Subject: NEW: After Eight by Dasha K. and Plausible Deniability (1/3)
Date: Sunday, December 12, 1999 1:38 PM


After Eight by Dasha K. and Plausible Deniability

Please archive at Gossamer.  Okay for Spookys, too.  Anywhere 
else, just ask us and we'll probably say yes.

Summary:  Is it the magic of the Eight Ball, the Christmas spirit, 
or something that's been a long time in coming?
Rating: NC-17 for sex, Skinner's green punch and lots of songs 
from the 80s.
Classification: SRH
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer:  Yeah, we wish . . .
Feedback: We'd both love to hear from you -- dashak@aol.com and 
pdeniability@hotmail.com

We don't really say what year this is set in, although it could be 
seventh season, ignoring the New Year's events of "Millennium."

Nothing but Christmas cheer, schmoop and smut here.  We don't know 
nothin' bout no angst. <g>

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So that's all you can tell us?" Mulder asked, sitting across from 
the old Gypsy woman.  "You can't remember anything else about the 
man who visited you?"

The cluttered trailer was dark and smelled of incense and cat 
food.  A gray Persian, the apparent reason for the latter smell, 
purred noisily and wrapped itself around Mulder's ankles.

Madame Sujka frowned, and her dark eyes narrowed haughtily.  "Of 
course that's not all I can tell you," she said in her heavily-
accented English.  "I see many things -- my future, your future.  
But the identity of the man you seek...that I cannot say."

"Really?  You can see my future?"

"Come on, Mulder," Scully said behind him.  "We're wasting our 
time here."

The Gypsy woman drew herself up proudly.  "Of course I see your 
future.  I am Madame Sujka!"

Mulder looked around with interest.  "So what do you do, gaze into 
a crystal ball?"

"Mulder -- " Scully said, crossing her arms over her chest 
impatiently.

"Crystal balls are for amateurs," sneered Madame Sujka.  "I read 
the palm, and the soul!"

"And you could read my palm?"

"Mulder!" Scully exclaimed.

"Give me your hand," ordered Madame Sujka, grabbing Mulder's 
wrist.  She yanked his arm across the table and bent over it, 
peering intently.  With one long, bony index finger, she traced 
the lines that criss-crossed his palm.  Her lips moved wordlessly 
as she read the mysteries written before her.

She sat back finally with a look of satisfaction.  "Your lucky 
number is eight," she pronounced, releasing his hand.  

Mulder sat, waiting, while Scully tapped her foot.

"That's it?" he asked after a moment.  "That's my whole fortune -- 
'your lucky number is eight'?"

Scully looked amused.  "Whatever happened to 'I see a tall, dark 
man in your future'?"

"That is your fortune," Madame Sujka snapped.  "His fortune I have 
already determined.  His lucky number is eight."

"That's really my whole fortune?" Mulder asked incredulously.

"That's the part that matters.  That will be fifty dollars, 
please."

"Fifty dollars for that?" Mulder asked in disbelief.

The Persian jumped up on the table, purring loudly.  Madame Sujka 
scooped the cat into her lap, and stroked its luxuriant fur.  "You 
want a more romantic future," she answered, "you need to lead a 
more romantic life.  Fifty dollars."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


"Could you let me through here -- " Mulder shouted, trying to push 
his way between a group from the mailroom and two female agents 
whose names he couldn't remember.  The throbbing beat of Frankie 
Goes to Hollywood's "Relax" all but drowned him out.  He lifted 
his glass aloft and sucked 
in his chest in an effort to squeeze through the crowd.

"Hey!" said one of the women, turning around with a glare.

"Sorry," he said quickly.  "Accident."  There was not much else 
you could say to a woman when you'd just slid your groin against 
her ass.

The room was packed.  It was warm, too; the combined heat of so 
many bodies had pushed the temperature up.  There were flushed 
faces everywhere he looked.  Of course, some of the glow around 
him was probably due to alcohol.  Skinner served strong drinks.

In fact, he thought, maybe he ought to slow down a little.  A cup 
of eggnog and four Sloe Drivers -- he rarely had that much to 
drink in a whole year, and here he'd downed it all in under ninety 
minutes.  He had an impressive buzz going.  The music seemed to be 
pounding right through him, making him want to grab the closest 
woman and dance.

Speaking of which, where was Scully?  He looked around the crowd 
hopefully.  He hadn't seen her all evening.  If she didn't show up 
in ten minutes, he was out of here.  He'd put in an appearance, 
made friendly conversation, had some drinks.  He'd done his Office 
Christmas Party duty.

Skinner stood off to the side, near the glass windows, deep in 
conversation with a pretty blonde thing's cleavage.  Mulder wiped 
his face and wondered what arcane secrets Skinner held, since his 
Assistant Director, despite the fierce body heat of federal 
employees, didn't seem to be sweating at all.  And, on another 
note, how strange was it that Skinner was a Frankie Goes to 
Hollywood fan?

The music faded to the unmistakable synthesizer beat of "Sweet 
Dreams" and Mulder took another slug of his drink, watching the 
dancers writhe to the seductive purr of the singer's voice.  Annie 
Lennox, with her aura of mystery, always gave him some rather 
interesting thoughts.  But no, he was not going to go there.  
Tonight he was going to be on his best behavior.  This was a work 
party and his pants were a bit tight.

Mulder's virtuous thoughts decided to pack it off for a three-day 
package trip to Vegas as he spotted a small red head making its 
way through the crowd.  Pathetic, he thought, all I can see is the 
top three inches of her head and I'm already entertaining some 
dangerous ideas.

