STOP
NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you
have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.
SUMMARY: Post Holiday melancholia
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist .
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No specific time frame ... just back in the
days when Mulder existed in more than our memories, Skinner was his
boss, and the world was slashy and good.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Skinner R
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files
characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th
Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and
no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they
really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But when I
become king ...
Author's notes: A small dollop of hope for the New Year. A Christmas pressie for Slashing Mulder and companie.
If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.
Fast Away
the Old Year Passes
by Mik
I hate office parties of any kind, but especially office Christmas
parties. I don't know how I got coerced into hosting this year's
party. It was no better (nor no worse, thank God) than any other
year's party. The same music, the same booze, the same ridiculous
trays of ridiculously small foodstuffs, the same guests, the same
gossip, the same stupid games and gift exchanges, and the same
interminable wait for it to all be over.
I think the only thing different about this party was that Mulder was there. He's become legend at finding ways out of the invitation even though there is an unspoken law that says everyone must attend, short of death. I showed up in their basement office and hand delivered the invitations, with a very stern look that said `No excuses accepted.' He tried to start something about coming down with a cold, but I cut that short with one glance. Agent Scully merely tucked hers into her purse and nodded obediently.
Mulder wasn't the most gracious of guests. He looked sullen as he followed Scully through my front door, holding out a bottle of something ... I don't remember now what it was, I doubt he could name it ... the requisite hosting gift, I suppose. I nodded, took their coats and thanked them rather sarcastically for coming. Scully murmured something appropriate, I think thanking me for the invitation, and moved down the foyer and into the living room.
Mulder hovered a moment. His skin was dark and flushed, probably from the cold outside. He didn't seem particularly willing to follow Scully. I gave him an impatient nudge as I started for the den to put their coats down. "Go try to have some fun, Mulder. It won't kill you."
"With that crowd," he muttered, trying to work up a smile, "it might."
I have to admit, he made an effort. Naturally, X-Files jokes abounded when he actually made it out into the living room. He took it fairly good-naturedly. I watched him as I did my hosting duties. He didn't find the darkest corner and sulk. He poured himself a drink and worked the little knots of people with a tight smile on his face. I never actually saw him drink, and I never even saw him near the food, but he made good guest gestures and didn't piss anyone off. In point of fact, he actually made one or two people laugh.
We got through the food, and a halfhearted attempt at dancing on the terrace, and a couple of pathetic attempts at Christmas carols for which one of the secretaries had printed up and passed around lyrics sheets. I think that's about when Mulder disappeared into the kitchen and didn't come out again. The gift exchange was the last ritual before people could start politely excusing themselves. There were calls for an official Santa, and since there wasn't enough money or jeopardy to induce me to do it, someone got the bright idea to get Mulder to do it. Despite his protests, and at one point, whines, he found himself in front of a stack of hastily wrapped gifts that had all probably spent the last year in various cupboards after being received at last year's party. He didn't like the idea, and I'm pretty sure he was swearing under his breath, but he attempted to get into the spirit of things by tying a white tea towel around his face in a semblance of a beard, and managed a few weak `ho ho ho's while he drew numbers and passed out gifts.
There were rounds of forced laughter, or alcohol induced groans as each gift was opened and displayed. I got a really ugly nutcracker. Mulder got a tie with smiley faces. I think it was a plant and that Scully made sure he got it, because she was the only one who looked genuinely amused. I believe she got a Coca Cola series tree ornament the size of a quarter.
The sober people left first, murmuring vague things about getting up early the next day. One by one we coaxed the less sober ones into taxies. Scully got a ride back with someone else driving toward Georgetown. To my surprise, Mulder offered to stay and help clean up the mess. Not that I wasn't grateful for the help, but I had to protest anyway. "That's all right, Agent, it's late, and I'm --"
He shrugged and started bagging up scattered bits of wrapping paper. "I'm sober and in no rush to get anywhere. It just makes sense I should help."
I thought about pulling rank and sending him home, just because it was so damned awkward, but instead I started collecting glasses.
It was strange having him in my house, late at night, in semi-darkened rooms, silent, moving with purpose. Unlike my expectations of him, he didn't seem to feel a need to fill the time with chatter. He just worked. And he was thorough. He didn't leave a sector until it was cleared. As I worked in the kitchen, filling up the dishwasher, I heard him locate and run the Hoover over the carpets in the living room, dining room and hallway.
Just as I was getting the last of the glasses loaded, he came in with several large trash bags. "Where's your dumpster? I'll take them down."
"Leave them by the door," I told him. "I'll take them down in a little bit." I went to the kitchen door and surveyed my living area with satisfaction. He'd gathered every scrap of paper, every paper plate, napkin or punch cup, he'd even taken down all the superfluous decorations and balloons. He had restored my house to pre-party order. "You've missed your calling, Agent," I told him with a chuckle. "You should have been in housekeeping."
