TITLE: A Midnight Clear
AUTHOR: mountainphile
RATING: R for language
CATEGORY: MSR, another Christmas story
FEEDBACK: mountainphile@yahoo.com
URL: http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile
SPOILERS: Post "The Truth" and sequel to the Christmas
tale "What Child Is This?" These two stories can be enjoyed
as standalones, but for maximum appreciation I suggest
reading the previous one first:
http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile/whatchild.txt
DISTRIBUTION: Since it's an honor to be archived, tell me
where so I can visit. Also, please link to the story only
through my website.
DESCRIPTION: The phrase "Peace on earth, good will toward
men" is nothing more than outdated drivel, considering what
he knows of the future. However, this Christmas Eve
stranger realities shanghai Mulder's thoughts from doomsday
concerns.
DISCLAIMER: In the holiday spirit I'm once again borrowing
these very special characters for a jaunt. Chris Carter,
1013 Productions and TPTB still retain all ownership and
rights.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: In truth, I never expected to write this
story, but apparently the muse had other ideas. Deepest
thanks to Diana Battis, for beta, encouragement, and the
creation of an amazing dustjacket; and to Forte for another
discerning beta romp. Happy holidays to all!
A Midnight Clear
by mountainphile
******
This is the way the world will end, Mulder thinks, gazing
through the window into blue-black night.
Not with a preemptive bang or a whimper, but in the guise
of perfect normalcy. Like starlight on the cold chalkboard
of heaven, peppering the sky, mesmerizing the earth into
holiday's complacency. Invasion designed to take humankind
unaware by means of an ultimate finesse.
The heavy-handed approach was abrogated by the fall of the
old consortium and the death of the Smoking Man in New
Mexico. Failure, caused by human mistiming,
disorganization, alien infighting, and in a large way, he
hopes, his ongoing quest for the truth. His dogged
interference joined by Scully's, a true partner in crime.
For nearly a decade they've been two flies in the
Consortium's black ointment.
He knows the date's set for such a finale. December 22,
2012 and the clock ticks, the sand runs unhindered. All
too often his panic look of silent terror stares back at
him from the mirror, because Fate's hourglass can't be
flipped to forestall the unstoppable.
They've altered appearances to augment their cover. He
likes the subtle honey dye on Scully's silky hair, but
despises the natural silver that flecks his own chin. The
goatee was her suggestion. Though the additional trimming
is a nuisance, he admits his camouflage seems effective.
He looks different, older, transformed from discredited
former-FBI agent-turned-criminal to mild-mannered George
McHale, new college instructor with privacy issues.
Each day while winging his classes in beginning psychology
for first-year students, he ponders this inevitable
holocaust. After work, he eats a small dinner, grades
paperwork, and awaits Scully's return from her shift at the
hospital ER. They talk and touch, sometimes intimately
into the night. Then he sleeps in fits and starts,
dreaming Technicolor Armageddon until dawn.
Such is his present, furtive life on the run in pre-
apocalypse Grand Junction, Colorado. Not his best career
move, but expedient for the times.
Resources wear thin and few messages are leaking through
from the resistance headed by Kersh and Skinner. As a
result, scant progress has been made over the last six
months and Mulder wonders whether a power shift has sent
them underground, curtailing their involvement for the
present. He tamps down his anxiety, reassured by the fact
they haven't materialized out of thin air yet, like other
ghosts from his former life.
Even though it's that traditional "Night Before" date, the
spare McHale apartment on Mesa Drive offers no clue.
Scully needn't have deterred him from decorating for the
holiday because the practical matter of survival takes
priority. He was never a huge fan of Christmas frivolity
anyway, after Samantha disappeared. Now he simply can't
relate, with his focus light-years away from twinkling
trees and wrapped gifts beneath.
Call him jaded, but he considers the trite "season for
miracles" propaganda to be nothing more than religious
book. Holiday fables haven't jived with what he knows to
be legitimate paranormal phenomena and reputable urban
legend. Even now he questions what really happened that
blood-soaked Christmas Eve at Maurice and Lyda's mansion.
Considering what he knows of the future, the phrase "Peace
on earth, good will toward men" is nothing more than
outdated drivel.
Until tonight. This Christmas Eve, stranger realities
shanghai Mulder's thoughts from doomsday concerns.
For the moment he feels incapable of speech, like the woman
who's huddled against his chest, limp from overwork and
weeping. Bleary-eyed he strokes Scully's hair, staring out
toward the dark sky, craving answers.
The truth.
On the couch beside them rests the fuzzy brown baseball
mitt she brought home from the hospital. A toy that has
all the power to squeeze his aching heart dry.
