Blue Christmas by Plausible Deniability

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Blue Christmas cover

Title: “Blue Christmas” (1/1)
Author: Plausible Deniability
Archive: freely

Category: S, R
Rating: NC-17 (sexual situations; mature language)
Spoilers: None.
Keywords: MSR

Summary: ‘Tis the night before Christmas, and Scully’s holiday is turning out a little differently than she expected.


When three people go missing, the police are bound to take notice. When three people go missing and witnesses report the lights of the aurora borealis dancing directly over their homes, thought Scully ruefully, it’s pure Mulderbait. Even, sadly enough, during the Christmas season.

She and Mulder had been in Connecticut for two days now. They had interviewed the friends and co-workers of the missing, had investigated the places where they worked, and had just finished a search of the last victim’s home. It was Christmas Eve, but Mulder had nothing on his mind except business. He had been dragging her from place to place all day, completely oblivious to the Season.

Well, she had had enough of being his faithful sidekick. Tidings of comfort and joy, my ass. “Would you mind telling me where we’re driving, Mulder?”

The ghost of a smile played around his mouth. “The Museum of the Baffling and Strange.”

“And…?” she said. “Are you going there as a visitor or an exhibit?”

Keeping both eyes on the road, he reached in the pocket of his coat and took out a folded piece of paper. “Take a look at this,” he said, tossing it in her lap.

It was a tourist brochure, printed on glossy paper. THE MUSEUM THAT WILL AMAZE YOU, it proclaimed in fluid black lettering. She opened it out and saw the expected array of cheesy photographs: a human skull with fangs, a rabbit with two heads, a sweet potato that bore an uncanny resemblance to Ronald Reagan.

“Mulder, we don’t have time for sight-seeing now. I mean, we wouldn’t have time even if it weren’t Christmas Eve. We’re on a case.”

“This is about the case,” he said, unperturbed. “I found that on top of Jim Fedorka’s dresser.”

Scully’s brows drew together in a frown. “What makes you think it has anything to do with his disappearance?”

“There was one just like it in Professor Sullivan’s office. I thought that was a pretty unusual coincidence, that two out of three of our missing persons had the same brochure lying around. I’ll bet if we just knew where to look, we’d find that Karen Goodridge had one, too.”

Scully slanted a look at him. “So you think this place is somehow connected with the disappearances?”

“It’s possible,” he said.

After a moment he added, “Plus, I’d really like to see that Reagan sweet potato.”


The museum was small and decidedly shoddy-looking from the outside. It reminded Scully of one of those ramshackle roadside stands that sell fireworks in the summertime. A sign on the peeling door said “CLOSED.”

Mulder knocked, while Scully hung back and marveled at the garishly painted plywood and the slogans stenciled across it. LIVE MUMMIES, one proclaimed. YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE YOUR EYES, promised another.

After a minute or two, there was a shuffling from inside and the door creaked open. “We’re closed,” said a sing-song male voice from the dark interior. “We’ll resume normal business hours on the Monday after Christmas. Do come back then.”

“I’m Agent Mulder, and this is Agent Scully,” said Mulder as they both held up their badges. “We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. May we speak with you?

“FBI?” said the voice in surprise, and the door swung wide. “Come in, then — please.”

Mulder set a hand on the door and waited for Scully to pass through, then followed her inside. Scully found herself in a musty, badly-lit house of curiosities that were every bit as tacky as the outside had hinted. Rubber bats swung from strings overhead, bell jars and voodoo dolls lined cluttered shelves, and curling photographs were thumb-tacked to the cheap panel walls.

But the little man before her was probably the most curious sight of all. He was exactly the same height as Scully, and dressed in a bizarrely androgynous style. A ruffled red woman’s blouse peeped out from beneath a man’s pinstriped double-breasted jacket. He was wearing pants, but they were a pair of women’s pants, light blue, flowered, and made of some light, flowing material. He had black socks on his feet but no shoes. He reminded Scully of the Penguin, Batman’s old nemesis, only in drag.

“What is it that I can do for you?”

“You’re the curator of this place?” Mulder asked.

“Yes, my name is Pritchard.”

“We’re investigating the disappearances of three residents, one of them a federal agent,” Mulder explained, taking a trio of small photos from his breast pocket. “Do you recognize any of these people?”

Mr. Pritchard took the photos, and shuffled through them slowly. He looked up in concern. “You say these people have disappeared?”

“Yes,” said Scully. “They were all reported missing in the last week. The younger man works for one of our field offices.”

