The Snowman 
By Xanthe
"Have you ever built a snowman, Walter?" he 
asks, head on one side. 
"Of course. Hasn't everyone?" I grunt. 
He's sitting by the window, one slender hand 
resting against the glass, staring out at the snow. 
His empty coffee cup hangs from a languid finger.
"A White Christmas," he laughs, showing white 
teeth. "Just like the ones we used to know."
"Last year was white." I clear away the dishes.
"It was?" He thinks back.
"Yeah. Last year it snowed. I remember 
because…" And I pause, the words catching in my 
throat. 
Forgive me, this isn't where it started. I'm not very 
good at story telling. I'll go back. 
****
It's Christmas Eve. I'm working late. There's no 
reason to go home, no presents to buy and wrap. 
I've bought a tree, but it's standing undecorated in 
my hallway. Sharon and I used to do it 
together…well, she used to. I used to just stand 
there and hand her garlands, and tinsel, and stars, 
and angels, and when she wasn't looking I'd steal 
one of the tree chocolates. Only she always knew. 
She had eyes in the back of her head.
"Walter?" she'd say sternly, a laugh in her voice, 
and I'd pretend to act guilty at being found out, and 
she'd tap the top of my head and kiss me. 
Chocolatey kisses. 
Anyway, like I said, there's no reason to rush 
home. I glance out of my window at the busy 
streets below, seething with people bustling around 
like so many demented ants. I'm feeling glad that I 
don't have to go and join the fray. And sad. 
Curiously sad as well. I hate crowds, and I'm not 
exactly crazy about shopping either. I used to buy 
Sharon perfume, every year. And sometimes 
lingerie, although she never wore what I bought 
her. I guess I got the wrong size, or the wrong 
color, or something. 
I bought Kim some perfume, the same kind that 
Sharon used to like, maybe because old habits are 
hard to break, maybe because it's the only gift I 
feel comfortable buying, I don't know. She seemed 
pleased though - and she smiled when I told her to 
go home early. She's a good kid. I like her - she 
works hard. I stay though, and I can hear the 
building gradually getting emptier and emptier, until 
finally it falls silent. It's kind of eerie. Just me, my 
lamp, my desk. I keep delaying, wondering if I can 
find a way to stay here all night, and all tomorrow, 
but I can't. 
I do something I've never done before. I go 
walkabout. I wander down those empty corridors, 
peer into dark rooms, glance at half empty glasses, 
and wrapping paper left abandoned after various 
impromptu Christmas parties. I feel like a Captain, 
taking a tour around his ship to make sure that 
everything is okay. I don't know what takes me 
down to the basement, but I'm surprised to see a 
light on under the door of Mulder's office. I think 
about it for a moment, and then go and knock.
"Yo. It's open." 
I put my head around the door, and see him sitting 
at his desk, glasses perched on the end of his 
nose, typing. 
"You still here, Agent Mulder?" I ask. "Didn't 
anybody tell you it's Christmas?"
"Are you kidding? I was driven out of the mall by 
the sounds of all those kids singing," he grins. "You 
can't avoid Christmas. It pursues you, relentlessly, 
and holds you in its death grip. You can thrash 
around all you like, but there's no escape!" He 
moves his long arms and legs restlessly in time to 
his slightly crazed monologue.
"You can avoid it," I tell him. "Work late, don't go 
shopping, and don't turn the TV on. I've found that 
works."
"I'll try that sometime. Thanks for the advice, sir." 
He stares at me for a moment, with those knowing 
hazel eyes. "You're avoiding the season of goodwill 
too then I take it, sir?"
"Yes." I venture into his territory, feeling welcomed, 
perch myself on the edge of his desk. I haven't 
always felt welcome in this room. "And you? Don't 
you have plans for the holiday, Mulder?"
He shrugs, the sadness glancing across his 
features momentarily.
"No. I would go to my mother's but…" he hesitates. 
"Things aren't good between us," he shrugs again. 
"I thought you and your mother were close," I 
remark in surprise.
"No," he shakes his head. "We aren't."
"When she had that stroke…I thought…you were 
very upset."
"She's my mom." He makes a face. "I do love 
her."
"Of course." I sit there, wishing I was better at 
small talk. "Uh…so you're not spending Christmas 
with Agent Scully?" 
He looks up sharply. I guess people are always 
prying into the nature of the relationship he has 
with Agent Scully. 
"No," he smiles, obviously deciding that I have no 
hidden agenda. "She did offer, but…well, she's 
spending the holiday with her folks, and let's just 
say that her brother and I aren't exactly buddies."
"Ah." I watch him for a while. Does he have any 
friends? He's fallen out with his mother, and with 
Scully's brother? I know he wouldn't exactly win 
any prizes for most popular FBI agent, but despite 
the trouble he's always caused me, I like him.
"What about you, sir? What are your plans?" he 
asks.
"Nothing," I shrug. "I don't like Christmas much."
"Me neither." 
He types something onto his computer, and I feel 
as if he's dismissing me, so I get up to go. I don't 
know what stops me, or why I say what I do.
