DISCLAIMER:  Mulder, Scully, Maurice and Lyda are the products of 
the brilliantly demented mind of Chris Carter.  They also belong to 
Ten-Thirteen Productions and the Fox Network. I mean no infringement.

CATEGORY: V, R
RATING: Mild R
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance
SPOILERS:  "The Ghosts Who Stole Christmas"
SUMMARY:  Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Sorry Lorna---this story works better if they're not lovers yet. ;)

"Eternity Waits"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


Her feet are small, especially propped on my coffee table next to 
my own size elevens. We've shed our shoes and are down to a pair 
of black knit socks and sheer nylons.  Her toenails are painted, I 
notice. Pale pink frost.  Her feet cross and she sinks a little deeper 
into the sofa cushions beside me.

I guess this means she's settled in for the night.

It's two a.m. on Christmas morning. Our gifts have been 
unwrapped and duly approved---she really seemed to like mine.  
Kind of makes up for that whole crawling in her own blood incident 
earlier in the evening, I guess.  I loved her gift to me, but then, she 
could have wrapped a tape dispenser and handed it to me with that 
sexy little smile in her voice and I'd have reached a similar state of 
bliss.

It's snowing outside.  Gonna be a white Christmas, and 
Scully's sitting here, tucked against my side like a prom date, and 
I'm so damned happy I could die.

Okay, bad choice of words. 

"I've been thinking about something, Mulder."  Her voice is low and 
drunk with lack of sleep.  It's sexy.  It makes every nerve in my body 
stand at attention and give a snappy salute.

I turn my head so that my nose is almost buried in her soft red hair.  
"What's that?"

"If I hadn't tried to leave tonight--you wouldn't have gone into the house, 
would you?"

I close my eyes for a second.  

Busted.

"We would have just sat there in the car a few hours, watching the 
house.  You'd have told me a few more creepy stories, and then 
you'd finally call it a night."  She lifts her head and gazes at me with 
sleepy blue eyes.  Her face is close to mine, so close our noses 
nearly touch.  "What then, Mulder?"

I want to show her what then.  Her breath is hot and sweet 
against my lips and I'm wishing I weren't so damned scared all of a 
sudden, not after everything we've been though and everything she's 
meant to me for the past six years. I wish that I'd never walked into 
that house tonight, that I'd never heard the names Maurice and Lyda, 
because there were words still ringing in my ears, louder than 
Scully's soft breath, louder than the beating of my heart. 

*How'd you get her to come with you--steal her car keys?*

Might as well have.  Trick her, trap her, tease her, mess with her 
head, manipulate her sense of loyalty, play on her sense of duty.  
Use her loneliness. Her kindness. Whatever the hell it takes, huh, 
Mulder?  Whatever it takes to keep her from walking the hell away.

*You're afraid. Afraid of the loneliness.*

I close my eyes again.

Her breath is warm against my chin.  "You'd have suggested we 
come back here, right?"  Her voice is low and gravelly and races up 
and down my spine like a shiver.  "So you could give me your gift."

Something warm and firm moves up my thigh. Scully's hand, 
I think, but I don't really believe it and I don't have the emotional 
honesty to open my eyes and face my delusion.  But whatever it 
is, it moves higher, creeping close to where I want Scully's hand, 
and so I'm happy to pretend that I just felt her palm cup my 
growing erection, her fingers slide gently over the hardness, her--

God!

Her tongue darting across my lower lip. 

My lips part in a shaky breath, and she's kissing me, slow and 
deep and drunk with wanting---or is that me?  I don't know, I don't 
care, I just know that for all my secret little plans to ring in 
Christmas with Scully, I never knew it would feel like this, like the 
top of my head was about to come off and my heart was about 
to burst, or that Scully would be sliding onto my lap, her legs 
straddling mine, her soft heat thrusting gently against my hips 
as her hands threaded through my hair.

*You didn't come here to be together for eternity?*

I did. I went to that house, and memorized my seductive little 
ghost story and called Scully on a bullshit stakeout on a cold 
Christmas Eve so that I could spend an eternity with her fingers 
in my hair and her tongue in my mouth and her perfect little ass 
sliding over my lap as she made love to me through our clothes.  
And even though I know I'm going to open my eyes and realize 
I've fallen asleep watching A CHRISTMAS CAROL and had the 
Scully dream of my life, I have to know for sure.

I open my eyes.

Her eyes are closed, her lashes brushing my cheeks. Her
mouth devours mine, hungry and generous at the same time.
I cradle her face, breaking the kiss.  Stare into passion-dark eyes 
suddenly full of fear.  

She breaks my heart and puts it back together again, all  with one 
little quirk of her eyebrows, a question she needs answered that I 
never realized needed asking.

"This is what I hoped for," I say. 

I see another question in her eyes.  Why didn't you just ask, you 
big stupid jerk?  

I can't quite hide a smile.  

Because that's not the way we do things, she and I.  We like it 
hard.  Complex.  Uncertain. Sometimes I think that we're afraid to 
be too sure, afraid that the only possible follow-up to affirmation 
is destruction.  Better to be forever on the brink of heaven than to 
overshoot and land in hell.

And hell is eternity without each other.

She touches my face, her fingers warm and gentle. I lean into the 
touch, sliding my jaw into the perfect curve of her palm.  "My 
mother thinks I'm going to be there at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning."

I move my hand over the curve of her hip.  "But you're not?"

"I can be late."  She traps my earlobe between her small teeth 
and nibbles.  A shudder runs down my spine.

"How late?" 

Her breath burns my ear.  "That's up to you, Mulder."

I wrap my arms around her waist and turn, pulling her under me as 
I stretch out on the sofa.  Her thighs part to cradle my hips, and 
the slide of my hardness against her softness almost makes me 
come right there in my pants.  I manage to hold back. 

Scully is not so lucky.  

She makes a soft hissing noise and her fingers dig into my 
shoulders as she goes rigid.  I fight for control as I watch her skin 
flush pink and her neck arch as she rides out a wave of pleasure.  
She's so damned beautiful I'm afraid I'm going to break down and 
blubber like a baby.  I bury my face in her hair and murmur her 
name, gently and soothingly.  

After a moment, she moves weakly beneath me, and I pull back 
to look at her.  She's still flushed, but I'm not so sure it's pleasure 
this time.  "Been a while," she mutters.

I smile, wondering if she knows I find her enchanting.  "Like riding 
a bicycle, I hear."

"So that's what they're calling it these days." She smiles, and I'm 
utterly lost.  

I brush her hair away from her dewy brow.  "Now that you've
had your way with me...."

"Your turn?"

I'm deadly serious as I gaze into her eyes.  "That WAS my turn."

She melts.  Like a chocolate bar on a heater, she melts over and 
under me, her arms and legs sliding around me like liquid heat.  
Snow and garments fall in silent concert, skin meets skin in a slow, 
sweet glide.  I am in her and over her and around her, and she fills 
me long before I fill her.  

Murmurs, sighs, whispers.  Yes.  Right there. More.

Her breasts are round and firm and sweet beneath my tongue. Her 
legs curl around my hips, hold me and guide me, keeping me on 
the right path, the right pace.  I bend to her will with a depth of trust 
I don't know I could have given her before tonight.  When she lets 
go, arching beneath me, offering up her precious control like a 
sacrifice, I am undone.

I have never known such heat, such light.  

We die a little death to find heaven, and the streets aren't paved 
with gold but with a thousand Scully smiles.  And eternity doesn't 
seem like forever anymore. It seems too short, somehow.

Her skin is soft beneath my fingertips, soft and warm.  I remember 
the last time my fingers moved across her naked body. Chilled 
and wet and just this side of death, in the cold, dark belly of a 
spaceship buried in the Antarctic ice.    

Nothing like the fire that burns in my arms tonight.

She's the one who reaches behind me and pulls the blanket over 
our bodies, protecting us from the cool drafts sneaking into the 
apartment from the snowy night outside.  She's the one who holds 
me close and brands her name on my heart. 

I may have put the cracks in the wall between us, but she's the 
one who knocked it down.

Teamwork.  We've made it an art.

I shift so that we're spooned together, facing the blank face of the 
television set, where not so long ago, I watched the story of a man 
who got a happy ending he didn't think he'd earned.  I know the 
feeling.

I don't deserve to be so happy, but I just can't help it.

= end =



Happy Holidays to you and yours.
AH

DISCLAIMER:  Mulder, Scully and Bill Scully Jr. belong to Chris
Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.

CATEGORY: V, R
RATING:  PG-13 for sexual frankness
KEYWORDS: MSR
SPOILERS:  "How the Ghosts Stole Christmas"  
SUMMARY:  Scully's late for her family Christmas.

"What They Don't Know"
by Anne Haynes
Ahaynes33@aol.com


I am sore as hell.

Not exactly an unusual state of being after a night with
Mulder--but usually the aches don't come from sex on a sofa.

Not that I'm complaining.

He has a certain post-coital charm that is making it really hard
to get dressed and leave this drafty old apartment.  But it's
nearly eight a.m. and I still have to go home, shower and change. 
I'm already two hours late for the family get together.  Thank
God Mulder was thoughtful enough to nudge me awake just before
six a.m. to call my mother and tell the family not to wait for
me.  I didn't explain why.  What they don't know won't hurt them.

Even if I'm getting one hell of a kick out of it.

Mulder's in the kitchen, making noise.  Cooking, I think.  I hear
a sizzling noise and there are nice smells coming from that
direction.  I don't have the heart to refuse his culinary arts,
even though I swear I can hear Bill grousing about my tardiness
from here.

There's a little devil in me, one that takes an almost childish
delight in pissing off my older brother, who's tempted to invite
Mulder along to this Christmas get-together.  Not that I think
that he'll come--or that it would be a good idea, since Bill is
going to be there.  But I can't help playing out the fantasy
scene in my head--Mulder walking through the door, arms loaded
with gifts for the whole Scully clan, wearing that smart-ass
smirk he gets whenever my brother's name comes up.  

And I can definitely see Bill.  Wearing a look on his face like he 
just smelled something bad. Huffing and puffing and completely 
unable to do a damned thing about it because he's in Mom's 
house and she doesn't allow bloodshed at Christmas.

I'm almost ashamed of myself for the thought.  But it's Christmas, 
and I've had a rough couple of Christmases.  So rough that if I
let myself think about them, I'll ruin any hope of Christmas cheer.
I refuse to do that this year.  I refuse to be unhappy.  And if a
little petty enjoyment at the expense of those who claim to 
love me most makes me a selfish person, so be it.

Bill is a jerk.  Of course, he's MY jerk, and I know that his 
concerns, however misguided and irritating, are out of love for 
me.  Even if he doesn't really know who I am.  Mulder's not 
exactly Mr. Conciliation either.  But I think maybe he loves 
me, too.  And I'm pretty damned sure he'd punch out my
brother for me.  

I get a kick out of that.  

So sue me.

Okay, I wouldn't really let him punch out Bill. For one thing, 
if Bill needs punching, I can do it myself.  And for another, I 
have too much respect for my mother to risk getting blood 
on her new carpet.  But a girl likes to be the center of attention 
now and then.  

Right?

I pad barefoot into Mulder's kitchen and lean against the door,
staring at him.  He turns and smiles at me.  "Merry Christmas."

Mulder is wearing the most godawful hat I've ever seen, one of
those stocking caps like you'd see on the Cat in the Hat.  I try
not to stare.  Or laugh.  And I'm hoping like hell that's not
green eggs and ham in that skillet.

It's regular eggs, folded into a fluffy omelet. No ham, which is
fine, because I don't really like ham that much.  He halves the
omelet with the spatula and slides each half onto a separate
plate.  

"O.J. in the fridge if you want it." He nods toward the
refrigerator.  Then he adds, "Just bought it last week so it's
fresh."

I don't want to know why he felt the need to add that.  I grab
a couple of glasses from the cabinet and pour orange juice for us
both, following him into the living room.  

We cleaned up the sofa earlier for comfort's sake--and to save
the leather, although I'm not sure we were quick enough for that.
But I imagine that I can still smell the lingering musk of sex.  

Mulder and me and sex on the sofa.  

Hoo boy.

Mulder gives me a smoldering look as I sit next to him.  I'm
thinking that maybe I can just drop the presents off at Mom's,
excuse myself with a story about a pressing case, and run back
here to Mulder's for another round of Christmas cheer.

Of course, first--that ridiculous hat has GOT to go.

I tug it off his head and toss it toward his desk.  He grumbles
but I can see the grin in his eyes.  I realize the hat was there 
all along just to make me smile.  I reward his effort, and I 
swear, he's melting into a little puddle of MulderGoo, right
there on the sofa in front of me. 

Who knew this was the way to bend Mulder to my will?

I eat the omelet quickly, trying not to think about other ways I
learned to bend Mulder to my will.  Delicious ways.  I have to
be at my mom's house in less than an hour, damn it.  I can't stop
for a quickie.  Or a not so quickie. Or an all-day-and-into-the-
nightie.  Tempting as that may be.

"Mulder, I have to go."  I come off sounding like Marlene 
Dietrich trying to lure Jimmy Stewart into her boudoir.  Only 
without the German accent and the long legs.  Mulder's got 
that Jimmy Stewart "deer caught in the headlights"  look, too, 
and if I don't leave now, we'll be rewriting the ending to DESTRY 
RIDES AGAIN.  And just the thought "rides again" has me 
damned near wet and ready.

I push away from Mulder, whose hands have found my hips.  His
fingers trail down my thighs as I move, and I'm thinking that
it's not exactly a crime to skip your family get-together, even
if your brother can't make it town more than once or twice a
year. 

But Mulder chooses this moment to be a good boy and lets me go. 
I back toward the door, not willing to turn my face from him
just yet.  God knows what I'll find when I get back here in--hmm,
would thirty minutes appease my family?  Forty-five, I
compromise, and I turn and hit the door running. If I hurry, I can 
be back in about three hours, which surely won't give Mulder 
enough time to make the full transition from post-sex bliss to 
post-bliss second-guessing.

We are so screwed up.  I don't know why I even think we have a
chance in hell of making this new twist in our relationship work. 
Was last night--whatever the hell it was--a precursor of our
fate?  Not the sex--I know what the hell THAT was, even if it's 
been a while--but the other thing, the weird couple and the 
gunshots and all that blood that wasn't.  Was it a cautionary
tale?  Will we destroy each other, no matter what we try to do 
to keep it from happening?

No. I refuse to believe that.

I've known too many moments, in the midst of madness, when 
Mulder's hand reached into the fray and dragged me to safety.  
Too many times when I did the same for him.  And then, there
was last night, when our hands found even more satisfying ways 
to save us--from darkness, from hopelessness, from loneliness.

I'm not worried anymore about what happens when I get 
back.  We'll work it out.  We always do.

Bill greets me at the door of my mother's home, foot tapping. 
But his stern expression melts at the sight of my happy smile. 
He can't help it--he grins back as he helps me bring in all the
gifts I brought, and I take a special secret pleasure in knowing
what he doesn't know--just what deliciously wicked things Mulder
did to me all night long to put that smile on my face.

Yes sir, it's a damn fine Christmas already--the best in years.  
And it's only just begun. 

= END = 

DISCLAIMER:  Mulder, Scully and the others here belong to
Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox Network. I mean no
infringement.

CATEGORY:  V, R
RATING:  PG-13 
KEYWORDS: MSR
SPOILERS: "How the Ghosts Stole Christmas"
SUMMARY:  A meeting on the Mall

"White Christmas"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


I don't recognize her at first--maybe because I've never seen
her in a cap.  It's a knit toboggan, forest green, covering all
but the very ends of her red hair.  Her normally pale face is
pink with cold and exercise, and she's laughing.

I stand there at a short distance, watching her laugh.  It's
enchanting and rare.  I almost feel like a voyeur.

There are a couple of children with her--a carrot-topped boy
of six or seven and a smaller child with sandy hair and a
snub nose that looks like a bright pink button. They're 
laughing with her, laughing and kicking up snow and dirt
in equal measure.  The white Christmas is really only gray;
only two inches of snow fell, barely covering the grass on 
the Mall with a coating of crusty precipitation.  

Still, it's one hell of a Hallmark moment.  Tears prick my 
eyes.  I tell myself it's the cold.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

The voice startles me.  I turn my head toward the speaker.
He's a man in his early thirties, freckled and handsome in a
sturdy, salt-of-the-earth sort of way.  I see a little resemblance--
not to Scully but to Bill Jr., her old brother.

So this is Charles Scully.

"You're Mulder, aren't you?"

I nod and hold out my hand.  What the hell, I think--even Bill Jr.
had the manners to shake it before he started calling me names.

Charles shakes my hand and then sticks his bare hands back
into his pockets.  He moves closer, maintaining a polite but 
companionable distance.  "Funny--you don't look like I thought
you would."

I'm vaguely amused.  "How's that?"

"Like a sorry son of a bitch."

I can't help smiling.  "Been talking to Bill Jr., I see."

"Yeah."  He smiles slightly.  "I'm glad Dana called you to come
here.  I admit, I've been curious about you."

The feeling's mutual, Chucky.

Scully catches sight of me then.  Her face lights up like a
candle, and I swear to God I think I'm gonna faint at the sight.
She grabs up the smaller of the moppets she's playing with
and crunches through the crusty snow toward Charles and me.

We share a look that should have melted the snow.  She's
thinking about last night and how we chose to keep warm
as the snow fell outside my apartment window. I'm thinking
about it too.  Hell, it's all I've thought about since I pulled her
soft, sweet body beneath mine and opened the door to 
heaven.

I hope Charles isn't watching us closely.  He may not be
as hostile as Bill Jr. but I bet he wouldn't think twice about
kicking my ass.

He's too busy gathering up the tow-headed toddler who's
practically throwing himself out of Scully's arms.  A closer 
look and I see the child is a girl, not a boy like I'd originally
thought. Cute little charmer, grinning at her father.  

She looks a little like Emily.

I look at Scully.  She meets my gaze with a knowing look,
her smile bittersweet.  I don't care if Charles is there; I 
reach out for her hand.