Her story about meeting William -- is it wishful thinking
by a woman plagued with guilt and regret over a decision
made in desperate times? Or is it evidence that their son
is alive and well, breathing the same Colorado air they do
at this very moment, on this very night?
Supernatural encounter? Or a case, however cruel, of
mistaken identity?
Scully seems so convinced of the former that every molecule
of her being is affected. Only a short time before, she
rushed into their apartment, pouring out her tale and
chasing it with a flood of tears. To say he was stunned is
understatement. Her sobbing avowals, the soggy little
toy... to say nothing of the silky reddish filaments glued
to the palm of her hand --
Definitive proof? DNA testing would be crucial, but nearly
impossible to accomplish in their present circumstances.
She realizes this as well as he does.
She's always been the pragmatist in their partnership,
self-contained and sensible to a fault. Experiencing her
outburst, the raw depth of her anguish has shaken him to
the core. He finds that it's his turn on this revolving
merry-go-round of emotion. From a psychological standpoint
he knows that the mere absence of a loved one isn't what
causes the pain, but sudden renewed awareness of that loss,
akin to ripping open a scab nearly healed.
While comforting the mother of his child, he feels the need
to grieve for William all over again.
Tear-damp cheek on his shoulder, Scully finally drowses in
the aftermath, eyes closed, her breathing slightly ragged.
Her body's familiarity and slender softness, the wisps of
hair tickling his mouth, bring his love for her more
acutely home. He admits that on occasion miracles do
occur. Scully's pregnancy and William's birth are cases in
point to say nothing of what they've both experienced
working the X-files.
Sighing, he strokes the fuzzy toy and realizes he has no
tangible gift to offer Scully in return for this little
mitt, no matter what its purported origin.
He decides to hit the midnight streets in order to hunt up
a present, ruminate on recent events, and search his own
heart.
"I'm going out for a while," he explains in a whisper,
easing her wilted body down so she rests prone on the
couch. He drapes her with a blanket and is reminded of
another night not so long ago. One that began with mutual
conjecture over tea and ended between his sheets in a
thorough exploration of the final frontier that remained
between them. He knew even then, after tasting such
intimacy, that he could never go back to the way things had
been before.
"Mulder, it's late!" She blanches, eyes wide with sudden
panic. She imagines him cruising the city in pursuit of
their child and the potential ramifications --
"No," he smiles and shakes his head, reading her. "Nothing
like that. And if anything, it's early. I just need some
air. To think things over."
This she understands, knowing his habits. They kiss, her
fears assuaged. Reaction makes her limp and sleepy. She
welcomes the blanket's warmth and, fetus-like, curls up on
her side to await his return.
Zipping his coat he hesitates, turns, and then on a whim
slips the plush little toy into his coat pocket.
Outside, Christmas Eve slips over the edge into Christmas
Day proper. Has it been only forty minutes since Scully
came home? Stars and multicolored lights twinkle through
the darkness. The air is quiet except for an occasional
car panting across frosty asphalt and echoes of holiday
cheer. "All is calm, all is bright," the carol maintains
this night should be.
Yeah, Mulder scoffs. Just as the world will most likely
end, on a midnight clear, with aliens-for-angels.
In Oregon he was taken away from earth on such a night,
just like Scully had been at Skyland Mountain. Later, on
another starlit evening, she gave birth to their child at
great risk and in an agony of terror. Under the zombie
gazes of mutant Super Soldiers bent on stealing him away,
to implement their evil plan for takeover.
He stands alone in the parking lot, breath misting, to
contemplate the heavens.
What does the future hold for mankind this Christmas Day,
knowing what he knows now? The logic doesn't jive. In a
burst of agnosticism he questions whether this holiday has
finally become obsolete, a mere religious opiate for the
masses until the final takeover.
He'd never suggest it to Scully, but Nietzsche could end up
being more prophet than philosopher after all.
He also chastises himself for negligence, for being too
preoccupied with his own concerns to anticipate any
psychological consequences surfacing in the woman he loves.
Holidays are traditional fodder for depression, mania,
regret, and loneliness.
Worse, his knee-jerk reaction when she rushed into their
apartment was to disbelieve her story. Bad form. He
assumed she might be grasping at straws when making her
case for the unbelievable. And since Catholicism pushes a
doctrine of works, he suspected the rigors of her job in
the ER were a form of penance, a purgatory through which,
in her own mind, she might obtain eventual absolution and
atonement for her sin.
As Scully would say, he's over-thinking the situation. And
her story is certainly worthy of his acceptance and belief,
considering the incredible slack she's given to him over
the last decade.
