Not Just Another New Year's Eve (Part 2 of 2)
By Mary Kleinsmith (BUC252@aol.com)


"Hi," he says simply.

"Hi, Mulder.  Can I help you with some of that?"  I reach for them, but he 
backs away, using his rear to shut the door behind him.

"Nope," he says, smiling.  "This is my treat, and I don't want you to spoil 
the surprise."  He turns toward the kitchen.  "Stay right there - I'll be 
back in a second."  He continues to talk to me from in the kitchen, and I 
find that I miss getting to see his face while he's speaking.  He 
communicates so much with things other than his words.  His eyes, his face, 
that lower lip . . .  I shake away the distraction when I realize that I'm 
missing what he's saying.

"So you must've just gotten here, huh?  I'm sorry I had to step out, but the 
restaurant said they were going to be a little delayed."  Ah, so he did get a 
take-out dinner of some kind.  I don't mind - anything is good when eaten 
with Fox Mulder.

"No, actually I've been here for awhile."  He emerges from the kitchen, a 
look of puzzlement on his face.  

"Are you cold?  Should I turn up the heat?"

"No, I'm fine," I answer him, smiling my best enigmatic grin.  

"So why don't you take off your coat?"  

"I guess I could do that, couldn't I?"  I smile at him as he comes closer to 
help me with it, but I have it untied and off before he can get behind me.  
That was my plan, because I wanted him where he could get the full view when 
I revealed my new dress.

"Oh, Scully," he says in a breathless sigh.  It took me days to find this 
dress after he asked me to come here.  Nothing I had was good enough.  He 
draws closer and runs a tentative hand over the satiny cloth on my arms.  I'd 
looked at a similar dress with spaghetti straps, but when it comes down to 
it, I'm a practical kind of girl and it is almost January in Washington, DC.  
But a less-than professional neckline, a form-fitting bodice of the same red 
satin and a hem that fell a considerable distance above my knees equaled a 
dress I knew would catch Mulder's eye. 

"Mulder, I can't remember the last time you were rendered speechless.  I 
think I like it," I joke.  

"If you wore this dress every day, Scully, I'd volunteer to give up speaking 
entirely," Mulder said, a blush again turning his cheeks crimson.

"You'd really want me to wear this to the office?" I asked.  

"On second thought, no, I don't.  Skinner already stares at you too much."

"He does not," I deny, deciding that distraction is the way to go.  It's 
getting way too warm in here.  "So what are we having for dinner?"

"Well," he responds, leading me to sit in a chair.  "Only the best will do 
for the beginning of a new millennium, so we have, specially prepared by 
Kimberly's . . ."  he disappears into the kitchen and emerges with two filled 
plates . . . "stuffed shrimp, clams casino, three kings salad, roasted 
potatoes and, for dessert, caramel-banana galette."

It takes a couple more trips from the kitchen before the table is filled, but 
he refuses to let me help him.  I'm more than impressed with the extent to 
which he's gone on this meal, admiring the crystal water glasses and linen 
napkins with acute appreciation.  He doesn't sit, though.  Not yet."

He answers verbally my questioning gaze.  "Just a couple more things," he 
says, lighting the candles, flicking off the overhead light, and returning to 
the table with a champagne bucket filled with ice and what I'm sure is a very 
nice bottle of champagne.  Now, I'm the speechless one.

I watch soundlessly as Mulder finally sits in his chair.  "I feel like I'm 
underdressed," he says, motioning to his tan Dockers and black Oxford shirt.

"You're just fine the way you are, Mulder," I say, laying a hand on his 
forearm to keep him in his seat.  "All I want right now is to eat this 
fantastic meal with you."  Okay, I want more than that, but this will do for 
now.  Baby steps, I tell myself.  I don't tell him what the sight of him in 
his form-fitting Dockers does to me, or how the black of his shirt makes him 
look so sexy.  I'll get to that eventually, but not now.

After several minutes, I find I've fallen behind.  Mulder is apparently 
better at controlling his impulse to watch me than I am at controlling my own 
to watch him.  While I've been watching him eat, noting the grace of each 
chew, each bite, each lick of his lips, he's been finishing his meal.  I hope 
he doesn't notice and think he's done anything wrong while I turn my 
attention to the food.  It's delicious, as is anything Kimberly's makes, but 
I'm afraid to think about what this repast has cost my partner.

"My partner."  That's such an open phrase.  At work and to anybody who knows 
us through it, it means we work together.  To us, for years, it's meant that 
we're best friends, bonded beyond any unbonding.  And lately, I've given it a 
new definition in my mind.  It no longer means, "the person I love as my best 
friend".  Now it means, "the person I love so much, I want to spend my life 
with him."  