She takes my hand, her fingers icy.  I close my fist over 
them, warming them.  "This is Kelly," she said softly, 
leading me closer to her niece. "And this--" she tugs the
dark blue Braves cap down over the red-haired boy's eyes--
"is Patrick."

Patrick makes a little face and beams at Scully with a 
gap-toothed grin.  She melts at the sight, and I learn
something brand new about my ever-surprising partner.

She's a sucker for little boys.

Nice to know, I think. I was once a little boy. I remember 
how it's done.  Useful information.

"I see you've met Charlie."

I nod.  Charles smiles and shifts his daughter to one hip.
She pats his face with her snow-crusted mittens, and he dodges 
and ducks to avoid the sodden, muddy caresses.  His grin is
contagious---he seems so damned happy just to be alive.

I wonder what that's like.  To just be happy--no reservations. No
doubts.

Scully moves in closer to my side as if seeking my warmth. 
One arm slides around my waist under my jacket, and I glance
at her in surprise.

She returns the look, a question in her eyes. 

I reassure her by draping my arm over her shoulder and pulling
her close. Her lips curve just a bit and she tucks herself neatly
under my sheltering wing. I'm surprised by how perfectly she 
fits there, and then I'm surprised by being surprised. 

Of course she fits.  Every time I turn around, Scully proves
to be another missing part of the puzzle I call my life.  She has
filled in blanks I didn't know I had.

Charles cocks his head slightly, looking at us.  Scully meets
his gaze evenly, and I take my lead from her.  He lowers Kelly
to the snowy ground and bends to talk to his son. "I think
there's still enough snow for a snowman, Pat.  Why don't you
show your sister how to make one?"

The children scamper off, not too far but out of earshot. I assume
that's on purpose when Charles next speaks.  "Bill would shit a 
brick."

"None of his business," Scully says shortly. 

"He thinks Mulder is some sort of Svengali, luring you into
some weird cultish mindset," Charles adds, not pulling any 
punches.  I try not to wince.

Scully scowls.  "Bill has his head up his ass."

"Well, you'd better hope it stays there.  Because if he had any
idea about---this---"  He motions toward us.

"What about you?" I ask the question that Scully doesn't seem
worried about.  

"I don't stick my nose where it might get flattened."

About as close to a blessing as I'll get from a Scully brother. 
I'll take it.

"I'm going to take the kids back to Mom's---get them dried out
and warmed up." Charles glances at his sister. "You can catch
a ride with Mulder, can't you?"

She nods. "He can take me to pick up my car later."

"What do you want me to tell them?"

"Whatever you want."

A devilish glint brightens his blue eyes.  "Anything?"

She grins. "Well, not ANYTHING."

He bends and kisses her forehead, then cuffs me on the arm. 
It's not a friendly pat.  I get the message loud and clear--hurt 
her and die, punkass.

He gathers up his kids. They whine a bit, but they're good kids.
Patrick trots alongside his father, talking a mile a minute. 
Kelly twists around in her father's arm to blow sloppy kisses
toward Scully.  I catch an errant one and tuck it inside my 
heart.

"So that's Charles."

She nods, her cap tickling my chin. "Yep, that's Charles."

"I like him.  He didn't even call me any names."

"Bruised your arm, though."

And you shot me once, I think.  You Scullys have strange 
ways of showing affection.

"So...what now?  We build a snowman?"

"I was thinking of something a little...warmer."  She curls her
small body into mine, until we're belly to belly.  Well, okay,
her belly is actually somewhere in the neighborhood of my
zipper. And only the cold is saving her from a belly-full of 
extra happy Mulder.

But only barely.

"Take me back to your apartment, Mulder."  

I decide I like it when she gives orders.

== End ==

DISCLAIMER - Mulder and Scully, plus any characters mentioned
herein, belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and the
Fox Network.  I mean no infringement.

"Have and Have Not"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


I am curled up on Mulder's sofa, eating microwave popcorn and
watching the Blue-Gray game.  The Gray team is ahead, thanks to
some fancy running by a tailback from Auburn. Too bad the guy
couldn't lead his team to a better regular season record, but the
pro scouts will probably sit up and take notice anyway.

Mulder's nuzzling my shoulder with his chin, but it's only
half-hearted.  He's into the game, too, sneaking popcorn out of
my bag with his long fingers.  

We came here for sex.  We got sidetracked by football.

"No basketball tonight," he mourns into my ear.  I tip my head,
rub my forehead against his cheek.  He nuzzles again, this time
with his lips to my brow.  It's a nice feeling. Sweet.  Safe.

Maybe it wasn't football that distracted us.

Maybe it was a need to regroup after last night.  Reconnect with
our clothes on.

Or maybe it's fear that the second time will be a let down.

Mulder makes a grumbling noise deep in his throat.  I turn my
head and look up at him.

"See that kid from Dartmouth playing for the Blue team?" he
murmurs. 

I glance at the television set.  There's a lanky blond kid with
great teeth and perfect skin grinning at the camera.  No "Hi mom"
for this kid.  He knows how to work a photo op with that bored
savoir faire of an Ivy Leaguer.  

"I went to school with his dad."

I cut my eyes at Mulder.  "No way."

"Timothy Calvert.  He was a senior my freshman year of high
school.  Knocked up a Vassar girl his sophomore year at Harvard
and had to get married.  Little Timmy there was born seven months
after the I do's.  My mother reminded me of that juicy little
scandal for years--closest thing she had to a cautionary tale, I
guess."  

There's something he's not saying.  I'm curious, but I don't
push.  He's working up to something here.  All I need is a little
patience.

"Makes me feel old.  A kid in college."

"It's not your kid," I say.

He shifts away from me suddenly and unfolds his lanky body.  For
a second I think he's going to start pacing right there in front
of the television, but he just keeps going, into the kitchen.  I
hear the refrigerator door open and I wonder what the hell is
going on.

He comes back with two cans of cola, even though I'm not halfway
through the one I had already.  He sets mine on the coffee table
in front of me and pops his open, chugging half of it down in a
series of big gulps.  His eyes water from the carbonation, and he
winces.

He sinks onto the sofa next to me.  Close but not touching.  He
takes a second swig, a smaller one, then sets his cola can on the
table next to mine.  His mouth works silently for a moment, as if
he's trying to say something that just won't come out.  I search
back in my mind for what we just said, what might have triggered
this reaction.  Somehow I don't think it's the realization that
he's 37 years old.  

But all that's left is the kid. 

"They're still together--Tim's parents.  Everybody said it
wouldn't last, the way it got started, but they proved them
wrong.  I ran into the guy about a month ago--remember the
security clearance thing we handled up in Dover?  He was one 
of the bank officers I talked to.  He showed me pictures--he has 
a couple of daughters, too.  Gorgeous kids--great gene pool, 
I guess."

Okay, this is just getting weird.  Mulder talking about old high
school acquaintances, marriage, kids....

Oh, God.

My stomach starts to hurt.  

He doesn't seem to notice my sudden distress, thank God.  It
would shut him up, and at this point, I think I need to know what
else he has to say on the subject.   

"Your niece and nephew are cute kids."  He slouches into the soft
leather belly of the sofa, his gaze distant.  "Patrick looks like
Charles."

I nod.  He does.  "Kelly looks like Melissa did at her age."

Just like Emily.

Go ahead and say it, Mulder.  Get this thing rolling.  If I'm
going to have to cry myself to sleep tonight, let's settle it now
instead of hitting me with it later, when my guard is down. Because
I don't want to cry in front of you.  

"I never thought about having kids," he says a few moments later. 
"It wasn't an option."

My stomach coils and knots.  I can't look at him.

"We never talk about her, Scully."

Oh, God.

"I understand if you don't want to.  I'm not asking you to talk now."
He looks at me.  I can feel his gaze burning my cheek.  But I can't
look at him.  He doesn't touch me, doesn't try to push.  He just looks
at me.  Consumes me with his gaze.  "But I don't want you to think
I don't think about her.  About both of you.  Especially now.  This 
time of year."

I should say something.  Confess that I've been thinking about her
too.  But the truth is, I've been trying not to think of her.  Trying not
to count down the days left before the first anniversary of her death.
Trying not to remember every word she said, every little detail of how
she looked those few, short days I had her with me. 

Last night, before I came over to Mulder's apartment, I kept a little
tradition I started for myself a few Christmases ago, the year after
my father died.  It was the first Christmas after my missing time.
I was still weak from whatever it was that happened to me, but I
couldn't sleep that Christmas Eve.  So I'd lit a votive candle and
prayed for my father.  For myself.  For my sister, who had found her
way back to us after being gone for a long time. For Mulder, who
had never given up on me, even when it seemed like hope was gone.

The year after that, I prayed for Melissa, gone so soon, so cruelly.
For Mulder's father.  For my own, now gone almost two years.  For
all that Mulder and I had lost.

Last night, I prayed for Emily.  And I didn't have room for anyone
else.  Not myself, not my family, not Mulder.  Missing her---not
the child I knew but the child I would never know.  The children
she would never have.  The man she would never love.  The life
she would never live.

I cried out to a God I don't always understand but who never 
seems to leave me, no matter how far I run.  I asked him for 
answers.  For a reason.

He hasn't spoken yet. So I wait. 

And I don't know how to tell Mulder this.  Not yet. 

"I shouldn't have said anything," he says softly.  He drags his gaze
away from my face, stares at the television screen, where the Blue
team has just scored a touchdown to bring the game to within 
seven points.

I take a deep breath and move my hand until it rests atop his.  I
squeeze gently.  I can't talk about it yet--maybe never--but it means 
everything to me that Mulder still thinks about her, too.   That I am 
not alone in my vigil.

He doesn't say anything more, but I think I know what he was
trying to say anyway.  With the talk about children and mortgages
and settling down.

There are things that Mulder and I will never have in this life.  It's
not in our destiny to have the things that both of us, in so many
ways, were raised to believe was the natural outcome of a life
lived well.  No split-level house in the suburbs, no friendly golden 
retriever in the fenced-in back yard, no 2.5 genetically-blessed 
children attending private schools and Ivy League colleges, no 
Volvo station wagon parked next to his BMW convertible. 

Our life is FBI fleet cars, greasy take-out, shitty motels in
Podunk, USA, and the looming knowledge that the world we all
take for granted may not be ours for much longer.

But in the midst of the madness, we also have each other.  

I'm crying now.  Softly.  Tears spilling down my cheeks, leaving
salty tracks.  Mulder's arm slides around me, pulls me close.
I push away the tears with my fingertips, not wanting him to 
worry, not wanting him to misunderstand.

I look into his eyes. They are shiny with unshed tears. 

"Thank you," I say.  I'm not sure what I'm thanking him for, 
exactly.  I'm not sure it's important.

He touches my cheek, one long finger tracing a tear track, 
then sliding over to brush against my lower lip.  I savor the
salt-sweet taste of sorrow and joy.  I see the reflection of
my heart in his eyes, and I see that he knows what I know.

We are the only light in our world at the moment. 

But it's okay.  

We're still shining strong and bright.

= end =

DISCLAIMER: Everybody in here belongs to Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen Productions and the Fox Network, either in actuality
or by extension. I mean no infringement.

CATEGORY:  VRA
RATING: PG-13
KEYWORDS:  MSR, Christmas
SPOILERS: Everything up to and including "How the Ghosts Stole
Christmas."
SUMMARY:  Home for the holidays, Mulder and Scully style.


"Leftovers"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


I know that getting out of the car is probably a mistake, but
she's looking at me with that mischievous look that I'm beginning
to get used to.  Though I know that nothing good will come of it,
I can't resist the devil in Dana Scully.

I'm almost to the door when I realize she's lagging behind me a
bit.  I turn and look at her.

"I've got your back," she murmurs.

I shoot her a black look.  Her eyes sparkle.

She gives in and joins me on the stoop at her mother's front
door.  "You know, you can go back to the car if you want.  I'm
being selfish."

Cutting my eyes at her, I bend closer.  "Selfish?"

She lifts her chin and meets my sidelong gaze.  "I haven't seen a
good fireworks display in years."

I bend a little closer, until my nose is nearly brushing hers.
"Damn--and here I thought I was spectacular last night."

Ooo, there's that look.  That red-cheeked, naughty Catholic
schoolgirl caught smoking in the bathroom look.  I like that
look. I can probably build a whole fantasy life on that look. In
fact, I'm halfway there.

Which is, of course, the exact moment that the front door opens,
and we both turn our heads, in unison, to gaze upon the
less-than-happy countenance of William Scully, Jr. 

I glance at Scully.  She looks guilty as hell. 

Great, Scully.  Just paint a bulls eye on my ass and hand your
brother the gun.

"I came to pick up my car," she says.  She nudges past him,
taking advantage of her small stature to slide between him and
the door frame. 

I am not that small.  

He waits until she is out of earshot.  "Should've known you'd
drag her out on one of your little UFO hunts on Christmas."  His
voice is low. Quiet.  Scared to bitch out the nice FBI agent in 
front of your mother, Popeye?  

"Ghosts this time," I murmur.  Idiot that I am.

"Oh, *ghosts.*  Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

The guy has a way with sarcasm.

I nearly faint with relief when Margaret Scully's smiling face
appears just beyond her son's broad shoulders.  Save me, Mrs.
Scully. Save me from the big, mean bully.  Before I smack him in
his smart mouth and make this a Christmas that will live in
infamy.

"Merry Christmas, Fox," she greets me.

Billy Boy winces at his mother's use of my first name.  And for 
the first time I can remember, I LIKE my first name.  I smile
extra-wide at Mrs. Scully.  Not just because I like her, either.  
"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Scully."

"Bill, please move and let Fox come inside."  Her voice is low,
mildly amused.  The arch look she shoots at me only widens my
grin.

Bill stands there a moment longer, his expression unmistakable--
*I'm moving, you stupid little fuck, but only because I respect
my mother*--then he sidesteps enough that I can come inside.  I
just keep grinning, making sure that he doesn't miss a single
glimmer of my pearly whites.

I should be ashamed of myself.  

I'm not.

Scully is in the kitchen with Tara Scully, cooing over Matthew, 
the heir apparent.  He's almost a year old, I realize with a 
flicker of surprise.  I remember the day he was born, just a few 
short hours after Emily died.  Same hospital.  Four floors down.  
I sat outside the delivery room, with no good reason to be there
except that Scully was inside with her family, trying to pretend
she hadn't just watched a little girl die.

The pain catches me by surprise.  It always does.  It hits just
when I think I've got it all figured out, when all the pieces of
the moral conundrum seem to fit neatly together in my mind.  I've
spent nearly a year trying to answer all the questions--who was
Emily to me?  To Scully?  Who were we to her?

Not Mommy and Daddy.  The Simses were Mommy and Daddy. They're 
the ones she knew her whole life, the ones who tucked her into
bed with stories and songs. They were the ones who knew her sweet
strawberry-jam-and-peanut-butter kisses, the ones who'd held her
when she was sick and tired of this short, painful life she'd
been thrust into against her will or her best interests.  

Scully knew her a few short days; I knew her even fewer days.  We
were witnesses to the crime against her.  We hurt when she was
gone.

But we weren't Mommy and Daddy.    

Tara Scully catches sight of me lingering in the kitchen doorway.
She smiles at me, but it's an impersonal, polite gesture. 

Scully doesn't smile.  But her solemn, understanding gaze bears
more warmth than a thousand bright smiles from a stranger.  I
move closer to that warmth, needing it to dull the pain that
throbs in my chest.

Mrs. Scully is right behind me, moving past us to the
refrigerator.  "We always make too much food at Christmas,
Fox--would you like to take some leftovers home with you?"

My first inclination is to decline, but Scully touches my back,
her hand warm and firm against my lower spine.  "Get extra pieces
of lime pie," she says, softly enough that only I can hear her. 
"You'll thank me later."

I nod at Mrs. Scully.  "That would be great.  Thank you."

She bends to the task of sorting through the leftovers packed in
her huge refrigerator.  Scully's hand slides gently up and down
my back, her gesture wonderfully proprietary.  I glance her way,
but my gaze is caught momentarily by the look in Tara Scully's
eyes as she observes the little gesture.  Tara looks up at me
briefly, her expression somewhere between approving and 
apprehensive.

"Mom, have you seen--"  Charles Scully stops short in the back
door, one eyebrow arching slightly as he catches sight of me. His
gaze slides away from me toward a point just beyond me, and I
know that the whole gang is here now.  "Hi, Mulder. Didn't expect
to see you here."

I nod in his direction.  "Charles."  I'm beginning to feel very 
claustrophobic suddenly.  The kitchen is way too small for this 
much edgy testosterone.

"I didn't realize you'd met."  Bill's voice was low.

"We, uh, met earlier today.  At The Mall.  I ran into Charles and
his kids with Dana."  The sound of her first name on my tongue,
as always, sounds odd. Not quite right.  I can tell by the way
her fingers flutter lightly against my spine that she is struck
by the strangeness as well.  I don't even want to think about
what that tells us about our relationship.

"You haven't met Angie yet, Mulder," Charles interjects.  "My
wife.  She's around here somewhere.  Don't wander off without
saying hello."  

Bill bristles a little at his younger brother's words.  But
Charles is oblivious.  He's busy pulling his son into the kitchen
by one mittened hand.  Little Patrick is grumpy about being
brought inside when there's still crusty snow to be rolled into a
brick-hard lump and thrown at the nearest passing victim.  He
looks like Scully in a stubborn mood.

Mrs. Scully looks away from the refrigerator momentarily.
"Angie's in the back bedroom, trying to get Kelly to settle down
for a nap."

"I'm headed in the same direction," Tara says, cuddling her
sleepy son close.  He's fighting sleep, his head bobbing and his
eyes drooping as his mother carries him out of the room. He's
cuter than the wrinkly red newborn I remember.

Margaret Scully, bless her heart, continues to quietly ignore the
tension, busy with her task of packing a large brown bag full of
leftovers for me.  "Do you prefer turkey or ham, Fox?"

"Either is fine," I assure her. "Please don't go to too much
trouble--"

"No trouble at all."  She brushes aside my protest.  