"Something to fall back on if this Bureau thing doesn't work out," he told me, stacking Hefty bags in the foyer.
"I think you've earned a cup of coffee," I declared. "Or maybe a brandy?"
He jerked a shrug at me. "Don't go to any special effort. It's not necessary."
"It is. Besides, I'm in the mood for one myself." I realized with a tingle of surprise as I crossed to the bar, that I didn't want him to leave. That I wanted company, even his. "Have a seat."
He moved toward the sofa and settled in a corner, glancing out to the terrace, where I had made my one concession to the holidays by stringing up tiny white lights. "That looks nice out there. It's too bad it started snowing ... it was a nice idea to dance out there."
"Were you dancing, Mulder?" I asked, filling two large globes with an inch or two of B & B. "I didn't see you out there."
"I don't dance," I heard him say almost wistfully. "Always too tall."
I thought about the disparity between his height and Scully's. "I know what you mean." I lit a candle and warmed his glass over it slowly. "There are never enough tall women to go around."
He nodded and accepted his glass, letting it rest between two fingers while he swirled the dark gold liquid slowly. "It was a nice party," he said at last, obviously at a loss for conversation.
"No, it wasn't," I said honestly. "It was the same boring party we have every year."
He flicked me a glance. "Well ... it seemed nice to me." He sipped.
"That's because you never come to them." I brought my own glass over and tipped it toward his. "To the new year."
"The new year," he echoed.
I took a chair opposite him. "Any resolutions?"
"Me?" He laughed silently. "Just the usual. Find the truth, stop the bad guys, and don't piss off the suits upstairs." He took another sip. "And develop a strong half court hook."
"Well, that's a good one." There was something about him sitting there, something forlorn yet stoic, something warm yet aloof, something needful yet withdrawn that stirred something between a need to cure and a need to cuddle. I was surprised at myself. "I always resolve to manage a four minute mile."
He laughed with me politely.
I put my glass down. "And to stop being alone."
He stopped laughing. "How do you keep that resolution?" That wistful note was back.
I shook my head. "I don't know. I haven't, yet."
He looked down into his glass.
Sensing I'd exposed too much of myself, I put my glass down and said briskly, "Let me take the first load of trash down, and I'll walk you to your car on the second trip." I stood up. "Would you mind starting the dishwasher for me? It's locked and loaded, just push the button." I fumbled for my keys. "Be right back."
Idiot! I scolded myself as I shoved plastic bags into the dumpster. I practically made a pass at a subordinate, a male subordinate! What the hell was I thinking? And what the hell was it about Mulder's manner that made me want to gather him up and console him? He's always been a moody bastard, and usually I just want to kick his ass. It's just the season, I guess, I decided. It will pass.
When I let myself back into my unit, I could hear the dishwasher running, and saw a light under the kitchen door, but all the others had been dimmed. I could barely make out Mulder's silhouette at the terrace doors. He was staring out at the snow and twinkling lights, looking almost mournful. "What is it about Christmas that depresses us, Mulder? You're the psychologist, explain that to me?"
He didn't turn to look at me. "I don't know," he confessed. "I guess, for me ... I just don't understand it. I mean, what's the point? Giving gifts no one wants, going to parties everyone hates ... drinking too much, singing off key ... spending too much money for all of the above. Why? What's the point?" He sighed. "I don't understand what Christmas is all about."
I reached for what was left of my brandy. "I can tell you what Christmas is all about."
He turned slightly so that I could see him in profile. "If you ask for a spotlight and start reciting the gospel of Luke, so help me, I'll hit you over the head with my little toy piano."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Christmas is a time for rejoicing, Mulder." My voice softened, as I suddenly understood it myself. "Assuming you have something to rejoice about. For some, it's religion. For others, it's family. For others it's just what the season does to mankind as a whole. The peace on earth and goodwill to men aspect of the holiday. I guess it's just hard for a couple of men, alone, who have seen the darkest and dirtiest mankind has to offer ... it's just hard for us to find something to rejoice in. That's all."
"So ..." he sighed. "There's no point in celebrating."
I noticed something, over his head ... the one bit of the party paraphernalia he had missed. I smiled to myself and moved toward him. "There's always hope. Christmas is also about hope." I tapped his shoulder and pointed up.
He followed my gaze. Over his head was a bit of mistletoe. His eyes came back down to mine, uncertain, but bright with wonder. "There's always hope," he conceded.
I kissed him, gently. His lips were warm and firm and slightly sweetened by the B & B.
He let his hands slide around me, loosely, tentatively.
We stood still, and close, for a long moment. He broke the kiss at last, and rested his forehead against my shoulder. "I guess," he sighed softly, "you'll need a new resolution."
I kissed his hair. "I think I'll learn to dance."
- END -