“We found brochures for this museum among the belongings of two of the three people you see there,” said Mulder. “Can you remember meeting any of them, Mr. Pritchard?”

The little man smiled fondly. “Of course. I remember all three.”

Mulder and Scully both waited. “And…?” Mulder prodded.

“And I don’t really know what’s happened to them,” said Mr. Pritchard as he passed the photos back to Mulder, “but I can make a guess: I’d say they got their hearts’ desires.”

Mulder merely looked blank. “Their hearts’ desires,” Scully repeated dubiously.

“Yes,” said the man. “I talked for a little while with each of them, and they all mentioned that they were unhappy in their current lives. The professor — the older man in those photos you just showed me — was quite the Revolutionary War historian, I remember, and said he often felt that he had been born in the wrong century. The woman said almost the same thing, only she was interested in the 1800s. And the younger man said he wished he could just vanish for a while, so everyone would leave him alone and he could go fishing.”

Scully glanced significantly at Mulder. “He said he wanted to disappear?”

“Well, yes, although he didn’t sound as if he wanted it to be permanent. I imagine he’ll turn up again eventually.”

Mulder ignored this bit of optimism. “And what did you tell these people, Mr. Pritchard?”

The little man shrugged. “I told them perhaps they just weren’t wishing hard enough. Anyone can wish something into happening, provided the wish is sufficiently harmless and the cosmic vibrations are properly attuned. Personally, I pride myself on my vibration-channeling. I probably helped wish them into the past — or into invisibility, as the case may be.”

Scully shot Mulder a look: I told you so, it said. Another nut. Mulder looked slightly chagrined.

“They all left here safely,” Mr. Pritchard assured them, looking earnestly from one agent to the other. “They signed the guest book, if you want to check the dates they visited.” He pointed to a loose-leaf binder on the gift shop counter.

Mulder frowned and sauntered over to the guest book. Scully waited, tapping her foot impatiently as he began flipping through the ruled pages. Leave Mulder to drag her on a wild goose chase on Christmas Eve, she thought. It had probably never even occurred to him that she didn’t want to spend her holiday looking at two-headed bunnies.

“And what is your heart’s desire, Agent Scully?” asked the little man beside her in an undertone.

Scully turned back to him absently. “What’s that?”

“I asked you what your heart’s desire would be, Agent Scully.”

She smiled, and shook her head slightly. “I don’t believe in cosmic wishing vibrations, Mr. Pritchard.”

The little man laughed. “Oh, you don’t have to believe in them for them to work. That’s the beauty of wishing: it doesn’t require any special qualifications at all. Go ahead, Agent Scully. Make a wish right now if you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t think so.” Damn it, Mulder, hurry up, she thought.

“You’ll never have your heart’s desire if you won’t even admit what it is,” said Mr. Pritchard gently. “And even the best channeler in the world can’t do your wishing for you.”

“Mr. Pritchard — “

“Go ahead,” he urged. “Make a wish. Call it my Christmas present to you.”

She wanted to roll her eyes, but he was so obviously trying to be kind that she couldn’t bring herself to show him outright rudeness. “All right,” she said, and, just to be perverse, she did make a wish. She wished that she could eat chocolate truffles while Mulder sang to her like Elvis, and that they would forget about this stupid case and end up making mad passionate love before the night was out.

There, she thought. Like that wish has a snowball’s chance in hell of coming true.

“Did you wish?” asked Mr. Pritchard hopefully.

She watched Mulder searching through the dime store notebook, surrounded by shrunken heads and malformed vegetables and taxidermy animal freaks. Mulder in his element, she thought wryly. A less romantic man there never was.

“Yes,” she said rather glumly. “I wished.”


“Sorry about that, Scully,” Mulder said as they headed into the little mom and pop diner off I-84. “I really thought I was onto something there.”

She was surprised to hear him admitting that he had brought her on a fool’s errand. “He might still have been involved, Mulder,” she said, her resentment dimming somewhat. “Mr. Pritchard did say that he’d met with all three of them.”

“I know, but the dates don’t match up. Going by the guest book, all three were seen after they visited the museum.”

“He could have followed them and killed them later.”

“Killed them?” Mulder’s brows shot up. “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions, Scully? We haven’t found a single body.”

She was hungry, and the brilliant glare of the diner lighting was giving her a headache. “Let’s just enjoy our dinner now, okay, Mulder? We can talk shop later.”

“Sure, Scully,” he agreed, and picked up his menu.