Those ideas sprung into three-dimensional, Technicolor fantasies 
as Scully finally made her way to him.  She was holding a glass of 
florescent green punch and breathing hard at her efforts through 
the crowd.  Already her cheeks were pink and her lips wet from 
either her drink or from licking them.  Mulder hoped it was the 
second choice and that she'd do it again in front of him.

She must have gone home and changed.  During the day she'd worn 
one of her ubiquitous black suits, but now she had on a silver-
blue blouse that clung to her skin and was unbuttoned one button 
too far for modesty.

Holy shit.  He'd never truly realized Scully had that many curves. 

He shook his head to dispel the idea.  Now he remembered why he 
didn't drink more often.  It was dangerous being drunk -- thoughts 
were harder to govern.  Besides, he had a feeling he was wearing 
that smile, the goofy one that appeared in some of his old photos 
from Oxford, when the camera had always seemed to catch him 
disheveled, glassy-eyed, and grinning among a group of equally-
inebriated friends.

"Merry Christmas, Mulder," said Scully, arriving at his side.  She 
had to raise her voice to make herself heard.  "What's so funny?"

Yep, he thought; he was definitely wearing the goofy smile.  
"Private joke," he answered, to avoid incriminating himself.  "Did 
you just get here, Scully?"

Her lips quirked at the corners.  "Half an hour and three cups of 
punch ago."

Well, well, well, he thought; three cups of punch, and an actual 
smirk.  Apparently he wasn't the only one who'd been partaking of 
a little holiday cheer.  "You look nice tonight," he said, leaning 
in toward her so he wouldn't have to shout.  

She tilted her head and her eyes flickered over him with a hint of 
tipsiness.  "Thanks, Mulder.  So do you."

She not only looked great, but she smelled great, too.  It wasn't 
her usual perfume, but something stronger and decidedly sexier.  
Almost against his will, his gaze drifted to the neck of her 
blouse, and to the shadow of her cleavage.  

"What?" she said, glancing down.  "Did I spill something on 
myself?"

He flushed and looked away.  Lust one, subtlety zero, he thought.

Scully touched his face and he stifled a shiver at the sensation 
of her fingers on his cheek.  "Your face is red," she said over 
the thump thump thump of the music.

"It's hot in here," he said, stating the obvious.

She looked around at the horde of drunken agents with a wry grin.  
"If I had known that Skinner threw such a festive party, I would 
have accepted his annual invitation years ago,"

And if I had known that I would get to watch a bead of sweat slide 
between your cleavage, Scully, I would have, too.
He could be such a pig after a few drinks.

"Coming through," shouted Allan Diamond, carrying three bottles of 
beer in each of his meaty hands.  As he walked behind Scully he 
tripped a bit and shoved her right into Mulder, who had to reach 
out with both arms to keep her from falling flat on her face.

Oh God, now he could really smell her, the bewitching aroma of her 
perfume, the green tea shampoo he knew she used and underneath 
those commercial scents was the faintest hint of the real Scully.  
It was the scent she left on her pillows after a night's sleep.

Just as quickly as he had clasped Scully in his arms, Mulder 
allowed her to straighten up and back away from him.  Dimly, he 
wondered if she had felt his growing erection.

He felt like he was in junior high again, getting hard at the 
Sweetheart Dance as he and Mindy Sebastian stumbled over each 
other's feet.

Nice, he thought, I'm pushing forty and regressing back to the 
days when the most action I got was popping my own zits.

Scully glanced at him a little self-consciously and smoothed her 
blouse over her hips, a move that only proved more distracting, 
since it caused her breasts to strain against the fabric.  
"Sorry," she said.  "It's crowded in here."

"Yeah..." he said.  "It is really crowded.  I don't know if I'm 
going to stick around much longer."  It seemed safer, under the 
circumstances, to make his exit.

She looked a little disappointed, but she nodded and said, "Yeah, 
me neither."

The song changed -- Duran Duran was singing "Hungry Like the 
Wolf."  He wished Skinner would stop playing songs that reminded 
him of the days when he'd been having regular sex.  In a minute 
the backup singer was going to start making that moaning sound, 
and then he would really be screwed.  "Uh, before you go, 
Scully..."

She looked up at him hopefully.  "Yes?"

"I, uh...I wanted to give you your Christmas present."

She brightened, even as she was jostled by someone from the Sci 
Crime Lab pushing past her on his way to the punchbowl.  "You got 
me a Christmas present?"

"Well, don't get too excited," he said, reaching out to steady 
her.  "It's just...you know, something small.  It's the thought 
that counts."  And if that didn't make him sound cheap, he thought 
with an inner urge to smack himself, nothing would.

She smiled.  "I got you something, too, Mulder."

He must have been drunk, because he found himself with a small, 
fleeting hope that it was a can of Redi-Whip and a pair of silk 
scarves.

Kimberly, Skinner's assistant, snaked between the two of them, 
holly in her auburn hair and her gums green from the punch.  "The 
mistletoe's over in the corner, Agents," she slurred as she 
passed.

Scully looked at her feet and Mulder cleared his throat.

"So, what did you get me?" he asked.

"I left it at home, Mulder.  I was afraid I might break it."

Damn, cans of Redi-Whip didn't break, now did they?

Simon Le Bon sang, "Strut on a line, it's discord and rhyme, I'm 
on the hunt, I'm after you.  Mouth is alive with juices like wine, 
and I'm hungry like the wolf," which reminded Mulder far too much 
of drunken nights peeling off Phoebe's panties in his little room 
at Oxford.