I'll let you in on a little secret.  I made a New Year's resolution last 
year, after Mulder kissed me.  I resolved that before the year 2000 was gone, 
Mulder and I would admit to each other how we feel.  We'd say the words, and 
they'd come to have new meaning for us.  I'll grant you, this is letting it 
go until the last minute, but I swear, this night I'll explain my own 
feelings and do my damndest to get him to tell me his.  

"How about I take these out to the kitchen," Mulder says, grabbing up our 
empty plates, "before we slice the galette."  Before I can respond, he's gone 
into the kitchen, returning with two champagne flutes and a corkscrew.  

He makes short work of the cork while I watch his arm muscles ripple through 
his shirt against the resistance it puts forth.  I slice the rich dessert and 
we both have a slice before deciding we're too full for any more.

"How about if we finish the bottle in the living room?" I suggest.  

"Sounds great," Mulder responds, scooping the bucket into his arms.  When he 
nearly trips over my oversized purse, I remember something else.  

"Oh, I almost forgot.  My Mom gave me a late Christmas present, but she said 
it was for both of us and that we should only open it together."

"Well, that's cryptic," Mulder smiles mischievously.  "I like your Mom a lot, 
Scully, but she's never been one to send me gifts."

"She absolutely would not tell me what was in it, and believe me, I tried to 
pry it out of her."  I pull a brightly-wrapped box from my purse and lay it 
on his coffee table.  "Why don't you read the card."

Mulder shrugs and removes the envelope taped to the package.  It's a pretty 
normal Christmas card until he starts to read what she's written inside.

"Dear Kids, I saw this in one of the toy stores while Christmas shopping for 
Matty and thought it was too perfect to resist.  You know each other so well, 
but think about how much more there may be to learn.  Love, Mom."

"Now I am worried," I respond in reaction.  "What's Mom up to this time?"

"I don't know, but why don't you open it?" Mulder suggests.

"Why not you?" I rebutt.

"Because I did the card."

"So, I carried it over here."

"Well, it's from your Mother."

"Enough!" I say, putting a stop to the bantering.  "Why don't you do that 
side and I'll do this one."  He nods in agreement and we both begin to work 
on freeing the paper from the box.  My Mom should have been a professional at 
this, because it takes some time before the gift is revealed to us.

"Partners?" Mulder reads.  And sure enough, my mother has given us a game 
called "Partners".  I flip over the box this way and that until I find the 
game information.

"Over 200 hilarious and serious questions and a promise to tell only the 
truth will show you and your partner just how well you know each other."  I'm 
afraid that the type of partnership for which the game was designed isn't 
quite the kind Mulder and I share, but it could still be fun.  And who knows? 
 "Well, Mulder?  How about it?"

"You really want to play this?" He asks me in all seriousness.  

"Sure, why not?  Are you scared?"

"No," he answers, rising to the challenge with a laugh.  "Anything you can 
dish out, I can take."   

**

The sound of the nearby church bells chiming once to signal five minutes 
before the hour wakes me from a sound sleep, and I sit up suddenly, realizing 
I almost missed it.

"What's th'matter?" comes a groggy voice from beside me.  It's Mulder, 
glorious in the resplendent moonlight that streams through his window.  

"Nothing," I say, snuggling into his side again.  "It's five minutes to the 
new year, Mulder.  We don't want to miss seeing the millennium come in, do 
we?"

"I'm thinking right now that I like this millennium just fine," he smiles 
warmly before applying a row of kisses from the hollow of my throat up to my 
lips.  I look around the room, seeing my red dress shining from where it's 
hanging on the bedroom door and then my cross, dangling from the lamp on the 
bedside table.  It shines like Mulder, iridescent in the moonlight.  

"Yeah, but just think how much better the new one will be," I say, trying out 
my best seductive voice.  Not that it takes much seduction when two people 
who love each other are in the same bed sans clothing.

"As long as we're together, it's going to be great," he responds, kissing me 
passionately once again as we roll over.  I run my hands over his strong, 
smooth shoulders, admiring the brand new shine that adorns the third finger 
of my left hand.  I must remember to stop in and thank the folks at Chelsea's 
Jewelers for helping my fiancé choose such a perfect engagement ring.  

When the stroke of midnight finally resounds through the room a minute or so 
later, we are truly ringing in the neaw year with a oneness unequalled.  And 
as we are so joined, our eyes meet and we promise each other a new year - and 
a new millennium - full of promises that our lives will become more beautiful 
with each day.

The End