My God, she thought, did he just agree with me? It couldn’t be possible. She scanned her menu, waiting for him to add something about cosmic vibrations or at least live mummies.

“I think I’m going to have the fried chicken and country gravy,” he said mildly.

She looked across at him. Who was this man? Where was the usual Mulder, he of the great obsessions?

“And the cottage fries,” he added. “I love cottage fries.”

She frowned. What was going on? This was almost normal, sitting in a restaurant and talking food. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

He thought for a moment. “You think maybe I should get some fried mozzarella too?”

She was still puzzling over his baffling disinterest in the case when the waitress arrived. Mulder not only ordered the fried cheese, he also asked for a slice of key lime pie. Scully ordered the turkey. On an impulse she asked for a dessert of her own. It was Christmas Eve, after all. She deserved to spoil herself a little.

Mulder looked around the diner as they waited for the food. “Nice place,” he said.

For the first time Scully examined her surroundings. It was a typical American diner, the tables topped in gold-flecked formica, the seats upholstered in dark red vinyl. There was a jukebox in the corner and a little knot of truckers at the lunch counter. Then again, there were also Christmas touches all around them. Garlands of tinsel lined the booth where they were sitting, and a brightly-trimmed Douglas fir stood beside the cash register.

“Yeah,” she said. “It is pretty nice.”

He sprawled back against the seat. “Hey, Scully, how many of Santa’s reindeer can you name?”

She ticked them off mechanically on her fingers. “Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, Blitzen…and Rudolph. Nine all together.”

He grinned at her. “You forgot Olive.”


“Yeah. Like in the song about Rudolph. ‘Olive, the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names.’”

She groaned, and leaned her head on her hand. “Mulder, that was unbelievably bad.”

The waitress appeared, bearing the fried mozzarella. She smiled apologetically at Scully. “I’m afraid we’re all out of the Snickers pie you ordered, honey.”

“That’s okay,” Scully said. “Just bring me whatever you have.”

The waitress left, and Mulder picked up a cheesestick. “Have one, Scully,” he said, pushing the plate toward her.

“Thanks.” She took one, dipped it in the little well of marinara sauce, and bit into it. She was starving. “Mmmmmmm,” she sighed, her eyes fluttering ecstatically closed.

“Jesus, Scully.”

She opened her eyes to find Mulder gawking at her.

She picked up her napkin. “What?” she said, wiping at her chin. “Do I have sauce on my face or something?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s just…well, that sounded pretty suggestive.”


“I mean, pretty hot, really.”

She bit into the cheesestick again, drawing the melted cheese out into a long rope. “Oh, yeahhhh,” she groaned, and popped the last of it into her mouth. She looked across at Mulder, waiting for his laugh.

But he didn’t seem to find her little joke funny at all. Instead he was gazing at her like a starving wolf stares at a particularly choice filet mignon. There was an interesting flush on his cheeks, too.

She giggled, and picked up another cheesestick. “Mmmmm,” she breathed, sinking her teeth into it. “Yeah, oh, OH, that’s so good — “

Abruptly he leaned across the table. “Scully, don’t,” he said, all seriousness. His voice held an unfamiliar note.

The intensity in his eyes was a little surprising. For an instant she regretted teasing him, however playfully. “I’m only kidding, Mulder,” she said — but for some reason it came out in a low, sultry whisper.

Mulder went on staring at her. Across the diner, one of the truckers got up off his counter stool and ambled over to the jukebox. The trucker studied the song list, then dropped a couple of coins in the jukebox slot. He pushed a button, and a country tune began to play.

“You shouldn’t kid me like that,” said Mulder in a raspy voice. “Someday I might forget to laugh.”

She stared into his eyes. “You’re not laughing now.”

“No,” he said. “I noticed that, too.”

They gazed at one another.

The waitress appeared, jarring them both out of the reverie into which they were sinking. “Got your food right here, folks,” she said brusquely, setting plates down in front of them. To Scully she added, “I’m afraid the only other dessert we had with chocolate was these little things, honey.”

Scully looked dully down at the table. There, on a plate beside her turkey dinner, was a trio of chocolate truffles.

Her mouth dropped open. She looked up at the waitress in confusion, but the woman was already turning back toward the kitchen.

“Is something wrong?” Mulder asked.

She shook her head. “No, it’s just…” She couldn’t think of any way to explain the significance of chocolate truffles without sounding as crazy as Mr. Pritchard. “It’s nothing.”

The country song on the jukebox faded into silence. Mulder picked up his fork, and she popped one of the truffles into her mouth. From the other side of the diner, the opening notes of a new song began to play.

