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No parking on Tenth Street. They find a meter a couple of blocks away and hurry down the snow-covered sidewalk, pressed together against the wind.
“We’re gonna have to make conversation.” Mulder glances sideways at her. “Small talk, Scully. With other people.”
“I know.”
“You hate small talk.”
She snorts. “Pot, meet kettle.”
“Okay, but I’m not the one who accepted the invitation.” A gentle nudge. “We’re not exactly happy hour types. What’s up?”
She shrugs, pink-cheeked. “Skinner's been looking the other way when I need time off at the last minute. I wanted to say thanks.”
His nod is wordless, wistful. Their fingers lace together as they walk on.
Outside Salinger's they pause to peer in the window. The bar is crowded, full to bursting. The plate glass hums with conversation.
"Whole lot of holiday spirit in there." He shakes his head in mock apprehension, grinning nonetheless. "Shall we?"
"Let's." She squeezes his hand, steps forward.
He does not follow.
Tugged to a stop, she turns. "What? Thirty minutes and we'll go, I promise."
"You, uh-" His head tilts down. "You're still holding on."
The door to the bar flies open, startling them both. Two women and a vaguely familiar man emerge in a cloud of laughter and cigarette smoke before disappearing into the night.
Her attention returns to her partner, who is studying her carefully. A hint of a smile plays at the corners of his lips.
"A bold statement, Agent Scully." Another nod in the direction of their still-joined hands. "You don't think people will talk?”
She hesitates for a fraction of a second before pushing up on the tips of her toes to give him a kiss. “Let them,” she murmurs, and leads him inside.
-- + -- + --
By nine AM they are buttoned down, back to work. New Years Eve it may be, but she spent last week in San Diego and they were already behind on paperwork when she left.
When a dull ache blossoms between her eyes, she ignores it until it travels to her throat. By lunchtime she remains upright by sheer force of will. Her head becomes too heavy for her neck, sinking further and further into her hands. She allows her eyes to close - just for a moment, she tells herself. When they open again she finds him kneeling beside her chair.
"You fell asleep for a minute there." His brow is creased with worry. "Are you feeling okay?"
"Not particularly," she admits, and finds herself surprised by her own honesty.
Two fingers rest gently on her forehead. "You're running a fever. I'm gonna take you home."
"I can-"
"Of course you can. Doesn't mean you have to." He takes her coat from the hook by the door. "C'mon. I'll even tuck you in."
-- + -- + --
Before they left the office he'd poured the last of the coffee into her travel mug. Eight ounces of arabica had gotten her up and moving just long enough to make it home. Now, standing in her bedroom, she can feel the adrenaline fade as she kicks off her shoes and shrugs into her softest pair of pajamas.
She is climbing into bed when he appears with a glass of water and a bottle of Motrin. "Take this."
"Mulder, go home, okay? I'll be fine." She swallows two pills, makes a face. "You don't need to get sick too."
"I'll take my chances." His lips brush her forehead as he tugs the heavy quilt over her. "You sleep."
-- + -- + --
At seven years old she'd woken on Christmas morning with cotton in her throat and beads of sweat on her forehead. She hadn't told a soul, afraid to be relegated to her bedroom while her siblings tore into the gifts. Mustering every ounce of strength she could find, she'd gamely propped herself up in one corner of the couch, smiling often and saying little.
Her heart sank when her mother sat down beside her. Surely, the game was up. Instead she'd found herself wrapped in a blanket, tucked into the curve of her mother's side with a kiss on the crown of her head. She'd stayed there for what seemed like hours - sometimes awake, sometimes asleep, but never alone.
-- + -- + --
A key in the lock. Her bedside clock reads quarter to six.
"Mu-" His name dissolves into a cough. Once she catches her breath, she rises on aching joints to search for her robe and the source of the sound. She finds the robe in the bathroom and Mulder in the kitchen, unloading plastic containers from a brown paper bag. "Where did you go?"
"Katz's. I got soup." He brings a hand back to her forehead, frowning. "You're still feverish, Scully."
"Why is your hair wet?"
"It's snowing again. Pretty hard, actually." He turns her gently. "Let's go. You're shivering."
"I'm not," she protests, even as she allows him to propel her toward her room.
The bed is still warm. She curls up under the covers as he sits down beside her, tilting her chin up with one finger. "You're pretty cute like this, you know that?"