She moved closer and he smelled fruity and alcoholic punch on her 
breath.  "Do you have my present?"

He would *not* discuss the special gift he had for her in his 
pants.  He really wasn't in the mood to be slapped by his 
erstwhile partner.

"It's with my coat," he said.  "And the coats are in Skinner's 
room.  But if you were serious about leaving anyway..."

She nodded, and he turned to make his way through the crowd.  
"Excuse me...excuse me..." he could barely hear himself repeating, 
though the press of people around them had been drinking enough, 
and the dancing had grown wild enough, that he doubted anyone even 
noticed him squeezing his way past.

He looked over his shoulder to see if he'd lost Scully.  She was 
smaller than he was, after all, and he had a feeling that it would 
be easy for her to get swallowed up in the crush of bodies all 
around them.  To his surprise, she was right behind him.  She 
flashed him a smile and reached out to hook her finger in one of 
his belt loops.  "I've got your back," she said, with a slightly 
drunken intonation.

When they reached the edge of Skinner's living room, the crowd 
thinned.  Scully let go of him -- he was a little sorry to lose 
the tug of her hand on the back of his waistband -- as they made 
their way down the hallway.  They passed a line of partygoers 
waiting for a turn in Skinner's bathroom.  Further on, a few less 
sociable agents, and several couples who had retreated to the 
hallway in order to carry on conversations, hugged the walls.

At last they reached the door to the bedroom, and Mulder pushed it 
open to reveal Skinner's bed, buried under a sea of coats and 
jackets.  He crossed to the bed and started sorting through the 
piles, hunting for his black trenchcoat.

Finally he found it.  "Eureka," he said, glancing up to find 
Scully looking around her at Skinner's bedroom with frank 
curiosity.  "And here's your present."  He reached under his coat, 
and pulled out a package wrapped in red and gold foil. 

She smiled nervously, and came to take it from his outstretched 
hand.

"Hmmm.  It's heavy for its size," she said, hefting the package.

"Open it."

Frowning a little with concentration, she untied the thin gold 
ribbon.  Then she began to carefully separate the cellophane tape 
from the folded paper.

Mulder watched with impatience.  "Come on, Scully, just tear it."

She glanced up at him, smiled, and then tore the wrapping open 
with a satisfying rip.  She pushed the paper aside and stared down 
at the gift in her hand.  "It's . . .an Eight Ball."

He couldn't tell whether her voice held disappointment, or just 
surprise.  "A Magic Eight Ball," he corrected.  "The 'Magic' part 
is very important."

"That's nice, Mulder."

He couldn't help but notice that she seemed less than impressed.  
Damn, he should have gotten her jewelry.  Women liked jewelry.  Or 
perfume.  He felt his heart sink.

>From down the hall, he could hear the sound of another eighties 
tune -- Romeo Void's "Never Say Never."  Debora Iyall, her voice 
dripping with attitude, taunted "I might like you better if we 
slept together..."

He really wished Skinner would get some new tunes.

He gestured at the Eight Ball.  "Give it a try," he said, just to 
break the awkwardness of the moment.

She smiled fleetingly, a smile that told him he was being humored, 
and shook the black globe.  "Is Mulder too drunk to drive himself 
home?" she asked in a clear voice.

She flipped the Eight Ball upside down.  He peered over her 
shoulder to watch as the answer came floating up out of the inky 
blackness:  AS I SEE IT YES.

"That does it," Scully said in a definitive voice.  "I'm calling 
you a taxi."

He clutched at her arm as she went for the phone on the bedside 
table.  "You'd better not be driving, either."

Her smile was almost taunting.  "I was smarter than you, Mulder.  
I took a taxi over here."

A light bulb went off in his drink-sodden brain.  "Great, then we 
can share a cab."

She looked at him as if he had sustained a major brain injury.  
"We live in opposite directions . . ."

Damn her for being so logical.

And then her face softened and he watched the color rise in her 
cheeks.  "Well," she said in a voice that was barely audible over 
the music, "I do have to give you your present."

"And I can sober up with a cup of coffee," he pointed out.

"Coffee won't sober you up, it'll just make you an alert drunk."

"Gee, Scully, you're a ton of fun with a few drinks under your 
belt."

She actually grinned at that and picked up the phone to call the 
taxi.

The crowd was now singing along to Prince's 1999 and hopping up 
and down like coked-up frat boys, instead of the responsible 
agents of the law they truly were.  Mulder smiled at the idea of 
the cops coming to bust this party and finding that the majority 
of the guests were Feds.

Skinner caught them as they were about to head out the door to 
wait downstairs for the cab.  "Leaving so soon, Agents?" he 
boomed.

Oh great, they were being seen leaving a party together.  That 
would fuel the rumor mill until Easter.

Scully made matters worse by turning a deep shade of red.  "It was 
a great party, sir," she said, "But I leave for San Diego in the 
morning and Agent Mulder has been kind enough to offer to see me 
home."

Mulder found himself nodding his head in agreement, in a truly 
idiotic fashion. "Thanks for the party," he said.

Their boss adjusted his glasses and smiled.  Or was that a smirk?  
Mulder couldn't be sure.

"Drive safely," was all Skinner said as they walked through the 
door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


It was cold outside Skinner's building, but the cold felt good 
after the overheated atmosphere of the party.  It seemed awfully 
quiet outside, too; Mulder had grown so used to the throbbing beat 
of the music that the hush seemed to echo in his ears.  Stars 
twinkled in the sky overhead, their brightness vying with the 
lights of the city.

