TITLE: Syadiloh 1 : Chanukah with LawyersTITLE: Syadiloh 1 : Chanukah with 
Lawyers
AUTHOR: MustangSally, Rivka T
CLASSIFICATION: MSMw/CH - Holiday story
CONTENT WARNING: Over-indulgence in sweets may cause dyspepsia.
SUMMARY: We came, we saw, we fried.
SPOILER WARNING: A potato fell on the floor, we don't advocate eating that one.
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere holiday stories are found.
THE DISCLAIMER: I made this!
It's a well-known, but rarely documented fact that potato latkes are not genuine 
unless they contain some of the skin and blood of the poor shmuck who got the 
thankless task of grating the potatoes. That would be me, Fox Mulder, not a 
graduate of the Cordon Bleu.
"FUCK!" I swore and watched part of my knuckle fall on top of the grated potato.
I picked the skin out of the bowl and dropped it into the garbage disposal. 
Somehow it looked so much easier when they did it on the cooking network. The 
men in their crisp chef's aprons managed to look macho and competent as if 
cooking was a vindication of their manhood rather than a lessening of it. Tough 
guys do cook. I guess I'm not a tough guy and I would be hard-pressed to find 
anyone to say that I was. But I can cook, and more importantly, I know my 
limits. There was no way that I was going to try de-boning an entire turkey or 
do anything that required special tools or "clarifying," whatever that was. I 
couldn't even write an intelligible incident report. As things stood I was 
working from a recipe that I had called Mom to get -- Aunt Sofia's recipe, since 
Mom had never bothered with keeping to the traditions. Her idea of a traditional 
holiday dinner was the olives from her martinis. I remember one year we had 
Thanksgiving catered.
Eight potatoes, one medium onion, two eggs, one and a half teaspoons of salt, a 
quarter teaspoon pepper, and a half a cup of flour. All I had to do was grate 
the potatoes, squeeze out excess liquid, mix in other ingredients, and then I 
was going to try to fry small spoonfuls until golden brown. Then I was going to 
drain what should be latkes and serve hot with applesauce and sour cream. There 
was a chicken in the oven, asparagus in the steamer, applesauce warming on the 
stovetop, mixed salad in the fridge, and more ice cream for dessert than I 
wanted to think about. That was the plan anyway.
"You okay?" Scully called from the living room.
"I'm fine, Scully."
I looked at my watch, Laura Broder and her paramour Andy Maxwell were coming for 
dinner and would be there in about ten minutes. Laura had been our attorney when 
Scully's brother Bill had tried to get custody of the Mooselet, Maxwell had been 
Bill's attorney, and other than a shitty taste in clients, Maxwell wasn't all 
that bad.
"Mul-der."
I turned around at the drawling tone of annoyance, and slippery potato peels 
fell around me like confetti. The Mooselet smirked at me from the doorway, two 
feet of trouble wearing purple sneakers. Somehow she had managed to ape Scully's 
tone exactly. 
"Daddy." I corrected her,
She skittered over and grabbed at my pant leg, lifting her arms in the universal 
gesture of toddlers.
"Up now," she ordered
"Daddy is cooking," I picked her up and settled the sturdy and muscular weight 
of her on my hipbone, "Daddy is trying to cook, something special for Chanukah 
tonight."
"Monica?"
"No Moose, Chanukah, " I explained, "Chanukah is the Festival of Lights where 
you light candles, Monica just blows them out."
"Birthday?" 
"No, that's Christmas, next week. Your Mom gets to handle that one."
I handed the Mooselet a peeled potato and put her on the floor, and she promptly 
took it out into the living room.
This was my solo flight at preparing dinner for guests since Warwick and Ingveld 
had taken a few weeks off. God knows they'd earned it, and took off for Germany 
to visit her family until the New Year. Scully was in pre-baby mode and under 
house arrest by her doctor's orders and my beseeching. The only problem was that 
I was working from home, with Julie Groff's blessing, until T-Day (Twin Day), 
and we were getting on each other's nerves and I swear she was trying to kill me 
by knocking me down a flight of stairs with her belly. She was huge. Her stomach 
stood almost a yard straight out, and I figured that the twins had to be 
standing on her spine with their heads poking at the underside of her 
belly-button (which had popped out a month earlier, but I'll spare you the gory 
details). I think she was the only other human-made object, aside from the Great 
Wall of China, that could be seen unaided from outer space.
"What have you got there?" I heard Scully ask the Moose.
"'Tato." 
"Where'd you get that?"
"Daddy."
"Daddy gave you the potato?"
"Uh-huh."
"It's been skinned. This is very serious, I wonder who skinned it, and why . . . 
"
I grinned to myself as Scully and Miranda began investigating the skinning of 
the potato with the thorough and intelligent way that Scully approached 
everything, and the Mooselet followed along the breadcrumb trail of logic that 
Scully scattered in front of her. I could have stood there like a gape-mouthed 
idiot listening to the women in the living room, but I had a dinner to finish 
making, or destroying depending on how you looked at it. I checked on the 
chicken and went back to grating the rest of the potatoes while voices rose and 
fell in the living room. This was going to be the only holiday that we were ever 
going to have as a simple threesome. Next year there would be five at the table, 
and only two old enough to drive.
Throughout the pregnancy, Scully had stubbornly refused to give up her medical 
miracle status. Not only was she pregnant, when she had before been sterile, she 
was pregnant with a vengeance on a two for one special. Once the morning 
sickness had cleared up at the end of the first trimester, the twins had started 
growing as though she had been drinking Miracle Gro rather than bottled water. 
At the end of six months she'd been banned from work by her OB-GYN who didn't 
have Scully's titanium nerves. I didn't have Scully's nerves; I'd refused to let 
her drive after that point since hormones and road rage don't make for a 
pleasant combination. She'd been working from home and marshalling her 
considerable powers of organization to keep the X-Files running smoothly with 
Zippy doing a solo act while Scully reviewed all the case files and took care of 
getting ready for a double-barreled shotgun of joy. Now we had a nursery 
equipped for two thanks to on-line shopping and the UPS guys were fighting over 
who got to drive her to the hospital. 
Well, the Mooselet had pretty much come UPS. It had been my arrival in a UPS 
truck with Scully hiding in the back which had precipitated the Kurt Crawford 
clone running my sister Samantha's eugenics project to panic and deliver all the 
babies in the breeding program prematurely with ugly, messy caesarian sections. 
Miranda had been the only one who had lived, probably because Scully had willed 
it so. It was hard to believe that the screaming red thing that I had taken from 
Montana around this time last year was now a reasonably sentient, if vertically 
challenged, individual. I gave up counting the words in her vocabulary at two 
hundred, and she wasn't using only baby words like "cat," "Scully," and "Daddy," 
she was parroting back anything she heard, more or less in context and seemed to 
understand most of it. This meant that Scully and I were being Very selective 
with our speech lately. I wondered if my brother Emerson's son Samuel was doing 
the same thing -- which meant that Sammy was learning to curse Bill Gates in 
English and American Sign Language.
"Can I do anything?" Scully called.
"No, no, I'm fine." I looked into Warwick's wok which hissed evilly at me, "Just 
sit there and gestate."
"But I'm bored," Scully said as she lumbered into the kitchen.
Almost nine months of gestation had turned my petite passionflower into an 
upended Volkswagen beetle. She was almost as deep as she was tall, hardly 
looking pregnant from the rear. Dressed in a pair of black leggings and a deep 
red tunic, she looked like a cranberry that had grown legs. I valued my life too 
much to point that out. It was actually charming to see her so encumbered and 
pregnant in such an extravagant fashion. But that's my Scully, never doing 
anything by halves. Easing herself onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table 
where we'd had athletic sex less than six months ago -- hard to imagine these 
days -- she began picking at the pickle and olive tray I'd made for appetizers. 
"Hungry?"
"Always," she groaned, "I just keep imagining all the complications associated 
with low birth weight and suddenly I'm hungry." If the babies didn't come soon I 
was very much afraid that the Earth might tilt a few degrees further on its 
axis, and that plays merry hell with weather patterns.
The latkes were ready to go into the fryer right before dinner, so I started 
cleaning up the potato peelings and other debris. The Mooselet ran into the 
kitchen with a now very fuzzy and dirty potato which she handed over to me as 
though it were made of precious metal. I ceremoniously put the potato on the 
counter while the Moose attached herself to my leg with kid-velcro.
"I love watching you cook, it does me a world of good to see men working in the 
kitchen. I don't think my father knew where the kitchen was other than the place 
where the beer was kept."
"My Dad saw it as the source of all ice cubes for his Scotch, " I smirked at her 
and wiped down the countertop, "I think seeing me with my hand inside a chicken 
would appall him more than anything else I've done."
"Anything?" She asked with a silky little smile.
"Almost anything."
Cool pink lips tasted of black olives and she tipped her head up to kiss me, her 
fingers ruffled my hair.
The doorbell buzzed.
"Shit," I muttered, they were early.
"Shit!" the Mooselet echoed.
"I'll get it!" Scully said and grunted as she hoisted herself up, "You can deal 
with the appropriateness of certain vocabulary with the short human."
And she ditched me, there with a chicken in the oven, a potato on the counter 
and a kid clinging to my leg cursing merrily away.
"Shit! Shit! Shit! " the Mooselet sang.
I knew right then it was going to be a long night.
***
"Oh my God!" Maxwell the attorney blurted when I opened the door.
"And your point is what?" I asked.
He turned Santa Claus red and spluttered something unintelligible, staring at my 
stomach. Was he expecting the answer to the great questions of life, the 
universe, and everything to appear in flashing gold lights like the Goodyear 
Blimp's billboard and move across my stomach? As a matter of fact, I was 
slightly smaller than the Goodyear Blimp and didn't have a corporate sponsor -- 
yet.
Laura hugged me over the hard protrusion of my stomach and looked down at the 
view like an acrophobe at the top of the Empire State Building.
"It's so big, how can you stand it?" she said.
"I just count the days," I said and sighed.
A woman my height was not built to carry multiple fetuses. It was that simple. 
"I knew you were going to be big, but I didn't realize how big," Maxwell said 
and reached out a thin hand to my stomach.
The upper twin, the girl, lashed out with a black belt kick and the entire wall 
of my abdomen jumped, and Maxwell snatched his hand away as if burnt while both 
Laura and I glared at him. What is it about pregnant women which makes people 
willing to paw us like exhibits at a petting zoo? Put a hand on my ass and I'm 
allowed to knock you down *and* sue you, put a hand on my stomach and I'm 
supposed to smile while you tell me for the zillionth time that the kid is as 
big as I am. Wow! What a revelation! But pregnant women aren't supposed to be 
sarcastic and I'd found even my snappiest comebacks were misunderstood. 
Expectant mothers are supposed to be happy, perky, and bright. That's why all 
the maternity clothes have nauseating buttons, bows, and smiley ducklings on 
them, and it's damn hard to wear even a shoulder holster when you're packing 
twins. At home Miranda would toddle up and pat me, proclaiming "Babies!" with a 
charming ignorance of the way her world was about to turn inside out. I let her 
get away with it because she hadn't reached the age of reason and because she 
was going to be so jealous when the kids finally escaped that she deserved 
indulgence. 
"Maybe you ought to help Mulder in the kitchen." Laura suggested.
"I'll do that," he agreed, nodding his head like a puppet before bolting for the 
safety of the kitchen, carrying a bakery box of what I presumed was dessert with 
him.
"Let's sit down," Laura suggested and I waddled over to the sofa and lowered 
myself into the cushions by hanging onto the arm of the sofa for support all the 
while, Laura looking at me as though I had been dragged out of a car wreck.
"Oh God, it's not that bad," I told her, "It's just awkward more than anything 
else. You forget that this happened over a nine-month period and I didn't just 
wake up this big last week."
Smiling, she flicked her hair back over the shoulder of her cream sweater. She 
looked so slim and young and sharp sitting there in her skinny black velvet 
jeans and trendy chunky shoes. I missed my waist with a pang so real that the 
babies in my stomach roiled and kicked as though they were caught in a rough 
tide. 
"You look so good," she blurted, "I mean your skin, and you look happy and 
relaxed and -- content. I mean during the trial you were, like, wired, you 
know?"
"It's hormones, Laura. I'll be small and mean again in a few months. As soon as 
I get back to work, anyway."