He unlocks the car, gets in, and drives into the night.
The toy, pulled idly from his pocket, gives a sleigh bell
jingle in his hand. He squeezes it, then sniffs at the
plush fur, discovering a mixture of Scully scent and
something else. A sweetly stale odor, familiar yet
indefinable. Is this what his son smells like? Is this
what he was deprived of by his own long absence?
He thinks back to all the things he hasn't deserved and
received anyway. What was offered and then denied. Things
he allowed to slip away through his fingers...
Fatherhood eludes him, handed off to another man. Scully
did what she thought was best for that desperate time, but
it still pains him that he only knew William as a tiny
mewling infant several days old. In wonder he watched him
open his little rosebud mouth to seize her nipple, cheeks
working and eyes closed. Felt in his own arms the baby's
feather weight. Bestowed a good-bye kiss on that small
melon head the next morning, before fading into obscurity
and out of their lives.
He never even got to help change one fucking diaper.
Upon his return he was thrown behind bars and his son
reduced to flashbacks. Scully remained his constant, taut
from fear of the unknown and ashen with regret. Yet
tonight she claims the child recognized her after nearly a
year apart. Hugged her, called her "Mama." That same
recognition would never happen for Mulder with his scant
pinch of involvement before bailing out.
One or two night's worth of cuddling does not a lasting
impression make at a few days of age. This Mulder knows,
yet he feels disproportionately wronged, wounded beyond
belief.
The highway blurs, a frequent occurrence when he's alone.
Swallow, breathe deeply, blink, dab. Repeat a few times
until the ache eases. Focus on the lights ahead.
He wipes his eyes one last time and peers out the window.
No self-respecting stores remain open for business,
especially in these first dark hours of Christmas morning,
but he's up to the challenge of finding a gift for Scully.
She expects little. Wants nothing more than his love and a
future for each of them. That first thing she already
possesses and he's working hard on a solution for the
second.
Something small then, with special significance, though her
gift to him is an impossible act to follow.
Navigating the dark streets, he sees that gas stations and
convenience stores are his only option. Well, a dose of
caffeine might perk him up and quicken the process.
He accelerates towards the fringe of the city, to the motel
strip and fast food haven near the interstate and spots a
large convenience store open for business. It's flanked by
one of the cheaper motel chains and crawls with activity
for such a god-awful hour. Holiday travelers and truckers
are gassing up, grabbing coffee and a bite to eat, shaking
off fatigue before continuing on their respective journeys.
A glowing microcosm, the place teems with life, warmth, and
the briefest of human companionship. A watering hole for
ships in the night.
Even more encouraging, through the window he spots several
aisles of gift items, designed purely with the tourist in
mind. A gold mine to Mulder's eclectic taste.
He enters and scopes the place. It's loud, bright,
garishly decorated and comfortably warm. Christmas music
blares, and he catches the last tinny notes of "Winter
Wonderland" before they segue into "Silent Night."
It's also filled with kids, some accompanied by parents and
others roaming alone in small packs. Kids of all ages,
restless from long car rides, manhandle the arcade games,
loudly consume corn dogs and hot chocolate at the booths,
and scrap together over which candy bars to purchase.
Too many at the wrong time make his stomach clench.
The line for coffee reaches nearly to the restrooms, so he
bags it to continue his gift-hunting for Scully. Skirting
past truckers and weary vacationers, he works the aisle,
passing up rows of tourist kitsch: polished stones glued to
picture frames, mugs and snow globes, tiny worthless
spoons, refrigerator magnets, and shot glasses, all
emblazoned with "Grand Junction, Colorado."
Not until he reaches the dining area does he find real pay
dirt.
Keychain paradise.
A gargantuan assortment dangles enticingly, like a myriad
of metallic tree ornaments. Sports teams, historical
events, beer brands with bottle openers, celebrities, TV
and movie themes, nostalgia, cartoon characters, western
state emblems, and political logos. Here's the perfect
opportunity to replace the commemorative keychain he'd
given to Scully years ago and which she's passed on to
someone else during his absence.
He refuses to explore similar parallels.
Instead he admires the wealth before him. The Apollo 11
keychain, he recalls, had been a pretty thing edged with
gold, bearing an eagle poised in the act of landing on the
moon, next to a safe and distant earth. How times have
changed.
Scully's appreciation was hesitant, though her eloquence
over the intent of that birthday gift always tickled him.
He remembered her long-winded and articulate explanation
about extraordinary people and their moments in history.
About perseverance and teamwork, and the sacrifices of
those who make landmark achievements possible.