Mulder stopped eating and grinned. “Hey, Scully,” he said, still in that oddly intimate tone, “listen to that.”

She did listen. It was…it was “Blue Christmas.” Elvis. The jukebox was playing Elvis.

Truffles…and Elvis.

Her heart began to pound as Mulder leaned toward her. Smiling, he crooned softly along with the record:

“I’ll have a blue Christmas without you,

I’ll be so blue thinking about you…”

“Mulder, stop,” she said, suddenly afraid of the momentum the evening had gathered.

But he went on singing, still with a foolish grin on his face,

“Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree

Won’t be the same, dear, if you’re not here with me…”

“Mulder, I said stop — “

She felt his hand under the table, and nearly jumped out of her skin. His long, sensitive fingers were tracing little circles up the inside of her leg.

“I’ll have a blue Christmas, that’s certain,” he sang, eyes dancing,

“And when that blue heartache starts hurtin’…”

She could hardly breathe. She was afraid to let him keep going, and yet more afraid that he would stop. His hand wandered higher, his fingers playing lightly over the inside of her thigh.

“You’ll be doin’ all right, with your Christmas of white…”

The tips of his fingers found the aching spot between her legs, rubbing rhythmically against the outside of her clothes.

“But I’ll have a blue, bluuuuuue Christmas…”

“Mulder,” she said hoarsely, every word an effort, “let’s go back to the motel.”


They didn’t talk to one another in the car. Not a word, not a syllable. Scully was too afraid to break the spell they had both somehow fallen under. Instead she turned on the car radio, and listened dizzily, her head thrown back, to the soaring melody of “O Holy Night.”

At the motel, the silence continued. She walked quietly beside Mulder down the long unroofed line of doors to her motel room, and wordlessly handed him her key. He had trouble fitting it into the lock. She could see that his hand was trembling.

They stepped inside, and she fell into his arms. He held her tightly with his right while he reached behind them blindly with his left to push the door closed and throw the lock. His mouth met hers, his kiss hot and wet and ravenous, as his hand came up to cradle the back of her head. She could feel him shaking against her.

She ran her hands down his back, cupping his ass in her hands, pulling him closer. He was hard, and his erection pressed aggressively against the soft flesh of her abdomen. He made a low sound deep in his throat, and pushed her trench coat off her shoulders. She wiggled out of it, and reached up to tug his tie free.

He was impatient. He backed her against the bed, shedding his own coat in the process, and yanked her blouse loose from the waistband of her pants. His hands slid up her ribs, his fingers light until he found her breasts and cupped them. She was working on his buttons, but he was kissing her, his lips teasing her, his tongue darting in and out, and she found it impossible to concentrate. “Mulder,” she gasped between kisses. “Mulder, let me see you — “

He wasn’t helping her focus any. He had found the clasp to her bra and unfastened it, and he was doing wonderful things to her breasts. His hands were skillful, circling her nipples, rolling them between thumb and forefinger, making her ache in a way she had nearly forgotten. Finally she worked the last of his buttons loose, and broke off kissing him just long enough to pull her blouse off over her head.

“Oh, Scully,” she heard him groan, and then he bent lower and took one nipple in his mouth, sucking, while she curled her fingers in his hair.

“Mmmm, yes…” she agreed, looking down at his dark head. Her knees had turned to water.

He was unbuttoning her pants. He peeled them down along with her underwear, sinking to his knees as he did so, and she stepped out of the clothes. “Talk to me, Scully,” he whispered, his lips against her belly.

“Mulder, I want to feel you.”

“In a minute,” he said. “My turn first.”

His fingers stroked upward, opening her, dipping into wetness. He set the flat of his palm against her clit and began to grind against it, rocking his hand as he slid two fingers in and out of her. She closed her eyes and shivered.

“Talk to me,” he said again. “I want to know if this feels good.”

But she couldn’t answer, because speech would require thought, and right now all her mental energy was focused on keeping herself from falling to her knees in a swoon. “Talk to me,” he begged.

“Can’t,” she managed in a choked whisper.

“You’re so wet,” he said raggedly. “Scully, I can’t believe how wet you are. Tell me if this feels okay.”

She couldn’t answer.

He stood up suddenly. She gave a little cry of disappointment, and jumped against him. He lifted her, looping her legs around his hips — but instead of depositing her on the bed as she’d expected, he carried her over to the little motel desk and set her down on the blotter there.