"How's that going, anyway? How can you cope without work?"
"Zippy is playing merry hell with *my* X Files. We have female informants 
hanging from the rafters. Zippy gets their phone numbers and little else."
"You could have worked longer, just around the DC area, anyway."
"Law enforcement and pregnancy worked fine in Fargo, but not but in real life. 
The last witness I interviewed spent more time staring at my stomach and asking 
me questions about intimate gynecological issues than answering any of my 
questions. Zippy had finally had to take over the interrogation for me." I 
shrugged and rearranged the cream napkins on the coffee table, "I felt big and 
stupid. And people touch my stomach like I'm a Buddha and rubbing my belly 
brings good luck."
Laura nodded, her smooth young face registering her understanding the importance 
of being taken seriously. It was hard to be female, respected and pregnant.
"On the other hand, if the worst thing that happens from me from here on out is 
being patronized because I'm pregnant, I think things are going well."
*****
Mulder's mother had helpfully provided a menorah in the shape of a Tree of Life, 
silver and gold and actually quite beautiful. I think she was making up for the 
irreligion of Mulder's youth. Fortunately we had Laura to free us from the 
embarrassing fact that the only Hebrew we knew was "Netanyahu." The candles also 
came with a transliteration of the prayers -- a convenience of modern living. I 
had carefully counted out the multicolored candles so that we could have a 
matching set every night. If I'd let Mulder pick we would have ended up with 
purple next to yellow eight nights in a row.
Laura moved the menorah from the dining room table where I'd set it up to a 
front window and raised the shade. The security wiring framed the scene, 
technological ivy for those more paranoid than well-established. Miranda reached 
out a hand to pull the heavy metal down onto her head, but I pulled her back.
"You have to leave it in the window," Laura explained, bending down double to 
reach Miranda's eye level. "That's so everyone else can see us celebrating."
Miranda favored Laura with a dubious look, as if to say, What do we care what 
other people think? But she watched with awe as Laura made fire appear merely by 
rubbing small pieces of paper together. I resolved to find a better place to 
find the matches. "Baruch ata Adonai," Laura sang, and even the Mooselet began 
to sense the presence of something greater. She watched with all the 
concentration she'd devoted to learning to walk as Laura lit the first candle 
and then used it to light the second. "Eloheinu melech' ha'olam. Asher kid'shanu 
ba'mitzvotav, vitzivanu, l'hadlik ner, shel Hanukah." When her voice stilled, I 
felt the entire house fall silent.
This is it, I realized. The warmth of tradition, the safety of friendship, the 
ability to give your children the best of what you had and make it better. This 
is what I expected my entire life, and I almost missed it when it happened to 
me. I knew that the world was no less dangerous just because we'd lit a candle 
in the window, but at the same time I had the feeling that wherever the 
candlelight flickered we could be safe and whole. My faith was not in the 
mountain, or in the thunder, but in the still small voice I heard inside me, 
telling me that I could survive all the evils of the world as long as I could 
remember this moment and know why I fought.
"So," Maxwell said, softly but with a definitely teasing tone, "If you had been 
in Jerusalem at the time would eight days of light from one day's worth of oil 
have qualified as an X File?"
"Actually," Mulder said, "there are several documented instances of inexplicably 
extended power supply in the files, and I'm not just talking Energizer Bunny 
here..."
I closed my eyes and let the candles burn as everyone around me kept moving. And 
that was good, too, but I wanted to press the moment in my mind, a flower for my 
mental scrapbook, to look at when things got crazy again. I felt Mulder's hand 
on my shoulder and turned. His face shone like the moon and I wondered what he 
saw in my eyes. "Hey," he said, "we're going to sit down and read the Hanukah 
story. Wanna come?"
I held out my hand and let him guide me back to the beautifully imperfect world 
I called home.
***
I watched with my hand on Scully's shoulder like something out of a Hallmark 
card while Laura read the story out of the picture book that she had brought. 
The Mooselet looked up at her with rapt attention, like a love-struck judge, and 
Maxwell looked at her with pretty much the same expression of drooling 
adoration, no doubt seeing his little legal sproglet perched on Laura's knee 
sometime in the near future. Maybe Maxwell and I were going to have to talk.
"Long, long ago, over two thousand, one hundred and fifty six years ago to be 
exact, the Land of Israel was part of the Greek empire. The Syrian Greek king 
Antiochus Epiphanes wanted everyone in his empire to look and act and think like 
the Greeks -- and most of the people did. "
"Geeks. " 
Scully's shoulder twitched under my hand but her expression didn't waver in the 
flickering candlelight.
"They worshipped Greek gods and ate and dressed just like the Greeks. There were 
even some Jews who wanted to be like the Greeks. They were called mityavnim from 
the Hebrew word Yavan -- Greece. But many other Jews insisted on keeping the 
Torah, just as they had always done," Laura said and looked down at the Mooselet 
to see if she was listening.
"Aliens?"
Maxwell lost his expression of adoration and snickered audibly. Laura, who was 
used to noise from the peanut gallery in court, continued without hesitation.
"Antiochus wanted all of the Jews to be like the mityavnim. He decreed that the 
Jews in the Land of Israel could no longer keep the mitzvot -- laws -- in the 
Torah. There would be no more sacrifices in the Temple, no more Shabbat, no more 
circumcision for Jewish boys, and no more Rosh Chodesh -- celebration of the new 
Hebrew month. Instead, Antiochus' soldiers put a statue of the Greek idol Zeus 
into the Temple in Jerusalem and sent idols to all the cities in Israel. They 
ordered the Jews to sacrifice pigs and eat their meat and other forbidden foods. 
Many Jews ran away and hid, but many others were afraid. They did whatever the 
Greeks told them to do."
"Pigs."
"Mattityahu was an old priest from the famous priestly family of the Hasmoneans. 
He and his five brave and righteous sons lived in the town of Modiin. One day, 
the Greeks set up an idol right in the center of Modiin! When one of the 
mityavnim tried to sacrifice to the idol, Mattityahu took a sword and killed the 
man on the spot! He cried: "mi lashem eilai!" -- "Whoever is for God, come after 
me!" And they did. Thousands of Jews came to Modiin to fight the Greeks. 
Mattityahu appointed his son Judah commander of the Jewish army."
"Matthew?" 
"Not your cousin, sweetie," Scully corrected.
"Judah was called the Maccabee - the Hammer - because he pounded away at the 
enemy. Maccabee is also the abbreviation of the Hebrew words: mi chamocha 
ba'eilim hashem -- "Who among the powerful is like you, God!" They lit their 
lamps with the only oil that they had. There was only enough oil to burn for one 
night. But there was a miracle from God and the oil in the lamps burned for 
eight days and eight nights, it was then that they knew that God was on their 
side."
Miranda nodded and stuffed her fingers in her mouth, the standard sign that she 
was concentrating on what was being said. I supposed that it was simply an oral 
fixation because she hadn't been breast-fed, and I wanted her to transfer her 
affection for oral gratification to chewing gum or sunflower seeds before she 
got old enough to start thinking about smoking.
"Judah's faithful soldiers hid in caves or lay in ambush. They attacked the 
Greeks from the rear, or in the middle of the night, and they ran away before 
they could be caught. Even though the Jewish army was smaller, weaker and poorer 
than the mighty Greek army, they were victorious: they had God on their side! 
Then, to the great surprise of the Greeks, the Jews succeeded in chasing them 
out of Jerusalem!"
"Juice."
"So the important thing is that you can defeat mightier forces if you have the 
power of righteousness on your side," Scully added.
If only things were that simple.
*****
At the end of the candle-lighting we all convened in the living room to 
introduce Miranda to the intricacies of playing with the dreidel. Laura and 
Mulder went through a couple of rounds with the gold foil-covered chocolate 
coins, which only served to remind me that we hadn't eaten dinner yet and I 
swear that I could smell the cheap chocolate through the covering. Chanukah gelt 
has to be the worst chocolate in the world, waxier than old records and twice as 
tasteless, but I wanted it anyway. I'd already eaten the first package Mulder 
had brought home and I was now lusting after the replacements. Miranda watched 
the dreidel spin, watched Mulder and Laura take some, all, or none of the coins 
in a pile on the table with her green eyes bright as dollar bills under 
fluorescent lights. She touched the coins, examined the dreidel when Mulder 
handed it to her, and when she had made up her mind about the usefulness of the 
game, found it lacking, and took off with all the coins on the table.
Maxwell snickered.
"She's done her job and now she's taking her fee. The kid is going to be a 
lawyer." 
"Over my dead body," Mulder said with an amused smile.
"So, Dana," Maxwell asked, leaning forward on the sofa, "why didn't Laura have 
you testify that you were pregnant? She knows that old coot would never have 
broken up a viable family unit."
I shot Laura a significant look. "You didn't tell him?"
"I'm not allowed to, Dana. Normal people have rules." I decided to ignore the 
thinly veiled criticism because she was doing such a good job peeling off the 
gelt wrappers for Miranda.
"We didn't tell Laura about the pregnancy. There were ... a lot of factors at 
work." Mulder's hand rubbed at the small of my back where the pain had applied 
for permanent residence and begun studying for its citizenship test. 
Maxwell snorted. "Clients. Can't live with 'em, can't rat 'em out to the cops."
Deep in the caverns of my abdomen, the kids began kicking in protest and being 
squashed while I sat hunched over the table for too long. I was ready to kick 
Mulder if he continued to put off dinner.
"Mulder, I need dinner or I am going to wrestle the Small One to the floor and 
steal her chocolate."
"Stealing from a child? That's low even for you, Scully." Mulder said and gave 
me an indulgent smirk, but he knew that it was unwise to get between a pregnant 
woman and food.
The candles flickered in the window, their flames dancing in the ebb and flow of 
our conversation. 
 
*****
Crispy Cream doughnuts aren't exactly traditional Chanukah doughnuts but the 
sight of the greasy box made me happy enough almost to break into tears. While 
the oil in the wok sizzled, I let Maxwell take the food out to the table and 
started dropping potato mix into the wok where the water in the potatoes snarled 
as it hit the hot oil. Patty by patty, the potatoes browned and I dropped them 
into a nest of paper towels to drain the grease while I heard the adults talking 
in the dining room, and the chirp and burble of the Moose as she gave her own 
opinion from her high chair. From the kitchen doorway I could see a slice of the 
table, the back of Scully and part of the high chair where the Moose ruled above 
the shower curtain spread out on the floor to protect the carpet. I watched 
Scully slip bits of chicken onto the tray of the chair and knew that each bite 
had a fifty-fifty chance of making it to the Moose's mouth as opposed to the 
plastic below. The Mooselet was in a stage where she refused to be fed with a 
spoon and hadn't quite mastered utensils herself, so we had to reach a happy 
medium where she was allowed to stuff her own face with things that weren't too 
messy. She really enjoyed using her tiny teeth on anything these days, people 
included. Maxwell poured wine and even Scully had a double-tablespoon in her 
glass, small danger of fetal alcohol syndrome this late in the pregnancy with 
this amount of wine. The doctor had approved it on the grounds that the wine 
would actually make the babies sleepy and give Scully a slightly quieter night 
than she would have had otherwise.
"What's that smell?" Laura asked.
I looked into the wok, the potatoes weren't burning, but I was smelling 
something that smelled like burning hair.
I looked and there wasn't hair on the stovetop, I ran my hand over my hair and 
didn't feel any flame, but --- a crash from the living room.
The fire alarm went off in a piercing high-tech squeal.
With a howl, with a screech, and a shriek, a flaming streak zipped from the 
living room, through the kitchen and into the dining room Mach 2 and onto the 
dining room table like a asteroid crashing into New York City in a high-budget 
summer blockbuster. Catzilla leapt onto the middle of the dining table, landing 
next to the chicken, tail flaming like a torch. He yowled an unearthly yowl and 
set the Moose to screaming. The worst firefight with a suspect hadn't set my 
adrenaline off like this, and my brain clicked off and slipped into DEFCON 
three. I dunked the dishtowel in the dishpan and set off in a dead run from the 
kitchen. I barely registered Scully scooping the Moose up and backing out of the 
hot zone, Maxwell grabbed Laura and pulled her away from the table, the wine 
bottle in his hands. I dropped the wet rag on Catzilla and snatched him off the 
table, fire, claws, and teeth biting into my chest as I muffled the fire between 
the wet cloth and my shirt.