An uncomfortable silence falls over the kitchen.  I feel like I
should be doing something besides standing there in the middle of
the warm, homey room, the center of brotherly scrutiny.  I glance
at Scully, hoping for a little direction, but she looks as
uncomfortable as I feel.

Bill breaks the silence first.  "You didn't have Christmas with
your own family, Mulder?"

Ouch.  Trust the big bully to poke me where it hurts.  "We're not
big on family get-togethers."  Not much family left now, anyway. 
Just mom and me and some woman who looks like my sister but
doesn't want anything to do with us.  

Besides, I did spend Christmas with family.  The only person who
feels like family to me any more.

I look at her, ground myself for a moment in her blue gaze.  She
is so serene sometimes, so still and controlled that I want to
drown myself in her.  This is one of those moments, and I don't
have the luxury of losing myself, because I'm standing in front
of her family, in front of people who have no real idea just how
much a part of me she really is.

Scully knows it, I think.  Sometimes I wonder if that's not part
of the reason she holds back from me sometimes--she's afraid that
I'll swallow her whole if she lets me. 

Maybe she's right.  Maybe I would.

"Dana, have you shown Fox the Christmas tree?" Mrs. Scully asks,
breaking the silence that had fallen once again.

"Come on, Mulder."  Scully latches onto that excuse to get out of
the kitchen, and I follow her gladly.  She leads me into the
living room, where a huge Scotch pine tree fills the corner near
the fireplace.  She glances behind her to make sure no one has
followed us, then she looks up at me, her gaze apologetic.  "I'm
sorry--I shouldn't have dragged you here."

That's funny.  I thought I was the one who did all the dragging
over the past twenty-four hours.  I was the one who lured her
away from her Christmas plans to keep me company on Christmas
Eve.  I'm the one who picked that damned haunted house as the
perfect place for us to share a little holiday cheer.  

Bill was right.  I'm always pulling Scully into harm's way.  I
use her sense of loyalty to manipulate her into doing what I
want.  I bank on her need to never let me down, knowing that just
the right combination of foolhardiness and vulnerability will
bring her running.  

It strikes me--isn't that exactly what Maurice was telling me in
the haunted house?  That I'm a lonely, messed-up,
paramasturbatory asshole who can't win a woman's love--so I
settle for taking advantage of her inexplicable willingness to
put up with the shit I dish out to her?

Standing there in front of the beautiful Scully family Christmas
tree, I'm on the verge of tears.  

"I should go now," I say softly, my voice a little ragged. "Let
you spend the rest of your Christmas with your family.  I
shouldn't have dragged you away from them last night."

She looks puzzled by my words.  Puzzled and maybe a little
worried.  But I can't give her any assurances--not until I think
about my motives.  What I want from her and why.  

And I can't do it here.

"Mulder--"

"I'll call you tomorrow."  I'm already moving toward the door.

"Charles wanted you to meet Angie," Scully says softly.  There's
more she wants to say.  I see it in her eyes.  But she doesn't
say it.

I look at her helplessly.

"Mom's in there packing you some leftovers," she adds. 

I feel trapped.

And she sees that.  Her expression shifts subtly.  Closes off a
little.  Ices over.  "I'll explain for you," she adds.  

Fuck.

"No, I don't need to leave yet."  I take a deep breath.  "I just
need to go outside for a moment.  It's warm in here."

She looks at me, her expression enigmatic.  Then she gives a
little nod and I escape through the front door into the frigid
afternoon air.  I tuck my jacket more tightly around me and lift
my face to the sliver of sunlight trying to break through the low
gray clouds.  I draw several long, deep breaths.

The panic subsides a little. Think, Mulder.  Think now, while you
still can.  I close my eyes, listen to the soft rustle of the
winter wind in the trees, and wait for an answer.  A direction.

A single truth blooms in my mind, full and unmistakable.

I do love her. 

I've always loved her, in some capacity or another.  Maybe even
from the moment she walked into my office, all confidence and
fresh-faced naivete.  I can remember every detail of that
morning, from the soft, clean smell of her to the timbre of her
voice.  I remember the thought that struck me like a bolt of
lightening the second I turned around and caught sight of her
standing there, a little half-smile curving her lips.

*My life will never be the same.*

And it's not.

I'm not the man Maurice accused me of being.  I'm not the man
Bill Scully thinks I am.  I'm not Spooky Mulder, I'm not the
Bureau pariah, I'm not the ungrateful son my mother believes or
the patsy the smoking man thinks.  I'm not Kersh's whipping boy
or Skinner's headache or my father's greatest disappointment.

I'm Scully's man.  The one she loves, the one she defends, the
one she challenges and hassles and haunts, day and night.  I'm
the lucky son of a bitch who somehow got under her thick skin,
inside her brittle heart. 

She doesn't open herself easily.  She doesn't love with abandon.  

But she loves me.  She's never said the words.  She's never
expressed the sentiment.

But I know it.  Bone deep.

I didn't drag her anywhere last night.  Scully's too strong a
woman to be dragged anywhere against her will. She wanted to be
there.  With me.  Even if she didn't want to admit it.

I turn to look back at the house and catch sight of Scully,
watching me through the window.  She starts to move away, but I
shake my head and gesture for her to join me outside.  She cocks
her head slightly, as if she's considering all her options.  Then
she disappears from the window, and a moment later, she's walking
out the front door, down the stoop, and across the lawn to where
I stand.

"You're leaving," she says softly.

I shake my head.  "I'm not going anywhere without that lime pie."

She closes her eyes for a moment, her lips curling slightly up at
the corners.  Then she looks back at me, relief blazing from her
bright blue eyes.  "Are we okay?"

I nod.  "We're great."

"I know my brothers can be a pain--"

"Your brothers look out for you."  That wins the Mulder Seal of
Approval.

"You really don't have to stay if you're uncomfortable.  I'm
feeling a little claustrophobic myself," she adds.

"We'll go soon," I promise.  "I should go meet Charles' wife
first."

"You'll like Angie," she promises as we walk toward the front
door.

And I do.  Angie is tall and cute, a green-eyed brunette with a
bright mind and a quick laugh.  Of all the people gathered in
Mrs. Scully's living room, she's the one who sees through the
carefully constructed reserve Scully and I have built around
ourselves.  I see it in her eyes.  She knows exactly what we are.

She'll tell Charles.  He'll tell her not to tell Bill or Mrs.
Scully.  It'll be their little secret, one of many I suspect they
share in the private little world they've constructed for
themselves.

Scully and I both take our leave soon after that.  Mrs. Scully
loads my arms with two sacks of leftovers--one for me, one for
Scully.  Angie actually kisses me goodbye, her lips soft and warm
against my cheek, her affection instant and real. Charles whacks
me on the back, nearly knocking me off balance.  Bill just
scowls.

Scully takes her bag of goodies from my arm and loads it into the
passenger seat of her car.  "I think I should go home, Mulder."

I crook one eyebrow.  Oh.  I wasn't expecting that.

"I think it will be better.  Just for now.  I'll call you
tomorrow," she adds.  

I'm feeling flat-footed.  Just when I think I have it all figured
out....

Looking for a way to cover my confusion, I put my own sack of
leftovers into my car.  When I close the car door and turn toward
her, she's standing right in front of me, close enough to touch.

But I don't touch her.  

"I want time to process everything," she says softly.  Her gaze
is luminous, somehow open and vulnerable.  I stare for a long
moment, captivated by the depths I see there, depths she's never
let me see before.  "I want us both to have some time to think
and let everything that's happened sink in."

"I don't need time," I say.

She smiles slightly.  "I do."

I'm prone to thinking the worst, so naturally I do.  "You're
having second thoughts--"

"No."  She shakes her head quickly.  "No second thoughts.  No
regrets.  I just want time to decompress.  I'll call you
tomorrow."

I nod.  Not that I completely understand, but for the moment, at
least, I'm not panicking at the thought of letting her walk away
from me.

We're just standing here, now.  Standing and looking.  Wondering
what to do--kiss good bye?  Not in public and especially not in
front of her mother's house, where God and Scully's brothers
could see.  Declare my love?  Somehow that doesn't seem like the
thing to do, either.

Scully manages to save our asses in the end.  As always.  "This
is the best Christmas I can remember," she declares softly.  Her
hand brushes lightly over mine, her fingers cool and soft.  It's
not even a hand-hold--just a light touch of skin to skin.

It's perfect.

"I'll call you tomorrow," she repeats.  I nod again.  

Then she's gone, sliding behind the wheel of her car.  I walk
more slowly around my own car, unlocking the driver's door as
she's pulling away from the curb.

I'm less than a block away when my cell phone rings. It startles
me.  I thumb the power button.  "Mulder."

"Mom packed all the leftover pie in your bag."

I release a soft breath at the sound of her voice.  "What did you
do, start digging as soon as you got stopped at a red light?"

"You have a problem with that?"

No, I don't.  "You want me to save you some pie?"

"Yeah."

"Will do."  If my own winsome qualities can't lure her to me, the
pie should do the trick.  I'm not proud. 

"Thanks."  She hangs up without saying goodbye.  As usual.
 
I put away the phone and glance at the sack of leftovers next to
me.  Once upon a time, everything in there was part of a Hallmark
moment on the Scully dining room table.  The turkey brown and
tender, cornbread dressing elegantly garnished, potatoes whipped
to buttery perfection.  All the Scullys, big and small, dressed
in their Christmas finest, singing carols and hymns, hair combed,
faces scrubbed, shoes shined--

But that's not so, either.  It's an incomplete picture without
Captain Scully there to carve the bird or Melissa there to pick
out all the pieces of dead animal from her cornbread dressing. 
No little Emily there, her arms wrapped around Scully's leg and
her bright little eyes shining.

I remember something I haven't thought about in years. 
Thanksgiving 1973 was just days before Samantha disappeared. The
turkey that year had been bigger than usual, and somehow we had a
half a bird left over.  Turkey every day for almost a week.  The
last meal Samantha ate with any of us was a cold turkey sandwich
I made for her before we sat down to play Stratego. 

I pull to a stop at a traffic light, my eyes brimming with tears. 
I push them away and face a simple truth: life is nothing but
leftovers for any of us.  

But leftovers can be good.  They can be great.  Sometimes you can
take leftovers and make something new and wonderful from them.
All it takes is the right blend of ingredients.  Complementary
flavors.  A willingness to take a chance on messing up the
recipe, knowing that if it comes out just right, it'll be so
great it'll blow your mind.

There's always that risk of overshooting heaven and ending up in
hell.  But if you never try, you spend eternity in limbo.  

A little hell of its very own.

The light changes, and I drive on, taking the shortest route back
to my apartment.  Tempting aromas waft from the sack of food next
to me, teasing my senses and making all sorts of promises of
pleasures to come.

And I'm hungry.

  
= end =

DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, Ten-
Thirteen Productions and the Fox Network.  I mean no infringment.

NOTE:  This is part 6 of a projected 12 part series.  It can be read 
alone, but it works better when read as part of the series. Go to: 
http://members.aol.com/ahaynes33/index.htm and choose the link
named "12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS."

CATEGORY:  VR
RATING: R for sexual situations
KEYWORDS: MSR
SPOILERS: All episodes up to and including "How the Ghosts Stole
Christmas"
SUMMARY: Anything worthwhile is worth testing.


12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
#6:  "Scientific Method"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


I don't run as much as I should.  Of course, Mulder and I stay 
so busy, exercise is the least of my worries, but I used to run 
three, four times a week.  It was a productive way to relieve stress, 
a time where I could get away from phones and computers and 
wild theories for an hour or so, nothing but me, my sneakers and 
the pavement. Hit a good rhythm, time my breathing by my steps, 
feel the tension flowing out through my feet into the earth beneath 
them, feel the air pumping in and out of my lungs, driving away 
the poisons of life in the fast lane. Then we got busier than ever, 
and I got out of the habit.

Somehow, Mulder never did.  He always finds time to run, whether 
we're in D.C or in Des Moines.  Every morning, 5:30 a.m.  Or, if 
our case ruins that schedule he'll sneak an afternoon jog.  

I think he's addicted.

I'm here to test that theory.  And maybe test something else as well.  
Like how well Mulder can cope with changes to his routine.  Shifts 
in the rhythm of his solitary life. I want to see if he's ready for 
having a girlfriend--for lack of a better word.  And maybe I need to 
know if I'm ready for a boyfriend.

For lack of a better word.

I've timed it right, I think.  5:25 a.m. and no sign of Mulder yet.  I'm 
at the front steps of his apartment complex on Hegel Place, 
stretching out my leg muscles. It's been too long since I did 
much running.  I'm probably going to regret this little impulse 
about twenty minutes from now.

That's the thing about impulses, after all. You almost invariably 
regret them twenty minutes later.  I'm just hoping it's my 
muscles that take the brunt of the regret.

He comes jogging out the front door of the building, dressed for 
the cold---fleece lined sweats, a baseball cap covering his head 
and his ears.  Too damned cute.  Aways has been.  My 
self-control is bloody amazing.

Or my inertia.  Whichever.

The Christmas snow melted overnight, leaving this Saturday 
morning cold but dry.  The chill hits him almost immediately, and 
he makes a soft "brrr" sound as he hits the sidewalk at a lazy 
trot. 

He stops short when he sees me. Surprise is written all over
his face.

"Scully."  He moves closer, his expression fading from surprise 
to something a little darker.  Worry.  "Is something wrong?"

I shake my head.  "No.  Just thought I'd see if you'd like 
some company on your morning run."

Oooo, there it is.  That little flicker of annoyance.  Mulder
faced with a change of routine, an invasion of his private
little ritual. 

"Is that okay?" I add.

Come on, Mulder---show me what you're made of here.

The annoyance fades away, and he grins. "Sure.  If you 
think your little legs can keep up."  He takes off at a sprint.

I am not in shape for this.  A block and a half later, and I'm
still losing ground, even though he's not even going at full 
speed.

I'd sigh loudly if I weren't huffing and puffing for breath.

By the end of the third block, he slows to an easy jog,
letting me catch up.  "You really should work up to any 
exercise program you start," he says softly.  He's not even 
out of breath, the bastard.

I don't have enough air to reply.  

He slows down even more, giving me a pace I can handle 
without going into respiratory collapse.  By the end of the 
sixth block, I'm breathing pretty well.  Enough to speak, 
even if it's in short puffs. "Point...taken...."

He slows to a walk.  I nearly wilt with relief.

We walk two more blocks in silence. By the end of block eight, 
I'm feeling much better.  I'm mulling over witty conversational 
gambits when Mulder steals my thunder.

"Was this a test?" 

I really should know better than to pull this kind of stuff on a 
hot-shot profiler.  I glance at him sideways, but I don't answer.

He lets a few beats of silence pass.  Then his voice drops even 
lower.  "Did I pass?"

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and look up at him.  The 
morning sun is at my back, shining in his face, bathing him with 
rosy light.  He is so damned beautiful I could cry.  "I'm an easy 
grader."

He shakes his head slightly.  "No, you're not."

I don't know what to say to that.  It's true--I'm not easy to please.  
I can be hard on the people I love, and my only defense lies in the 
fact that I'm doubly hard on myself.  It's one of the reasons I'm 
not easy to know--or easy to love.  

I lift my face, look him dead in the eyes.  I need to know 
something.  I need the truth.  "Why do you put up with me?"

He looks utterly surprised, and that's the best answer I could 
have hoped for.  But he tries words anyway.  "You make it 
sound like a chore."

"Isn't it?"  I don't know why I'm pushing.  I don't know what I want 
him to say.  "It's never easy for us, is it?  Even when we're in 
sync, we find a way to push each other to our limits."

"I thought that's what you wanted from me."

How typically Mulder, to see my words as an indictment of him 
instead of myself.  I give a little shake of my head.  "But is it 
what you want from me?"

His expression betraying his fear and confusion. I'm scaring 
him to death here.  "Have I done something to make you think 
otherwise?" he asks.

I shake my head. It's getting cold, despite the advent of the sun, 
and I give a nod back toward our starting point eight blocks back.  
"If you'll keep it at a jog, I think I can make it back without a 
coronary incident."

We jog back to his apartment in silence.  Too much silence.
He's thinking--and that can't be good. 

He starts stripping down as soon as we close the door behind
us.  Tosses the sweat shirt in the general direction of the 
sofa.  The cap flies toward the hat rack and almost snags on
the seven ball before it flops to the floor.  Down go the sweat
pants and a pair of dark green boxers, puddling in the hallway.
His bare ass disappears into the bathroom.

I look at the disarray he left in his wake, wondering if this is
the test for me.  Once a slob, always a slob, Mulder? Afraid 
my anal-retentive tendencies will send me screaming back 
home?

Ha.  You should see my apartment right this moment, Mulder. 

Mulder sticks his head out of the bathroom doorway and looks
at me.  "Wanna share the shower?"

Okay, maybe this is the test.  Spontaneity, Scully.  Can you
handle it? 

I'm stripped by the time I reach the bathroom.

Mulder's grin is somewhere between amused and surprised. It
quickly becomes appreciative. He holds open the shower curtain
with courtly aplomb, and I step into the warm spray.

He steps in behind me.  His heat drives away the slight chill of
the shower.

"Did you stretch out before you ran?"  he murmurs, reaching past
me for the bar of soap nestled in the middle tray of his shower 
caddy.

"Yeah."

"How long?"

"Maybe five minutes?"

He makes a little grumbling sound.  "Not long enough, unless 
you run every day.  You're going to be sore."  I can feel him 
moving behind me, and suddenly, his long, soapy fingers are 
pressing against my calves, digging into the tired muscles.  It's 
all I can do to keep standing.

"Feel okay?" he asks.

Oh yeah.  

I nod, unable to speak.  He notes the nonverbal assent and keeps
up the fancy finger-work, moving slowly up my legs.  He's doing
something to my knees that has me close to swooning.  I reach 
forward, bracing myself with my hands on the shower wall.  Hot
needles of water drum against my breasts. Any chill that remained
from our run is long gone.

If this is a test, it's a great one.

