Title: The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
Author: sylvia
Email: sylviawashere@hotmail.com 
Rating: PG for some unkind thoughts
Category: V, post-post-post-ep for Requiem
Spoilers: Um, Requiem
Keywords: MSR, pregnancy
Archive: Sure, but please ask
Summary: By the time her mother's Christmas party rolls around,
Scully is tired.

Disclaimer: I don't own Mulder and Scully or any of their family
members, nor do I possess even a tiny share of any of the
corporations referenced here.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the version of the story I want people to
read.  If another pops up at Ephemeral, please ignore it; I'm new
at this and screwed up a bit.  This is  my first attempt at
fanfiction.  Feedback would be most welcome.  Incoherent?
Unlikely? Character butchery? I'd like to know.
sylviawashere@hotmail.com

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I could really use a drink, Scully thinks.

She eyes the aproned maid who circulates, more often as the
evening progresses, bearing champagne.  Her family has warned the
woman not to serve Scully; they do not trust her to abstain of
her own volition.  They've all noted the heavily-annotated
obstetrics textbooks stacked on her coffee table.  They do not
doubt her academic understanding of fetal alcohol syndrome; they
question, instead, her maternal instincts.  She might resent the
implication if she had the energy.  But she can't quite rouse
herself to make a show of rubbing her belly and coaxing a soft
smile to bloom across her face at an appropriately gentle pace.
She saves her skills of persuasion for negotiating with members
of a government conspiracy, and her energy for running down rogue
double agents.

So Scully shares a bottle of sparkling cider with her nephew,
Matthew.  They've both been assigned plastic cups; Scully doesn't
want to ponder the significance of that. All evening the stereo
has blasted the same two-dozen classic Christmas favorites on
continuous loop, from one of the compilations Time-Life
advertises on cable.  No one else, however, has had such ample
opportunity to notice this, and to memorize the list forwards and
backwards.  Everyone else is mingling, talking about the weather,
politics, the Redskins.  Maggie Scully herself is the life of the
party, laughing it up with the widowers she's met at church:
retired doctors, lawyers, and accountants.

Scully, however, sits in the corner like a beached whale out of
her element.  Her hair is still cut blunt, her nose decidedly
straight.  Her face is still her own, pale and sculpted; the
pregnancy does not show there. Only the swell of her belly breaks
the stark line of her black maternity ensemble. Months ago, Tara
offered to lend her the tunics she'd worn while pregnant with
Matthew.  Scully refused the cheap floral prints but ended up
with a closetful of rayon and polyester anyway. She hasn't worn
many machine-washable items since she started to revamp her style
six years ago. Obviously the manufacturers assume  that pregnant
women, bumbling about like toddlers, also misplace their hand-eye
coordination and spill all over themselves like the babies
they're expecting.  Everyone seems to believe that a regression
of sorts takes place. Relatives and strangers alike have coddled
her with baby talk since she first started to show.  Tonight,
since she's opted out of the meet-and-greet, her only companion
is a three-year-old.

Since Charlie's family couldn't get back to the States this year,
Matthew has no playmates and gravitates toward his Aunt Dana as a
captive audience.  His latest game consists of fetching gifts
from the tree for whispered speculation on their contents.  All
that glitter fascinates him. Tara and Maggie spent hours crafting
packages from paper and ribbons, but Scully is well aware of how
quickly that work will be undone.  Tomorrow the shreds will lie
scattered like torn finery the morning after a ball, or like
afterbirth . . .

An unusually large proportion of the gifts this year bear labels
directing them "to Dana."  Scully refused a baby shower; Maggie
and Tara have apparently chosen to remedy that deficiency by
overindulging the fetus in Christmas gifts.  Last week Tara
scrutinized Scully's apartment for signs of preparation when she
thought Scully wasn't looking. There are few such conspicuous
signs. Scully has failed to stencil beribboned ducks parading
around the bedroom walls, and she hasn't bought bedding for the
plain IKEA crib the Gunmen put together as a Christmas gift.
Maggie is less discreet than Tara in her assessment.  She makes
no apology for insisting that Scully at least empty her top
dresser drawer of the supply of boxers and grey T-shirts that
fill it.  It's true that an entire infant wardrobe could fit in
the same space.

Here comes Matthew again, clutching a tiny, lumpy, gold package
topped with a sparkling green bow. This one is light and
malleable, an easy guess.  The other day, Scully caught Tara
knitting pink acrylic yarn into booties from a "Good
Housekeeping" pattern.   Of course they all know the sex of the
baby.  Scully had to scrutinize every page, every word of the
genetic data, so she inevitably discovered that yes, the baby is
female.  Sure enough, one chubby little Matthew finger pokes
through the gold paper shell to expose the fluffy pink core.

"Matthew, honey, let's be careful with the presents," Tara calls
as she approaches.  "Take it to Daddy in the kitchen and he'll
help you patch it up."   As the boy races off, Tara wafts nearer
in a permed blond halo, battery-operated Rudolph earrings
flashing.  She  offers a platter of processed cheese logs in two
varieties, orange and oranger.  Scully declines.