He howled, I yelled, and the Mooselet shrieked like a fire engine.
There was some more crashing and banging from the living room as the lawyers 
stamped out the conflagration of the drapes where the menorah had landed, 
Maxwell alternately slapping at the flames and pouring what had been some very 
nice Beaujolais nouveau on the fire. Catzilla, in four-wheel drive mode, kicked 
and squirmed in my arms like a baby who didn't want to go to bed. Nails and 
teeth dug into me and I knew my shirt was ruined.
Give the Arlington Fire Department credit, they were there just as Laura, and 
Maxwell had gotten the flaming drapes under control. Scully, encumbered by the 
Mooselet, lumbered to the door when she heard the sirens and opened the door 
before the firemen broke it down. In full gear, the men trooped into the house 
and made a quick assessment of the situation, and at least they didn't laugh. 
From where she was cradled against Scully's lumpy torso, the Moose began 
practicing her word of the day.
"Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit!" she screamed.
 
Some blurry time passed during which it was noticed that the fire alarm was tied 
into the security system which had summoned the fire department, the firemen 
stomped around, the lawyers yammered, and the Moose continued to curse until 
Scully started feeding her olives.
At least the cat hadn't burned for eight days and nights, and he was undamaged 
other than a hairless tail and a serious attitude problem. I locked him in the 
laundry room with his naked tail covered with burn ointment, which he promptly 
began to lick off the reddened and blistered skin. It was just a temporary 
measure for the rest of the night. I shut the door behind the last of the 
firemen. They had let me go with a warning about leaving candles unattended with 
a toddler and a cat in the house, and had stomped out again. In the dinning 
room, Laura and Maxwell were eating the pizza they had called for, and I found 
Scully eating a cold chicken leg while Miranda sat under the table, rolling 
olives around like they were marbles.
My legs were shaking so I sat down and poured myself a glass from the remaining 
wine bottle. Even though the windows in the living room were open, the house 
still smelled like burnt carpet and fabric.
"Martha Stewart must be enjoying a newfound sense of job security." I said.
"I always hated those drapes," Scully said from around a mouthful of chicken.
"So what are you going to do for Christmas, blow up the house?" Maxwell asked. 
*****
I got to put Miranda to bed while Mulder cleaned up the debris. Bedtime was the 
time where I got Miranda to myself so we could bond. The thought of Mulder being 
the expert on child care was nothing short of hysterical, but he had mastered 
the psychology of the normal child as well as he had mastered the psychology of 
the pathological serial killer. To add insult to injury, Mulder was already 
talking about setting aside special Scully time just for her so that she 
wouldn't feel completely abandoned when I was no longer available for her 24-7. 
If Mulder wasn't careful I was going to start confusing him with my copy of T. 
Berry Brazelton. Better yet, I was going to start beating him with my copy of T. 
Berry.
I stuffed a sleepy Miranda into her footed pajamas and supervised the brushing 
of her teeth, which she did standing on a stepstool in front of the washbasin. 
But like her father, Miranda was enchanted with the image in the mirror and 
spent more time babbling at the toddler in the mirror than she did brushing her 
teeth with her Rugrats toothbrush. I had to hurry her up and into her youth bed, 
having decided two months earlier that she was too big for a crib and would only 
sleep in a youth bed with the sides up. Unlike Mulder, Miranda slept like an 
inanimate object once you got her into bed. Also unlike Mulder, she was very 
hard to get into bed. We turned on the night light, inspected the closet and 
under the bed for the "boogers". "Boogers" were indescribable creatures which 
may or may not have been related to the traumatic sights she had seen in her 
short life, or could have been simple childlike fears of the dark. But it was 
always better to err on the side of caution and make sure that there weren't any 
"boogers". Finally, I pulled back the sheets and she slid into bed, the sight of 
the white bottoms of her footed pajamas made my throat tighten. That and the 
fact that she smelled like baby lotion, toothpaste, and clean baby skin. So 
sweet, moderately innocent, and a sponge for everything that the world was 
offered for her to learn. Hopefully it wasn't going to be about the real-life 
"boogers" out there and if she did come up against "boogers", I wanted her to 
have the tools to deal with them.
We'd start the shooting lessons when she was old enough. For the time being, 
checking under the bed and in the closet was just fine with me. 
"Story?" she asked, getting a stranglehold around the next of her pig-shaped 
pillow pal.
"You tell me a story. What did Laura tell you about tonight?"
"Channika."
"So, what is Chanukah about?" I asked as I tucked the covers around her.
"Juice, Matthew, Geeks, an' Aliens."
"The kid's all right," Mulder remarked from the doorway.
"Shit?" she asked.
"Nice people don't use that word." I reminded her and the look that she shot 
Mulder in the doorway which indicated that she had always believed that Mulder 
was something other than nice.
"Good night sweetheart," Mulder said and leaned over to kiss her.
"Night," she echoed and burrowed into the covers.
"You know," Mulder whispered as we pulled the door shut behind us, "Going to 
your mother's for Christmas is getting more appealing by the minute. I just hope 
she has good homeowner's insurance."
 
TITLE: Syadiloh 2 : Some Assembly Required
AUTHOR: MustangSally, Rivka T
CLASSIFICATION: SRH, MSR
CONTENT WARNING: Over-indulgence in sweets may cause dyspepsia.
SUMMARY: Christmas story.
SPOILER WARNING: Fruitcake don't spoil.
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Let it flow freely as eggnog.
THE DISCLAIMER: I made this!
++++++
Murder in the Holy Land.
Growling, the giant mutant cat crushed the stable underfoot, knocking aside 
Joseph and the three Wise Men, before crushing baby Jesus between its enormous 
white fangs and making off with the savior at a dead run. The scattered wreckage 
of the crèche spread out across the plain of Bethlehem in an untidy mess of 
sheep bodies, a couple of camels, and a de-winged angel. I crawled across the 
floor and reached for one sheep, its leg hanging loosely from the body. Another 
casualty.
Damn.
"Mulder!" came the voice of my beloved, something between a basketball ref and a 
longshoreman, "the cat's stolen Jesus again!"
There was something decidedly perverse in Catzilla's make-up. No sooner had he 
burnt all the fur off of his tail on the Chanukah candles than he had to start 
looting the Christmas decorations. It hadn't been so bad when he had been 
stealing elves and Santa Clauses, but even I found the sight of the fat black 
cat with a bare naked opossum tail and an overbite toting the baby Jesus in his 
mouth disturbing. Blended families, pagan cat. Feh. 
Well the house was about as polytheistic as the United Nations, since no one was 
willing to invoke the wrath of any God/Goddess these days; we were catering to 
any religion that walked, slithered, or luminesced through the door. Since I 
hadn't put the menorah away, we could serve a worshiper of Yahweh, the Holy 
Trinity, the Virgin Mary, Apple (that was the framed picture of Steve Jobs), 
Vishnu, and a really mean loa from my last voodoo case. 
We should be jam-packed with good karma for the upcoming year. God (whoever) 
knows we needed it. Provided that I could rescue Jesus from the cat. I tracked 
the kleptomaniac feline down to the bedroom where he was playing paw hockey with 
the small savior underneath the bed where my own personal fertility goddess was 
holding court. Scully was propped up against the headboard of what had been our 
bed with her glasses resting on her nose and her laptop resting next to the 
geological formation which had once been her stomach. She wasn't allowed to lie 
on her back anymore, something about a large vein she couldn't compress, and she 
blamed me for that too.
She gave me a dirty look and gestured at the floor.
"Your damn cat won't leave it alone."
When Catzilla was good, he was her cat, when he was bad, he was mine. Typical. 
He'd been mine since Chanukah and wasn't likely to become anyone else's until 
after Memorial Day.
"Maybe the Blessed diapers are packed with catnip or something," I reached under 
the bed and grabbed the baby Jesus, which made Catzilla lay into me with claws 
and teeth. It didn't break the skin but hurt nonetheless.
"Burnt-butt, naked rat-tailed psychopath!"
Catzilla hissed and swatted at me.
"Maybe we should just forget the crèche this year," Scully said looking over her 
glasses, "next year might be better."
"Yah, much better, three kids under the age of three and you want to put a 
crèche on the floor. Better take our chances with the cat," I stuffed the baby 
Jesus into the pocket of my shirt and hitched my ass up onto the side of the bed 
that we'd shared before Scully needed more mattress real estate.
I put my hand on her stomach and one of the twins kicked back at me with World 
Cup gusto.
"The natives are restless," she said with a grimace.
"They're doing a countdown," I said and rubbed at her stomach for a moment, 
getting kicked again for my pains.
"Three more weeks," she warned the unquiet sea of her body, "three more weeks 
and we'll spring you."
"Think you can hold out until then?" I asked.
Putting the computer aside, she rolled towards me with a seraphic smile on her 
face.
"Only the thought of watching you have your vasectomy keeps me going."
How a mouth that vicious could be that sweet never failed to amaze me. But I 
kissed her back over the ridge of her belly. Yes, Virginia, there is sex during 
pregnancy, all it takes is some creativity and a willingness to admit that a 
woman who resembled the Venus of Willendorf was a sexual object. Even though she 
was now built like a killer whale, Scully was still hot as a pistol fired into 
the ballistics tank. Her lips slithered against mine, but her forehead was warm 
when she leaned into me.
"Where's Miranda?" she asked and her eyes flamed with mischief.
I stood up and looked around the room.
"You lost the baby?" I asked in the most terror-stricken voice that I could 
muster. 
"I don't know. It was your turn to watch her." she accused and her eyes flicked 
over to the dark drapes flowing almost to the floor. Drapes that had a tiny pair 
of feet in purple sneakers protruding from underneath. 
"We lost the Mooselet?" I asked. "Did she run away? Is she hiding? Did she turn 
into a cat and hide under the bed?" I looked underneath the bed and saw 
dust-bunnies, Catzilla, and a tie that I hadn't known that I had lost.
The feet underneath the drapes jittered impatiently.
I stalked back to the rear of the bedroom and peered into the bathroom, "Is she 
in the bathroom?"
Nothing in the bathroom, nothing under the bed, nothing in the closet, and I was 
walking around the room, working my way over to the window. This was the 
Mooselet's favorite game -- avoiding bedtime. I just hoped that it was simple 
childlike mischief rather than the beginning stages of insomnia. I looked over 
my shoulder and saw that the sneakers were now bouncing up and down with 
anticipation and the drape was giving off a high-pitched toddler giggle.
"Miranable Cannibal where are you?" I called.
It was too much for her and she bolted from behind the drapes making a mad dash 
for the bed. She flung herself onto the bed and climbed up next to Scully and 
buried her head in Scully's shoulder, laughing as though she had been mainlining 
nitrous. Scully's hand moved over the Mooselet's back, her rings flashing in the 
light from the bedside table, the Mooselet's shoulders continuing to shake as 
she was giggling. Over the top of the Mooselet's head, Scully smiled at me, her 
face smoothing into the strangely beatific smile she'd been sporting lately. She 
looked sweet, saintly, and glowed as though there was a halogen bulb behind her 
face. She shone like she was radioactive. Maybe the babies were giving off more 
rads than they should have been. Blue eyes reached up to my face, followed by a 
pair of green eyes. It was disgusting; I was helplessly in love with a little 
woman and a slightly larger one. Drowning in a sea of domesticity. Stick a fork 
in me, I was done.
I got up on the bed, on the other side of Scully and put my arm around her 
shoulders where I could reach Miranda and rub her hot little head.
"We don't want to go to bed." Scully remarked, and Miranda giggled again, 
popping her head up to look at me with new corn green eyes.
"No bed," she agreed and began playing with Scully's hair.
"You have to go to bed or Santa won't come."
Childlike greed brightened her eyes.
"Santa?" she asked.
Santa was a convenient fiction to explain the fact that Scully and I now had an 
attic that looked like FAO Schwartz had exploded. There was a Furby, some 
American Girl Dolls, a Tickle Me Elmo, the entire Teletubby video collection, a 
half-dozen Beanie Babies, as well as some less conspicuous consumer goods. 
Between Chanukah and Christmas, Miranda was making out like a bandit. The 
assorted mothers-in-law had been banned from buying toys and were only allowed 
to give clothes this year; even then they were limited to the amount of clothes 
that they were allowed to buy. Scully's mother was thrilled to have a 
granddaughter to buy frilly dresses for and my mother was just so glad to have a 
grandchild, period, that she'd been very indulgent at Chanukah and saw no reason 
to stop the flow of child-bribery just because of a difference in theology.