Sacrifice, he feels, still being the operative word these
days and in the short time remaining --
He crouches before the low display, perusing what's
available, what's attractive, what she'd find meaningful as
a gift from the hundreds of chains that crowd one another
and sway from long hooks.
Within spitting distance two women occupy the nearest
booth, chatting together while they ride herd on their
numerous offspring. Kids of varying ages squirm in and out
of the seats diagonal to theirs. The mothers seem glad for
the few feet of space, away from the din, mess, and
perpetual motion.
From scraps of conversation that tempt his ears, he deduces
that both women are strangers who have met for the first
time tonight. They speak with an easy rapport and
language, from a secret sisterhood of married females who
care for young children and raise families.
Has Scully ever spoken this way? Unburdening herself to
another woman about husbands' demands and the hassles of
being wife, mother, nursemaid, chauffeur, and housekeeper?
Knowing her the way he does, he has his doubts.
"Deck The Halls" fills the airwaves and the silver Navy
Seals keychain captures his interest. As his brain adjusts
to the new volume and rhythm overhead, snatches of
conversation bleed through the music again.
"... this many people around, as long as they're close by,
they're fine. I see your little guy right there, near my
two. Hey, buddy, come back here and don't give your Mom a
heart attack for Christmas... "
Mulder glances idly toward the left and notices the object
of their discussion lurking behind a display of potato
chips and trail mix. Short and feral, he peeks between the
packages, playing hide-and-seek.
"He's very shy around strangers. We don't live in a
regular neighborhood, so he doesn't get to play with other
kids that often."
"You poor thing! And you've got a lo-ong way to go before
he starts kindergarten or even nursery school," laments the
first woman. "How old did you say he is?"
"Not even two yet."
A hum of compassion. "How are you feeling now?"
Puzzled by the comment, Mulder hazards a peek in their
direction. Brown-haired and well into her thirties, the
woman facing him wears the haggard mask of a weary
traveler. She yawns often, casting worried looks toward
the chip rack. Mulder notices that a fresh bandage,
partially obscured by bangs, is taped high on her forehead.
Her fingers press the center gingerly.
"I'm okay for now and my little guy is too wired to settle
down. It's important my husband get in a few good hours of
sleep first. We'll probably be back on the road at first
light. A little later than we thought, but after what
happened tonight... "
He swallows. Waits for her to continue.
"Now, how *did* that happen?"
"It wasn't our fault; someone hit us from behind at a
stoplight. Fortunately no one else was hurt. The visor
gave me a pretty deep cut, but I'll be okay."
"A Christmas to remember! How did you ever manage at the
hospital with your little boy?"
Suspense and anticipation prickle Mulder's scalp. He's
already heard a version of this story just a little while
ago from Scully's lips. Knees complaining, he adjusts his
crouch, settling in as he pretends to browse the keychains.
"They were so nice there! We went to the smaller one not
far from here. Community Hospital, I think it's called.
My husband said a doctor watched him for us."
Mulder's heartbeat ratchets a notch. He sweats, his throat
closing.
"Isn't that strange? I mean, isn't it more of a nurse sort
of thing to do?"
"I suppose. But she was a lady doctor, so maybe that
explains why she offered. My husband said our boy really
took a liking to her. He gave her a big hug and
everything."
"Wow... I don't call that being a bit shy."
Leaning against the chip rack, the red-haired tot under
discussion balances on one sturdy leg, swinging the other
back and forth. Comically he bobs his small head in sage
agreement, pert mouth fluctuating from a pucker to a grin
and back again. When the two women notice and laugh at his
antics, he hides his face behind a pudgy hand.
"He's simply precious!" the other woman gushes, leaning
toward him. "Grandma and Grandpa are just gonna eat you
up, darlin'!"
The child backs away from her, swallowed by yet another
tangle of kids at play.
His mother quickly intervenes, her tone hushed. "They
haven't seen him in person yet. Except for the pictures,
of course. That's why this visit's really special."
Down from Wyoming, Scully had said. The woman's name and
address are hospital record.
Soft strains of music drown her voice momentarily, a
holiday ballad seeking heartfelt answers to deep questions
concerning a child...
"Right, that's what I thought you meant before. Well,
remember what happens when you adopt -- the next year you
end up conceiving one of your own... "
"No. No, I doubt that'll be an option for us... "
For Mulder their words are lost puzzle pieces coming to
light, finding their places in a bigger picture. Like gems
of confirmation that tumble over him in a cooling whir,
blanketing him snowdrift deep. He closes his eyes before
the keychains in a posture akin to prayer. Feeling
invisible to his surroundings, he surrenders to
possibilities beyond his understanding.