"If you don't want to be alone tomorrow, you're 
welcome to stop by my place for lunch, Mulder. I 
don't have much - but it's enough for two. You 
know, turkey, cake." 
He looks surprised, and I know he's going to say 
'no'.
"Thank you. Yeah. That'd be nice," he nods. "Want 
me to bring anything?"
I'm too surprised he's agreed to think of anything, 
so I just shrug.
"Uh, no. I don't think so. Just yourself. About 
12:30?"
"12:30. Yes." He smiles and I feel…curious about 
him, about his life. 
He arrives on time, bearing a bottle of wine. And 
he isn't nervous being around me - a lot of people 
are. It's the nature of the job. They can't see past 
the title. Mulder isn't like that. He takes everyone 
as he finds them. He starts talking the moment I let 
him through the door. Not nervous chatter, but 
clever, witty observations - about the weather, and 
the prospect of snow, about the crap on television. 
I don't have to say much. I think that suits me 
more. I'm not very talkative. Never have been. 
After a while I start talking though. I don't know 
how that happens - something to do with Mulder, 
his insatiable curiosity, and desire for knowledge. 
He could draw conversation out of the most 
socially inept person, and I'm not that. I'm 
just…quiet. I tell him about 'Nam - not the gory 
stuff, just some of the rest of it. 
"Do you ever meet up with any other vets?" He 
asks, hovering behind me in the kitchen, dipping 
his fingers into whatever he can find that looks 
appetizing.
"Occasionally," I shrug.
"But you haven't stayed friends?" He puts his head 
on one side, looking at me keenly.
"I…find there isn't a great deal of time for friends." 
"Yeah. It's the job," he sighs. "But don't you ever 
get lonely?" 
"No," I snap, shortly. "I'm not the kind of person 
who needs much company."
"No. Right," he smiles. "Hey, that smells great, sir." 
He sniffs the air extravagantly, and I have to laugh.
"I can cook!" I announce boastfully. "And it kind of 
feels wrong to have you call me sir. Today, for one 
day only, why don't you call me Walter?"
"Walter? Fine," he grins. "Please don't call me Fox 
though. Mulder is fine. Fox is gross." He puts his 
finger down his throat and mimes a vomiting fit.
"Hey - you haven't even tasted my cooking yet, " I 
find myself joking, and he grins even more.
 
"Walter Skinner. Culinary genius." Mulder sits back 
in his chair and runs his hands over his distended 
stomach. "You are the cook to beat all cooks, 
Walter."
"Somehow I get the feeling you don't eat home 
cooked meals very often," I shake my head, still 
marveling at the three helpings he managed to 
devour.
"E.S.P?" he puts his slender fingers against my 
head, and I'm reminded suddenly, and bizarrely, of 
Mr. Spock doing a Vulcan mind meld. "Are you 
telepathic, Walter? How did you guess that? Are 
you trying to make me investigate an X File on 
Christmas day?!" 
"Idiot." I shake my head, dislodging his fingers. "I 
bet you never cook for yourself though, do you?"
"Cook?" he feigns astonishment. "What's that? 
Nah, you're right, Walter. I don't cook. Neither does 
my mom. And nor, to my certain knowledge, did 
my dad. The Mulder family doesn't have those 
kinds of genes. The Scully family on the other 
hand, has them in abundance. Mrs Scully cooks 
almost as well as you do, Walter."
"Flattery will get you coffee," I grin, standing up 
and feeling pleasantly full myself. And surprisingly 
happy. Mulder's good company, and, you know, 
it's nice not to be alone for a change. He gets up, 
and wanders around the room, examines my CD 
and video collection, while I disappear into the 
kitchen to make the coffee.
****
"Have you ever built a snowman, Walter?" he 
asks, head on one side. 
"Of course. Hasn't everyone?" I grunt. 
He's sitting by the window, one slender hand 
resting against the glass, staring out at the snow. 
His empty coffee cup hangs from a languid finger.
"A White Christmas," he laughs, showing white 
teeth. "Just like the ones we used to know."
"Last year was white." I clear away the dishes.
"It was?" He thinks back.
"Yeah. Last year it snowed. I remember 
because…" And I pause, the words catching in my 
throat. 
Outside the snow is falling fast, too fast, burying 
everything under a white landscape. My world is 
blurry, and I take my glasses off, wipe them on the 
tablecloth.
"Yes?" his voice is a whisper.
"I remember because that was when I asked them 
to turn off Sharon's respirator. I remember looking 
at her white face, then looking out of the window, 
and seeing the snowflakes fall. She loved the 
snow. She loved Christmas. I never did."
"How long was she in a coma for?" he asks, and 
his voice is close. I can't see him though. I can't 
see anyone but her. She was so beautiful. And so 
still. And white. Lying in her white hospital gown, 
under white sheets, in a white room. And outside 
the world was painting itself white too.
"Ten months," I shrug. "I kept thinking…hoping…"
"Yes." I feel a hand on my shoulder. 
"It was Christmas Day. I told them to turn it off on 
Christmas Day. They said I should have done it 
before, that she would never regain 
consciousness, but I couldn't until that day. Seeing 
her lying there, on the day she loved more than 
any other, knowing this wasn't the way she would 
have wanted to spend it. That's when I decided."