"Oh, Dana . . . " Tara sighs.  "You've still got to eat.  I know
it's hard; I know, one minute you feel like giggling and the next
you want to cry . . . You're just a bundle of emotions right now;
no one blames you for that."

Scully nods silently, wondering how Tara would react if she knew
this bundle of emotions was packing heat.  Usually, family time
means leaving the weapons at home. This Christmas, however, she
is aware that beyond the haven of her mother's home, some people
think of her merely as temporary storage for the "merchandise."
Scully's just guarding the warehouse.

Tara continues.  "It's just hormones . . . When you've got that
baby girl in your arms it will all come to you naturally . . .
You're going to love being a mother, I'm sure of it!"

Scully wonders if Tara has heard of postpartum depression.  A
horrific noise relieves her from commenting further on the
subject. Bill has rigged  the doorbell with a contraption that
plays a few notes from "Jingle Bells"; they clash with the
plaintive strains of "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" now issuing
from the stereo.  After a few seconds, Tara ushers Father McCue
into the living room.

Maggie Scully has been  a strenuously active member of his flock
for years. Therefore, the priest pays frequent house calls,
consoling Maggie whenever someone  in the  family experiences a
crisis of faith, terminal illness, or pregnancy out of wedlock.
Coincidentally, in each of these three cases, the object of
concern has happened to be Dana Scully. Now, he immediately homes
in on her, wryly scanning her expressionless face.  "Dana . . .
Merry Christmas to both of you.  You're quite close now; I hope
you don't forget to make the Church a presence in your child's
life."  He hands her a flyer, carefully folded in perfect
quarters, carried here in his coat pocket just for her.  She
unfolds an advertisement for the weekly single-parents mixer held
in the church basement.

There is no response suitable for mixed company.  Scully eases
her load from the chair and heads for the bathroom.  If she loses
control of her bladder, she will have to admit to the necessity
of machine-washable maternity wear.  She has lost count of the
times she's made this trek today,  plotting a course to avoid the
numerous sprigs of mistletoe Tara affixed, with the best
intentions, to the doorways.  Scully has no desire to kiss anyone
here.  She deployed her fierce eyebrow a few times early in the
evening as a preventive measure, and the eligible Catholic
bachelors have given her a wide berth since.

Returning from the bathroom, she hears her mother's laughter
spike in the lull between tunes, a little desperate and certainly
lubricated by alcohol. Some of the retired doctors, lawyers, and
accountants laugh along.  Maybe she needs money, Scully thinks
idly.  Captain Scully didn't leave a fortune, and Maggie was
barely into her fifties when he passed away, just entering her
"silver years."  Neither Bill nor Charlie can expect to do much
more than support their own growing families on naval salaries.
Scully herself has recently read an article informing her that
now is the time to start a college fund for her daughter.  I've
got to put Gerber's on the table, she thinks.  I've got to pay
the rent . . .

Her cell phone trills into the kitchen as she crosses the
linoleum.  She retrieves it from an inner jacket pocket, careful
not to disclose her weapon.  Her partner of the last six months
agreed to monitor their current case over the holiday, but a
time-sensitive development requires her immediate presence.  He's
very sorry to disturb her family celebration, but they can solve
this thing tonight and as the senior agent, she has to be there.
She has to go.

Hanging up, she catches Bill watching her intently; his
understanding of the concept of privacy is still, sadly,
underdeveloped. He knows, from experience, what her end of the
conversation means.

"I have to go," she offers.  She's done her duty by her mother;
three hours is enough.

Bill shakes his head.  "Christmas Eve, Dana?  Why does something
always seem to come up to take you away from us on the holidays?
Do you know how hard it is on Mom when you act like this?"

"I have a job to do, Bill.  You know the cases I work don't wrap
themselves up on a conventional schedule.  And I have a
responsibility to my partner."  She turns her back on the
conversation and aims for the coat closet, but not quickly enough
to evade the words that follow.

"So . . . are you going to start sleeping with this one too?
After the baby is born, of course, when you stick her with Mom
all day so you can run around chasing ghosts and psychopaths."

Scully reverses her steps, slowly.  "What the hell is that
supposed to mean?"

"Well Dana, I just thought, it's obvious," he gestures toward her
belly, "that you've had a hard time separating your professional
obligations from your personal life in the past . . . So I just
want to know if we should be prepared for this to happen again."

She slaps him then, wobbling a bit with the recoil as she tilts
precariously on her toes, bridging the buffer zone her belly
enforces between them.  The slap is muffled as the stereo
unleashes "Silver Bells" for the third time this evening. Ding-a-
ling, hear them ring.  Her fury leaves no lasting impression;
Bill's complexion is naturally ruddy and her hand-print blends in
a matter of seconds.  He can return to the party.  She has to go.

     *    *    *    *