Scully stood beside him, cradling the Eight Ball against her coat.  
Between the sweltering air of Skinner's apartment and the breeze 
here outside, her hair had turned wavy.  It was a look Mulder 
liked; it gave her an unaccustomed air of wantonness.  With her 
hair this way, he could imagine her wearing nothing but a lace bra 
and a string of pearls . . .

Oh, no, he could not imagine her that way.  That was definitely 
crossing the line, especially since they were both tipsy and he 
was heading to her apartment.  He pushed the thought from his mind 
and reached for the Eight Ball.

She looked at him questioningly as he took it from her.  "Will the 
cab get here in the next minute?" he intoned, shaking the Eight 
Ball.  He turned it over and held the window toward the 
streetlight to read the answer.  "OUTLOOK GOOD."

"That shows how 'Magic' those things are," Scully said with a 
sniff.  "There's no way the cab will get here that quickly on a 
Saturday night."

She had no sooner spoken the words, however, than a yellow cab 
rounded the corner and pulled up to the curb.  She stared at it in 
surprise.  Mulder shot her a self-satisfied look and bent down to 
open the taxi door for her.

He settled in the backseat beside her as she gave the driver the 
address, and the cab started on its way.  After a moment he looked 
down at his lap and realized he was still holding the Eight Ball.  
He lifted it and gave it another shake.

"Is Scully a real redhead?" he asked loudly, causing the cabbie to 
glance back over his shoulder at them.

"Mulder!" she exclaimed, and made a grab for the Eight Ball.

He held it out of her reach.  "IT IS DECIDEDLY SO," he read.  "I'm 
so relieved."

She snatched it from his hand and shook it firmly.  "Is it true 
what they say about men with big noses?" she asked, glancing at 
him.  She turned it over and read, "DON'T COUNT ON IT."

"Ha-ha," he said.  "I'm wounded."

But in truth, he wondered if the Ball was right.  He had never 
done much comparing with other men before, since checking out 
another guy's package in the gym shower was a great way to get 
one's lights punched out, but everything down there seemed to be 
in proper proportion.

And besides, it wasn't like Scully was going to get a look at it.  
Not in a million years . . .

He leaned back in the seat and realized he didn't remember where 
they'd told the cabbie to go. It would seem they were on the way 
to Scully's place.

The thought made him shiver.

"Are you cold?" she whispered.

"A little," he said.

"I have hot chocolate at home.  It won't sober either of us up, 
but it'll taste good."

The cabbie, a small, chubby man in a green parka, flipped on the 
radio and began scanning channels.  He settled on Kajagoogoo's 
"Too Shy."

Weird, Mulder thought, we're being followed around by eighties 
songs tonight.  He wouldn't admit it even under the pain of 
torture, but he'd gone to a Kajagoogoo concert in London with 
Fiona, his first English girlfriend.  And even if hot bamboo 
shards were shoved under his fingernails, he'd never confess to 
the puffy-sleeved New Romantic shirt he'd worn to the show.

Scully must have seen something in his expression, for she picked 
up the Ball and asked, "Is Mulder a Kajagoogoo fan?"

OUTLOOK GOOD, the ball revealed.

"Ha, I knew it," she said.

He snorted and snatched the Magic Eight Ball from her hands.  "Has 
Scully ever had sex to this song?"

"Mulder!" she said in an outraged tone, but the Ball said, IT IS 
DECIDEDLY SO.

He laughed.  "I knew it."

She shut her eyes and smiled almost dreamily, the city lights 
flashing on her white face as the cab sped down the street.  
"Spring Break," she said.  "I went to Jamaica with my boyfriend, 
Chris.  We drank too many daiquiris at a place called Rasta Mike's 
and went down to the beach afterward and . . .

Mulder fought the urge to leave his mouth hanging open.  Was this 
the Scully he'd known for years, recounting a sexual experience?  
If he'd known this might happen, he would have suggested they go 
to Skinner's party years ago.

Her eyes opened again, as if she were again aware of where she was 
and what she was doing.  "I'm sorry," she said.

"For telling me that story?  It was sweet."

She said nothing, but took the ball from Mulder, shaking it.  
"Does Mulder know his hand is on my thigh?" she asked it.

Mulder yanked his hand away.  "Sorry -- "

Unperturbed, Scully read off the answer from the Eight Ball:  
"VERY DOUBTFUL."

"Well, at least it's right about that," he said, his face turned 
to the window.

He must have looked as embarrassed as he felt, because Scully 
reached out and squeezed his hand in hers.  "It's okay, Mulder," 
she said, before letting go.

He glanced over at her, wondering what that meant -- 'it's okay.'  
Did it mean she wasn't angry, or did it mean she wanted him to do 
it again?  He had never really been that good at reading women, 
even when he wasn't so out of practice.

They were entering Scully's neighborhood.  She leaned forward to 
point out her building to the cabbie.  Mulder watched her face, 
intelligent and composed, as she spoke to their driver.  It made 
him wonder guiltily how he could have such lustful thoughts about 
his partner when she carried herself with such an air of dignity.

The cab slowed and Mulder pulled out his wallet to pay the 
cabdriver.  "Thanks," he said, handing the man a couple of bills.  
Then he got out, and helped Scully exit the cab with a hand to her 
elbow.  She was holding the Eight Ball against her, the gift 
pressed to her breast.

