Okay But Jonathan Is What Makes The Mummy, And No One Can Convince Me Other Wise.

Okay but Jonathan is what makes the Mummy, and no one can convince me other wise.

John Hannah as Jonathan Carnahan in The Mummy (1999) dir. by Stephen Sommers

December Writing Challenge: MSR Ficmas // Day 27 - Roasting Marshmallows

"I can certainly think of worse ways to spend a New Years evening," Mulder jokes around a mouthful of smoky, gooey, chocolate-y goodness. She grins at his playfulness, using her thumb to smear away a bit of marshmallow from his bottom lip. They're sitting cozy and relaxed by Scully's fireplace, Mulder's injured arm in a sling as she feeds him bits of homemade s'mores.

He yawns noisily as she takes a bite of her own sugary treat. He's had quite an ordeal the past 24 hours and she's had to all but force him to sit and rest from last night's zombie romp. He's been okay for most of the day, but he seems quiet and reflective tonight.

"You okay?" She pulls her usual tactic of brushing her fingers through his hair during any suspicion of ill health.

"I just feel heavy and groggy right now," he shakes his head a little, blinking his eyes a few times.

"You're probably still a little dumbed down from your painkillers," she sips from her mug, "We can go to bed early tonight, see if you can sleep it off."

He nods, but she's not entirely convinced it's the pills affecting him right now. He keeps looking at her, pausing as if lost in thought and then glancing over again at the fire. He looks as he did before he kissed her at the hospital, shy and wonderous, wanting to say something but hesitant to make the jump.

"What is it?" She finally inquires, licking some marshmallow fluff off her fingers.

"What is what?"

"You seem distracted tonight."

"I'm sorry, I just..." He shakes his head a little, a thoughtful smile gracing his features, "You're so beautiful, Scully."

She gives him a playful but puzzled look, casting a glance at her casual attire: a cardigan with some simple black slacks. Her hair is damp from her shower and she's braless -- hardly in appropriate clothing for receiving the kind of compliments from him that make her feel warm and feminine.

He reaches out slowly, gently tracing her collarbone with a steady finger. Her eyes temporarily drift shut at the pleasure caused by the simplest of his touches.

"I look at you sometimes and I just ache with loving you," he says with such tenderness she feels the words in her throat, "I still can't believe I can openly show you how I feel." She knows the sensation he speaks of very, very well. To look at someone -- him -- and feel the pull of a love that almost hurts with its intensity, and to be able to reach for him. Bliss. She thinks back sometimes to something he'd said the third or fourth time they'd had sex -- he'd held her so close against his side and whispered words that she has heard in her dreams any night they've been apart since.

I didn't know love could feel good.

"It's going to be a good year, isn't it? Y2K," She asks softly, mapping his face with her eyes. He scrunches his nose as if he has to think about it.

"Most definitely a good year," his positivity charms her as he curls a lock of her hair behind her ear with his good hand, "The best."

Whoever drove by with party in the USA blasting from their car radio you’re my hero and I love you

So weird it's 2022 and Swanqueen still isn't canon