It was actually embarrassing; not quite as embarrassing as Miranda's birthday 
when she'd been knee-deep in gifts and decided that the thing that she liked the 
most was the box that her new rocking horse had come in. She spent her entire 
birthday party in the box, refusing to come out to play with her cousins Samuel 
and Matthew. Matthew had actually gotten bitten for trying to get into the box 
with her, and Bill was still blaming me, although stubbornness was an 
established Scully family trait, running true to breed in the women.
I was surprised that Scully had encouraged the Santa myth at all, due to the 
fact that it was a myth and Scully isn't noted for her flights of fantasy (but 
give her a can of squeeze cheese and a camcorder and that's another story). I 
think her primary interest in the Santa myth was as a blackmail device when the 
Mooselet got older. The squeeze cheese and the camcorder is my blackmail 
insurance that she won't sling me out on my ass when she becomes Director of the 
FBI. Long-term plotting runs in the family no less than stubbornness.
"Little girls who stay up too late end up on Santa's naughty list." Scully 
cautioned.
Frowning, the Mooselet processed this, and I could just about see the little 
hourglass turning over and over in her eyes. A true child of the nineties, she 
was web-enabled, multi-tasked, and quick processing, and was increasing her 
vocabulary geometrically. 
"Bed. Now," she agreed.
"Kiss your mom good-night," I instructed.
The Mooselet did so; giving Scully a smacking sucker-mouth of a kiss on the 
cheek. I knew from personal experience this was not unlike being licked by a 
puppy with better breath. For good measure, the Mooselet patted Scully's 
stomach.
"Bed Scul-lee. Bed bay-bees," she sang and then turned to give me an impatient 
look.
I let her lead me to the bathroom for her evening ablutions. Scully snickered in 
the background. Giving a year and a half old Mooselet a bath was not unlike 
diving into the tank with dolphins. Actually I might have stayed dryer in Sea 
World.
****
Beached mammal, I flopped off the bed and listened to the giggling coming from 
the bathroom down the hall. Chortling and splashing, and my bladder twitched in 
sympathetic response at the sound of water. Not again, I swore that I'd peed not 
ten minutes earlier. One of the instructions which had been drilled into me at 
twin birth class was that water was your babies' friend. Dehydration was the 
enemy. More water made more amniotic fluid, which helped my kidneys process the 
toxins formed by three humans instead of one, and worked like high-grade motor 
oil in all the internal systems. I was drinking over a gallon of water a day, as 
prescribed, and the water consumption combined with the fact that the twins 
seemed to enjoy playing soccer with my bladder was making my life a living hell. 
I felt like a water balloon three molecules of rubber away from popping. I was 
so big that if I had decided to wear silver lame, there would have been a rash 
of UFO sightings in our neighborhood in Arlington. 
I made my way downstairs, just in time to catch a glimpse of a stark-naked 
Miranda running at top speed into her bedroom, shedding towel, pajamas, 
slippers, and bathrobe behind her while Mulder squawked in frustration in the 
bathroom. I was loath to break my momentum and it was Mulder's problem anyway so 
I didn't pause my waddle. Miranda's shrieks of amusement followed me down the 
steps to the living room.
Christmas this year was very different. Mulder averred that my hormone-driven 
nesting instincts had taken over, but I think that was wishful thinking. The 
truth is that when you spend your days confined to your bedroom, you have plenty 
of time to become the Martha Stewart of wrapping presents. I had curled the 
multicolored ribbons with the edge of a scissors; I had tied keepsake Christmas 
ornaments as extra decorations on the presents for my family members. They were 
going to feel well-loved and inferior, damnit. Many of Miranda's presents were 
still upstairs, waiting for us -- me -- to assemble them, but we had the 
presents for Bill's family and my mother under the tree. Of course we were just 
going to pack them in the SUV and take them over to Mom's tomorrow morning, but 
I had an image to create. Especially since we didn't have any drapes, thanks to 
the Hanukah fire. If the neighbors were going to see into our house, I wanted it 
to look like a Norman Rockwell painting, aside from the scorch marks.
That's me -- compulsive-obsessive hyper-achiever. For example, I was not just 
pregnant, I was hugely overstuffed multiple-birth pregnant, I was on maternity 
leave and still dialing into the FBI server for my mail every few hours and 
bribing Zippy to fax me case files so I had something to do other than make 
Christmas ornaments. I had written and sent out a Christmas letter to end all 
Christmas letters, and had even been able to tell some of the truth of what had 
happened over the past year. Okay, I'd gotten married, gotten pregnant with 
twins, and had a fifteen-month-old daughter who was genetically mine but I 
hadn't given birth to, and that was pretty much in reverse order of the actual 
event flow. What I couldn't write about was that I was afraid that the twins 
were trying to tunnel out of me through my spine, that the twins would be born 
dead, mutated, hideously malformed, and full of alien DNA no matter what all the 
prenatal testing and ultrasound pictures said. That was what I couldn't put into 
the letter and why I had strung popcorn and cranberries, made clothespin angels, 
rolled glass balls in metallic confetti, and glued sequins on fabric-covered 
balls. If I didn't give birth soon I was going to start knitting.
Three weeks to go.
While I was adjusting the ornaments to get a more even effect, the Christmas 
tree shuddered for a moment, and then it howled. I looked into the evil green 
eyes of the cat from hell. 
"Down," I ordered.
Catzilla leapt from the tree, making it shake like a house on the San Andreas 
Fault, and sped off into the kitchen, naked tail flying behind him. Suddenly 
tired, I eased myself down onto the sofa and reached for the television remote. 
It wasn't the only bad habit I had picked up from Mulder in all these months, 
but it was the only one I was willing to admit to. PBS was showing some kind of 
a Christmas Music program from the National Cathedral, with all the candles, 
singing, gilt, and guilt I remembered from Midnight Masses of my childhood. 
Oddly enough, I seemed to remember that this spcial had been filmed back in the 
fall so, like so many things, it was artificial. Come to think of it, this was 
going to be the first year that I hadn't gone to Midnight Mass with my mother. 
Even last year, cradling the hot, senseless weight that Miranda had been at that 
age and being terrified that I would somehow hurt her, I had gone. I had gone 
that terrible Christmas that Emily had been born into my consciousness and then 
died before I had adjusted to the idea of her.
Come to think of it, Dad had died just after Christmas, so I'd been having 
shitty holidays for awhile.
"That is a seriously long puss you're wearing there," Mulder said and slid onto 
the sofa next to me.
"As opposed to a burnt, bare-assed puss with sociopathic tendencies?"
"That's my cat you're talking about," he teased and leaned up against me.
"Did she go to sleep?" I asked. 
"Not yet," his eyes lost focus as he stared into the blinking lights of the 
tree, "you know, this six in the morning thing at your mother's really sucks. We 
don't do it next year, with three kids. She can come over here, but I am not 
hauling all our shit over to her house and make any kids wait to open presents. 
It's cruel."
"All right. But you have to tell her."
"Endanger my life."
"You better go upstairs and get Miranda's presents. I don't want to be up all 
night with this."
"I can think of better ways to be up all night," he said with a cheesy leer and 
gave me a seductive kiss.
"Mmmmmm, me too, but--"
"I'm there. I am with the presents."
The wrapping went better than expected. Mulder managed to carry everything down 
from the attic without tumbling down the stairs himself or dropping anything. We 
set up an assembly line of tools, paper, and bows. I put together the tricycle, 
Mulder slung paper around it, then I tidied the edges and put the ribbon on. 
Meanwhile, he was putting batteries in all the battery-operated toys. Children 
need more batteries than sex therapists do; Mulder had planned ahead with a big 
plastic bag full of all shapes and sizes. There was a muffled squawk as the 
Furby tried to make friends and then fell silent. I didn't want to know what 
he'd threatened it with.
My back felt like the bridge on the river Kwai by the time we were finished, but 
the presents were indubitably done. Mulder sensed my agony despite my 
well-maintained poker face and had me lie on the couch -- tossing the pillows to 
the floor so that I could fit -- where he gave me a backrub. 
"I'm going to be so glad when this is over," I sighed as his hands worked me 
over like a farmer tilling over-fertile soil. 
"Tell me that again after a few weeks of midnight feedings," and I could hear 
the smirk in his voice.
"And I'll have to go on a diet ..."
"But I think Roly-Poly Scully has a certain charm to it." His hands were 
sweeping further from the small of my back on each pass, moving up to my 
shoulder blades and around my hips and even teasing the sides of my breasts, 
"More to love GopherGirl."
"Before I forget," I mumbled, sleepy with contentment, "you've got to get your 
present from under the tree."
"Can't I open it tomorrow?"
"Not in front of my mother."
That got him excited enough to abandon me and go rooting around like a 
truffle-hunting pig until he found it, buried among the less personal presents. 
"What *is* this?" he asked in a delighted little-boy voice.
It wasn't a present for a boy.
Sneaky me, I had strong-armed Zippy into buying Mulder's Christmas present for 
me -- the proprietors of adult video stores tend to get a tad nervous when 
heavily pregnant women enter and look around. I'd used silk scarves instead of 
jolly round Santa paper to wrap the videos, with a bundle of tiny tubes of 
flavored lube instead of a bow. Zippy had picked out "Buffy the Vampire Layer" 
and "There's Something About Mary's Tits," which would mortify Mulder even if he 
never found out that Zippy was involved in the purchase. The anticipation of 
Mulder's embarrassment was a present to myself; the tapes were for the weeks or 
months after birth when I wouldn't want to fulfill my conjugal duties. On the 
other hand it could be years -- maybe I should have gotten him a membership card 
for the nearest adult video store. Maybe I should have gotten a hooker and put 
her on retainer. 
I turned over like a sunbathing walrus so that I could watch his reaction. 
"Ooo, Scully," he said as he determined that the bow was not, in fact, a bow. He 
fumbled with the silk scarves for a minute, then turned Santa-suit red when he 
saw the tapes.
"I figured with 'Alien Probe' gone from your life you needed to start a new 
collection."
He knelt by the sofa, present in hand, and began nibbling on my neck. "I'd 
rather try out the scarves."
"Mulder, I'd look like a balloon in the Macy's parade." I couldn't help but gasp 
as he munched his way from my collarbone to the top of my ear.
"Stop arguing and come to bed." I should have resented it, but he delivered the 
line in such perfect phone-sex fashion I don't think I could be faulted for 
sighing and letting him pull me to my swollen feet.
He undressed me with what I was beginning to hope was reverence, smoothing his 
stubbled cheeks across the globe of my belly, mapping me like Amerigo Vespucci 
with his hands and his mouth. His cold fingertips against my breasts made me 
groan.
"Shh," he warned as his mouth moved to warm what he'd chilled. I let him ease me 
down to the bed, where he rolled me onto my side. His hands slid over me like 
skiers over rough terrain, pausing to view the sights. I was tired enough to let 
him do all the work, only kissing whatever body part came close enough as he 
moved around me.
Before I expanded, I'd thought that we had explored every sexual position that 
didn't involve elaborate props, yoga, or antigravity. I was wrong. The bigger I 
got, the more creative we had to be, but Mulder's mind works on incredible 
tangents and he'd come up with some inventive solutions. This time he had me 
lying on my side, my back to him and my knees drawn up as if I were sitting. 
When he entered me, he was able to put his hands around my breasts and bite into 
the back of my neck like I was Christmas dinner.
I tried to make low appreciative sounds that wouldn't drown out any noise from 
the baby monitor. My breasts were so sensitive these days, with hormones working 
their magic better than any plastic surgeon ever could. "You're so beautiful," 
he crooned and I melted faster than Frosty the Snowman in hot summer sun. If 
he'd known that the frothiest of sweet nothings would work on me he'd have been 
bedding me the night the lights went out in Oregon. I guess they wouldn't have 
worked back then. Somehow it was different now that we were together and had a 
family, or maybe I'd mellowed with age.