As they walked together to the door of her building, she reached 
in her coat pocket and pulled out her keys.  "The holidays seem to 
come earlier every year.  I can't believe I'm leaving for San 
Diego tomorrow."

"I won't stay long," he promised.  He felt suddenly nervous, now 
that they were going to be alone together in her apartment.  
Ridiculous, he knew; it wasn't like they hadn't already spent 
countless hours alone together.  Yet something about the cool 
night air, the alcohol in his blood, and the half-smile on 
Scully's face made his heart quicken.

"I didn't mean that, Mulder," she said, fitting her key in the 
lock.

Inside, her apartment was bright and cozy.  She had put up a 
Christmas tree, decorated in rose and cream, and the air smelled 
like evergreen.  He shed his coat and Scully took it from him, 
passing him the Eight Ball so she could hang their coats in the 
closet.  

"You said something about hot chocolate?" he asked.

She smiled at him.  "Sure, Mulder."

He followed her into the kitchen.  He set the Eight Ball on the 
counter to watch her as she took coffee cups and cocoa from the 
cabinets.  He hoped there was nothing sexist about the way he 
enjoyed watching Scully acting domestic.

"It's quiet in here," she said.  "The party was so noisy."

"You want me to put some music on?"

She smiled at him.  "Would you?  It will only take me a minute to 
get this hot chocolate ready."

He went back out to the living room and turned on the stereo.  He 
expected her to have the receiver tuned to something classical, or 
perhaps a station that played holiday music, but instead he heard 
Foreigner singing "I Want To Know What Love Is."

Creepy, he thought -- more eighties music.  He fiddled with the 
tuner until he found a Christmas tune.

He went back in the kitchen to discover Scully holding the Eight 
Ball with a pensive look on her face.  He stopped in his tracks, 
struck by how soft and pretty she looked, with her hair in soft 
waves and her eyes dreamy.

She glanced up at him, and then looked back down at the Eight 
Ball.  "Mulder, if this really were magic," she said, turning the 
glass ball over slowly in her hands, "what would you most want to 
ask it?"

Looking at her, at how heart-rendingly lovely she looked, a 
question sprang immediately to mind, but it wasn't the kind of 
question he could admit to her.  Instead he said, "I suppose I 
would ask it about Samantha."

"If she were still alive?"

He nodded.

She looked a little sad.  "That's what I thought you'd ask it, 
Mulder."

"What about you, Scully?  What would you ask it?"

A mixture of emotions crossed her face in the space of seconds-- 
sadness, curiosity and amusement.  She thought for a moment, 
biting her lipstick-red lip and finally said, "I know it isn't 
really magic, 
Mulder.  You can't get the answers to life's important questions 
from a toy." 

He groaned.  "Scully, you're supposed to be playing along here."

She shot him an indignant look.  "Are you saying I'm a kill-joy?"  
Her brows knit together.

"Maybe," he hedged.

"I'm a kill-joy who needs a drink," she said, heading for the 
living room.

"I don't think we should have another drink," he called after her.

"Shut up, Mulder." She returned with a gold tissue-paper wrapped 
gift.  "Merry Christmas."

"What is it?" he said, turning the rectangular package this way 
and that.

Scully smirked.  "How about opening it to see?"

He ripped off the paper like a little boy hoping to find GI Joe 
with the Kung-Fu Grip.  Mulder saw a plain cardboard box.  Opening 
it, he drew out a bottle of clear liquid.  The letters on the 
label were Cyrillic, so he had no idea what the bottle held.  
"What is this stuff?"

"It's vodka, from Russia, a very rare brand called Vosmaya Roza.  
It means 'The Eighth Rose.'  Bill got it for me when he was on 
shore leave in Murmansk."

He grinned.  "Are you sure you're not mixing up my present with 
Alex Krycek's?"

"All he gets is coal in his stocking this year."

"How perverse is it that I'm really glad that Bill's vodka made it 
to me?"

Scully had the good grace to laugh at that.  She took two shot 
glasses from the cupboard.  "Let's drink this on the couch.  These 
heels are killing me."  She kicked off her black high heels with 
an audible sigh and immediately shrank three inches.

They settled on the couch.  Mulder uncapped the bottle and poured 
them each a shot.  "What should we toast to?"

She blinked rapidly.  "To us, Mulder."

To us?  What the hell was that supposed to mean?

He put on his most casual face and clinked glasses with her.  "To 
us," they said in unison and drank.

Woooo, it was strong and Mulder made a face at the vodka kick.  To 
his shame, Scully knocked back the shot with unruffled aplomb.

He decided he had to salvage some pride.  "So, you still need to 
ask the Magic Eight Ball what you would most like to know."

"Fine."  She grabbed for the Ball and gave it a fierce shake.  
"I've got a good question..."

The look in her eyes was challenging and Mulder found himself 
holding his breath.

"Will Mulder get the guts to kiss me tonight?" she asked the Ball.

Mulder's eyebrows shot higher.  "'The guts'?" he echoed.

Scully turned the Eight Ball over wordlessly.  Heads together, 
they read the answer:  SIGNS POINT TO YES.

She looked surprised, making him wonder if it was the answer she'd 
been hoping for.

"You said it wasn't really magic," Mulder reminded her.

"And you said it was," she countered, looking him in the eye.

He swallowed.  His heart had begun to pound unnaturally.  Gravely 
he took the Eight Ball from her, and reached over to set it down 
with care on the glass coffee table.  Then he put his hands on her 
shoulders, bent his head, and kissed her softly on the lips.

