part 2

Fox Mulder sighed, curled his legs up farther on the bed, and wondered if there was some way to get abducted by aliens in the next five seconds. He could hear Walter moving around the living room, and he suspected that it wouldn’t be long before the bedroom door would open, and he’d have to move, talk, feel.

None of it sounded good, except for the Walter part. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t want to like Christmas. Joy to the world, resting merry gentlemen, partridges, pear trees, talking snowmen, electrically charged reindeer, Bing Crosby and David Bowie—what wasn’t there to love?

He’d never really hated the holiday, not even in those first dark years after his sister had been abducted. His parents had simply treated it like another day, albeit a day where dad drank too much, and mom cried a lot, but he’d still had some semblance of Christmas. A tree, aunt-knitted sweaters, candy…

When he’d gone away to school, he’d found friends, but never taken them up on invitations home for the holidays. He remembered making excuses, claiming to be too busy, or have other plans, and more often than not he remained pretty much alone in his flat, wearing an aunt-knitted sweater, watching bad BBC Christmas specials and drinking rum and eggnog until he passed out.

Back home, Christmas had become a blur of serial killers, solve rates and reports, with a brief forgettable trip down Diana Claus Lane. And then came the X-Files, and the holiday became synonymous with zombies, ghosts and aliens…and Scully.

Christmas for the Scullys was a huge family thing, steeped in tradition and infused with a wonderful sense of warmth and familiarity. Mulder had taken Scully up on her offer to join her and the whole Scully clan just once.

And felt like a complete outsider, an aberration, as unappetizing and upsetting as a used Kleenex in the middle of the dining room table. Scully hadn’t noticed, although her mother did comment on his lack of appetite, but he’d never gone back. Again, he’d found excuses, alternate plans, and an empty apartment on December 24th.

And then there was his first Christmas with Walter, most of it spent in bed as they found new and exciting “gifts” to give one another. It had been a light-hearted and loving affair, but in the back of both men’s minds had lurked the constant threats of discovery, of work, of death or worse at the hands of a conspiracy neither one of them fully comprehended. It had made the holiday bittersweet, and they’d overcompensated as a result, sating themselves on one another in a desperate attempt to avoid all the unhappiness the world was just waiting to unleash on them.

Which brought him to here. This moment, with this man, in this place. 

Mulder had found his truths. The truth about his sister. The truth about their lives. The truth about himself, and his capacity to love and be loved. For the first time since that long ago November night, he felt himself to be in a place with no fears, no worries, no danger. Instead, he felt the void that his sister’s disappearance and subsequent death had left in him even more keenly. There was nothing to distract him from it, nothing to pursue beyond it, nothing to keep him from dwelling on it.

He hated it, and he hated himself for it. Not just for feeling like a heel, like a grinch, like a Scrooge. No. Instead, compounding his unhappiness was the fact that he recognized it for what it was, and knew that he was being completely unfair to his lover, his friends, and even himself. He had no right to be such a selfish ass, and he was doing it anyway.

He wondered if he closed his eyes, if he could convince himself he was a bear, and simply hibernate until sometime in April.

There was a knock at the door, and a soft voice called out, “Fox?”

He closed his eyes.

The knocking persisted, and when his silence continued right along with it, he heard the creaking of wood as the door was pushed open. He held himself still, and willed himself not to think, not to act, not to care. He was completely successful in this until Walter eased himself down on the bed beside him and took him into his arms.

He went willingly, wrapped his arms tightly around his lover, and buried his head in the crook of Walter’s arm. 

Conveniently, Walter said nothing for a long time, and Mulder concentrated on his hibernation technique, while allowing himself to wallow in the sensations of Walter’s arms holding him close, Walter’s hands stroking his back and hair, and Walter’s broad chest cushioning his body.

“Puppy,” said Walter, finally.

“Bear,” Mulder corrected, his words muffled by the flannel of his lover’s shirt. “I’m hibernating.”

“Fox, look at me.” Walter’s voice was strong and serious and brooked no argument.

“Yup, just a big ol’ bear, that’s me. Sleeping til spring. See? Look at me sleep.” He made exaggerated snoring noises that were cut off abruptly by Walter’s hand on his chin, forcing his head up.

With a sigh he opened his eyes. “Not buying it, huh?”

“Come on, puppy, talk to me. What’s so bad that we can’t face it together?” His dark brown eyes shone with warmth and love.

“You sound like Giles,” said Mulder.

“Does that mean I can call you Buffy?” Walter asked, his serious tone belied by a smart ass grin.

“Don’t even!” Mulder twisted out of his lover’s embrace and sat up on the bed. Walter matched his movements so they were seated side by side for a moment, but remained sitting when Mulder got to his feet and paced restlessly around the bed , finally turning to Walter and asking quietly, “Why can’t I do this?”

Walter didn’t reply, knowing it was not only a rhetorical question, but also the beginning of a thought that Mulder had to voice, and he had no intention of interrupting him.

“What’s my damage? I mean, I’ve got everything, Walter. Everything! From a roof over my head and three squares a day to a group of friends who’ve been through hell and high water for me and still want to call themselves my friends. I found the truth, I found what I’d been looking for, I found those damned long term goals you asked me about a lifetime ago! I wake up in the morning to security and love and all those things we’re  told to aspire to as a child, and I go to bed every night knowing the earth is gonna move and the angels will weep like nothing outside of a letter to Penthouse! And still, here I am—“

He moved closer to where Walter still sat on the bed, just watching him attentively, still silent, and his voice took on an even more strident tone. “Poor, pathetic Fox Mulder, who’s been handed more blessings in life than he can count and still can’t get over one crappy little thing from his childhood, like he’s some sort of bedwetting adolescent loser! What the hell is wrong with me?!” 

Walter reached out and yanked him back down on the bed.

“You just miss her, puppy. And you’ve finally got the time to do it properly. And somewhere to do it that’s safe. And someone to do it with that’s going to understand.”

Mulder bit back a sob.

“It’s time, Fox. Let it out. And then you can let it go.”

Mulder cried for a long time. And when his tears were spent, he implored his lover with a look and a word, and Walter took him; made love to him in a way both tender and demanding, sweet and ferocious, gentle and harsh, and Mulder’s cry of release, mingled with Walter’s own, was the pealing of Christmas bells, heralding a rebirth of sorts.

“Well,” said Walter, lying breathless in Mulder’s loose embrace. “If that doesn’t guarantee you a gift from Santa, I don’t know what will.” He smiled lazily and drawled “You’ve been a very good boy.”

Mulder’s lips quirked up in a grin, in contrast to the tear stains drying on his cheeks. He kissed Walter softly on the cheek, stroked the side of his face with the back of his hand, and whispered “I miss Samantha, Walter.”

“I know you do.”

“Did I ever tell you about the year her and I both got Spock ears for Christmas?”

Walter laughed and hugged him and said, “No, you never did.”

Mulder launched into his story, and Walter thought maybe this was going to be the beginning of a whole series of very merry Christmases…for both of them.

The end.