"You're thinking again," he chided in my ear and then licked it like a candy 
cane. I growled and reached back and grabbed at the hard plane of his hip, 
feeling the tiger-smoothness of his skin where it covered the bone. His hands 
squeezed me more vigorously; it would have been painful if I hadn't been so 
turned on. My thighs squeezed him, desperate for more direct stimulation. Mulder 
pulled his upper body away from mine and I don't know how he did it and I don't 
care, but he worked his hand around my belly and stroked my clit. I groaned like 
a torpedoed ship and came, feeling the babies swing dance with excitement from 
the rush in my own blood.
He pulled me close again, his wet hand sliding over my nipples as he increased 
the pace of his thrusts. I twined my legs over the outsides of his and drew him 
even more tightly to me. With a shudder, he came into me, his semen arriving 
on-scene far too late to make a difference. "I love you," I whispered into my 
pillow and behind me he froze like a suspect cornered by the LAPD. His hand 
stilled on my breast and I was suddenly chilly, so I moved away, disconnecting 
us, and tugged at the covers he'd pushed back so that we could make love.
Lying in the darkness, I could hear his breath and the counterpoint heavy 
breathing through the baby monitor, like the sound of waves in a very rough sea. 
And I the ship, overladen with cargo, on yet another adventure, so far from my 
maiden voyage but so at home in the sea.
"Likewise, I'm sure." Mulder's voice was thick as molasses for gingerbread. I 
wanted someday to be sure enough of myself to tell him in the grocery store, in 
parking lots, wherever the thought hit me. For now it was enough to say it in 
darkness, looking at the dim improbable shapes of our bedroom furniture.
I turned over to kiss him goodnight. He was already half-asleep, his middle-aged 
self worn out by the wrapping and the subsequent unwrapping. I smiled into his 
cheek and let myself drift into uncharted ocean.
****
'Twas the morning of Christmas and all through the house not a creature was 
stirring not even a --
I was awakened by screaming -- screaming tends to wake even me, bloated and full 
of babies, jolt upright on an adrenaline rush. I grabbed for my gun, remembering 
too late that it was locked in a strongbox on the top shelf of the closet. My 
heart was hammering like Billy Joel on the ivories, which was sending the kids 
into their own too-much-fertility dance, and I tried to at least see who was 
going to kill or be killed in our bedroom.
But the screaming was not coming from a human throat. Catzilla was standing 
proudly at the foot of the bed with something in his mouth, his eyes gleaming 
with the thrill of the hunt and his naked, stubbly tail lashing from side to 
side in triumph. With a wet "ptoooh" he spat something onto my legs. Something 
with wings. My first thought was that he had somehow gotten outside (strictly 
forbidden) and caught one of the birds that Mulder had been enticing into the 
front yard with elaborate allegedly squirrel-proof feeders. But no, it wasn't a 
bird that the cat from Hell had caught.
I nudged Mulder in the back with my elbow.
"Mulder, wake up."
"Grrsth?" he mumbled.
"Your damn cat has caught an angel."
"X-File. Your department," he said slightly more distinctly and pulled the 
covers over his head.
I had to go to the bathroom anyway, so I pinned the cat with a level-two glare 
and he turned and ran out of the room, slipping on the hardwood floor and then 
bouncing off the hallway wall because he couldn't slow himself down enough to 
turn. It was nice that *someone* in the house retained some respect for me.
Sighing, I took the saliva-coated angel and went to go return it to the tree. 
Then I started getting ready for Christmas at Mother's.
Bathing and grooming myself took twice as long these days, given that I had 
approximately twice as much surface area to cover. When I was willing to have 
sex, I'd usually enlist Mulder in the endeavor, because he could reach all the 
parts currently beyond my grasp. There was no time for that this morning, so I 
managed. Festively dressed and coifed, I trundled out to the bed and slapped 
Mulder on his comely buttocks, which had de-sheeted themselves during the night. 

"Get up, Mulder. We have to be at my mother's in an hour."
He groaned. "The operative word here is *your* mother."
"You can torment Bill," I promised.
Mulder pushed himself off of the bed and headed towards the bathroom, scratching 
himself grumpily. 
I went to get Miranda ready. She was perversely perky, sensing that major 
goodies were in the offing. It was a genuine struggle to get her into her 
overalls embroidered with little snowmen and getting her hair into a ponytail 
nearly reduced both of us to tears. Finally, Mulder appeared in a Yuppieish 
sweater and khakis and managed to charm her into the rest of her clothes the way 
he usually charmed me out of mine.
When we got to my mother's house, Mom enlisted the help of all the clan to 
unload the car and bring the loot inside. I introduced Miranda to my brother 
Charlie and Juanna, his wife. 
"She's got the eyes of a sharpshooter," Charlie told me.
"She'll need good aim in this family," I responded and kissed my brother over 
the landmass of my stomach.
Juanna picked up Miranda and began taking her around to meet the various members 
of her brood, who should have been wearing name tags since no one could ever 
tell them apart. The boys were impressed with the size of my stomach and the 
biggest of the bunch, who I thought was named David, wanted to know where my gun 
was. It was still a little strange to be called "Aunt Dana" by short people 
capable of forming complete sentences. Raul, Miranda, and Matthew were close 
enough in age to be plunked down together and play. I watched Miranda look at 
her boy cousins like a queen surrounded by peasants. She was clutching her new 
Teletubby as though the boys were seeking its removal. 
While I was sitting on the couch in the living room with a glass of water 
balanced on my stomach, Mom came over and sat next to me.
"I wasn't sure that you would come," she said in her soft voice, "I wouldn't 
blame you if you didn't, after what happened . . . "
I know what Mom wanted was for me to throw my arms around her, stomach and all, 
and tell her that all was forgiven, that I was going to be her darling baby 
daughter again and dive right back into the soupy mass of the family. I couldn't 
do that, I wasn't that person anymore. At the same time, all my energy had been 
given over to trying to grow the babies inside me, keep Miranda growing up 
healthy and strong, and Mulder, who had vanished like a suspect with a warrant 
for his arrest, on something like an even keel. I had my own family to try to 
manage now.
"We all make mistakes," I said.
BoyTwin, on the bottom, kicked me in the intestines for emphasis. Even in the 
darkness of the womb, the little ones knew that something good was going on in 
the outside world, and were protesting that they were missing out. Mom watched 
my stomach jiggle like Jell-O in an off road vehicle and her eyes widened.
"They're an active pair, aren't they?"
"It's like having the Rocketts doing a kick-line on my bladder," I said and 
winced as the familiar urge hit me yet again.
"Melissa was like that," Mom said and for once she didn't have tears in her 
eyes, "she started trying to tunnel out at six months. You know what Missy was 
like, always impatient to go after new experiences."
"I just want to experience not having to make a bathroom trip every ten 
minutes," I complained and hoisted myself out of the couch.
****
Something with the consistency of a bowling ball slammed into my left leg. I 
looked down at the chubby, sullen face of Matthew Scully.
"Hey Sport, Merry Christmas," I said in the heartiest voice I could manage.
"You're a Jew, you don't have Christmas," he accused.
Nice kid. I wondered how far I could drop-kick him.
"Well I guess I can take back your present then."
"Matt!" Bill bellowed from somewhere inside the house, "don't be a pest."
"You killed Jesus," Matthew added a moment later.
"Er," I said which was the nicest thing I could say at the time, but I was saved 
by a red-faced Tara arriving. Since she had clearly heard the entire 
conversation, she grabbed Matthew by the arm and hauled him off my leg.
"Matthew, that is no way to talk to your Uncle Fox on Christmas. We'll discuss 
this later -- with your father. Now go see your cousin Miranda."
At a dead run, Matthew stumped off on his fat little legs. Tara dithered for a 
moment before presenting me with a sweet-smelling cheek to kiss.
"Merry Christmas, Fox."
"Merry Christmas, Tara."
I found Bill holding court in the TV room, with the football game on with no 
sound and a beer in his hand, a little too early for my taste. He looked up when 
I entered and we nodded our greetings with the utmost civility. I piled the 
presents we had brought under the tree, wondering if dealing with a soused Bill 
was any better than having a theological conversation with an almost 
two-year-old. The kid in question was running a Tonka dump truck around on the 
carpet and managing to slam it into all the furniture en route while screaming 
"rum-rum" noises at the top of his shrill voice. Frank Sinatra was wishing every 
one a Merry little Christmas on the stereo. From the kitchen, I could hear women 
laughing and the murmur of female conversation.
"Nice of you to dress up," Bill observed.
Well, my sweater probably cost more than his suit, but it wasn't a good time to 
point that out.
"Scully gave it to me, Miranda's still in the messy stage. The pattern hides the 
stains."
"Good thing Dad's gone, it would have killed him. You never did meet the Captain 
did you?"
"No."
"He was a good man."
Maudlin drunk, great, that was only moderately better than belligerent. With any 
luck dickless would pass out in the turkey. I loitered near the tree, looking at 
the decorations, my eye catching on the ones marked "Mom", "Dad", "Melissa," 
"Charlie", "Bill", and "Dana." Why the hell were they still hanging Melissa's 
ornament? The glittery script on the red silk ball was like a festive tombstone. 
I was surprised that there wasn't a birth and death date on there as well. And 
people think I'm ghoulish.
Scully rescued me then, a waddling angel with a coffee cup in one hand. Giving 
me the coffee, she put her free arm around my waist and leaned heavily against 
me, the weight of her body burdened down by the twins grounding me in the sea of 
hostility flowing from her brother.
"Goddamn, Dana, you look like you're going to explode." 
"The doctor told us that the twins are almost seven pounds each now, " she told 
her brother, "and if I don't have them by January 12th, I have a c-section 
scheduled."
"Seven pounds? Mattie was nearly ten."
Yeah, well, it's not a reflection on the size of your dick, Bill. Scully frowned 
and her grip on me tightened as if she'd read my mind. 
"Twins are generally smaller," she said in her knowing-scientist voice. Bill 
smirked up at her uneasily and I could see that she'd grown up practicing it on 
him. Smart-aleck little sisters are a pain; pity Bill wasn't sharp enough to 
keep up with her. I sipped coffee, wishing that it had been spiked.
"Besides, they're fraternal twins. Two separate oocytes, two separate 
spermatozoa, separate placenta, separate umbilical cords, in effect, two 
pregnancies at the same time," she smiled a smug little smile, "And all without 
fertility treatment."
It was a well-known but unspoken fact that Matthew's conception had been slowed 
up by Bill's own "lazy sperm". The loud-mouthed butterball was almost as 
unnatural a creation as the Mooselet, but at least Matthew hadn't been part of a 
plan for the New World order other than the one that existed in Bill's mind.
"Can we open the presents now?" the biggest of Charlie's tribe asked.
I helped Scully settle into a chair and perched on the arm to watch the festival 
of naked avarice begin. The kids all made for the tree in a mad rush and Maggie 
crouched down to dole out presents according to the names on the tags for the 
ones who couldn't read yet. Warm against me, Scully watched in amusement as the 
squealing kids tore into the wrapping paper with greedy delight. She actually 
looked relaxed and happy which was a better present than anything available at 
retail prices. With that uncanny way she has of reading my thoughts, she looked 
up at me with her eyes as blue as any glimmering glass decoration on the tree.
"Thank you," she said with her lips only.
Embarrassed, I looked away to see the Moose whap Matthew over the head with her 
Teletubby.
****
Watching children open presents is fun, even for a confirmed funless person like 
me. A child has so little experience that each new present is an enormous part 
of her consciousness as she's opening it, even if she's going to forget it in a 
few seconds. There are no expectations, only surprises. 
Miranda liked the boxes that held the sweater sets from Mom, and she loved the 
big plastic dump truck that Charlie gave her. She even appeared to enjoy the 
large stuffed giraffe from Bill and Tara. 
Adults have less fun because we always have to evaluate whether we spent the 
right amount of money. Overspending a little is okay, preferable really, but 
overspending a lot is an insult to both sides. We'd gotten Matthew a stack of 
classic children's books, and he immediately began to paw through Beatrix 
Potter. Maybe he'd come out all right in the end. There was always hope. 
Charlie's kids liked the FBI sweatshirts we'd gotten them and promptly broke out 
in a finger-pointing gunfight in the hallway, and since they were all wearing 
FBI shirts, it looked like inter-departments politics had taken an ugly turn. 
Mom, Juanna, and Tara liked the gift baskets from Bath and Body Works we had 
given them, and Mulder had to feign enthusiasm over a series of ties and CD gift 
certificates. 