His fingers slide up to my thighs, and he rests his cheek against 
my hip, the beard stubble scraping lightly against the tender skin.  
I trap my lower lip between my teeth to keep from moaning.  He
presses a light kiss against the point of my hip and I can't hold
back a ragged little gasp.

He reaches up and grasps my hips, turning me around. I clutch his
shoulders, caught off balance, but his hands hold me steady and
upright.  He just holds me there, for a moment, his forehead resting
against my belly. Then, he lowers his mouth to my center, and I am
utterly lost.

I'm not a screamer. I'm not even a whimperer.  I'm a moaner, and
by the time he's finished, Mulder's heard every variation of moan
in my repertoire, plus a few I never knew I had in me.  

Now Mulder--Mulder's the whimperer. It's kind of cute.  So cute 
I'm tempted to keep up what I'm doing, but the hot water is 
beginning to run out, and I don't think a cold shower is what we 
have in mind.  I murmur a terse demand against Mulder's 
throat, and we stumble out of the shower, trying not to slip on 
the damp tile floor on our way to Mulder's bedroom.

Yes, he has a bedroom. Who knew?

The bed is a canopied water bed.  I arch an eyebrow at Mulder as 
we fall into the undulating belly of the bed and rock there for a 
moment.  He mutters something about a joke Frohike won't 
admit to.  

Then he apologizes for the mirror.

Hoo boy.  

I stare up at the multi-paned mirror, which fractures the reflection 
of our naked bodies into an almost abstract image of surprising 
beauty. We are living art, two bodies warm and lush with passion 
and love.  

I find myself watching the image above us as Mulder covers my
body with his own.  In the shifting, dancing reflection, our mirror 
selves merge, each caress, each thrust, each counterpoint part 
of a pas de deux so perfect, so lyrical that tears fill my eyes
and blur the image. 

For a moment, I am overwhelmed by the need to hold him close, 
so close that nothing can take him out of my grasp, nothing can 
rip him away from me.  A shadow of loss passes at the
periphery of my consciousness.  An imagined memory of what 
it's like to lose him.  

The feeling is frightening in its intensity.  It doesn't pass quickly.

But it does pass, as pleasure eclipses even the power of this 
anxiety.  I am ablaze, and the sensory overload is too much. My 
eyes drift closed, and I am soaring like flames from an open fire.

I come, hard and fast.  He follows, likewise.  

Some time later, the December chill washes over us, stealing the
lingering heat of passion. Mulder reaches for the blanket that 
shifted south during our lovemaking and covers us both, tucking 
it around our twined bodies.  He nuzzles my wet hair with his 
nose.  "Warm enough?"

"Almost."

"Sore yet?"

"My, you think highly of yourself," I murmur against his throat.

He chuckles, sliding his hand down my back to land a gentle
smack against my buttocks.  "Your *running* muscles."

"Not yet."  However, I'm already starting to get uncomfortable
from the wet pillowcase beneath my shower-damp hair.  "I
do think we might want to get dressed, though."

He grumbles softly.  "So soon?  We're off today."

"We're wet, Mulder.  It's only exacerbating the cold."

He sighs deeply, sounding very put upon.  But he tempers it
with a sprinkle of sweet kisses across my throat and jawline as 
he unwinds us from our temporary cocoon.  "Don't suppose you
brought a change of clothing, did you?" 

"In the car." 

He  disappears from the room for a moment, then returns with a
couple of fluffy green towels.  He tosses them to me.  "Dry off
and I'll be back with your clothes in a minute."  He starts grabbing
clothes and dresses quickly.  "Where are your car keys?"

I cut my eyes at him. "You don't have them?"

He goes still for a moment and shoots me a sidelong glance.  I
was only kidding, but now I'm wondering if I hit a nerve.  "No,"
he says quietly.

"Try the pocket of my sweats."  

He gives a nod and heads out the bedroom door. I start toweling
myself dry, wrapping my wet hair in a makeshift turban.

He comes back less than five minutes later, carrying my gym
bag.  I reach for it, but he holds it away, sitting at the far end of
the bed.  He unzips the bag, and I realize this is another test.

I try to remember if there's anything embarrassing inside.

"Nice." Mulder withdraws a pair of panties from the gym bag.  
I blink at the sultry timber of his voice--only Mulder could make 
a pair of white cotton briefs sound like a G-string.  I let him 
fondle them for a moment, feeling mildly decadent, then
I snatch them from his long fingers and slip them on.

"Ooo, let me help with this."  He extracts my bra--a nice, 
low-cut bit of lacy froth that redeems my less-than-daring 
panties.  It's a front-hook job, which means that whatever 
Mulder has in mind, I get to watch.

"Lift your arms," he says.  I comply, and he reaches around me,
fitting the bra to my body.  He's warm beneath the jersey
knit polo shirt he wears, and I'm tempted to fold myself into the
shelter of his heat.

His hands slide around, straightening the bra as he goes.  He
reaches my breasts and hesitates. 

I look up at him.  He's gazing at my breasts. It's such a cliche
I'm tempted to laugh, but there's something so tender, so 
reverent behind the obvious male appreciation that my mirth
slips away and I'm left with only a deep sense of gratitude that
the man I love is a man worthy of every ounce of trust I have
surrendered to him.

He cups my breasts, his fingers fluttering lightly over the curves
and the hardening tips. I hold my breath, on the brink of 
renewed arousal.  He can move me with a flick of his finger,
arouse me with a whispered breath against my flesh.  I'm 
utterly at his mercy.

He meets my gaze, smiling slightly as he recognizes the silent
question hidden there.  Gently, he gathers the cups of the bra
together between my breasts and fastens the hooks.  Then he
steps away.

I don't know whether I'm touched or disappointed.

Maybe a little of both.

He lets me finish dressing myself, then leads me back into 
the living room.  I silently note that he's picked up behind us.
His sweatsuit lies neatly folded on the chair, next to my own
discarded clothing.  The baseball cap hangs on the hat rack.

We sit on the sofa, and I reach for the television remote control 
automatically---the room somehow seems too quiet without 
the soft drone of the television.

Mulder nudges me forward so that he can slide behind me
on the sofa, cradling my hips between his thighs. As I flip 
channels, looking for something to watch, Mulder untwists 
my turban and begins to towel my hair dry.

We are quiet and comfortable, sharing a moment of wordless
intimacy. I settle on a cable news program and set the remote
on the coffee table, leaning back into the warmth of Mulder's 
body.  His hands slow to a lazy ramble in my hair.  

I don't know if I've ever felt this good.

"So the bed," I murmur a little bit later.  "What does it have to 
do with Frohike?"

Mulder makes a soft snorting sound.  "You make it sound
so tawdry.  I assure you our relationship is above reproach."

I chuckle.  "I don't think there's anything about Frohike
that's above reproach."

"Maybe his taste in redheads."

Sweet talker.  "So--the bed?"

"I don't know--it was just...there. When we got back from
Nevada---a few weeks ago---remember?  There was also some
godawful leopard-skin something or other on the bed, and a 
weird lava lamp sort of thing. I think the boys were messing 
with my head, but none of them will admit it."  He shrugs.
"Anyway,  I got rid of everything but the bed."

"Any particular reason why you kept the bed?"

He doesn't answer right away.

I twist in his arms to look at him.  He looks almost guilty.

For a second, I panic.  

Her.  

He kept it for her.  Miss "I believe you, Fox."

Miss "There when he discovered the X-Files."

I'm just keeping the bed warm for her until--

I shake myself mentally.  Don't be an idiot.  If Mulder
wanted Diana Fowley in his bed, do you really think
he'd have to work at it?

No. 

I'm the one who makes him work for it.  And he likes it
that way. 

"I was hoping--"  He falters, then starts again.  "Ever since this
summer, what almost happened out there in the hallway--I 
guess maybe I hoped--"

Even though I'd already dismissed my worries, I can't help
a niggle of relief---and no small measure of shame for my
moment of doubt. But it was a brief moment, I reassure 
myself.  I pushed it away in seconds flat.  

Another test passed, if not quite aced.  

"I need to switch to a waveless mattress, though," he adds.  
"Too long on the thing and I get seasick."

"There's always my bed," I suggest.  "For variety's sake."

"Variety, huh?"  He murmurs, sliding his lips against my
temple.  "Kinky, Scully."

I lean into the nuzzle, closing my eyes.  We sink back into
a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of our
breathing and the quiet drone of the television.  His arms
enclose me in warmth, and I'm surprised to realize how few
moments like this I've experienced in my life.  Moments 
where I am, however briefly, supremely content.

I came here this morning to test a theory. To see if Mulder and
I can handle what we're doing.  Can we make this scary new
twist in our partnership work?  How far can it really go, and is
it worth the risks?

All the data isn't in yet. 

But the early results are promising.

= end = 


12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
A Work in Progress

#1:  "Eternity Waits"
#2:  "What They Don't Know"
#3:  "White Christmas"
#4:  "Have and Have Not"
#5:  "Leftovers
#6:  "Scientific Method"

Six down, six to go.

DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, Ten-
Thirteen Productions and the Fox Network.  I mean no infringment.

NOTE:  This is part 7 of a projected 12 part series.  It can be
read alone, but it works better when read as part of the series.
Go to: http://members.aol.com/ahaynes33/index.htm and choose the
link named "12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS."

CATEGORY:  VR
RATING: PG-13 
KEYWORDS: MSR
SPOILERS: All episodes up to and including "How the Ghosts Stole
Christmas"
SUMMARY:  War is hell, and so is remembrance.


12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
#7:  "The Wall"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com

The shiny black granite cuts through the cold, hard earth like a
scar.  It starts out small and narrow at the entrance to the
monument.  Just a few names.  But each step along the path leads
toward a taller slab.  More names. 

The genius of the design, I think, is the reflective quality of
the dark granite.  With any good daylight at all, you stand in
front of the wall of fallen warriors and see yourself reflected
back at you.  So many messages in that mirror image.  Could have
beens.  Should have beens.

For the man who stands alone 100 feet away from Scully and me,
the reflection is a reminder of what almost was.

"Did he ever tell you about what happened to him in Vietnam?"
Scully asks me softly, her gaze fixed on our former boss.

"Yeah." I'm surprised he told her, though.  He and Scully don't
have the most trusting of relationships.

"After Nathan Teager was killed, I ran into Skinner here in the 
Mall."  She looks away from him and lifts her eyes to meet mine. 
I think I see tears there.  "I guess maybe we were looking for
the same answers," she says.

I'm surprised by this, somehow.  "Same answers?"

She turns back to the wall, pulling her heavy denim jacket more
tightly around her.  Her face lifts, a pale circle reflected in
the granite. "The Vietnam War wasn't like World War II--no big,
famous naval battles---but the Pacific Fleet was involved in some
of the conflicts."  She reaches up and tucks a strand of red hair
under the baseball cap I've lent her. "They had bases in Japan. 
My father was stationed there for a few years during the War. 
Office of Naval Intelligence.  I don't remember that much about
it--I was maybe two or three when we moved there, no more than
six when we left."

She glances down the Wall, toward Skinner again. I shove my hands
into the pocket of my leather jacket and wait for her to
continue, patient as she gathers her thoughts and emotions.

"When you're a kid, it never occurs to you that someone might
think anything bad about your parents.  They're like God--you're 
not supposed to think bad things about God."

I remember a time like that.  When my father could do no wrong
and my mother was a saint.     

It seems like a million years ago.

"We were transferred to Miramar in 1970.  June, I think--maybe a
month after the Kent State shootings.  A bad time to be a man in
uniform waiting out a layover in Los Angeles."

I release a soft sigh.  I can imagine what happened next.

"I never saw my father cry before." Her brow wrinkles slightly.
"Not at the airport---he would never have given them the
satisfaction.  But later...."

I lay my hand on her shoulder, give a little squeeze.

"It scared me, seeing him cry.  Hearing him.  My world wasn't
ready for that sort of shake-up."  She crouches at the base of
the wall, looks more closely at a soggy teddy bear someone left
in remembrance.  She touches the tip of her finger to his button
nose.  "I had nightmares.  All these people, angry and shouting
and spitting at me.  And I ran and ran and ran, but they wouldn't
leave me alone."

She rises and turns to look up at me.  "After Teager's death, I
had that nightmare again.  The first time in years.  So I came
here."

"And ran into Skinner," I finish.

She nods.

"Did you tell him about what happened to your father?"  I don't
want to think about how pathetic that question is, what it
implies about my proprietary nature when it comes to Scully.

She sees right through me.  A little glimmer of amusement shines
in her eyes.  "No."

Good.

"But he told me about what happened to him in Vietnam.  About how
he died--and came back."

It seems strange to hear her say those words so matter-of-factly. 
Scully usually tempers those sorts of statements with qualifiers,
scientific disclaimers.  

Not this time. 

I look down the walkway toward Skinner.  He is looking back at us
now, his expression unreadable. I nudge Scully's arm and nod. She
looks toward him.

He approaches slowly, moving past the growing number of visitors
who've braved the chill to visit the Wall this crisp December
morning.  Scully shifts away from me a little, putting some
distance between us.  Circumspect as always.  No need for Skinner
or anyone else to know that less than three hours ago, we were
wet and naked and indulging in some decidedly enthusiastic
inter-partner fraternization in my shower.

He reaches us after a moment.  Stands apart just a bit, as if he 
can't quite bring himself to join our circle.

"Sir," Scully greets him.

"Agent Scully." He gives a slight nod.  "Agent Mulder."

An awkward silence falls over us for a moment.  Scully breaks it.
"Did you have a nice Christmas, sir?"

He seems surprised by the question.  "Uh, yeah.  It was fine.  
Yours?"

"Very nice, sir."

"Ate too much," I add.

I glance at Scully.  Her cheeks are unusually pink, but maybe 
Skinner will assume the heightened color is simply a result of 
the cold.   Hell, maybe it is.

Skinner's lips curve slightly. As close to a smile as he'll
probably ever give us.  "How's the shit work?"

"Stinks," Scully deadpans.  I grin.  

Skinner's lips curve a little more, but the half-smile quickly
fades to a scowl.  "I hate what they're doing to you."

"We know, sir," I assure him.

"I have to play it this way."

"We know that, too, sir," Scully says.

Another silence falls over us.  Not as awkward.

"I know you can't tell me much, but I assume that your assigned
work is only part of your activities these days," Skinner says a
moment later.

We don't answer.  But that's an answer itself.

He nods.  "Good luck--and keep your noses clean."  He starts to
move off.

"Sir--we were about to grab a late breakfast," Scully interjects.
"Would you like to join us?"

He looks tempted.  I get the distinct feeling that he's a very 
isolated man these days.  I doubt he saw a soul on Christmas.  I
came pretty close to that fate myself, so I know how it feels.

"We'd really like it if you'd join us, sir," I add.

He wavers, then shakes it off.  "Not a good idea. Too many eyes
and ears."
  
I nod.  Scully sighs softly.  Skinner's expression darkens a
little, and for a moment, I think he's going to tell us something 
else.  But he simply turns and walks away, heading toward the
Women's Memorial at the top of a small rise.

Scully moves a little closer to me, sliding her gloved hand into
mine.  "Everything is so much harder these days."

I squeeze her fingers gently, still watching Skinner's slow, 
solitary retreat.  

She squeezes back, then releases my hand and nods at the 
Wall.  "Do you know anybody here?"

I glance down the long, black monument.  "A cousin on my mom's
side.  Kevin Kuipers.  Killed in 1971.  He was nineteen.  I can
barely remember what he looked like."  I lay my hand against her
back.  She's warm through the layers of clothing.  "How about
you?"

"I was so young then.  I know there were some sailors from the
base who died in the line of duty, but I don't know the names." 
She steps back toward me.  I don't move, giving her something to
put her back up against.  She leans against me for a moment, and
I'm absurdly touched by the show of trust.  "I'm glad someone
finally put up a monument.  It's terrible to give your life for a
cause and have nobody remember."

Something cracks inside me.  Cracks and spills.  

How many names are on our own wall of remembrance?  Deep Throat. 
Melissa.  My father.  X.  Penny Northern and the MUFON women.  
Max Fenig.  Agent Pendrell.  Kurtzweil.  The nameless British man
who helped me save Scully's life.  

How many hundreds or thousands of unknown soldiers have been
sacrificed to a battle waged silently behind the backs of
humanity?  Will someone someday erect a monument to remember
those lost in the battle Scully and I seem destined to wage?  Or
will there be anyone left to care?

I want to cry.  I want to break down here at the Wall and scream
at the injustice, the treachery and the seeming futility of it
all.

"Do you ever wonder if we've already reached the end, and we 
just don't know it?"  Scully shifts until she stands in front of
me, gazing up at me with moist blue eyes--from tears or the
biting wind, I don't know.  "We try so hard to hang in there on
the chance, however slight, that we'll get back what we've lost. 
But will we?  Can we?"

I don't know what to say to her.  Her gaze is too sharp, too
painful; I look away, toward the shiny face of the Wall.  We are 
reflected back to me, two figures, huddled close against the cold 
and the forces aligned against us.  We look so small, somehow.  
So alone.  

Her head turns, until I see the full, pale oval of her face in
the polished granite.  I wonder if she sees what I see, the two
crazy lovers whose passion for the truth may be of little
consequence in the end.  

She asked me something, not too long ago, in a rental car driving
down a desert highway in Nevada. Something about getting off this
treadmill we're on, the endless drives in an endless stream of
rental cars, the interminable stakeouts and interviews and
bullshit we put up with day after day in the infinitesimal hope
of finding proof of something--anything---that we've come to
believe.

Right now, if she were to ask me that question, I think I might
say yes.  Let's do it.  Let's get the hell out of Dodge and find
a way to enjoy what's left of life on this earth as we know it.

But she doesn't ask. She knows we're on the edge here, and she's
not going to be the one to push us over.  She turns her face away 
from the Wall, resting her forehead lightly against my shoulder.  

I take strength from her.  Enough to enable me to bend and speak
directly in her ear, my voice low and direct.  "I want the
X-Files back.  I know you do, too.  We want that access. But we
don't need it to keep going.  No matter what happens, we have to
keep going."  

