Feather Touch
Here's the thing: Mulder is a terrible gifter of presents. "Super Highlights of the Superbowl" on video? Surprise lunch consisting of chili dogs with the grease spotting the bottom of the brown paper sack?
Bodies.
He gives Scully bodies to autopsy, with much the same melting gaze and tender smile that Victorian poets presented a poesy to their crinoline'd ladies, or the raised eyebrow and pirate smile that Sir Francis Drake would have done, swirling his cloak in the mud for a princess to trod upon.
Exsanguinations. Spontaneous human combustions. Cloned DNA. Mutations. Serial kills.
Her life, of course. He had saved her life.
But not big on the presents. Not a man to go into Victoria's Secret, even, and buy something with satin and scratchy lace. No cologne, no flowers unless you're in the hospital with an actual I.V., no birthday cards or presents ever ever, a shuddering avoidance of Christmas.
His body, though.
His body for her to lie beside, his swimmer's wide shoulders and narrow hips and long legs. His olive-golden skin, his hazel eyes half- closed, his full lips smiling without sarcasm.
He gave that to her.
This morning, he rolled over in bed and carefully put a downy feather on her palm. "Must have come from the pillow," he said. "It's a hen feather."
"Why are you giving me a feather, Mulder?" she asked.
"Hold on to it, and let's see if you can fly," he said, seriously, running his hand along the inside of her thigh.
Turns out, she thought she did.