Mulder, bless his twisty little head, gave me a gift certificate for the best 
gunsmith in the metro area where I would have a custom-grip Smith and Wesson 
1076 made when I went back to work. It really was the sweetest gift, even though 
it appalled Mom. She did, however, approve of the chunky amber and gold necklace 
and earring set which came complete with bugs in the amber. The general 
consensus was the digital camera I gave him was a good thing, but they were 
operating under the assumption that it was only going to be used for baby 
pictures and other innocent pursuits, but I knew better. The camera would sit on 
the bedside table primed and ready to go under the pretense that should the 
Mothership decided to land in Arlington; Mulder would have the first pictures. 
Right. The check is in the mail, the computer is down, and I did not have sex 
with that woman. My only concern was making sure that the only pictures with 
nudity going from our house over the Internet were going to be of Catzilla's 
hairless tail. 
Dinner was served at five and we all trooped into the dining room, kids to the 
folding card table in the corner, with the high chair crew assigned to their 
mothers. I was exempt from serving and cleaning up because of my enceinte 
condition and Mulder wasn't allowed in the kitchen because he drops things. So 
we traded chairs so he got Miranda feeding duty and proceeded to feed her chunks 
of bread and butter to keep her happy until the turkey arrived. And arrive it 
did, the size of a small dog, golden brown and crisp as parchment. I don't know 
what Mom does to keep her turkey crunchy on the outside and tender on the 
inside, but it may be grounds for an X-File. Charlie opened the wine bottles and 
went around the table like a hippie waiter, filling glasses here and there. I 
got a mouthful of Chardonnay in my glass and another whole glass of sparkling 
grape juice like the rest of the children. Mom assumed the head of the table and 
held out her glass for a toast.
"In years past I would look around this table and see the faces which were 
missing, people who were gone. Now I realize that I look around this table and 
see all the new faces, new spouses, new children, and I see the future rather 
than the past. "
The future began making like Riverdance inside me.
"Bill?"
My brother muttered his way through grace like a second-grader saying the Pledge 
of Allegiance and Mom shot him a dirty look. With a long-suffering air, he 
passed the carving knife and fork down the table to me and I waddled over to 
where the turkey sat in front of Mom, who was wearing her "my daughter, the 
doctor" face when I cut into the turkey. Mulder grinned. I knew he was thinking 
that I was the most experienced at cutting up something dead regardless of 
whether or not it had been properly basted.
"Do you remember the first Christmas Dana was home from medical school?" Charlie 
asked, "Dad went to carve the turkey and she narrated every body part he was 
removing."
"Know-it-all brat," Bill said in an indulgent voice.
"That's when Missy became a vegetarian." Mom added.
A little ripple of laughter washed around the table, and it was probably the 
first time that we had been able to talk about Dad and Missy without the weight 
of their absence crushing us underneath. Miranda laughed along with everyone 
else and banged her fists on the tray of the high chair for emphasis; Mulder 
bribed her into silence with some mashed potatoes. 
"The deceased is a Turkey hen, weighing approximately twenty-five pounds after 
cooking. Cause of death appears to be a massive amount of walnut and sage 
stuffing forced into the body cavity. The deceased has been decapitated and 
denuded of all feathers."
A groan went around the table and I had to stop, but Mulder smirked at me with 
appreciation. It was nice to have at least one person at the table appreciate my 
sense of humor which I will admit, is an acquired taste.
Plates were filled and conversation dimmed underneath the sounds of eating. A 
fight broke out over a drumstick at the kid's table and Charlie had to restore 
order. Lulled by the food and the mouthful of wine, the twins gradually settled 
down and either went to sleep or continued plotting world domination. Tara made 
inroads into the bottle of Chardonnay and her normally pale face went red with 
increased blood flow to her epidermal capillaries from the alcohol. In addition 
to this she didn't seem to be eating as much as pushing her food around on her 
plate with her fork. While all this was going on she and Bill were having a 
conversation in strained hisses down at their end of the table. Matthew, 
reacting to his parents' stress, began to rub candied yams in his hair, which at 
least went with the color, and drop food on the floor. Fortunately, Miranda 
neatly picked up at her food with her delicate pink fingers and conveyed it 
elegantly to her mouth. Mulder looked bemused and began stealing my stuffing. 
"Do you see what insanity I've been sparing you from for all these years?" I 
asked him.
"This is wholesome and American. Remember I grew up with Tina and Bill doing 
'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf' every major holiday." 
The hissing from Bill and Tara reached a crescendo. Tara stood up and slammed 
her fist down on the table.
"I want you to stop seeing her or I'm leaving you!"
"Don't do me any favors," Bill growled into the wall of silence that formed 
around the table.
With a little screech, Tara bolted from the table, Bill took off after her and 
Matthew broke into abject howling. Miranda, catching the spirit of the moment 
decided to start practicing her new vocabulary in a guttural voice that made her 
sound like the little girl in The Exorcist.
"Shit shit shit shit shit" she chanted.
At the head of the table, Mom went pale green.
"I really appreciate all the trouble you've gone through to make me feel like 
one of the family," Mulder said in an innocent voice and refused to look 
repentant when I kicked him under the table.
"Can you pass the cranberry sauce?" Charlie asked.
Through the chaos, Mel Torme, the velvet fog crooned:
So I'm offering this simple phrase
to kids from one to ninety-two
Although it's been said many times, many ways
Merry Christmas to you 
TITLE: Syadiloh 3 : Y2K
AUTHOR: MustangSally, Rivka T
MustangSally78@juno.com; RivkaT@aol.com
CLASSIFICATION: SRH/ Holiday story
CONTENT WARNING: Over-indulgence in sweets may cause dyspepsia. 
Sex, however, settles the stomach. We hear it's good for cramps, too.
SUMMARY: On the eve of the millenium, Mulder and Scully are otherwise 
occupied.
SPOILER WARNING: SUVs don't have spoilers. It's not that kind of car.
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: As you wish.
THE DISCLAIMER: I made this!
Quick note for the anal-retentive: Like sands through the hourglass, so are 
the days of our lives. To keep the time line straight, you have to realize
that 
the Iolokus Universe is actually a year ahead of the real one. Ergo, this 
takes place over the 1999-2000 New Year's Eve.
***********
The last day of the old year I woke up with the sniffles, no small surprise 
since all of Charlie's kids had been all over me like flies on a corpse and 
everyone knows what germ-bags children are. So I snuffled around the 
house all day, and blowing my nose only bought me about a half an hour of 
peace. While the Moose was taking a snooze, I went into the master bath to 
empty my snout and was ambushed by the most gorgeous creature in the 
world, lounging on the bed.
The modern obsession with thinness has made it almost impossible for the 
average American woman to believe it, but pregnancy is the sexiest damn 
thing in the world. Think about it: you look at a woman, round and soft and 
snackable, her breasts plumping up in anticipation of feeding a hungry little 
invader, and you think, "I made this." 
Of course you only think this, you do not say it, because you do not want to 
be reminded (as if she would let you forget) that she's doing most of the 
work. You get bigger tits to suckle, she throws up, and she gets backaches 
and swollen feet. Sometimes it's good to be a man.
When my GopherGirl was first pregnant, things were a little tense and our 
sex life was rabid as usual; it was always our way of working off tension. 
Then, during the second trimester, Scully was insatiable. She claimed it was 
just hormonal. But so is puberty, and only a teenaged boy could have kept 
up with Scully -- let's put it this way, I was a revolver and she was a 
machine gun. We had sex so often that I think my tongue muscles could 
have won a weightlifting competition. By the holidays, things had slowed 
down somewhat, which was a mercy. She was still gorgeous, but she was 
no longer the succubus who left me feeling each night like a tapped-out oil 
well.
Scully was wearing one of her tent-like nightshirts. She'd taken to staying 
in nightclothes most of the day, because she claimed that the sailor collars 
and other design flaws in most maternity wear made her nauseous, and as 
God was her witness she was never going to throw up again. Without the 
belly, the shirt would have reached her knees, but as it was it barely grazed 
the tops of her thighs. She was concentrating intently on her computer 
screen, her face blank and bluish in the light of electrons dancing.
"Hey," I kissed her forehead. "Is that what you're wearing to the party 
tonight? 'Cause I like it, but I'm not sure Zippy will be able to control 
himself."
She grimaced. "Tell me again why this is a good idea?"
"Because you've spent the past two weeks bemoaning the fact that the 
average age of the people you spend your time with is fifteen --"
"And that's not *mental* age, either," she interjected as I took her reading 
glasses off and set them on the side table. But she closed the laptop and put
it next to the glasses as I sat down next to her.
"How are you feeling?" I breathed onto her ear and was delighted by the 
resultant shiver that went through her entire enlarged body.
"I'm fine, Mulder." Her tone was bored but her eyes were already dilating. 
She turned into my body and ran her hand up and down my side. "I see you 
haven't gotten dressed for the party yet either." Her hot silky voice wrapped
itself around my cock and she chuckled as I pushed the nightshirt up, raising 
her arms obediently so that I could remove it.
Necking with a heavily pregnant woman is an interesting experience; I 
leaned over her, bracing my left hand against the bed, as I felt her swollen 
breasts with my right. Her belly operated almost like the Holy Spirit at a 
Catholic high school dance, keeping us apart from the chest down. But we 
were well versed in avoiding all manner of divine and human obstacles, and 
I wrestled her despised maternity underwear off as our mouths gave me a 
delicious preview of the act to come.
She tasted like orange juice and vitamin pills. I have learned that her mouth
never tastes exactly the same way twice, and I plan to spend the rest of my 
life making sure, like a child examining every snowflake to make sure it 
differs from the others. 
I stood to strip off my clothes and she looked up at me, smiling wetly and 
licking her lips. "How do you want to do this?" she asked.
"It's still the holiday season," I suggested, "why don't you come sit on 
Santa's lap and tell him what you didn't get for Christmas." When I sat 
down, my cock bobbing in my lap with all the ridiculousness of the naked 
human male, she pushed herself to her feet and shuffled so that she could 
lower herself down, facing away from me. A crane and harness would have 
been helpful, albeit distracting, but she managed to straddle my legs and 
find the blind head of my cock seeking its overcrowded home.
She sank down, gasping as I bit the juncture between her neck and shoulder. 
I couldn't get very deep inside her in this position, but that was probably a 
blessing for her. She moaned again when I put one hand underneath her 
belly, supporting her and flicking two fingers over her clit, and used the 
other to massage her breasts again. They were so sensitive now I had to 
remember not to squeeze too tightly, but I must have been doing something 
right because she was squirming against me. I wanted to see her face but it 
was impossible so instead I pushed her hair away from her ear with my nose 
and nuzzled.
"Have you been a good girl?"
Scully pulsed her legs up and down in tiny movements that felt like 
earthquakes where she surrounded me. "Mmm," she purred, "I thought I 
had a whole year to work up to being good again." Her arms reached back 
and grabbed my hips, holding us together as she ground against my hand.
"You're earning credit with Santa very quickly here." Her stretched and 
swollen skin was like satin, rich and whisper-soft against my fingers. I was 
overpowered by her, devastated by the smallest of her sighs and the tiniest 
shift of her muscles around me.
"Santa -- ah -- Santa is Jewish?" She was rocking against me more quickly 
now, finding the rhythm that suited her best. She was hot caramel around 
my cock and whipped cream where I licked at the nape of her neck.
"Who else would willingly work Christmas Eve?"
"You have a point," she said in her most businesslike tone and then 
shuddered as she came. I brought my hands around to her stomach to hold 
her against me and I felt a firm kick under the palm of my right hand. I let 
go in near-terror and Scully chuckled in between her panting breaths.
I thought it was freaky. "Why do they do that?" I asked, proud that my 
voice didn't shake, as I moved my hands down to her hips and began to 
draw crop circles on her upper thighs with my palms. My hips were pulsing 
up into her, trying not to hurt her or dislodge her as I sought more of her 
heat.
"They're reacting to my heartrate." Her voice was husky as she stroked the 
insides of my thighs, relying on me to keep us from falling off the bed.
I grunted and sped up my mini-thrusts. "So the audience is applauding?" 
Once again I was struck by the realization that we had made these new lives, 
combining ourselves inextricably. We weren't just two people anymore. 
We were 'Us'. And Scully was everywhere around me, her scent on my 
fingers and soaking deep in my pores, her heat warming my blood, her 
heartbeat sustaining all four of us.