She makes a low, chuckling sound that most people would mistake
for laughter.  I know it's a cover for despair, and it gouges a
little hole inside me.  "I'm so damned frustrated, Mulder.
There's a conspiracy threatening the entire future, and we don't
even know where to start looking anymore.  So we chase ghosts and
psychos and glorified circus freaks--for what?  Just to keep
busy?"

I shake my head.  "What if the next Eugene Tooms holds the
genetic answer to combating the virus?  What if someone like
Virgil Incanto is a motherlode of immunity?  Or another Modell
has something we need to save ourselves from what's coming?
If these people have abilities and attributes that are extra-
human--who's to say they may not hold the key to all our 
questions?"

I realize it's a simplified answer to a complex question, but
Scully seems mollified by my words, for the moment.  She gazes up
at me again, her expression rife with affection.  "And you're too
fond of the sideshow to give it up." 

She's right.  I smile in concession.

She looks at me for another long moment, then gives a little nod
toward the path back toward the street, where my car is parked.
"I'm hungry.  Feed me."

I lay my hand against her back, seeking her warmth as we walk
slowly down the sidewalk, watching out for the treacherous
patches of lingering ice.  

= end = 



12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
A Work in Progress

#1:  "Eternity Waits"
#2:  "What They Don't Know"
#3:  "White Christmas"
#4:  "Have and Have Not"
#5:  "Leftovers
#6:  "Scientific Method"
#7:  "The Wall"

Seven down, five to go.

DISCLAIMER:  All the characters in this story belong to Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions and the Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.

Category:  VRA
Rating:  Mild R for language, sexuality
Spoilers - US Season 6 through How the Ghosts Stole 
Christmas
Keyword:  MSR
Summary:  The best laid plans are often doomed.

12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
#8:  "Holiday Inn" 
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


My partner is a multi-faceted man, full of contradictions and
wonders.  There are times when I can't decide whether to kiss him
or kill him.  There are times when he infuriates me with his
self-focus and other times when he astounds me with his kindness. 
He's broken my heart and saved my life.  He's gone to the ends of
the world for me--and brushed aside my warnings in order to
listen to advice from people he thinks he can trust but I know he
shouldn't. 

But never once--in all the time I've known him--have I thought of
Fox Mulder as a romantic.  

I suppose it's the very novelty of that thought--the idea that he
can still surprise me after all this time--that has led me out
into the cold on this New Year's Eve.  It's 6:30 p.m. Central
Standard Time in Birmingham, Alabama.  Dark out already. 
Temperature in the mid-thirties.  I don't have far to go--the
Holiday Inn is just across the street from a convenience store
and a fast food restaurant--but if I hadn't answered Mulder's
cell phone while he was in the shower, I probably would've opted
for pizza delivery.

The phone call was a bizarre capper to a couple of really weird
days, but it certainly explains a lot about Mulder's
uncharacteristic grouchiness about our little layover adventure.
He's usually not quite so passionate about getting back to D.C.     

The convenience store is typical of the area--two gas pumps out
front, a glass-front convenience store connected where you pay
for your gas and snacks.  I'm hoping they're stocked for the
holiday--okay, champagne is probably out, but maybe... Yes. 
There on the second aisle.  A bottle of Welch's sparkling white
grape juice.  Just as well--I don't want Mulder too drunk for
what I have in mind for later.  I tuck the green bottle under one
arm and head for the candy aisle.  

The guy on the phone had mentioned Godiva chocolates.  Not likely
I'll find any of those here. But there are dozens of chocolate
bars to choose from here on the candy aisle.  And--ah, here we
go.  A Whitman's sampler.  Shaped like a heart---aw.  Mulder will
love it.  I tuck that under my arm with the grape juice and keep
looking.  There's no way I'm going to find any roses--well, there
are a couple of ratty-looking fabric roses tucked into a plastic
jar on the cashier's desk, but I'm only willing to take tacky so
far.  I was hoping for real flowers.

Unfortunately, I don't see anything like that.  Until I approach
the cashier's desk with the rest of my purchases.

The cashier is a pretty dark-skinned girl in her early twenties.  
She starts ringing up my purchases.  "Cold out."

"Yeah."  I'm not big on small talk.  In fact, I probably wouldn't
have said anything else if I hadn't glanced past her to the table
behind her.  There, next to the credit card verification machine,
sat a small vase of cut flowers.  Pink and white carnations,
slightly wilted at the edges but still hanging in there. "Nice
flowers," I say.

She follows my gaze, then smiles.  "Yeah.  From Darius--my
husband.  Our second anniversary--December 26th."

Six days old.  Somehow, that strikes me as perfect.  "Want to
sell them to me?"

She stares at me.  I'm tempted to laugh at her expression, but I
tamp it down and try to appear completely sane.  "I realize 
they're probably a sentimental thing with you--but in a couple 
of days, you're going to throw them out, right?"

She finishes ringing up my purchase.  "Yeah, but--"

I don my most trustworthy expression.  Special Agent Dana Scully
of the F.B.I.  Take charge, dependable, solid as a slab of
granite---sell me those flowers and do it now--it's a matter of
national security.

Apparently that's not enough for the cashier.  She sacks my other
purchases and says, firmly, "That'll be $12.32."

I hand her a twenty.  "You can keep the change if you'll give me
those flowers."

Now she's getting worried.  I can tell she's thinking of calling
the cops at this point.  I wonder what she'd do if I roast-beefed
her?

Nah. I only do that if Mulder's life is in danger.  A woman's
gotta have limits.

I'm beginning to see that my only hope of getting those flowers
is to tell her the truth.  As quickly, concisely and
non-threateningly as possible.

"I know it sounds like a crazy request--" I glance at her name
tag-- "Joyce, but see--my partner had this big, romantic New
Year's Eve surprise planned for me back home, but all the flights
were overbooked, and...."  I fade away, realizing that I'm not
very good at telling stories.  Not like Mulder is.  Mulder could
relay our tale of woe and make it sound like entertainment. 

Props.  I need props.

I reach into the grocery sack and withdraw the bottle of grape
juice and the box of chocolates.  "Not champagne and Godiva, but
it'll do in a pinch."

Her dark eyes meet mine.  "And those aren't roses but..."

"...they'll do in a pinch," we finish together.  

She smiles.  "He must be a hell of a man."

I nod.  He is.  

She goes back to the table and lifts the bouquet of carnations,
carefully shaking the water off the bottom of the stems.  "I'm
sorry they're not fresher."  She wraps a couple of paper towels
around the stems and slides the flowers into the sack.  Then she
makes change and hands me $7.68.  

"Don't forget the flowers," I remind her.

She smiles again.  "I don't think I ever will."  She gives my
open hand a little push, refusing the money.  "Go have a nice New
Year's Eve."

I bundle up, tucking my jacket close, and head outside.  I make a
quick stop at the burger joint next door and get us a couple of
cholesterol specials, then head back to the motel.

Inside, Mulder lies face down on one of the two beds, his feet at
the headboard.  His hair is still damp from the shower and he's
in a t-shirt and dark blue cotton boxers.  The television is on
to keep him company.  Wheel of Fortune.  Vanna's wearing red--she
looks disgustingly svelte for a mother or two.  Or is it three?

"I got dinner," I tell my morose partner.  He mumbles something
against the mattress.

Poor baby--he doesn't take setbacks well.

"By the way--your cell phone rang while you were in the shower." 
I sit down next to him on the bed, setting the bags of food--and
my special supplies--down next to me.  "Someone from the Woodgate
Inn."

He turns his head slightly, until I can see one hazel eye. 
"Yeah?"

"They're going to keep your deposit and the cost of the roses. 
But they're not charging for the champagne or the chocolates."

He turns his face back to the mattress and sighs.

This is going to take drastic measures, I see.  I reach into the 
sack from the convenience store, withdraw the cold bottle of 
sparkling grape juice, and lay it against his bare thigh.

He yelps and turns to glare at me. 

"It's party time, Mulder. Get your mopey ass in gear."  I shove
the bottle at him.  He grabs it before it drops to the bed.  I
keep digging in the bag and come out with the box of chocolates.  
"Mmmm, chocolate."

He's getting into the spirit.  I can see it in his eyes.  "Dibs
on the ones with nuts."

I save the best for last, pulling the flowers out of the bag with
a little flourish.  "I saw these and thought of you."

He looks at the wilted frills of the drooping carnations and
bursts into laughter.  It makes my night.

The burgers are greasy and disgusting.  We eat every bite and
collapse side by side, staring up at the pebbled ceiling. 
Mulder's fingers slide over and twine around mine.  "You sure
know how to show a girl a good time, Scully."

I do.  I really do.  

"I'm sorry the flight plans fell through."

I'm not.  I've spent the past couple of hours trying to envision
Mulder and me in a suite at the Woodgate Inn, sipping champagne
and feeding each other truffles on a bed of dewy rose petals.  I
get about two seconds into the daydream before I start laughing.

Mulder and I aren't the roses and champagne type.  We don't have
a romance; we have a relationship.  It's not based on sexual
attraction, mutual interests, common goals, although what we have
encompasses all of those things. We're together because without
each other, we're incomplete.  We can function, we can go on, we
can probably find some measure of happiness and contentment
without each other.  But something would be missing.  And we'd
both know it.

I roll onto my side and splay my hand over his full belly.  He
makes a low, sated sound.  "Got any resolutions for the new
year?"

He covers my hand with his.  "You know, the usual.  Lose weight,
get in shape, write the great American novel." He looks up at me,
his gaze sharp but warm.  "How about you, Dr. Scully?  What's on
your agenda--solving world hunger and bringing peace to war torn
regions?"

I shake my head, biting back a smile.  "I'll be happy if I can
find a brand of pantyhose that doesn't run the second you put
them own."

"I hate when that happens."

"I also resolve to find Frohike a girlfriend."

Mulder grins.  "When you aim, you aim high."

"Girl's gotta have a dream."

"Well, in that case, I resolve to buy Langly some new t-shirts."

"Skinner needs some new ties."

"Kersh needs a laxative."

I make a face.  Boys and their bodily functions.  I don't get the
fascination.  "I resolve to call my mother more than once a
week."

Mulder's face darkens a little.  "I resolve to call mine more
than once a year."

"Did you call her at all on Christmas?"

He nods.  "She was out--I think she might have been at my Aunt
Kay's house.  I left a message on her machine.  She hasn't called
me back yet."

Something cracks in my chest.  I tamp down the urge to weep.
"Maybe a message will be waiting for you on your machine when we
get back."

"Maybe."  He gazes up at the ceiling, his expression hard to
read.  But I know him.  I know his pain.

I lean a little closer, letting my hair swing across his cheek. I
lower my voice to a husky murmur.  "I resolve not to tell you
you're nuts the next time you stumble across a sewer monster."

Mulder makes a mark in the air with his free hand.  "Chalk that
one up as broken."

"Are you doubting my resolve?"

"Yes."

I slide my hand from beneath his, letting my fingers trail lower
across his belly.  "I resolve to be more spontaneous."

He cuts his eyes at me. 

"Daring," I add.  "Reckless."

Now he's interested.

I move my hand lower.  It brushes against the button on his
waistband, slips a little lower, until my fingers lightly brush
over his fly.  

He's searching for something to say.  Something witty and sexy at
the same time. But the whisper of my fingers over his awakening
erection has the effect of an electric shock to his neural network.  
He's been reduced to a few wildly firing synapses and a 
southward rush of blood.

Which is just how I like him, sometimes.

For the sake of my dignity, I'd like to say that Mulder's manly
sexual technique is what's making me hot and bothered all of a
sudden.  But he's really not doing much of anything but lying
there, staring up at me with those bedroom eyes, his tongue
darting out to wet his lower lip.  To my utter chagrin, I'm out 
of my jeans and stradling his hips before he can lift a finger.
God, is that all it takes--Mulder just being Mulder? That's not a 
very good precedent to set.

To his credit, he makes up for lost time.  Soon--more quickly 
than I expect--I've lost any capacity for coherence myself.  
There is nothing slow about this explosion of passion.  From 
one moment to the next, my body has become one tight, 
humming nerve, caught up in a dance of sensation. Gathering 
and straining toward release.  We rise and fall, grasp and cling, 
speaking in wordless sighs and passionate groans.  We are an 
island of fire in a turbulent sea of quickly discarded clothing and 
motel sheets.  I come in a blaze, hard and fast, keening as every 
nerve in my body erupts with pleasure.  Mulder rises beneath me, 
burying his face in my neck as he clutches me to him and 
follows me through the fire.

The room is cold when we come down from euphoria, but our 
bodies are hot and slick, weak from the fierce demands of our 
passion.  Fast and furious--a new one for us.  I file the experience 
away in the quickly-growing section of my brain labeled "Sex with 
Mulder."

Mulder's breathing is still fast and a little harsh.  I squelch
the doctorly urge to check his pulse, propping myself on one
elbow instead so I can watch him blinking and gasping, trying to
recover.  "How long do you think that took?" he asks, breathless.

I arch one eyebrow.  "I didn't put a stopwatch to it."

"But it could've fit into your average lunch hour, right?"

Ah.  That's my Mulder, always thinking ahead.  "Depends on the
traffic."

"Next time, we'll try it standing up." He rolls onto his side and
pins me with a sleepy-eyed look. "Increases the number of
prospective venues, thus cutting down on the drive time."

I run my thumb over his chin, brushing away a drop of
perspiration.  "You're such a resourceful man."

He throws his head back and closes his eyes, still breathing
hard.  "I'm apparently an old man.  You're killing me."

"Consider me part of your fitness regimen you resolved to
start this year."

"Beats the hell out of the incentive plan at my local gym." He
reaches for me, pulling me atop him.  His long arms rope around
my waist, holding me captive.  His flesh is hot and slick beneath
mine.  Hard and soft in all the right places.  

I'm struck by the feel of him, the familiar-foreign paradox of
our new intimacy. I know his body, the scars and the freckles and
the dimples and the contours. I can pick him out in a crowd of
thousands based on nothing more than the curve of his neck or the
lopey gait of his walk.  But this is a new sort of familiarity we're 
forging.  Skin to skin, body to body.

In so many ways, this man who has been my other half for years is
a stranger to me.  It's scary--but it's exhilarating too.

We remain in this embrace, limbs tangled and relaxed, breathing
each other with every respiration.  He smells like soap and
sweat, a heady combination.  He feels like silk on steel.  He
tastes like sex and honey.

We make love again.  Slowly.  Thoroughly.  Taking our time,
pushing each other to the edge and pulling back.  Testing our
endurance.  Testing the boundaries of arousal.  I come in a long,
slow unraveling, my body alight with sensation.  And just before
my eyelids flutter shut, I look into Mulder's eyes and see
triumph and something that just might be joy.

By the time we're both coherent again, Dick Clark has already
rung in the new year on the East Coast, and the countdown is on
here in the Central Time Zone.

"I hope somebody got the roses," Mulder murmurs in my ear as we
cuddle beneath the covers of the motel bed.  "Some poor schmuck's
wife got a freebie thanks to D.C. Air's overbooking policy."

I shrug.  "My guess is, some poor schmuck probably got a freebie
out of it, too."

Mulder grins.  I can feel it against my forehead.  "They weren't
red roses, by the way."

"No?"

He shakes his head, his beard stubble rasping lightly across my
cheek.  "They were sort of orange."

"Sort of orange?"

"Yeah. What do they call that color--salmon?"

Mmm, I think. Nice. Salmon roses.  Who'd have thought he had
such creativity in him?

"The room had a view of the Potomac," he adds.  "Woodsy and 
secluded.  And the champagne was imported."

Okay, I'll play.  "What about the bed?"

"King sized.  Silk coverlet and linen sheets."

Very nice.  I'm impressed.  "You know I don't need those things."

"I know," he says with a little nod.  "But you deserve them." 

Moisture leaks into my eyes.  Damn it.  I look resolutely at the
television.  Some guy I don't recognize is laughing about something.  
The volume is on low, so I don't catch the joke. 

"I haven't felt very good about a new year in a while," I admit a
few moments later, my voice hoarse with barely-checked emotion. 
If Mulder notices, he's kind enough not to comment.  "I've never
been much of an optimist, really.  I don't know if you knew that
about me.  I think it comes from life as a Navy brat--moving from
place to place, never really settling down.  New years usually
meant new places and new chances to be the new geek in town."

His arms tighten around me.  Only a little bit; I suspect it's
instinctive rather than intentional.  

"But I'm looking forward to this year," I finish.

"Despite the shit work facing us back home?"

"Yeah. Despite the shit work."

He's silent for a moment.  Then, he gives a little nod toward the
television.  "Countdown."

On screen, the muted voices murmur in unison.  Three...two...
one....

Outside the motel, horns honk.  Firecrackers pop and bottle
rockets explode.  Inside our room, I lift my face to Mulder's. 
He kisses me, slow and sweet, then tucks me into his embrace.

In companionable silence, we enter the new year.


= end = 




12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
A Work in Progress

#1:  "Eternity Waits"
#2:  "What They Don't Know"
#3:  "White Christmas"
#4:  "Have and Have Not"
#5:  "Leftovers
#6:  "Scientific Method"
#7:  "The Wall"
#8:  "Holiday Inn"

Eight down, four to go.

DISCLAIMER:  All the characters in this story belong to Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions and the Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.

Category:  VRA
Rating:  PG-13 for strong language, violent imagery
Spoilers - US Season 6 through Terms of Endearment
Keyword:  MSR
Summary: There's no such thing as clear sailing ahead.

12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
#9:  "Secrets We Never Speak" 
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com

I'm happy for Scully. Really, I am.  Not a bit jealous that she's
actually working on something challenging.  So it's not exactly
an X-File, just an autopsy consultation, but at least Scully's
getting to flex some of her old mental muscles. And I get to wipe
the gym floor with what passes for F.B.I. recruits these days.

Besides, I think as I set up my next run for the paint, it's been 
awhile since I've had the chance to crack a good autopsy joke. 