She'd caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as they walked past the bathroom. Her beet-red nose was a perfect match to the high color in her cheeks. Self-conscious, she runs a hand through her hair. "You're a terrible liar."
"Which is why I never lie." He hands her a book from the top of the pile on the nightstand. "I need to heat everything up. Give me half an hour, then we'll eat."
-- + -- + --
She reads, half-dozing, until he peeks his head in the door. "Dinner in five."
The ibuprofen has worked wonders. She emerges nearly clear-headed to find the Christmas tree lit and two places set at the kitchen table. Steam rises from a pot on the stove.
"Matzo ball soup?"
"I thought about making it myself, but it's been years. This felt like a safer bet." He sets a bowl in front of her. "Eat up. I got dessert, too. Ice cream."
She can't taste a thing but sips dutifully, warmed from the inside out. "You know how to make this?"
He shrugs. "Ostensibly. I learned from my grandmother. Haven't tried in a while, though. I also make a mean tuna casserole."
Her eyebrows lift. "No kidding."
Every day, he surprises her.
-- + -- + --
“I heard about this massive hotel in the Alleghenies that’s supposed to be spectacular. Over four hundred rooms."
"You're kidding me." They are curled up on the living room couch, sharing a blanket. A fire crackles merrily in the fireplace.
"I thought maybe we could go for your birthday." His voice rumbles through her. "It's a historic property - they've hosted presidents. The brochure said something about carriage rides. And falconry, actually.”
“As in the bird?”
“Would that be a selling point for you?”
She laughs. “Not particularly. I'm assuming it has other amenities?”
"Apparently they serve afternoon tea in the main hall every day at three. Cucumber sandwiches, clotted cream, the whole nine yards. And there's an indoor pool that looks like something off the Titanic."
"Wow. The lap of luxury."
He kisses her temple, running a thumb over her abdomen. "Only the best for my girl."
-- + -- + --
Three hours to midnight. Dick Clark has been put on mute - Mulder is telling stories.
"Are there cryptids in Massachusetts?"
"Pukwudgies." A puff of air tickles her ear. "Found in the Bridgewater Triangle."
She smiles into his chest. "There's a Bridgewater Triangle?"
"Abington, Rehoboth, Freetown." His finger maps the route on the back of her hand. "I'm partial, as you can imagine. They've even had Bigfoot sightings. Imagine seeing Bigfoot in the Bay State."
"And Bigfoot doesn't scare away the Puckwidgets?"
"Pukwudgies." He pulls her closer. "It would appear not."
She nestles into his chest, feels him relax around her. "What do they look like?"
"Well, they're said to be shapeshifters, so they can look like a lot of things." His voice is honeyed, resonant. Hypnotic. Her eyelids droop. "It's also said that humans and Pukwudgies once lived together in harmony, but that's no longer the case."
She asks why, or why not, or maybe she doesn't. She drifts, dreams. In thin moonlight he is years younger - decades. Now he whispers across the space between the beds: Moshup picked up a whole handful and threw them as far as he could. Samantha sits upright, eyes bright, all pretense of sleep abandoned. All of them? Her brother is a marvelous storyteller.
"Scully."
She blinks awake. The fire has gone to embers. "Did I miss it?"
"Fifteen minutes. You want to stay up?"
"Yeah." Her fingers find his.
The dream lingers, bittersweet.
-- + -- + --
He is heating water for tea - two mugs - when the phone rings.
"Happy New Year, Dana." Her mother's voice. "I wasn't sure if I'd catch you."
"We're laying low. I'm a little under the weather."
"Oh, sweetie." Maggie clucks sympathetically. "I made soup with the leftover turkey. I'll bring some by tomorrow." Her tone shifts, ever so slightly. "Fox is there?"
"Yes, mom."
"And you're letting him take care of you?"
She exhales. "Mom."
"Put him on the phone, Dana."
She exchanges the receiver for her Earl Grey. "Mom wants to know if I'm letting you take care of me."
"Ah." He lifts the phone to his ear. "Happy New Year, Mrs. Scully. Your daughter has been very well-behaved." A wink. "Honestly, I'm as surprised as you are."
Her heart swells.
-- + -- + --
One minute.
Their feet are lined up side-by-side on the coffee table, silent witnesses to the spectacle of Times Square. Her head rests on his shoulder. She feels pliant, pleasantly woozy.
As the crowd counts down, she hears the whisper of his voice in her ear.
"Here's to the future, Scully."