The vodka, he realized in the same moment, must have some kind of 
delayed aftereffect; suddenly he felt about ten degrees warmer, 
heat sweeping through him in an alarming way.  He'd always thought 
that when he kissed Scully, he would focus on her taste, her 
softness, her scent, their closeness; but all he could think about 
was how his pulse was racing out of control and how the vodka was 
so strong he must be having a heart attack.

He pulled away and fell against the back of the sofa, breathing 
hard.

Scully's face looked impressively pink.  The vodka must be 
affecting her too, he thought vaguely.

"That was -- " she began.  "That is, Mulder -- I thought -- "

He reached up to tug at his tie.  "I know what you mean."

After a moment the feeling began to fade.  He heaved a sigh of 
relief; for a minute there, he'd been afraid he was going to have 
to spend the rest of the evening in an emergency room.

"Wow," she said.  

He sat up straighter.  "I don't think I should have any more of 
that vodka tonight, Scully."

"Really?"  She sounded breathless.  "I was just thinking I should 
have given it to you a long time ago."

He laughed nervously, and picked up the Eight Ball.  Scully had 
been drinking, and things were in danger of getting out of hand.  
"Should I be going home now?" he asked, shaking the Eight Ball.

He turned it over and read the answer.  

"What does it say?" Scully asked, leaning closer.

He passed it to her without comment.  

"CONCENTRATE AND ASK AGAIN," she read aloud.

He shut his eyes and concentrated with all his might.  "Should I 
be going now?"  He took a deep breath and shook.  "MY REPLY IS 
NO."

Scully looked up at him and smiled.  "I guess we have to do what 
the Ball says."

His breath came out in a whoosh.  "Are you saying you believe in 
magic?"

"I wouldn't go that far, Mulder."  She grabbed the ball and shook 
it, saying, "Will Mulder give me a *real* kiss this time?"

The ball said, OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD.

Her lips turned down in a frown.

"You just have to know how to ask it the right questions, Scully," 
he said and gave the ball a fierce shaking.  "Will *Scully* give 
*me* a real kiss this time?"

This time they both took deep breaths.

The ball told them, AS I SEE IT YES.

Her eyelashes fluttered a bit and he wondered if she were 
embarrassed.  "I guess it's up to you," he said, smiling.

"Sleighbells ring, are you listening?  In the lane, snow is 
glistening," sang Bing Crosby on the stereo and the lights on the 
tree twinkled.

She rose and touched his face with her warm hands.  "I suppose 
it's only fair," she whispered.

He met her halfway and their lips met again, gently at first.  
Scully opened her mouth slightly and he felt her tongue slide 
between his lips.  Mulder had to stifle a gasp as he tasted her 
chocolate and liquor-flavored mouth.

Their kiss went on for what felt like hours, their bodies pressed 
so tightly together a piece of typing paper couldn't have been 
slid between them.  He felt his cock harden and he knew she could 
feel it against her stomach.  This is so surreal, he thought.  
After all this time, all we've gone through, we're kissing.

He couldn't believe how happy such a simple act made him.

Scully was the first to pull away and he made a disappointed sound 
until he caught the unprecedented look of mischief in her eyes.

He made a grab for the Magic Eight Ball and asked the question 
that scared him more than just about any question in the world.  
"Does Scully want me?"

She laughed and covered the answer window with her hand.  "What do 
you think it's going to say, Mulder?"

He closed his eyes.  "I'm hoping for 'signs point to yes.'"

She uncovered the Eight Ball.  They both leaned in and, together, 
they read the answer:  IT IS DECIDEDLY SO.

"Maybe it is magic," Scully said, looking up at him.

Magic or not, Mulder showed it a total lack of respect as he 
tossed the Eight Ball down on the sofa beside him.  He pulled her 
against him and kissed her, hard.

Scully straddled his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck as his 
tongue slid into her mouth.  He felt her body heat through their 
clothes, smelled her perfume, tasted the sweetness of her.  If his 
cock had been hard before, it was positively ready to burst 
through his clothes now.

She reached down between them and ran her palm up his erection.  
He took this as an invitation to touch her, too, and moved both 
his hands to her breasts.  She felt so good, so soft and sexy and 
female, that he sighed into her mouth.

He began to unbutton her blouse.  Not one to be outdone, she 
started tugging at his belt.  When she seemed to be having 
trouble, he broke off their kiss just long enough to unbuckle it 
for her and unfasten his fly.

He couldn't quite believe it.  They were going to make love.  She 
could still say no, he supposed, but he didn't really need the 
Eight Ball to tell him that that wasn't going to happen.

On the stereo, Bruce Springsteen's version of "Santa Claus is 
Comin' To Town" was playing.  "You'd better be good, for goodness' 
sake . . ." the radio chided.

He peeled her blouse open.  He would have guessed that Scully 
would be shy, a little slow to respond; but she did not seem shy 
at all.  Instead she smiled at him as he gazed in open admiration 
at her breasts, at the way her pale skin swelled above the satiny 
cups of her bra.

"You're so beautiful..." he breathed.

"I want to see you."  She pulled his tie off and her fingers moved 
quickly down the buttons of his shirt.  "I want to look at you, 
too, Mulder."

He shrugged out of his shirt while she helped.  Then he pushed her 
blouse off her shoulders.  As it dropped to the floor she pressed 
herself against him, skin to skin.  

He wondered if she was as amazed as he was by the feeling.  Had 
she imagined this before, as he had?  Had she constructed a 
scenario very much like this one in her head, only to find the 
reality even better than the fantasy version?