I mentally run through my repertoire as I dribble the basketball
around a sweaty defender and line up my jump shot.  Who's the
stiff, Scully?  Nah--she hates that one.  Doesn't even have to
work at keeping a straight face.

I fake left, then give a little twist to the right and throw up a
shot.  It arcs sweetly and sinks with a swish of net. Travis, the 
defender, curses me in a couple of different languages--probably 
a plus on his F.B.I. application.  They're big on biligualism. 

I flash him a shit-eating grin and circle around, going on defense,
already working on another stab at morgue humor.  What do you get
when you cross a cadaver with a--

That's when I see her.  No telling how long she's been standing
there, tapping her toe and waiting for me to notice her.  She's
inadequately dressed for the gymnasium, in a slim black suit and
high heeled pumps.  I have to squelch the ingrained thought--
those shoes are going to scuff the gym floor, you idiot--and call
a time out to go talk to her.

"You looking for me?"

Diana Fowley nods.  "I tried you at your home number earlier."

"I wasn't there."

"I gathered that."

"Hey, Agent Mulder," one of the guys calls out to me.  "You 
playin' or you whipped?"  

Diana's lips curve slightly, and her dark eyes meet mine with
amusement.  "Still big man on campus, I see."

"Yeah, I'm thinking of running for class president."  I turn to
the guys.  "Play horse, guys--this is F.B.I. business."

They grumble some more as they regroup and figure out how to
make their pick-up game work with only five guys.  I turn back to
Diana.  "Is something up with the X-Files?"

"I did want to go over some things with you."  She moves a little
closer, lowers her voice.  "Spender's not exactly taking full
advantage of the full resources of the Bureau these days."

I know that.  Little prick.  "D'you come across a case I can help
you with?"

She slips her hand around my arm and leads me toward the exit. 
I grab my gym bag on the way. Somewhere in the back of my mind, 
Scully's suspicious voice whispers, "I don't think she's what you 
think she is."  I falter as we step out into the sunlight outside
the gymnasium, move away from her touch.  "How did you know 
where to find me?"

"I overheard Agent Scully mention to one of the other 
pathologists that you were here in the gym, waiting for her." She
glances up at me.  "Carpooling these days, Fox?"

I ignore the question and cock my head.  "You saw Scully?"

Diana nods.  "Who do you think got her assigned to the autopsy?  
It's connected to this case."

I relax a little bit, relieved.  I'd told Scully that Diana would
protect the work at any cost.  "So it is an X-File, then?"

"It may be."  Diana moves toward the main building. "Let's get 
inside, Fox--it's freezing out here.  I'll show you what I've
got."

I follow her through the large double doors into the Forensic
Sciences Research and Training center, where Scully disappeared
a couple of hours ago after dropping me off at the gymnasium 
complex. I'd figured on at least three hours of hoops--autopsies 
are nitpicky, time-consuming procedures by definition. "Where's 
the file?"

Diana leads me toward the morgue.  "I left it in the office."

"Well, give me a general picture."

"Four healthy patients, just hours from being discharged from 
the same Richmond hospital, went into respiratory, then cardiac
arrest simultaneously at 4:45 am yesterday morning.  No warning
whatsoever.  Despite immediate and urgent attempts at
resuscitation, all four patients expired."

"How'd you learn of this case??"

"Through a contact I've maintained since we first started 
working on the X-Files all those years ago, Fox.  A nurse at 
the hospital who thought it was pretty damned strange."

I nod.  Strange doesn't begin to describe it.  "Anybody determine
the cause of death?"

"That's what Agent Scully's doing right now."  Diana pushes
through the morgue door and stops for a moment at the small
office off the examining rooms. She picks up a file and rejoins
me. "I thought it warranted a more thorough examination than the
Virginia state crime lab could offer."  She nods toward the far
end of the room.

We walk together toward the shiny examination table where a
gloved and masked Scully has her back to us.  A bright red
ponytail peeks out from under her surgical cap.  I notice the
weary slump of her shoulders and make a mental note to give her a
backrub later.

Diana hands me the file as we get closer.  I am about to open it
up when I catch sight of the body lying on the examination table
in front of Scully.

It's tiny.  Impossibly tiny.  

I stumble to a halt, staring.  My stomach lurches into my throat,
and I can't quiet the sudden gagging sound.

Scully's body jerks at the noise, and she drops her scalpel.  It
hits the steel table with a clatter.  She turns around and looks
at us.  Diana and me.  Scully's eyes are cold and dead.  Cold and
dead as the grave.

I blink.  The nightmare doesn't go away.  And it's not just the
sight of Scully's bloody gloves or the tiny body sliced open 
like a gutted bass.  It's the smell, hot and queasy.  The sound
of my own hitching breaths.  And Scully's cold, dead eyes. I feel
the bile rise in my throat, and I swallow convulsively.

"Get him out of here!" Scully barks at Diana.  She waves her hand
toward a side door. "Get him out before he vomits on the floor."

Diana grabs my arms and gives me a push.  I stumble ahead of her
toward the door and burst through into the corridor.  Out here,
the air smells sweet.  Clean. My throat convulses as I fight down
the heaves.

Diana runs her hand up and down my arm.  I guess she's trying to
comfort me. I shake off the touch.  

"What happened in there?"

I can't tell her.  If she doesn't know, I can't tell her what
she's done.  It's not my story to tell; it's Scully's.  And I
don't think Scully would appreciate my spilling her secrets and
sorrows to Diana.

Diana couldn't have known what a baby autopsy would do to Scully. 
To me.  Could she?  

I dismiss the idea immediately.  The woman I worked with all
those years ago would never be so deliberately cruel.  It's not
in her.  

I pass my hand over my eyes, then look at the file I still 
clutch in my white-knuckled fingers. "Is that the only body she
has to examine?"

"Yes, for the time being, at least." Diana's voice betrays her 
confusion.  I look at her. Her dark eyes are warm with concern.  
"Are you sure you're okay?"

I nod and open the file.  

Four hospital-made photos of newborns stare back at me.  

"They were all four born three days ago. To four different women.
All unrelated." Diana quietly sums up what lies in front of me.  
"All female, all healthy, all abnormally large babies.  The birth 
weights ranged from eleven pounds, twelve ounces to thirteen 
pounds, six ounces."  

I look at the babies in the photos.  Wrinkly, red-faced, cute in
that amorphous newborn-mammal way.  I'm reminded of Matthew
Scully, who looked very much like this when he came screaming
into the world a year ago.

I can't catch my breath for a second.

I have to go back in there.  I have to go be there for Scully.
But when I start for the door, Diana grabs my arm again. "She 
doesn't want you in there, Mulder. She can't afford to be 
distracted."

I want to yell at Diana.  I want to say, you don't understand!
You don't know what you've done to her.  But I'm silenced by the
secrets between Scully and me.  Secrets we never speak.

Silence stretches between Diana and me as we lean against the
wall outside the morgue, waiting for Scully to emerge.  I suspect
that my partner may choose to go out the other way, just to avoid
us.  I wonder if I should just let her go and lick her wounds
alone, away from prying eyes. 

Ages pass while I wait and wonder.  The silence starts to get to
me.  I look at Diana.  "What do you think happened to those 
babies?"

She turns her pensive gaze to me slowly.  "I don't know, Fox. I'm
hoping Agent Scully can give us more insight."

I'm hoping Scully comes out here soon.  If she doesn't, I'm 
going back in there, whether she wants me to or not.

I'm near my breaking point when the door finally opens, and
Scully emerges, stripping off gloves and the large rubber apron
covering her scrubs.  She shoots a glance at Diana as she slaps
the protective gear into a bin next to the door. "I'll be just a
minute getting dressed," she informs me in a low, uninflected
voice as she passes.  I watch her small form disappear into the
dressing area just down the hall.

The silence is back, thick and heavy. 

Diana breaks it after a moment.  "What aren't you telling me?"

I could fill a library with what I'm not telling her.

"You freaked out back there, Fox."

"It was a baby." I lick my lips, fighting off the unwelcome memory
of that tiny little body laid out on a steel slab.

Diana falls silent again, to my eternal gratitude. A few moments
later, Scully emerges from the dressing room, once again clad in
her trim navy suit, her hair neatly brushed, her make-up touched
up to cover her pallor. She glances toward us but doesn't join
us.

I move away from Diana and walk down the hall to Scully's side. I
want to touch her, just press my fingers against her spine to
reconnect, but her body language is screaming "don't touch me." 
So I don't. We walk side by side, silent and tense.  

Diana catches up to us.  "What did you discover?" she asks
Scully.

Scully stops in the middle of the corridor.  I almost bump into
her.  She looks up at Diana.  "I filed a report in the morgue
office, but the bottom line is--I'm fairly sure the baby was
murdered by lethal injection."

Diana makes a soft, skeptical noise. I glance at her, but her
expression betrays no other sign of disbelief. "Did you find a
puncture wound?" Diana asks.

"Yes, behind the right knee. I checked the hospital records you
enclosed to make sure there was no medical reason for that mark
to be there."

"What kind of lethal injection?" I ask.

She looks at me for the first time since she stopped.  "I ordered
a tox screen to be sure I didn't miss something, but based on
what I found in the autopsy, my best guess is that shortly before
that baby's death, she was injected with between 5 and10 ccs of 
air."

"Air?" Diana asks.

"Rebecca Friedman died of an air embolism."

Diana and I stare at Scully for a moment, processing that
information.  No chance of accidental death--nobody accidentally
injects 10 ccs of air into a baby.

"You're absolutely sure?" Diana pushes.

Scully glares at her.  "Unless the tox screen suggests something
else, that's my best professional assessment."

"I'll arrange for the other bodies to be brought here for
post-mortem exams," Diana says.

Scully turns three shades more pale beneath her careful make-up.

"Scully--did you find anything that another medical examiner
might have missed?" I interject before Scully can reply.

She looks at me, torn between anger at my interference and
gratitude for my concern.  "No," she admits.  "The signs were
pretty clear.  If the other deaths are connected, another
pathologist should have no trouble drawing the same conclusions I
did."  She lifts her chin and looks at Diana.  "I think the
Richmond medical examiner is perfectly capable of handling the
other autopsies."

"The list of suspects should be small," I add, relaxing a little
bit.  "Most likely hospital personnel. The Richmond P.D.  should
probably have a look at anyone who had unimpeded, unsupervised
access to the neo-natal ward.  Does the hospital have video
surveillance cameras in that area?"

"I'll check on it," Diana says.

Scully pushes ahead through the exit doors.  I start to follow
her, but Diana grasps my arm, holding me back.  I school my
features to hide my mild irritation.  "What?"

"I think this is more than just a simple murder."

"If Scully had found something--"

"Do you really think she'd have told us?" Diana counters.  "She's
not inclined to see the possibilities."

"She's not inclined to lie," I say firmly.  "If Scully thought it
was a case we'd be interested in, she'd say so."

"The babies all went into respiratory and cardiac at the exact
same time, Fox--"

"How was that determined?"

She stares at me as if I've grown another head.  In a way, I
guess I have.  A cooler, saner head.  A red-head who's getting
farther and farther away from me as we speak.  She's a navy-clad
spec across the parking lot.  She's too far away.

I turn back to Diana, trying not to betray my impatience.  "Were
the babies on heart monitors?"

She shakes her head. 

"Then there's no accurate way to determine the moment their
systems began to fail, is there?"

The look on Diana's face is pure puzzlement, as if she can't
believe she's hearing these words from me.  "Fox, I have no
reason to doubt my source."

"Is she a neo-natal nurse?"  Maybe it's the tension of the
afternoon that's making my words come out clipped and harsh, even
to my own ears.  Or maybe it's irritation at Diana's earlier
implications about Scully.  

Either way, Diana doesn't look happy as she replies.  "No, she's
on the maternity ward, but she's not in the neo-natal unit."

"So her account is anecdotal."

"Yes, but she said that the neo-natal nurse she spoke with
remarked on the fact that the babies all crashed at the same
time."

I can't believe that I'm about to say this.  "Diana, I think
you're looking for a paranormal reason for something that has a
more conventional explanation."

You'd have thought I'd just kicked her dog.  "I think maybe
you've spent too much time in a mental straitjacket," she
says quietly.  "I hate to say this, Fox, but you're losing your
edge.  I think you put too much stock in Agent Scully's input."

"So why did you ask her to do the autopsy, if you have so 
little respect for her input?" I ask, reminding myself that Diana
doesn't know Scully the way I do.  I had those doubts about
Scully myself, long ago when we first met.  

"Because I trust your judgment."

"And now you don't?"

"The Fox Mulder I knew eight years ago wouldn't have walked
away from this case."

She's right.  I wouldn't have.  And I'd have been wrong.

"Have the Richmond M.E. examine the other bodies," I suggest.
"Don't share what Scully found--see if he comes to the same 
conclusion."

"Even if he does, it's doesn't change the strangeness of the 
simultaneous deaths."

"Diana, they're babies.  All large, but not a huge disparity in size
between the four.  The UNSUB could have injected all four babies
with the same needle within the span of a minute, maybe two.  
The resulting damage to their systems would probably flow within
a similar time span."  I'm sickened by how dispassionately I can
discuss this crime. Sickened that in the greater scheme of the 
life I've lived, the death of four babies isn't even at the top of my
list of Very Bad Things I Have Witnessed.

"So you're not going to pursue it any further?"

"Let me know what the Richmond M.E. says, and we'll discuss
it from there."  I look away from Diana, my gaze traveling over
the parking lot in search of Scully.  I see her car pulling out of 
the gates without me. 

I stare for a moment in utter disbelief, releasing a slow, tense 
breath.

Ladies and gentlemen, I've just been ditched.

==end==


12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
A Work in Progress

#1:  "Eternity Waits"
#2:  "What They Don't Know"
#3:  "White Christmas"
#4:  "Have and Have Not"
#5:  "Leftovers
#6:  "Scientific Method"
#7:  "The Wall"
#8:  "Holiday Inn"
#9:  "Secrets We Never Speak"

Nine down, three to go.

DISCLAIMER:  All the characters in this story belong to Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions and the Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.

Category:  VRA
Rating:  PG-13 for strong language
Spoilers - US Season 6 through the beginning of Tithonus
Keyword:  MSR
Summary:  Every step forward, however small, is progress.

12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
#10:  "Parameters" 
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com

I'm ass out to the road, and the icy breeze across my back 
suggests that my jacket and blouse have hiked up enough
that my skin is showing, but when you're losing your lunch
on Highway One, dignity goes out the window.

I'd bypassed I-95 for this very reason--who needs an audience 
for this? This is the second time I've stopped on my drive back
to D.C. The first time was more productive. Unfortunately, all
I've had to eat today is in a ditch about four miles back and I'm
down to hard, wracking dry heaves.  

My head is throbbing and throat burns. I swallow convulsively, 
trying to stop the gagging reflex.  Finally, the worst of the
heaves subside, and I slump against the side of my car, closing
my eyes and trying to recover.  The roadside is wooded; a dusting 
of leftover snow still crusts the ground at the edge of the
gravel shoulder.  The afternoon air is crisp and cold--bracing, I
think, conjuring up a favorite word of my father's.  

Nothing like a cool, bracing breeze, Starbuck.

The sound of a car approaching is enough to push me out of my
lethargy.  I reach into the pocket of my navy suit for my keys,
but they're not there. I see them lying on the seat inside my car
and reach for the door handle. It moves uselessly in my hand,
locked.

I'm on the cusp of weeping.

The approaching car slows.  I don't dare look.  Instead, I walk
around the car to the passenger side, hoping that somehow, I've
managed to leave that door unlocked.

Of course, I haven't.

The other car parks on the shoulder behind my car.  I hear 
the metallic creak of a car door opening.  I glance at the car,
seeing exactly what I expect to see. 

He can smell my weak moments a mile away.

"Scully--?" 

I close my eyes for a moment at the sound of his voice.  Then I
open them again and glare at the offending set of keys lying on
the driver's seat.  

He moves up next to me and follows my gaze.  I feel his hand
slide over the curve of my spine briefly.  Then he reaches into 
the pocket of his sweat pants and withdraws his own keys,
sliding them into my hand with admirable stealth.  I glance up at
him and see him looking beyond my car to where I've anointed the
roadside with my upset stomach.  His expression falls.
Unaccountably, I'm annoyed.

I quickly unlock the passenger door with the spare keys on 
Mulder's keyring, glancing toward where Diana Fowley has parked 
her car behind mine.  Her dark eyes meet mine, and a chill runs 
down my spine.  I look away--not quickly, though. I give her a 
long, hard stare before I look away.  So she knows I'm not afraid
of her.

"Want me to drive?" Mulder asks.

I look up at him, off balance for a moment.  

"We don't have to talk," he adds.

I nod curtly and slip into the passenger seat of my car.  Mulder
goes back to Diana's car and says something to her briefly. I try
not to watch in the side mirror.  As Mulder walks back to the
car, Diana drives on.  I watch her disappear, relieved.  

Mulder keeps his word.  We drive back to D.C. in silence. Only
after we get to my apartment does he speak.  "Why don't you call
in sick tomorrow? Nothing but background checks on the schedule
for tomorrow.  Take the day, go to Mass, visit with your mom. 
I'll take your call list."

I know he means well, but his words cut. "I'm not sick.  I can
work."

"I didn't mean to imply---"  He stops, releasing a sigh.  He
can't lie.  He did mean to imply that I wasn't up to working
tomorrow.  I'm terrified that he's right.

"I just need some sleep. I'll be fine in the morning." I get out
of the car and lock the door behind me.  

Mulder steps out as well, gazing at me over the roof of the car.  
"You want me to leave you alone now."

The sad resignation in his voice makes me want to cry--and the
tears pricking at the backs of my eyes piss me off.  I'm not in
any condition to deal with Mulder or our perennially difficult
relationship at the moment. "Yeah," I admit.

He nods. I wait for him to turn and head for his car.  But he
doesn't move from where he stands.

What are you going to do, Mulder? Watch me until I'm safely
inside?

Exactly. He's going to stand there and watch my back like always.

Fine.  His choice.