Heat stirs the hair near Mulder's left ear and he smells
the now-familiar scent of the furry brown mitt he sniffed
minutes ago in the car, the one Scully brought home
tonight. Stale-sweet, an odor of kid breath and sweat
breaks the spell and he turns his head.
The toddler stands a hair's-breadth away.
"Hey there," Mulder rasps, scarcely daring to exhale, lest
the little fluffy-haired boy disappear in a nanosecond like
all the other apparitions in his life do.
Up close the child looks older, more earnest than shy,
staring back at Mulder with intelligent brown eyes.
Unspookable. That pointed chin, and even more unnerving, a
telltale arch in the right eyebrow. Scully's true hair
color and an early hint of the Mulder nose. Christened
with the name of two dead fathers, he exists in the shadow
of this secret pedigree, gifted with genes from parents who
have both survived exposure to an alien virus.
"Hey... wanna help me pick out a special present?"
The child considers, one forefinger on the center of his
full lower lip, pulling it downward as though testing the
extent of its give. All at once he grins broadly, so
endearingly, that without thinking Mulder reciprocates and
the world coalesces into a wet blur.
Above them the poignant strains of "What Child Is This?"
melt into "It Came Upon A Midnight Clear"...
His smile trembles; he tastes salt on a lower lip identical
to this child's. Who would have thought that Grand
Junction, Colorado would be the new Bethlehem, where a
father could once again behold his only begotten son?
To their left, the mother's voice surfaces.
"...always teething on something," she complains to her
companion, flustered. "I wish I could find that new toy my
mother sent to him last week. He's been chewing the
daylights out of it and carrying it everywhere."
Her companion suggests, "Maybe he lost it at the hospital."
Mulder accepts this new gem of evidence as the clincher,
but enjoys the humor as well. "Looks like the Old Man
didn't rat on you," he whispers to the boy. "So, which one
of these will it be? I'll tell her you picked it out."
"'Kay."
That small voice, also sunken into a whisper! Despite the
boy's attention, Mulder recognizes innocence and a lack of
true understanding. He knows this is not the place to
unburden himself, or the right time to impart his version
of a father's blessing on this boy. Opportunity is
draining away, like the sand in the damn hourglass...
He prompts gently, "Which one?"
"Oh darn, he's disappeared on me again! Where are you?"
The boy glances toward his adoptive mother and the
intensity of the spell disintegrates. Impulsively he grabs
one of the keychains from a hook and shoves his clammy
little fist into Mulder's palm before trundling back out
into the open.
"There he is!"
"Honey, that one's sure going to keep you hopping..."
It's all Mulder can do to gather his emotions, locate the
cashier on shaky legs, purchase the item, and find his way
out the door.
Back in the car he releases the hold he's kept on himself.
Tears streak his face and he sits behind the wheel for long
minutes, mourning what's been lost and at the same time
rejoicing in that which he stumbled upon tonight. He
wishes Scully were right here beside him. The desire to
take her in his arms, to unleash his thoughts and share his
heart with her is almost painful in its intensity.
He knows now how she felt.
What to make of this Christmas, 2002? A family splintered
apart by evil circumstance, reuniting over one enchanted
midnight hour in a city of refuge. It bears all the
hallmarks of a fairytale -- or of a bonafide miracle.
The fact remains that, coupled with the information stored
at the hospital, they can monitor this child as the minutes
tick toward a close encounter of the Doomsday kind.
Earlier, he contemplated with Scully the authenticity of
those few strands of hair she salvaged as DNA evidence.
One day soon he'll see they get that proof, before an
invasion ever comes.
They share a conviction that the dead aren't lost, that
they speak from beyond the grave. By listening, he
believes there's a chance to save the world. Perhaps
events perceived as coincidental or miraculous are just
another aspect of the same transcendental plan, one greater
and more powerful than any alien force.
Like these magical visitations tonight...
Strangely, gazing up into the clear dark sky, he feels a
new surge of hope for the future.
Along with the jingly baseball mitt, this keychain for
Scully will be the extent of their Christmas giving to one
another. If she's so moved, she can fill in between the
lines, elaborating on the inner meaning and eloquent intent
of the gift, like she's done before.
In his haste, he never even glanced at the keychain the boy
picked -- just paid for the thing and ran to the car before
torrential emotion overtook him.
He digs in his pocket, pulls it out. The backside gleams
of silver in the neon lights that beam through the
windshield, with a rectangular shape below the thick key
ring. Wondering what design caught the child's fancy and
might still have special meaning for Scully, Mulder flips
it over.
In his palm nestles the state flag of Wyoming.
******
The End
December 15, 2004
(
geocities.com/xmas_files)