He reached around to unhook her bra, and encountered nothing but 
uninterrupted satin.  She drew back from their kiss, smiling.  "It 
unfastens in the front," she said, and her hands moved to the 
clasp.

If he lived to see a thousand Christmases, he thought, he would 
never forget the sight of Scully at that moment.  

He was cupping her breasts when she reached over and retrieved the 
Eight Ball from where he had tossed it on the sofa.  "Is Mulder 
happy right now?" she asked, shaking the ball and flipping it 
upside down.  She checked the answer and grinned at him.  "YOU MAY 
RELY ON IT."

"I told you it was magic."

She shook it again, the movement resulting in a jiggle that Mulder 
found riveting.  "Are Mulder's pants feeling tight?" she asked, 
with a sly glance.

He took the Eight Ball from her hands and tossed it aside again.  
"I can answer that one."

The grin on her face spread slowly.  "Maybe I can help you out," 
she said.

When was he going to wake up from this insanely great dream, 
anyhow?

But the more he blinked, the more he realized this night was no 
dream.  It had been a long time in coming.

She lifted off his body for a moment and with one hand began to 
tug off his pants.  Mulder helped her out by lifting his hips.  To 
his endless delight, his boxers came along with the pants to rest 
somewhere in the neighborhood of his ankles.

Scully settled herself back on his lap and her eyes traveled to 
where he was now exposed to the warm air of her living room.  
Would she like what she saw?

The mischievous eyes returned, as did the smile.  Apparently she 
did like what she was seeing, for she ran her fingertips up and 
down his shaft with aching slowness.

Mulder shut his eyes for a moment so she wouldn't have to see the 
way his eyeballs were beginning to bug out like a cartoon 
character's.

He paused to kiss her lush mouth again, to feel his tongue moving 
alongside hers.  She made a soft cry when he turned the attention 
of his mouth to the soft underside of her chin and the smooth skin 
of her neck.

"What do you want for Christmas, little girl?" he said in a 
labored voice, since her fingers were still working their holiday 
cheer on his cock.

"Are you Santa, then?"

"Have you been a good girl?" he asked, grinning.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"I see," he said, kissing her throat.  "Nice instead of naughty."

She squeezed his cock.  "You could remedy that."

He chuckled.  "I'm sure I could."

He dipped his head and took her nipple in his mouth, sucking 
gently on it, rubbing it with his tongue.  She squirmed in his 
lap, and her hand tightened on him.

"Mmmm, that feels good, Scully."

"I was about to say the same thing to you."

He gazed into her eyes for a moment, then slipped an arm around 
her shoulders and lowered her onto the sofa, covering her with his 
body.  They both closed their eyes and he kissed her, long and 
slow.  His hand trailed down, over her smooth skin, the firm curve 
of her breast, the hollow of her waist.  When he found the button 
on her waistband, deftly he unfastened it.

He lifted off her just far enough for her to wiggle out of her 
slacks, kicking his own pants off his ankles at the same time.  
Then he covered her mouth with his again, and moved his hand 
between them to explore her with his fingers.  She felt hot and 
slick, and his fingers slid easily over her and then a little way 
inside.

Good god, he thought.  Amazing.  It had been a long time since 
he'd been with a woman this way -- a long time since he'd felt 
that warm, tight softness, a long time since his pulse had 
quickened to the scent of pheromones and arousal, a long time 
since he'd heard a woman sighing under him.  It felt like he was a 
kid again, and it was Christmas morning.

He set his forehead against hers.  "Women smell good," he blurted 
out.

Scully laughed.  "What?"

"Women smell good.  You smell good.  Oh, Scully, I'm so happy 
right now."

She lifted her lips to his ear.  "I'm happy, too," she whispered.

On the radio, a choir was singing "The Twelve Days of Christmas."  
"On the eighth day of Christmas," caroled a strong tenor voice, 
"my true love gave to me...eight maids a-milking..."

Closing his eyes, Mulder pushed inside her with a sigh.

"Oh," Scully said.

He wondered what "oh" meant.  It did not sound like a complaint.  
A thrill of pleasure passed through him.  Leisurely he began to 
move, slowly out and then slowly, leisurely, deeply in again. 

She moved, too, lifting her hips to meet him.  Her smooth legs 
rose and locked around his back and her arms circled his neck.  
"Are we dreaming this, Mulder?" she half-whispered, half-groaned.

It took him a while to find the power of words.  Who could form 
sentences, when his cock was pushing in and out of her soft 
wetness, when her muscles seemed to be squeezing him with every 
one of his thrusts?  Speech was of secondary importance and 
besides, the vast majority of the blood meant for his brain had 
chosen to go south for the holidays.

Finally, he was able to say, "I don't think it's a dream, Scully."

Her laughter was clear and bright as New England winter mornings 
he remembered from his childhood.

Her hands slipped down to grab his buttocks and push him harder 
into her.  "Oh God, I'm gonna pass out," he gasped.

"Don't you dare...don't you dare pass out, Mulder."  Her voice was 
strained and he noticed that her eyes were clamped shut.  Oh 
Scully, he thought, I always wondered how you would look at this 
moment.

He frantically wondered what he could do to keep his orgasm at 
bay.  Mulder was right on the verge, so close he imagined it 
tickling the back of his neck.  Just a little longer, he thought, 
making bargains with God, Yahweh, Allah, Krishna and all other 
known deities in whom he normally didn't believe.  I know it's 
been a long time, but just a little more.  Just a few more 
minutes.  I've been waiting for almost seven years to see this 
beautiful woman come.