I turn and head up the sidewalk to my apartment building. I get 
maybe ten yards from the door before my anger gives out and I 
falter to a stop.  I'm afraid to turn around, afraid that maybe
this time, he did walk away.  

But when I turn, there he is.  Still standing on the other side
of my car, watching me with characteristic vigilance.  I manage a
watery half-smile, and he comes around the car slowly, heading
for me. I wait for him, anticipating that moment when the heat of
his body washes over mine.  There.  He's close enough to touch. 

All I have to do is put out my hand. Why can't I do that?  Why
can't I reach for him now? I've never needed him more.

We move slowly in unison, side by side without touching. I want 
him to touch me, but he can't.  He won't.  Not with the signals
I've been giving off ever since he walked into the morgue this
afternoon. And God help me, I can't reach out to touch him,
either.  It's like my hands are anchored to my sides.

My fingers creak when I pull out my keys to unlock my front door.
I fumble with the keys for a second, and Mulder finally reaches
out to keep them from falling from my grasp.  His fingers brush
across mine in the process, and that's all it takes. One little
slide of skin to skin and I fall apart.

He guides me into the apartment and shuts the door quickly behind
us, saving me the disgrace of breaking down in front of any
passing neighbors.  Immediately, his arms rope around me, binding
my shaking body to his, holding me tight so I don't fly apart.

I don't know how long we stand there, me shaking, Mulder holding.
I know only that I don't know what I would have done if Mulder 
hadn't come along when he did.  I feel ashamed--whether of my 
weakness or my stubborn pride, I'm not sure.

After a while, when the worst of my tremors subside, he lets me
go long enough to give me a little push toward my sofa.  I sink
into the blue and white striped cushions, kicking off my shoes
and tucking my feet up under me. Mulder wanders into my kitchen
and starts making kitchen noises.  I close my eyes, trapped in a
no man's land between need and mortification.

"After Samantha disappeared, my dad sort of disappeared with
her." Mulder's voice floats in from the kitchen. "He was never
the most open and affectionate man to begin with, but after
Samantha was gone, he withdrew completely."  There's a loud
clatter of crockery, and Mulder utters a soft, indistinct oath.

I open my eyes.  "Did you break anything?"

Mulder peeks around the corner.  "No blood, no foul." He
disappears back into the kitchen.  A moment later, he returns
with a tray of tea and buttered toast, which he sets on the table
in front of me.

"All that noise and you only came up with tea and toast?"

"Damned fine tea and toast." He sits on the sofa next to me,
carefully distant, respecting my space. He eyes me warily. "You
dont have to eat if you don't want to, but it might settle your
stomach."

"You sound like my mother." 

He looks me straight in the eye, ignoring my obvious irritation.
"Thank you."

We fall silent.  I reach for a slice of toast just to have
something to do.  It's still warm, the margarine already melted. 
I nibble at the edges of the toast.  The silence grows oppressive.

I take a sip of tea to wash down the bite of toast and break the
quiet with the first thing that comes to mind.  "You were saying 
something about your father?"

Mulder's lip curls slightly. "After Samantha disappeared, my dad
didn't hang around long. The family pretty much fell apart at
that point. Mom didn't talk to me. Dad didn't talk to me. It was
like everyone disappeared that night, not just my sister."

I don't like where this is going.

"I thought they blamed me. Because she disappeared when I was
supposed to be watching her."  He shrugs. "I guess maybe I still
think that. I don't know."

I clasp the cup of hot tea between my palms, letting it warm me.
I don't know what he's trying to tell me. I'm afraid to know, but
I can't bring myself to stop him. 

"Is it me, Scully?"

I look at him, not certain what he's asking.

"When you're afraid, do you push away everyone? Or just me?

I close my eyes.

"I don't--" He pauses and starts again.  "I don't know what you
want from me.  I don't know what I'm supposed to do now."

Oh, God, I knew it would come to this.  Changing things between
us was bound to come to this.  I should never have let this 
happen.

I open my eyes and turn to face him, bracing myself for the
hardest words I'll ever have to utter. It was a bad idea, Mulder. 
I can't do this, Mulder.  We have to end it now, Mulder. But when
I look at him, all those words dissolve into silence. I look into
his eyes and see my heart.  

"Tell me what you need, Scully." His voice is low and raw.

"I need to work."

He nods, his lips curving in a half-smile.  It's not what he
wanted to hear, but he's not surprised.  Yet. 

"I need you to trust me."

He stares uncomprehendingly. "I do."

"I need you to trust me to know what I can handle."

He licks his lips. "You could have asked to be excused from that
autopsy."

"No, I couldn't." I lift my chin.  "It's my job, Mulder. I can't
allow myself to be paralyzed by the things we see. No matter how 
close to home they hit."

"Why didn't you come get me? I could've been there with you."

I shake my head.  How can I make him understand?  "I couldn't
have asked you to do that."

His gaze is deadly serious.  "You should have."

"Why?  So you could make it all go away?" I push to my feet,
anger and pain making me restless. "You can't make it go away,
Mulder.  Nobody can make it go away. It will NEVER go away."  I
cover my face with my hands, blinking furiously to stay the tears
burning my eyes.

"I can share it with you."

I lower my hands and look at him. Really look at him. "Why would
you want to?  Why would I want you to?"

Something in him snaps.  He rises and grabs my hand, pulling me 
closer. "You don't get it, do you? It's not up to you." He
catches my face between his hands, forcing me to look up at him. 
"I OWN it, Scully. I own that night I got the call on my
answering machine and heard that psycho bastard take you away. 
There are three months you can't remember, but *I* remember them,
Scully. I remember every moment of them. I remember going with
your mother to pick out a fucking headstone for your grave. I
stood out in a waiting room while they took you off life support,
not knowing if that was going to be the end of it all."

I can't bear it. I can't bear the things he's saying or the look
in his eyes as he says them.  I close my eyes, try to pull away
from his grasp.  "No--"

"I was there with you when Emily died.  You tried to keep me out
of it, but I was there.  I was right there in the hospital.  I watched
you watch her die."  He shakes his head.  "You can't protect me 
from that, Scully.  You can try all you want, but you can't keep 
those things from me.  They're mine."

I jerk away from him.  "Mulder, please!"

"Why can't you hear this, Scully?  What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know."  I'm crying now.  Weakly, with soft, hitching
sobs. I hate myself for it. "I don't know."

"You believed in me when nobody else did, Scully." He brushes the
tears from my cheeks, his touch so gentle it hurts.  "You're the
reason I can still fight, Scully.  No matter what shit they throw
at us--fucking background checks and crap patrol--I can keep
going because you're right there with me. "

I force my eyes open, force myself to look up into his
tear-sparkled eyes.  Oh, Mulder. You'll never let me go, will
you? 

I know the answer to that question. It warms me to my core.

Mulder drops his hands from my face, lowers them to his side.  He
doesn't move back, his body heat still enveloping me like
invisible arms.  He waits.

He waits for me to make my choice.

What's it going to be, Scully?  You want a real relationship? You
want a man who's there when you're scared shitless as well as
when you're strong?

You want to be the woman he needs and wants?

What's it going to be?

I lift my hand.  It feels like lead, but I lift it anyway.  I
touch his chest, feel his heart beating through the soft jersey
beneath my fingertips.  I lift my other hand.  It's easier this
time.  I touch his face with the back of my hand, feel the rasp
of his beard stubble against my knuckles.

He pulls me back into his arms. crushing me against him. I cling
without shame, needing what he can give me.  The warmth and the
strength. Giving him what he needs as well, what he's always
needed from me. 

He's always needed me to need him. Just a little.

"It's been a long day," he whispers in my ear. "Why don't you go
take a nice, hot bath and soak it away? I'll clean up after
myself and then when you're through, we'll decide what we want to
do from there."

The bath helps. I end up a little wrinkly and water-logged, but
the worst of the tension seeps away. Mulder checks in as I'm
toweling off. It's cute, the way he averts his eyes--but only
after a quick but thorough once-over. I turn around, giving him
a good look at my backside--my ass is one of my better features.  

"Feel like a more substantial meal? I could make us some soup and
sandwiches," he offers. 

I glance at him. He's slumped against the door jamb, looking
tired and rumpled. "I have a better idea.  Take a shower, Mulder,
and I'll call in a delivery order."  I tuck the towel around me
and cross to where he stands.  "Pizza, Thai or sub sandwiches?"

He bends and kisses my forehead, running one hand up and down my
bare arm. "Your choice--surprise me."

I choose Thai because I know it's his favorite. I'm a little
surprised that I manage to eat most of my own order, between my
still trembly stomach and Mulder watching me like a mother hen.
He's really getting into the whole nurturing thing, now that I've
let him take a stab at it. He's never been good with moderation.
Sooner or later, I'm going to have to draw the line.  But I don't
think I'll draw it tonight.

We go to bed together, but we don't make love. It seems more
fitting, somehow, that we lie quietly in each other's arms,
reconnecting as friends and partners first.  Reconnecting as
lovers will come another day, when the pain of our losses and our
fears isn't quite as fresh.

I'm the one who finally brings up Rebecca Friedman, the baby
whose body I examined this morning. "You've profiled child
killers before, haven't you?"

Mulder shifts, unconsciously pulling me closer and shifting the
blanket to cover us more completely.  "Yeah, I have."

"What makes them do it?  Why would someone want to destroy
something small and precious like a new life?"

He rubs his jaw against my hair. "I can tell you the reasons they
give themselves.  But it won't make sense to you.  It doesn't make
sense to anyone but them."

I hear the darkness in his voice.  Old memories of things he's
seen.  Minds he's dissected.  I have opened bodies in horrible
condition, after days in the water or a week roasting in a hot
apartment. But I've never sliced open a killer's mind and tried
to see what made him tick. I've never wanted to know.

Mulder knows. It haunts him every day.

We drift to sleep eventually.  I remember only one nightmare, a 
terrifying run through a gauntlet of dead babies, gutted open yet
wailing with newborn fury.  When I wake with a cry, Mulder holds
me until the images fade and I'm able to sleep again. 

He wakes me in the morning with a kiss. He's on his way out the
door; he has to go home, dress and shave before we reconvene at
the Hoover Building for a Sunday of phone calls. "We're friggin'
telemarketers," he grumbles against my lips on his way out the
door.

I'm surprised by how much brighter today seems.  I'm actually in
a decent mood by the time I arrive at the bullpen to start my
background checks.  Mulder is there already, his feet propped up
on his desk and a pencil between his lips. Working that oral
fixation. As I sit behind my desk and start on my stack of names,
I make a mental note to get him a bag of sunflower seeds before 
he gnaws his way through the entire F.B.I. stock of pencils.  

In front of me, Mulder sounds half asleep. "In the time you
worked with Ms. Ermentrout, did you find her to be a trustworthy
person?"

I punch in the phone number on my list.  A woman answers. "Mrs.
Lennox?" I query.  At her affirmation, I continue. "I need to ask
you a few questions about Daniel Garber."

Mulder's voice drifts back to me.  "Punctual?  Y-yeah, punctual,
punctual---that's--that's good."

I stifle a sigh and pay attention to my own call. "No, Ma'am.
This is just a routine background check---Mr.--Mr. Garber is not
in any legal trouble whatsoever." Mrs. Lennox assures me that
Daniel Garber is a paragon of virtue. "Yeah.  Okay," I say.
"Thanks for your time.

I hang up and cross that name off my list.  Mulder puts his hand
over the mouthpiece of his phone and cuts his eyes at me. "Hey,
Scully--maybe if we get really lucky next time they'll let us
clean toilet bowls."

"Ready to quit?" I ask.  

I already know the answer, but Mulder doesn't let me down. He
shakes his head. "That would make too many people way too happy."

I nod, then turn back to my task. As I start to pick up my phone,
it rings. I punch the button. "Scully."

"Agent Scully, this is Carol in A.D. Kersh's office. He would
like to see you in his office immediately. Alone."

Uh oh. "I'm on my way," I assure her.  I make a little face at 
Mulder as I hang up the phone and rise. "I'm being called into
Kersh's office." I whisper. I pause at the door. "Just me," I
add at the surprised look on his face.

"Just you?"

I nod and duck out.  Mulder's voice follows me down the hall.
"Don't forget your toilet brush!" He can't see me, so I allow
myself a smile at his joke.  

But my smile fades when I get to Kersh's office. He has a
surprise for me. Five-eleven, one-seventy, dark-haired and
impossibly green.

"Dana Scully, Agent Peyton Ritter with the Bureau's New York
Office."

I don't know why, but I have a very bad feeling about this.

==end==

12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
A Work in Progress

#1:   "Eternity Waits"
#2:   "What They Don't Know"
#3:   "White Christmas"
#4:   "Have and Have Not"
#5:   "Leftovers
#6:   "Scientific Method"
#7:   "The Wall"
#8:   "Holiday Inn"
#9:   "Secrets We Never Speak"
#10: "Parameters"

Ten down, two to go.

DISCLAIMER:  All the characters in this story belong to Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions and the Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.

Category:  VRA
Rating:  PG-13 for very strong language, violent imagery
Spoilers - US Season 6 through Tithonus
Keyword:  MSR
Summary:  Death is cheated not by life but by love.

12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
#11:  "Moment of Grace" 
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com

His name is Payton Ritter.   Five-eleven, one-seventy. Played
quarterback at Harvard.  Lean and mostly muscle, including the
one between his ears.  His front teeth are capped and I think he 
uses whitening toothpaste.  I'm pretty damned sure he plucks his
eyebrows and spends two hours a week sculpting his abs.

He's also the blue-flaming, brown-nosing son of a bitch who shot
my partner yesterday, and if he doesn't get out of my face, I'm
going to kill him.

"I just want to apologize--"

His voice trails off as I get in his face.  Close enough to smell 
his creeping sense of fear.  Heard of me, you incompetent 
little dickweed?  Heard about Spooky Mulder, the ghost of the 
J. Edgar Hoover building?  Believe it, fucker.  Believe every 
crazy, wild-assed, mind-blowing urban legend you ever heard 
about Fox Mulder.  He's the boogeyman.  He's the people 
under the stairs.  He's the monster beneath your bed.  

And he never forgets.

"Apologize for what?" I ask.

That throws him. Probably put every neuron in that little
peabrain of his into overload. I can almost hear the gears
grinding.  "For what happened to Agent Scully," he says.

"For shooting her, you mean."  I say the words clearly.  Almost
casually.  I impress the hell out of myself with my control.

"It was a terrible accident," he says.

I know that, shithead. If I believed it were anything but an act
of stupid incompetence, you wouldn't be standing here. 

But I don't say that aloud.  

He's unnerved by my calm. Sucks himself up to his full height as
if that'll impress me.  When he speaks, he uses that annoying
tone of voice they teach you in the Academy, that "I know I'm
talking to a friggin' lunatic, but if I keep my voice low and
steady enough, I can bore you to sleep before you can pull the
trigger" voice that you learn somewhere around the four week
mark.  "I know you're upset, Agent Mulder--and I understand
why--"

"Did she see you do it, Ritter?  Was she looking you in the eye?"

He's sweating now.  I smell it.  It's sharp and hot.  It feeds my 
rage.  But I don't show it.  I'm too cool, too calm to show it. 
I've learned this from Scully.  She's the scariest woman I know--
for the simple reason that she never tips her hand before she
strikes.  I want to be like her.  Sometimes I think that's my
real goal in life, to be more like Scully.

"I bet you thought you knew everything, didn't you, Ritter?  Top
of your Academy class--yeah, I looked you up when Scully got the 
assignment."  His eyes widen just a bit.  I hide my smile of 
satisfaction.  "But you know, I think you skipped the class where 
they taught the most important lesson, Ritter." 

His Adam's apple bobs.  He blinks.  His voice breaks.  "What
lesson?"

"No. Harm. Comes. To. Agent. Scully."  My words stab the air like 
stilettos.  "Ever."

He takes a deep, shaky breath.  He's thinking hard now, trying to 
figure out what to say to appease me.  

Fool. 

I shrug.  "I don't know--I've been away from the academy a few
years now.  Maybe things have changed.  Maybe they have a 
new course now where they teach you to blow into a suspect's 
home, gun blazing like goddamn Billy the Kid."  I shake my
head.  "Times, they are a changin'."

"I thought Fellig was--"

"Did you identify yourself as a federal agent?  Did you call for 
back-up after I warned you that Scully might be in danger from
Fellig?"  I am so in his face now I'm fogging up his eyeballs.  

"I thought he was pulling a gun."

"And you didn't bother to figure out where Agent Scully was 
before you started shooting?"  God, I am so calm I scare ME.  

"I didn't think she was there," he admits. "I didn't see her."

He's scared. Shaky scared. His fingers are flexing, itching to go
for his gun, afraid I'll beat him to it. 

Good.  I want him to pee his pants before I'm through with him.
But I don't let that show.  "Do you have any idea the things
Agent Scully and I have been through as partners, Ritter?"

He swallows hard.  "I've heard some things."

I nod.  Ultrafuckin' agreeable, that's me. "I'm guessing, then, 
that you've heard how we cover each other's backs.  Hurt me,
and she'll hunt you down like a dog.  Hurt her, and, well...."  
I look at him, barely blinking. Not showing just how hot my 
blood is boiling, how tense my fingers are as they daydream 
about circling his throat and squeezing until the hyoid bone 
snaps, his larynx collapses, and his spine breaks.

He stares at me, realization dawning.  He's finally getting it. 
He finally understands just exactly what he's done.  He looks
down.  He is broken.  Acquiescent. I smell the blood of the
impending kill.  I taste it.  It's strong and sweet.

I lower my voice.  Soft.  So soft.  The hiss of a snake before
striking.  "The doctors tell me she should have died.  They don't
know why she didn't."  My voice dips lower.  "But I do, Ritter. 
I know why.  Do you?"

My voice is as soft as it has ever been.  Gentle, even. Maybe
that's what scares him the most, forces him to look up into my
eyes.  He blinks, terrified by what he sees there.  