“Always wanted to do it on the desk with you,” he whispered.

She leaned back, but gasped and snapped upright when her back met cold glass. She looked over her shoulder, and met her own reflection. There was a mirror on the wall behind her.

“I’m going to make it good,” Mulder was promising softly, his hands gently pushing her knees apart. “I’m going to make it good.”

He dropped down in front of her. She threw her head back as his fingers parted her, separating soft skin, and his mouth closed hotly on her flesh. He seemed to know exactly what she wanted. His tongue was everywhere, now pushing inside her, now flicking lightly at her clit, now sucking gently.

Eventually he drew away only an inch, his mouth hovering over her. “Is it okay, Scully?” he asked. There was an edge of worry in his voice.

She couldn’t talk, she couldn’t think, and so she just clutched at his hair and tugged his face back where it belonged.

She could feel his chuckle vibrating against her.

It was good, so good, and she wished she had the words to tell him so, but there were more urgent matters to attend to. She was already busy panting; she was already occupied squirming wantonly against his face. She gripped the edge of the desk, as her hips lifted in a silent plea for more. She was going to scream, she was going to faint, she was going to come so hard it would surely kill her —

Mulder stood up.

“No!” she cried, finally finding the power of speech that had so far eluded her.

He dropped his head to her shoulder. “It’s okay Scully, I promise, I promise it’s okay,” he babbled against her neck, wrenching his belt off and tossing it to the floor behind him. He unbuttoned his pants and she hurried to help him, pushing them down off his hips, jerking his boxers down. His erection sprung free, huge and insistent, and she wrapped her hand around it.

He groaned and pulled her closer. Her hands around his cock drew him towards her, positioning him, and he drove into her in one slick, sudden thrust.

“Oh, God,” he moaned, his head lolling forward again so that they were forehead to forehead.

She threw her arms around his shoulders. He started to move. “Got to..go slow…” he panted into her ear, pumping in and out of her in long, deep strokes.

“No,” she said. “Harder. Faster.” She wanted him so badly she thought she would weep with frustration.

He sped up a little. “This…okay?” he panted.

“Harder than that.” She squirmed, impaling herself as deeply as she could on him. “Really hard.”

“Don’t wanna — hurt you —”

“Do it. Harder.”

He kept one hand on her back, holding her against him, and shoved into her so hard she gasped. She turned her head and looked at their reflection in the mirror. Mulder’s face was dark and taut with passion, in sharp contrast to the milky whiteness of her back.

“Yes,” she panted. “Like that.”

And then he was doing it, battering her, knocking her each time against the mirror before hauling her savagely back against him. He was grunting with every thrust, his breath exploding against her ear.

Yes, just like that, she thought before all thought left her. He kept slamming against her as her body tensed. Just like that. And then she cried out, her nails digging into his back, and her whole body shook as wave after wave of pleasure rocked her.

Just like that.

She was dimly aware, even in the grip of her orgasm, that Mulder was still moving in her, still panting, still straining for release. But as she felt herself floating back to earth he faltered, and thrust a few times in an odd sort of non-rhythm, and then he snorted against her shoulder. She felt a sensation of wet heat flooding her.

“Love you,” he whispered breathlessly, sagging against her. “Love you.”

She stroked his hair. “That was good, Mulder.”

He lifted his head and smiled at her sleepily. “You certainly don’t hear me complaining.”

She laughed, and hugged his face to her damp, flushed skin. “See what happens when you think about something else besides that case for a change?”

She could feel his breathing growing slower, deeper, more even. “What case?” he asked dreamily.

She thought for a minute. What case had they been talking about today? She couldn’t remember either.

“It probably isn’t important,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed, straightening resolutely and carrying her with him to the bed.

And, for once, it really wasn’t.


She awoke to find Mulder standing half-dressed in the open doorway, looking out into the night.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He turned and smiled at her. “Come look at this,” he said, his voice pleasantly scratchy. “Northern lights.”

She slid out of bed, pulling the sheets with her and wrapping them around her body, toga-fashion. She went to stand beside him and he draped one arm over her shoulders, tugging her against his warm chest.

Outside, the crisp air was alive with flickering, dancing blue light.

She stared for a while, struck by the astonishing beauty of it. “That’s…that’s wonderful…”

“Isn’t it?” He nuzzled her hair, dropping a kiss on her forehead.


“Mmmm-hmmm,” he agreed, though now his hand was slipping under her make-shift toga and he didn’t seem to be looking at the night. “Second most amazing thing I’ve seen tonight…”




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