"I built a snowman a few months after Sam 
disappeared." He rests his head against mine. "I 
asked Mom what I could dress him in and she 
brought me out Sam's old coat, and one of her 
woollen hats. That's when I knew she wasn't 
coming back." 
It's dark outside now, and dark inside. I can feel his 
hand pressed briefly against my arm. 
"Come on, Walter." He pulls me up, finds my coat, 
and puts it on me as if I'm a child.
"Mulder…what?"
"Come with me." He drags me out of the door, and 
down to the elevator, then out into the street and 
along to the park. He laughs as he runs in the 
snow, his mouth open, catching snowflakes.
"Mulder…I'm way too old for this!" I protest, but he 
just grabs my arm and keeps pulling.
"No you're not, Walter. Neither am I. Come on!" 
He picks up a handful of snow and throws it at me, 
laughing as it smashes against my head. I'm 
laughing too, much to my own surprise. I pursue 
him through the park, throwing snowballs at him, 
until I catch up and stuff a handful of snow down 
the back of his sweater, making him squeal.
"You bastard, Walter!" he grins, his teeth white 
against the dark evening sky. "I'll get you for that!" 
He lunges at me, snow in hand, but he's just a kid, 
a boy, and I side-step him easily, grabbing him in a 
neck lock and throwing him down on the soft 
snowy ground, kicking snow over him as he lies 
there, laughing his ass off. 
"This is what you call 'getting me' is it?" I grin, 
reaching down to shovel snow onto his face with 
my gloved hands.
"No. This is." He gets up, smoothly, hanging onto 
the lapels of my coat, and his lips brush away the 
snow from my eyelashes. It's so quick, so sudden, 
and unexpected, that my heart stops for a 
moment, then starts again, beating too fast. I stand 
there in the snow, feeling it cover me, like a 
blanket. 
Time stands still. The night is crystal clear, icy, 
gleaming and glinting like a diamond, and there's 
just me, and the darkness, and the moon, and the 
snow. Cold and yet warm at the same time. The 
moment stretches into eternity, and all the while I 
can see his dancing hazel eyes, and the outline of 
his mouth as it slowly, oh so slowly, closes against 
mine. His lips are soft, and tender, and mine are 
unresisting. He tastes unfamiliar, strong, muscular, 
yet curiously so yielding, and sweet.
When he lets me go, I find that I can't move.
"You look like you're wearing a hat." He wipes a 
cloud of snow from my bare head. "My real life 
snowman."
"Did you just kiss me?" I ask, still in shock.
"Yes. Did you enjoy it?" he grins, brushing more 
snow from my shoulders.
"Yes." 
There are white flakes of snow in his dark hair, and 
one flake comes to rest gently on the tip of his 
nose. Thick droplets of water coat his eyelashes. 
"You have a new memory now, Walter," he smiles, 
taking my hand and running me across the snowy 
landscape. "Next time it snows, think of me, 
dancing." He swivels his hips outrageously, the 
swirling snowflakes making patterns around his 
head, and across his body, until he blends into the 
blizzard, a manic, dancing mannequin, twisting in 
time to the winter music. 
He leads me home through the fog of snow and of 
my whirling mind, and when he gets me into my 
apartment, he undoes my coat, his long fingers 
straying to caress my cold face. I stand there, 
stupefied, my mouth aching to be kissed again, 
and he obliges, his lips feeling too warm and solid 
against my frozen mouth. 
"My snowman," he murmurs, not stopping at my 
coat, moving on to unbutton my shirt as well. "Let's 
thaw you out, shall we?" 
His mouth lingers against my neck, softly presses 
against a collarbone, lightly teases a nipple. He 
takes my hand and leads me over to the fire, 
undoes my pants, and pushes them down my 
thighs, and my briefs follow. As if in a dream I step 
out of them, and allow him to press me down onto 
the rug, allow his body to nuzzle against mine as if 
it were made to fit there. His head beneath my 
chin, his long legs wrapped around my thighs, his 
hands stroking my body. I'm dimly aware that he's 
undressed too. I can feel his skin, naked against 
my own, a light sheen of sweat glistening in the 
orange glow of the fire. He makes love to me 
gently, softly, sweetly, as if in a dream. His tongue 
is slow and languid, his hands feather light. He 
doesn't taste like Sharon, or smell like her. His 
man's body is different, and yet so perfect. 
Beautiful - just as she was. He is new, unfamiliar, 
and yet so familiar too. I let him do whatever he 
wants, move to accommodate whatever he asks, 
allow him to touch me in ways I never knew were 
possible, never dreamed of, or thought I wanted. 
Yet my body responds to his expert touch, like a 
musical instrument being played by a master. 
When at last, evening turns to night, and our bodies 
are exhausted, my new love holds me in his arms 
and smiles, one fingertip resting on my lips.
"Despite what we thought - it turned out to be a 
good Christmas after all, Walter," he whispers. 
The End
Friendly feedback will be given a seasonal glass of 
mulled wine & a mince pie at: Xanthe@xanthe.org