I move in a notch closer.  I let the silence between us linger.
Grow, expand, until it's like a third person standing between 
us.  I wait until he's holding his breath and trembling.  Then
I say it--cool, calm, matter-of-fact.  "It's because Dana Scully 
is too special to be taken out by an incompetent little shit 
like you."

I step back, turn around and head for the ICU unit, my retreat 
abrupt.  I hear Payton Ritter's soft, shaky exhale; I wouldn't be 
surprised to hear him hit the floor with a thud. But frankly, I 
don't care what he does now. I'm through with him.  I've said 
my piece.  

She lies, small and pale, in the ICU bed. There are tubes and
wires everywhere; for a moment, my heart freezes in my chest at
the all too familiar sight.  Then I note the steady rhythm of her
heartbeat showcased by the monitor near her bed.  Her color 
is getting better with each passing moment. They removed the
breathing tube this morning.

She looks tired and sick--yet so beautiful I need a breathing
tube of my own.  My tension seeps away.

She opens her eyes when she hears my footsteps.  She works up
a little smile.  

"Hi there," I say.

Her weary eyes narrow slightly.  "You look like a well-fed cat, 
Mulder.  What have you done?"

I shake my head.  "Nothing."  It's true.  I did nothing. In the 
end, I'm not sure my words will really sink into the thick head
of Payton Ritter.  I don't know that the next time, he won't
get another partner killed.  I don't know what lives will be 
destroyed if he's allowed to stay with the Bureau.

But it won't be Scully who's killed--or my life that's destroyed
as a result.  For the moment, that's enough.

"I talked to your doctors.  They're talking about moving you 
to a private room in a couple of days."

"I know--they talked to me first."  Her lips curve just a bit, 
warming my heart.

"I took vacation so I don't have to go back to D.C."

Her forehead creases a little.  "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did."  I gently move her hair away from her face, letting
my hand linger a moment against the warm curve of her cheek.  "I
managed to get your mother on the phone."

"Mulder--"

"She was going to hear it sooner or later." I sit in the chair
beside her bed and reach for her hand.  Her fingers are warmer
than they were just this morning.  

"You didn't scare her, did you?"

I shake my head. "I assured her you were out of the woods and
that I'd personally see that you stayed that way."

The look she gives me warms me to the core.  "Fox Mulder,
Registered Nurse?"

I waggle my eyebrows.  "I'm working my way up to playing doctor."

She groans.  I don't think it's from pain.  

I shrug.  "Hey, comedy is hard."

She smiles for me again.  Weak but beautiful.  "Have you seen
Ritter?"

My grin fades. "He was loitering in the waiting area."

She gives me a stern look.  "Mulder--what did you do?"

"Nothing," I say again.  "I was polite."

She does the eyebrow thing. The one that lets me know she knows
I'm full of it.  

"Well, except for calling him a shit," I add.

"You didn't touch him, did you?"

"I'm not that kind of girl, Scully."

The little half-smile is back. It warms me like sunshine.  Then
it falters for a moment.  "He's in trouble with the Bureau, isn't
he?"

I nod.  Without even a hint of remorse. 
  
She sighs.  "He had the makings of a good agent.  I hope they
don't sack him.  Maybe a little humiliation will go a long way."

"His career is toast."  I don't understand how she can be so
forgiving.  The little prick nearly killed her.  

"See?  Told you it was a one-time thing."  Her fingers curl
around mine, squeezing.  My heartbeat does a little dance.  "I
have so much to tell you about this case, Mulder."

I shake my head. "You can tell me later."  

I know there's a lot she wants to say.  I suspect she's going to 
astound me in ways I wouldn't have believed possible a few years 
ago.  But at the moment, I don't want to distract myself from my 
obsessive attention to the little details of her continuing life. 
The smooth rise and fall of her breasts beneath the bed sheets.
The steady little pulse throbbing beneath my fingers.  The warmth
of her skin against mine.

I think I know what Fellig was.  I think I know what enabled him
to finally die.  But it doesn't matter right now.  Today, it's
enough that I believe Scully will be here tomorrow, and the day
after that, and the day after that.  I close my hand over hers
and smile, watching her eyes droop closed as she drifts off to
sleep.

Her name is Dana Scully.  Five-three, one-oh-five.  Her job is
saving the world--and saving me.  She's brilliant at it.  Some
days, I think she even likes it.  And today, she's still alive. 
Still with me.

Any way you look at it, I'm a lucky man.

==end==



12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
A Work in Progress

#1:   "Eternity Waits"
#2:   "What They Don't Know"
#3:   "White Christmas"
#4:   "Have and Have Not"
#5:   "Leftovers
#6:   "Scientific Method"
#7:   "The Wall"
#8:   "Holiday Inn"
#9:   "Secrets We Never Speak"
#10: "Parameters"
#11: "Moment of Grace"

Eleven down, one to go.

DISCLAIMER:  All the characters in this story belong to Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions and the Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.

Category:  VRA
Rating:  R for language, sexual situations 
Spoilers - US Season 6 through Arcadia
Keyword:  MSR
Summary:  Some rules were made to be broken.

12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
#12:  "Rules" 
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


Mulder slouches in a steel-and-vinyl chair next to the empty desk
I've commandeered to finish up my reports for the San Diego Police
Department.  Tired of the Dockers and Izod golf shirts, he's in a 
dark blue jersey sweater and faded jeans--delectable as always, 
even with the mopey look of boredom and mild dissatisfaction.

I refuse to let myself feel sorry for him.  He's the one who did
all the button-pushing on this case, even after we discussed how
things would be.  *I* kept to the agreement. No inappropriate
behavior out of the presence of our new neighbors. 

No spillover.

I knew going into this relationship with Mulder that we were
walking a fine line.  Ten to twelve hours a day together as it
was, and now we're personally involved as well.  Making things
work requires real dedication to boundaries.  Rigid adherence to
our self-imposed rules about behavior on the job.

Rules have purpose. 

I glance over at Mulder.  He's slumped a little lower, his
baleful gaze peeking out beneath his droopy eyelids.

"In the long run, you'll thank me for policing these guidelines,"
I murmur, softly enough that only Mulder can hear me.

"Rule Nazi," he mutters back. 

I stifle a smile.  His grumpiness is as much a put-on as his
bizarre husband act was.  He knows the need for boundaries as
well as I do. That's why he overplayed his role as Rob Petrie,
devoted husband.  He could have had me naked and sweating without
much trouble if he'd just played it straight when we were alone.
I'm strong, but I'm not that strong--and he knows it.

Even this little pout fest is part of the game.  That's why I
haven't thrown anything at him.

Yet.

I sign my name to one form and pick up the next one. "You 
know the thing I can't figure out?  Why didn't people just move 
when it got so creepy there?"

"And give up all that aesthetic pleasure?  Surely you jest." 
Mulder shakes his head. "They figured it was worth the risks to
live the American Dream. You know." He shoots me a look.  "A
normal life.

I ignore the gentle dig and keep filling out the report.  "That's
not normal."

"No. It's not." 

I look up, surprised by the deadly serious tone to his voice. 
His sleepy look is gone; he's shifted forward, leaning toward me.
I see concern in his eyes, and it surprises me.

Does he really wonder if I know that?  After all we've been
through the past few months?

As I'm considering how to answer the unasked question, Mulder's
expression shifts a little, and I realize he's tabled the
discussion for me.  "You aren't going to keep those ugly pajamas,
are you?"

"God, no."

His eyes glitter with mischief.  "Think we can sneak off with the
mini-cam?"

I swallow a smile.  "I think they'd notice it missing."

"We could say we broke it and write it off on our expense
report."

"But that would be stealing."

"I prefer to call it 'unconventional procurement.'"

I cut my eyes at him.  "I'm sure you do."

He grins and pushes himself out of his chair, stretching his long
legs.  He's not really that big a man--six-foot, one-seventy--but
he's got a long, rangy look to him that makes him seem to tower
over the rest of the world.  Or maybe that's just how I see him. 
Whatever.  He looks down at the forms I'm working on.  "Do you
have to fill out every single little line?"

NOW I'm ready to throw something.  "Mulder, can't you find
something constructive to do?"

"Maybe I'll go check out the secretarial pool."  He gives me a
sly look.

"Just don't fall in the deep end."  I wave at him to go.  He
sighs as he exits the office, the sound of a long-suffering,
put-upon martyr.  My heart bleeds for him.  Really, it does.   

With Mulder out of my hair, I finish up the report in a few
minutes and file it with the police clerk.  Mulder is nowhere in
sight; I pull out my cell phone and start to dial his number when
a dark-haired man rounds the corner and stops short, staring at
me.  He looks familiar, but I can't place him at first. 

Then he speaks.  "Scully FBI."

My stomach sinks a little.  "Detective Kresge."

He closes the distance between us and holds out his hand.  I
clasp it firmly, fighting off a flood of dark memories.  "What
brings you back to San Diego?" he asks. "Visiting family again?"

"Uh, no." I shake my head. "Work this time.  Just wrapped up a
case out in the county.  Mysterious disappearances at a gated
community--The Falls of Arcadia."

He nods. "I heard about that.  So, who done it?"

How the hell do I answer this without betraying my cool exterior?

"It was a tulpa."  Mulder's voice saves me.  He strolls up, his
gait nonchalant and unhurried.  But I note the tension in his
shoulders, the classic defensive posture of Spooky Mulder facing
down his scoffers.

"A tulpa."  Kresge looks from Mulder to me.  Mulder looks at me
as well.  

Heat rises up the back of my neck at their scrutiny.  I realize
this is a test of my own making.  I didn't see what Mulder saw,
but I saw the results.  And I trust Mulder's integrity.

Do I have the guts to put myself on the line for it?

"I don't know if it was actually a tulpa," I say after a beat of
silence.  "I do know that evidence suggests the entity that
killed the victims in The Falls of Arcadia was not human."

"You're saying some sort of monster killed those folks?"

"I'm saying that whatever it was that killed those people, it was
not human," I repeat.  "I don't know if it was actually a thought
form, as Agent Mulder believes, since we weren't able to examine
it more closely."

Kresge stares at me for a moment.  Then he smiles.  "You're just
full of surprises, Scully FBI."

Mulder's expression is frozen in place at Kresge's words.  But
his eyes dart to meet mine.  I can see the territorial fires
burning from here.

"Listen--you headed out of town now? Or can I take you to dinner
while you're here?"  Det. Kresge doesn't even make the effort to
pretend he's talking to both of us.  His gaze at me is
uncomfortably direct.

Mulder is silent.  I glance at him, then back at Kresge. "I think
we were going to try to see if we could catch a flight back to
D.C. tonight."

Next to me, Mulder shifts from one foot to the other. "We can't
get a flight until late tomorrow morning. I just got off the
phone with the airlines."  He pins me with his laser-intense
gaze. 

"Oh."  I glance at Mulder again.  What the hell is he doing?

"Then you can come to dinner with me," Kresge says.  "I know a
really nice place near Miramar---good food, good service, great
jazz piano--"

"I--uh--we have plans already," I interrupt. "Mulder and I--we
have plans."

I feel two sets of eyes on my face.  I gaze somewhere toward the
empty space between them.

"I see."  Kresge's voice is soft.  I look at him.  He's looking
at Mulder now, his expression speculative.  Mulder's looking at
me, his eyes shining with unmistakable possession. I feel rather
like a juicy bone trapped between two dogs.  The feminist in me
bristles, but she's quickly beaten into submission by the latent
prom queen who rears her ugly head from time to time.

Two attractive men fogging up the place with a shitload of 
testosterone, and it's all about me. 

Hot damn.

"Well, um--" Kresge looks at me finally.  "Okay.  Maybe next
time you're in town." His eyes cut toward Mulder. "Both of you."

Mulder nods. He's probably feeling like quite the top dog about
now.  I hope he doesn't pee on the furniture when we get to the 
motel.

Kresge looks from me to Mulder and back to me again.  "Good 
to see you again, Scully FBI.  Agent Mulder."

"Good to see you too, Detective." Mulder's hand is already under 
my elbow, guiding me away from Kresge.  I say a quick goodbye 
and move off with Mulder.

Outside the police station, as we head for the visitor parking
area, I tamp down my natural inclination for circumspect behavior
and slide my hand into Mulder's, twining my fingers with his.  He
falters for a second, giving me a sharp look.  I return it,
squinting in the late afternoon sunlight.  He resumes walking,
his fingers tightening over mine. He releases my hand only when
we get to the car.

"So," he says as we're buckling up.  "I didn't realize you and
Det. Kresge were so close, Scully FBI."

He isn't looking at me.  He's making a point not to.  He just
oozes careful nonchalance. 

"He was a great help to us in the Sim case."  I settle back
against the seat, my head still turned so I can watch the 
subtle play of emotions across his face.  "I think he found it 
something of a novelty, having a vacationing Bureau agent 
invade his territory with a strange tale of ghostly phone calls."  
My voice is carefully neutral.  This topic is quicksand. I'm 
afraid to overstep.

Mulder and I are quiet for several minutes as he weaves the
rental car through late afternoon San Diego traffic, headed for
the freeway.  After we're safely on the freeway, he breaks the
silence. "Kresge's attracted to you."

"Shocking, I know." My intonation is flat and dry.  

He glances at me, his expression bemused. "No--not shocking. I
guess what I'm wondering is why you're still here with me when
you can have someone like him."

"Mulder--"

"He's a good looking guy, Scully.  Seems really nice.  He'd treat
you well.  Sure as hell wouldn't drag you off on monster chases."

"First, Mulder, nobody drags me anywhere.  I just make you think
that you're dragging me so that you'll feed me chocolate and give
me the extra pillow on the plane when we're through."  That
elicits a wry grin.  "And second--I'm in this for one reason only."

He looks my way, waiting.

"Mind-blowing sex."

That earns an actual laugh.

I lay my head back against the car seat and close my eyes.  
"Honestly, I don't know why I would rather be with you than anyone 
else, Mulder.  I only know that I do.  That it's non-negotiable."

He is silent in reply.  The quiet stretches out like something
tangible between us.  After a moment, I open my eyes and look at
him.

I see him blink--once, twice.  A single tear slides down his
cheek and splashes against the front of his sweater, leaving a
faint dark spot. He ignores it.  No other tears join the one that
fell.

But my heart shatters anyway.

He picks a motel about ten miles from Miramar, and I can't help
but think that it's a subconscious "Fuck you" to my brother Bill,
who would shit bricks if he knew what Mulder begins doing to me
the second we're settled in the motel room.

No preamble--he goes right to his knees and tugs the blouse from
my waistband, baring a strip of skin.  He starts tasting,
suckling the flesh, nipping and nibbling.  I thread my fingers in
his hair and force him to look up at me.

"Fuck the rules," he growls.

"What are rules?" I sink to my knees and draw his face to mine,
opening my mouth for his kiss.  It's liquid, velvet heat.  Slow
friction, the slide of tongue against tongue.  His hands roam me,
seeking the valleys and hills of my flesh.  Slipping beneath my
clothes, between my thighs, until his long fingers find the core of
my need.

I come with embarrassing speed, burying my face in Mulder's neck
as I shudder with release.

"See what all that abstinence does to you?" Mulder's voice
rumbles in my ear.

"I guess abstinence makes the heart grow fonder," I mutter.  He
groans at the weak joke as he pulls back and strips off his
shirt.

"Are you sure that's in the CC&Rs?" he asks as I reach for the
zipper of his jeans.

"Sure as hell oughta be."

He makes a soft hissing sound as I free him from the confines of
his jeans and boxers, curling my palm around him and giving a
little squeeze.  That's only the beginning of the sounds he
makes before I'm through with him.

Five days since my birthday, when Mulder woke me in a 
particularly festive way before we had to head for the airport and
our flight to San Diego.  Five days without Mulder's body against 
mine.  Five days without the soft sighs of need, the gentle brush 
of his hands on my skin, the rush of hunger and the explosion of 
pleasure.  We blot out those days with murmurs and thrusts 
and caresses, tangled limbs and slick, heated flesh.  

Later, we lie spooned together, quiet and sated, his fingers 
twined through mine as I press his hand to my belly.  I recall a
moment just two days earlier and can't help but smile.

"Kittens," I murmur.

"Hmm?"

"You told Wynn that we'd spooned up like little baby cats.  Little
baby cats are called kittens."

"Who says?"

"It's in the CC&R--under the 'language use' subheading."

"I think you're making up these rules as you go along."

I rub the back of my head against his collarbone.  "You make that
sound like a bad thing."

"Well, as your fascist little rules go, it's not such a bad one." He
bends his head and kisses my shoulder.  "Maybe we should
negotiate some rule waivers, though."

"What do you propose?"

He kisses my neck this time.  "Dispensation for good behavior."

I'm intrigued. "What kind of good behavior?"

He shifts his hips behind me, and I feel my first hint.

"You have quite a high opinion of yourself, Agent Mulder."

He nips my ear. "You did say you were in it for the sex."

So I did.  

"Maybe we can relax a few of the rules."  He shifts again,
and what little resistance I had starts to flit away. 

"I did.  We're in the field and we just had sex."

"We're not on company time. I saw you use your personal
charge card to pay for the room."  He slides our entwined
hands slowly down my body, his aim unerring.  In a moment,
both our fingers are moving in slow, intoxicating circles 
between my thighs.  "Next time, we agree that once the 
case is over and the reports filed, we're on our own time."

I can't find enough coherence to argue.

Mulder sucks on my earlobe for a moment, then releases the
little pearl of flesh and whispers into my ear.  "I'll take that as
a yes."

Arching into his touch, I think maybe it is. 

=end=

That's all folks.  Thank you for flying Air MSR.

12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS
A Finished Work
http://members.aol.com/ahaynes33/index.htm
Choose "12 Tales of Christmas"

#1:   "Eternity Waits"
#2:   "What They Don't Know"
#3:   "White Christmas"
#4:   "Have and Have Not"
#5:   "Leftovers
#6:   "Scientific Method"
#7:   "The Wall"
#8:   "Holiday Inn"
#9:   "Secrets We Never Speak"
#10: "Parameters"
#11: "Moment of Grace"
#12: "Rules"

All done.  Bye bye.