I came so hard that I thought I'd had a heart attack. 
Hey, it's not an unreasonable fear for a man my age. When my vision 
cleared, we were lying spooned on the bed. I smiled at the thought Scully 
was for the moment not her usual demitasse size but more of a heaping 
tablespoon. I kissed her mussed hair and drowned in happiness.
"Mulder," Scully said finally, "we should get ready to go. Wear the blue 
and green tie with the horses, all right?"
Married life is true bliss. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.
****
Miranda and I had matching green velvet outfits. Hers was a pair of 
overalls, because bad things tended to happen to ruffles and lace in 
Miranda's vicinity. With a clean white shirt on underneath, she was 
frighteningly adorable. I had a simple dress that made me look like a 
Christmas ornament but was mercifully free from slogans or flowers. My 
hair, which I had given up getting cut for months, was now brushing my 
shoulders and had developed a mind of its own, bunching into sloppy curls 
and refusing to be tamed. I supposed that it was a side-effect from the 
hormone changes, but at least having fuller hair kept me from looking like 
my head was far too small compared to the bowling ball of my belly. I was 
starting to wonder if I was ever going to look human again.
Mulder came up behind me as I examined my silhouette in the full-length 
mirror in the closet. "Still pregnant, I see," he commented.
"No, Mulder, look -- they've dropped -- they're getting ready." Suddenly 
there was a space between my breasts and my abdomen that hadn't been 
there a few hours before.
His eyes widened. "Now?"
"No, I was expecting it for a little while -- it can happen weeks before 
birth." It was strange; my center of gravity had shifted downwards again 
and I felt like my body had been rearranged like a Rubik's cube.
Mulder snuffled. Then he coughed. Then he sneezed. I would have 
suspected a ploy for my sympathy but it was too blatant. I turned and put 
my hand to his throat, checking for swollen glands and then felt for a fever. 
Yes, the Mulder luck was at it again. You could have used his forehead to 
cook eggs. He was sick, physically sick, and we were all going to be 
miserable by the time the illness worked its way through the family. Just 
what I needed, then again, Fate had been using me as her punching bag for 
longer than I wanted to think about.
I sighed. "You'd better take something for that. It looks like this is our
last 
chance to have fun for a while."
Mulder sniffled and turned to go into the bathroom. I heard banging noises 
as he raided the cabinets, but I knew how Mulder usually dealt with 
sickness and I wasn't going to brave the lion's den unless he was in actual 
danger of bleeding out on the floor.
When he came back, his lips were red and sticky with syrup, but he was 
coherent enough to drive us over to Zippy's for the party.
***
I kept Miranda in my arms as we worked our way through the crowd, 
protecting my belly from over-friendly touches. Zippy was glad-handing all 
and sundry, only deigning to give me a quick kiss on the cheek and Miranda 
a friendly tickle before he returned to hitting on the more available and non-
jail bait ladies at the party.
Mulder was fading fast. I saw him stagger over to the table that held the 
drinks and he even smiled at two agents I knew for a fact he hated more 
than the Utah Jazz. I was beginning to wonder if this had been a good idea. 
He'd need to get the drugs out of his system before he could drive us back 
home. He wouldn't let me have the keys and I wasn't quite as adept at 
avoiding notice as I'd been pre-pregnancy, so I couldn't pick his pockets.
Meanwhile, I worked my way over to the sofa and smiled sweetly at the 
man sitting there hitting on the nice young woman next to him. "Excuse 
me," I said, and he had to get up or look like a total asshole in front of
her. I 
took his vacated seat with relief, and was not too surprised when his friend 
took the opportunity to join him over by the Christmas tree where the 
mistletoe was.
But I couldn't escape interaction for long. Mulder's assistant Diane sat 
down next to me. Miranda was bouncing on my lap, eager to run out among 
the forest of adult legs, but it reminded me too much of the old video game 
'Frogger' to let my little tadpole go play. "Who's this?" she cooed in a 
Southern accent as thick as hominy.
"Miranda, this is Diane, she works with your Daddy," I informed her, and 
Miranda looked Diane over with great seriousness. Fortunately for my 
peace of mind, Diane was a very married woman (three times at last count, 
according to Mulder) with a no-nonsense manner and a large, hulking 
husband named Bo who I think was standing behind the couch, watching us. 
"Hell-o," Miranda sang. "Cookie?" She'd obviously seen the trays of food 
arrayed on the sides of the room. 
"I'll take her to get a plate, why don't you just relax?" I nodded
gratefully at 
Diane, who took Miranda from my lap. The Mooselet looked at me for 
confirmation before she smiled at Diane like a vote-hunting politician.
It was good that Miranda was gone; I already needed a bathroom trip. 
Typical, no sooner did I sit down than I realized that I had to get up. The 
twins weren't born yet and already they were plotting against me. I searched 
the room for Mulder, finally identifying him by the slight hesitation in his 
step and the unruly halo of his hair. He was holding a glass of champagne, 
half-gone, and I realized that we were going to end up in a cab. I could only
hope the cab driver's English wouldn't be good enough to understand when 
Miranda asked to speed up.
I fought my way out of Zippy's sofa and walked over to where three smiling 
VCS types were talking to Mulder. He was listening to them discuss the 
various plans they'd made to survive the Y2K problem. "Nobody's flying 
tonight, that's for sure," one said.
"Or having surgery. Very bad time to go to the hospital when all the 
equipment goes on the fritz," another agreed.
"So, Spook, you think this is another government plot, planned decades in 
advance?"
"I think the eve of the millenium is far too blatant for the global 
conspiracy," Mulder said carefully, so carefully that one might have 
mistaken him for a sober man. "They're going to make their move when no 
one's looking. Too many people are out tonight with their shotguns and 
their stockpiles. I think everything's going to work perfectly. No doomsday 
scenario. That's how they'll get our guard down. And you can tell Frank 
Black I said he was full of shit."
"You did remember to get cash from the ATM?" I put my hand on his arm 
and the VCS agents smiled at me the way that they smiled at all the spouses. 
It annoyed me but there was little I could do about it as I'd left my gun back
in the closet at home.
Mulder turned and looked down at me, surprised that I would hang on to 
him. "You okay?" he asked with the black eyes of the seriously stoned.
"Laurel and Hardy are bladder-dancing again," I explained and rubbed at my 
lower back, "and I was trying to make it through an hour without getting 
up."
Mulder bent so that he could whisper in my ear. "Laurel and Hardy? I 
thought we'd settled on Donny and Marie."
"Sonny and Cher."
"Bill and Hillary." It figured that he'd jump to Democrats. Tina was still 
pushing for something biblical, like Miriam and Aaron, and I would name 
my kids LaDwayne and Khrystelle before I'd go along with one of her 
suggestions. Eventually we were going to have to name them, I knew this, 
although Mulder suggested that Girl and Boy weren't that bad and being 
nameless might help keep them out of government records. I wasn't being 
very helpful because I couldn't stand wading through lists of names; I 
figured that I was doing my maternal duty just by shooting down Mulder's 
flights of fancy. Sebastian and Viola, my ass. These kids had enough 
against them without giving them names that practically invited plots and 
confused identities and struggles to survive. Not to mention severe 
playground teasing. 
I smiled and released him to go in search of a bathroom.
Five minutes later, still sitting on the toilet, I had an epiphany. Where
else, 
after all, do modern humans have their epiphanies? Two hundred years ago 
I'm sure most of life's important ideas were had in outhouses or over 
chamberpots. This realization was directly related to the primary activity, 
though -- those weren't bladder pains.
Those were contractions.
I looked at my watch. Waited five minutes.
Another wave of sharp pains.
Oh shit.
I sacrificed one of Zippy's hand-towels and jammed it in my mammoth 
underpants just in time. I was halfway back to the living room when my 
water broke like a cheap condom. Feeling icky and wet, I waddled over to 
where Skinner, the biggest, baddest wallflower I'd ever seen, was watching 
the crowd with a look of dyspeptic cynicism. I think he was having a good 
time. If not, no great loss.
"Are you sober, sir?"
Skinner's face rippled through several varieties of unhappiness. "Why do I 
hesitate to answer that question, Agent Scully?"
"I need someone to drive me to the hospital." I would have done it myself, I 
swear, but the Ford was such a monster that I couldn't crank the seat far 
enough forward to reach the pedals without crushing my overburdened 
stomach.
"And your husband?" He made it sound like a dirty word.
"Robitussin and alcohol. I wouldn't trust him to drive anyway." 
Skinner nodded in understanding. "I'll get my coat. You collect Mulder."
Three glasses of champagne was probably not the bestest of ideas I'd ever 
had. But you can blame it on the drugs. I did. With my head stuffy from 
sickness and the combined heat of fifty sweaty bodies in a smallish living 
room, I was wobbling like King Kong right before he fell off of the tower. 
Everyone was very friendly, and I was developing theories about it: A, they 
were sucking up now that I had some actual responsibility in the Bureau. B, 
a man with a hugely pregnant wife is a sympathetic character. C, I was too 
looped to make my standard witty remarks, since they'd just seem witty to 
me but in actuality be quite moronic, and so I wasn't alienating as many 
people as usual. I was just incoherent enough that the theories seemed 
clever at the time, which is why I wisely kept them to myself and smiled 
with the wisdom of old Ben Kenobi.
I saw people moving apart as if pushed aside by an invisible force. But it 
wasn't invisible, just short. Scully maneuvered herself over to where I was 
sitting like a tugboat navigating a crowded harbor. I smiled. Her face was 
serious, which meant ... absolutely nothing. Her serious face had been 
employed for everything from planned seductions to gunpoint 
interrogations. I once saw her sing a lullaby wearing that expression.
My smile got wider as she leaned over, bracing herself on the sofa back so 
as not to overbalance, and brushed her lips across the top of my ear. 
"Mulder," she whispered in her sultriest autopsy voice, "have you ever 
encountered the theory that the prostaglandins in semen can stimulate 
uterine contractions, hastening the onset of labor?"
"No, I never -- what?" Heads turned to see who had just sucked down a 
lungful of helium in order to squeak like that.
We trooped out to the Ford. For some reason, my AA followed us outside. 
She was cooing at Miranda.
Skinner got the car started while I fumbled with the keys for the passenger 
side. Behind the car, Zippy was panting like a steam locomotive as he 
hoisted Scully into the back compartment where she could lie down and ruin 
the upholstery with ease. I put Miranda into her car seat and she 
immediately began the "you're not driving!" sob cycle, so I knew that she 
was all right. I was surprised when Diane clambered in and plunked herself 
into the passenger seat, twisting herself around so that she could see Scully.
>From my position next to Miranda, all I could see in the rear-view mirror 
was a scythe of Scully's emerald-green belly.
"Why don't you go back to the party?" I suggested weakly as Skinner put 
the car in reverse and peeled out of the driveway, nearly decapitating 
several of Zippy's nicer bushes.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm the only one of you all that has given birth
before," Diane said. She sounded like the repressive mother figure in every 
Tennessee Williams play. "Besides, you can't slow down now."
She was right; Skinner was driving like he was trying to prove that an SUV 
really could do the Indy 500. Miranda was cooing at him with adoration.
The car jerked as he hit the gas so that we could make the last tenth of a 
second of a yellow light. On my side, two cars on the cross street had 
actually started to move before we flashed by. "Ah, sir?" I heard the music 
of car horns rapidly dopplering away behind us. "Sir?" Skinner's mouth 
twitched as if he'd been cattle-prodded. "Skinner?"
"What, Mulder? I'm a little busy right now," he swung us into a three-
quarter turn that made the headlights of the oncoming traffic dance in my 
vision like the aftereffects of a blow to the head.
"D'you -- d'oh!" I lost my never-too-stable balance and slammed into the 
side door as we turned again. Was he trying to find the hospital by process 
of elimination? "D'you think you could *slow the fuck down*, sir?"
"Fuck down!" Miranda sang out and chuckled. If I hadn't been grabbing the 
armrest in terror I would have buried my face in my hands.
"Your wife is about to give birth!" Skinner did outrage well.
"The average labor for a first-time mother lasts well over twelve hours," 
Scully informed us from the back. "I have to concur with Mulder in this 
instance, sir."
I saw the speedometer needle begin to waver and slide to the left and 
breathed a sigh of relief. I didn't want to get maudlin and remind him that 
everything I cared about in the world was riding in this car, but I would 
have. Or at least I would have told him that it was a new car and we hadn't 
made all the payments.