He tried to concentrate on something else, tried counting the 
number of stripes on her couch.  Then she moaned, and he realized 
that only an idiot would count the stripes on a couch when he 
could be looking at Scully's flushed face instead.

Besides, he could sense that she was getting close.  There was a 
tightening in her muscles, a stillness where before she had been 
moving right along with him.  He reached down between them and 
stroked her along with his thrusts.  If only she would -- if he 
could just --

It was no use.  He couldn't wait any more.  He could feel it 
welling up, knew there was nothing more he could do.  "Oh, god.  
I'm going to come," he groaned.

In that same instant Scully arched her neck and wailed -- there 
was no other word for it -- she actually wailed his name.  He felt 
the contractions of her orgasm squeezing his cock as she shuddered 
powerfully under him.  Oh my God, he thought.  The feeling 
literally took his breath away.

Her shout was still echoing in his ears as he pushed as deeply 
into her as he could, and gushed into her over and over.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


He was still lying atop Scully, groggy and dazed, when he felt her 
hand groping for something in the vicinity of his thigh.

"What are you looking for?" he mumbled.

"This," she said, and showed him the Eight Ball.  

He realized he was probably squashing her, and propped himself up 
on one elbow.  "What are you going to ask it?"

She shook the Eight Ball and gave him a playful look.  "Was that 
the best sex I've ever had?"

"If it says 'My sources say no,' I'm throwing it out the window."

She laughed and showed him the answer: IT IS CERTAIN.

"Well," he said, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, "once 
a millennium or so, I get lucky."

She gave his shoulder a little squeeze and laughed.  "It had 
better not be another millennium before you get lucky."

He wondered how many times he'd heard Scully laugh.  Far too few, 
he thought, and made an early New Year's resolution to make her 
laugh at least once a day.

That wasn't the only thing he resolved to do once a day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


After a quick shower, they raided her fridge and ended up making 
large, messy sandwiches from nearly everything that was inside.  
Mulder had never known that turkey bacon, pickled cabbage, 
tortilla chips and mustard could make such a compellingly 
delicious sandwich.  Or maybe it was the afterglow of sex and the 
fact that Scully was sitting across the kitchen table from him 
wearing only a navy blue silk robe that wasn't sashed well enough 
and kept gaping open to reveal her small, beautiful breasts.

He put down the crusts of his sandwich, took a swallow of orange 
juice and yawned.

"Tired?" she asked, brushing her hair off her forehead.

"A little."  Was she going to ask him to go home?

"Do you...do you want to stay over tonight?"  The expression on 
her face was surprisingly shy.  

Everything's changed, he thought, but instead of that realization 
scaring him, it felt entirely natural.  They were finally doing 
what they were meant to do.

"If you want me to..." he said, hedging his bets.

"Of course I do."  She rose and put their plates in the sink.  "My 
flight isn't until one in the afternoon tomorrow.  We can sleep 
in."

Amazing, he and Scully would be sleeping in together.

They slid into her comfortable, big bed together and he sighed in 
pleasure as she moved against him and kissed him in the dark.

This time, they took their leisurely time in kissing and touching 
one another, discovering each other's spots of pleasure.  He tried 
to memorize every spot he touched that made her moan or gasp, so 
that he could do it again.  She straddled his face and cried out 
steadily as he tasted her with his tongue, running it all over her 
slick folds and around her ruby-read clit until she shuddered 
above him.  Who needed Christmas gifts when he could make Scully 
come?

And it was truly a Christmas miracle when she lowered herself onto 
his cock and moved on him with the grace of a dancer.  He looked 
into her eyes, shining in the glow from the streetlights outside 
her window, and realized that he had everything in the world.

They were just about asleep, her back tucked neatly against his 
chest, when something occurred to him.

"Hey, Scully, are you asleep?" he whispered.

She stirred a little and her head rose.  "Not quite."

"Remember the gypsy, Madame Sujka?"

"Yeah?"

Mulder leaned in and sniffed her hair.  The shampoo scent was now 
overlaid with the heady musk of sex.

"She said that eight was my lucky number..."

She chuckled.  "How is this significant?"

"I got you a Magic Eight Ball for Christmas and the bottle of 
vodka is called 'The Eighth Rose.'  And all night we heard 
eighties music."

Scully's chuckle turned to a full-blown laugh.  "We'll open an X-
file on it after the holidays, okay?"

He kissed the nape of her neck and settled down to sleep, 
listening to her breathing slow.

Mulder had just about dropped off when he opened his eyes and saw 
the Magic Eight Ball sitting on the bedside table.  He switched 
the lamp on to the dimmest setting and started to shake the ball.

"Does Scully love me?" he asked it.

Before he could see the answer, she stirred.  "Put down the ball, 
Mulder," she said.  "I think you already know the answer to that 
question."

All in all, it was a very good Christmas.

END

"I regret to say that we of the FBI are powerless to act in cases of 
oral-genital intimacy, unless it has in some way obstructed interstate 
commerce."
 -- J. Edgar Hoover


This is a special holiday treat for all our dear friends hanging 
out in the root cellar.  You know who you are and we love you.

Dasha would like to send special wreaths of holly to Shari and 
Jill for all the Scullyfic joy.

Happy Holidays to everyone.  We hope you have a wonderful new year 
full of love, laughter and lots of cookies.

Feedback would be as delightful as walking in a winter wonderland...

pdeniability@hotmail.com and dashak@aol.com