"You oughta get in the back," Diane advised. "Keep her from rolling 
around."
The drugs must have addled me even more than I'd thought because it 
sounded like a great idea and I hurdled over the seat to join Scully. Diane 
pulled out her cellphone and dialed 911.
Next to me, Scully suddenly grabbed my hand hard enough to make me 
worry about my fingerbones. I looked down at her and in the flashing lights 
from the street lamps flickered across her frozen face.
"God, it hurts," she hissed.
"Is it possible that you are in labor?" I asked and the glittering lights from
the houses decorated for the holidays pulsed in the sides of my peripheral 
vision, making me feel vaguely sick.
"It's not possible," she hissed in the same tight voice.
"Was there any bleeding? You must have popped your plug if your water 
broke," Diane offered from the back seat where she was cooing in her dental 
drill tone to the Mooselet.
"I didn't notice anythi--" her voice sliced off in mid-word as Scully's body 
suddenly went into a arched-back spasm as tight as that of anyone I'd ever 
seen shot.
"You're goin' for sure." Diane said, shaking her head. "Yeah, I got a woman 
in labor," she said into the phone. "We're on the -- well, we *were* on 
Richmond Avenue, I'm not too sure where we are now, we crossed Ellis a 
few blocks back. Yes, they do intersect, don't you go tellin' me they don't 
because we were just there, mister."
"Are you sure that it's safe for you to be having labor right now?" Skinner 
inquired as we skidded around a corner on what felt like two wheels.
"I don't think it's my decision at this point," she gasped and gripped my 
hand even tighter.
"Working on the assumption that Agent Scully is actually giving birth right 
now and is not adhering to the normal rule, which surprises me not at all, 
what is the next course of action?"
My brain stuttered for a moment, trying to remember what they had been 
talking about at birthing class. To tell you the truth, I had hardly paid 
attention. I was far more interested in the sheer absurdity of twenty upper 
middle-class couples lying on the floor in the classroom with pillows piled 
around them trying to assume a calm and relaxed attitude while a creature 
not much smaller than a football helmet was trying to escape through a 
tunnel only about as wide as my Johnson. All the while the woman teaching 
the course jingled her silver jewelry and cooed about deep breaths and 
cleansing breaths. I needed a couple of cleansing breaths right about then to
clear the cobwebs of cold medicine and champagne out of my already thick 
brainpan.
Scully answered Skinner herself, since she had never been able to let me 
offer an opinion on her behalf.
She roared like some animal out on the veldt. 
Skinner slammed on the brakes and we all jerked around like Boggle cubes, 
which thrilled Miranda whose laughter added to my general feeling that my 
brain was about to implode. Scully took the opportunity to reassert 
command. "Just keep driving, sir. I've got everything else --ungh -- under 
control." She grimaced and it went straight to my heart. I mean, there's a 
reason that women give birth in hospitals and not in the back of an SUV. If 
it were safe, Madonna would probably have done it. "It's okay," she told 
me, softly enough that the others probably couldn't hear. "Twins are smaller 
and so twin births are generally less severe. I'll be fine."
"Aren't you the cutest little punkin?" Diane asked Miranda, her voice 
twanging like an out-of-tune guitar.
"Agent Mulder," Skinner said, his voice strained to the breaking point, 
"your assistant's accent was charming four lights ago."
"Don't look at me," I said. "I'm trying to remember if there's a good place
to 
dump a body between here and the hospital."
"I heard that," Diane snapped. "No, not you," she told the cellphone. "She's
goin' fast now, she's got twins -- do we need to cut the first one's cord
before 
the second comes out?"
"Go ahead and push if you need to," I said miserably.
"Mulder! I can't push now, it's important to relax now in order to avoid 
tearing!" I could have lived without the image. Well, at least I was 
providing the useful service of keeping her annoyance focused elsewhere. 
Diane looked back at us. "They've just got to slide right out there if she's 
ready."
Ready or not ... 
Scully gasped like a woman transfixed by a sign from God. I could hear her 
teeth grinding together as she struggled to make her muscles obey her will. 
I wanted to tell her that I loved her but I thought that it wasn't quite the
right 
time. And then I looked down, and there was a baby coming out of her! 
Not an entire baby, not yet, but a round wet head like a rubber ball.
"The baby's head is out now," Diane informed the 911 operator breathlessly. 
Then she held the handset away from her and looked at it as if it had farted. 
"He put me on hold!"
Skinner pulled over to the side and parked. He twisted around and 
conferred with Diane in hushed tones. I was watching a miracle.
"You have to catch the baby," Scully warned and I felt as light as a balloon, 
like I was only drifting by, but I put my hands out to catch it, feeling the
hot 
wet of Scully's body. The head was first, the eyes closed and the face red 
with blood and outrage. Shoulders, small and white in comparison to the 
oversized head, and then a torso.
It looked like an X File. A really juicy one, with slides. Its -- his --
head 
was huge and red and hairless, his body was covered with a creamy white 
goo, and he was wrinkled like a golden raisin. He opened her mouth and 
wailed at me, his eyes still shut against this large unfamiliar world. He had
good lungs.
"Welcome to Earth," I said.
He screamed again. 
I assume that he meant "take me to your leader," and held him up so he 
could see Scully.
I realized that I had been spending *way* too much time with Disney 
movies when I could only define the moment by thinking that I was feeling 
kinship with Simba's father in The Lion King. Maybe it was the emotions 
of the moment or maybe it was the cough medicine and champagne mix, but 
I wanted to sing - with joy. And what did I want to sing? "The Circle of 
Life," of course. And if that wasn't embarrassing, I don't know what was. 
Instead, I bundled the complaining infant up against my chest, for once not 
worrying about my shirt and tie.
****
Distantly, over the baby's wails, I could hear shouting and cheering. I'd
like 
to think that it was for me, but on the other hand I didn't want anyone else
to 
see me this way. It was the New Year, the final year of the Millenium and 
the din was intense, even in my somewhat distracted condition.
"Do you realize," Mulder breathed in my ear, his voice bright with 
excitement, "we're going to have twins who were born one millenium 
apart?"
I breathed in and out. "Technically, Mulder, that's not --" 
"Here comes the other one!" he cried, just so Skinner and Diane wouldn't 
think that it had all been a big mistake and there was only one kid, plus a 
whole lot of blubber, in there.
It hurt less the second time. That, or the shock was setting in. Giving
birth 
is probably not quite as painful as getting shot. It is, however, not nearly
as 
pleasant as the standard process by which children are conceived. The baby 
girl came quietly, and I nearly panicked before Mulder confirmed that she 
was breathing. As if to bypass Mulder altogether, she began to squeal like a 
cat in a bathtub full of water. The twins complained in chorus. Mulder had 
one in each hand and I hoped he didn't take it in mind to start juggling. A 
Mulder drunk and on cough medicine was a dangerous man.
I passed a few blood clots and the placentae then, about which the less said 
the better, and finally Mulder gave the babies back to me. I wanted to start 
nursing right then, to get the antibody-rich colustrum in them immediately 
before the doctors started stealing them away and sealing them behind glass 
in the name of safety. I tugged my dress up further -- it wasn't as if
Skinner 
and Diane hadn't seen me in an intimate context already -- and pushed my 
bra out of the way. Mulder was staring at me like one of his aliens.
The first tugs against my nipples were so intense that my pain began to fade, 
replaced by the awe that Mulder wore so much better than I did.
The car began to move again as Mulder covered me with his coat, the 
babies' cantaloupe-soft heads peeking out from underneath the expensive 
wool, and I breathed in the hot, organic air around me. We stared down at 
them, amazed, as their natural sucking reflexes started to work. They were 
Mulder's, for sure, unwilling to take time away from my breasts even for the 
standard amount of crying.
We couldn't have been driving for five minutes when the car stopped again, 
blocking the emergency doors to the hospital, and Skinner leapt out to call 
for assistance. I heard the metallic creak of a gurney approaching and I 
smiled up at Mulder. "Cordelia and Bram," I said.
"Perfect," he replied, which might have been the most surprising event of 
the night, and then the hospital personnel descended on me like MIBs with a 
fallen angel. They even had tiny hats for the babies' heads to keep them 
from feeling the chill January midnight.
As I was hustled away from the SUV in a gurney with the twins in their 
charming knit hats bundled up against me, I saw Mulder, coatless and pale 
standing next to the vehicle with a well-wrapped Miranda in his arms. She 
gawped at me as if I'd grown another head or two.
"Bay-bees?" she asked.
"Say 'hi' to your brother and sister, Moose."
"Shit," she said.
****
Even though the hospital computers had seized up from the advent of the 
Millenium, there were forms to fill out and questions to be answered, which 
I did, in a shocky daze. The Moose sat on the counter and accepted the 
adoration of the ER's night staff. It was an hour before the powers that be 
let the Moose and me in to see Scully and the babies. During the interval, 
the silent Bo, Diane's husband, collected her and Skinner to go back to the 
party to get their cars. There were hugs and backslapping. Diane planted a 
deep red kiss on my cheek, which I had to wipe off as soon as she left. I 
think Skinner might have hugged me, but I'm not willing to defame either of 
our characters by stating it as a fact.
Scully was propped up in a hospital bed, looking better than she usually did 
under that circumstance. Tired, she looked tired and her hair was in an 
impressive state of messiness. The twins were diapered and stuffed side by 
side like pink cocktail hot dogs in white pastry wrapping in a hospital 
bassinet by her bedside. I don't know who she had to kill to get that 
arranged, but I know I felt slightly sorry for whatever nurse had been 
assigned to her. Leaning over the side of the bassinet, she was poking at 
their wiggling pink limbs and looking down at them with a frown of great 
concentration.
Since I know my place in the Universe, I held out a cup of coffee I had 
stolen from the nurses' lounge. Without looking up from the babies, Scully 
held out her hand for the cup and sipped at it while she watched the pair of 
babies wiggle and whine. I sat on the edge of the bed and plunked the 
Moose down where she could look down into the bassinet as well.
"Bram," Scully said, pointing at the baby with the powder blue knit hat. 
"Cordelia," she pointed at the baby in the pink knit hat. We were going to 
have to do something about those rigid gender roles. Orange and green, 
maybe.
"Bay-bees," the Mooselet agreed and looked up at Scully to make sure it 
was all right.
Scully smiled at both the Moose and myself and her smile was brighter than 
the ball dropping in Times Square. 
"They are both over seven and a half pounds each, Bram is twenty inches 
long and Cordelia is nineteen. Which means that I was basically all baby so 
you can't make any fat chick jokes."
"Scully, I'd think you were the sexiest thing in the world if you were built 
like an anteater."
I got the eyebrow for that one, but she continued on without pausing, "There 
aren't any green polyps or vesicles on either of them, they have the right 
number of finger and toes, and when you call your mother don't bother 
scheduling a Bris." 
I nodded, as we'd already discussed that and decided that it was best to have 
the baby boy -- Bram -- circumcised while he was still disoriented and 
before he knew what he was missing. 
"I'm exercising my postpartum prerogative to be antisocial. Will you call 
my mother?"
I don't know whether it was the residual drugs in my system or just the fact 
that this call from the hospital was good news, but I agreed without protest 
and went to find a pay phone. Maggie's voice was bleary from being woken 
from a deep REM cycle.
"Dana just gave birth," I told her. "If you want to meet the twins I suggest 
you get over here while she's still sedated."
"How are the babies?" she asked, grandma to the core.
"Loud."
"How are you?"
"Fine right now, ask me again in sixteen years." 
TH' END
IT'S OVER - GO HOME
Notes:
MS: Okay, look, after all that's happened since the Iolokus stories began,
we've 
been getting a lot of feedback indicating that our idea of a happy ending 
didn't conform to the cultural norm. So, here we have excessive restoration 
of the domestic ideal - babies are born and there is much rejoicing. Order is
restored and the world spins again on greased grooves. Time goes on and 
our little group lives on, no more and no less happy than any other suburban 
family.
RT: Yah, what she said. This little ditty is our present to you for making
it
all the way to the end with us.
 
 
 
 

            Jobsonline.com


            undefined
            More...



            [Close]



            [Close]


            undefined

  

    Source: geocities.com/mustangsally78