The Twelve Days of X-Fic
By Joann Humby
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25 December
Pulling on the bow, sliding her fingernails gently under the tape,
Dana Katherine Scully successfully unwrapped the gift without
tearing the paper. Bill Scully delivered a round of applause and his
little sister blushed slightly in proud acknowledgement.
Ten minutes later and Maggie Scully's living room was strewn with
multi-colored ribbons, tinsel and foil wrappings, the pattern of
mayhem disrupted only by the clear floorspace around Dana and the
neatly folded stack of paper and carefully unraveled ribbons at her
side.
Maggie Scully shook her head, amused by the comparison.
"It's a challenge," her daughter noted, smiling an "I Win" sort of
smirk at her brother.
Dinner was magical, the meat moist, the vegetables impeccable, the
mood jovial, the conversation light. Childish laughter rang through
the house. Charlie hadn't made it home this year, but nobody was
surprised. At least he'd remembered to send them cards.
Even with all this good fortune, some blessings remained and as they
sat around the roaring log fire it was Dana who led the first chorus
of "Silent Night."
Mulder sat at home eating his Hungry Man Turkey Microwave Ready
Meal. The Gunmen had gone snowboarding, but the thought of all that
ice hadn't really appealed, though he had made a Doom date with them
for midnight.
In any case, it was lucky that he hadn't arranged anything because
he was going to have to fly out tomorrow. More precisely they were
going to have to fly out tomorrow, though he hadn't had the heart to
tell Scully that yet. He had this vague hope that after a
trouble-free Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, Scully would be ready
for adventure on the twenty-sixth.
And according to that theory a phone-call early in the morning
ruining her post-Christmas snooze would be better than a call
ruining her family holiday.
Scully was just a little giggly as she tumbled into bed a few hours
later, sparkling wine and eggnog and probably just a bit too much
ho-ho-ho all round. She munched down the last of the disgustingly
sweet Cherry Liqueurs that Charlie had sent from somewhere in Europe.
After all Christmas did come but once a year.
A bit like her really.
She giggled at that, before realizing that it wasn't funny. Sad
maybe, but not funny. Actually Christmas was shit and watching her
family tiptoe around any mention of children, lovers or work was
vaguely insulting as well as slightly bizarre.
Wonderful she decided, tumbling onto the bed and feeling the sudden
hot then cold sensation of liquid on skin as a tear dribbled into
her ear, now she was a morose drunk.
Still, the great thing about being Scully was that she always knew
that there was someone worse off than her who would be desperate to
hear her voice. She picked up her cellphone and hit the first
speed-dial.
"Merry Christmas, Scully," he announced.
"Merry Christmas, Mulder. How did you know it was me?"
"Caller ID," he replied without taking his eyes off the computer
screen or his fingers off the mouse.
"Oh," she sighed, disappointed and not quite sure why.
"Good day?" he questioned.
"Wonderful." Just absolutely fucking marvelous. She sighed again.
Mulder waited until it was clear she had nothing more to say before
continuing. "Actually I was going to call you in the morning. We've
got a case. We're booked on a 2 o'clock flight tomorrow. Do you want
me to pick you up?"
"What?"
He painstakingly repeated his speech, word for word, lack of
inflexion for lack of inflexion.
She was not amused.
26 December
The flight's arrival had been delayed by what might have been snow
flurries to the forecaster but looked more like a full-scale
blizzard to anyone on board the plane. Awakening suddenly as the
strobelike flutter of landing lights on falling snow blazed through
the windows Scully grabbed his wrist, clutching hard enough to draw
blood, then pulled back her fingers an instant later as she became
fully conscious.
Mulder glanced down at the neat red crescents branded into his
flesh, only one of them had actually broken the skin. What the hell
did they make those artificial nails out of anyway? Kevlar? Maybe
something ceramic like those knives that never need sharpening? He
sighed, wondering if the nail varnish she wore was toxic but
concluding that it was safer not to ask.
"You're sure that Skinner said we have to be here today?" she
growled, the first words she'd spoken since boarding the flight.
What was that supposed to mean? Actually, Skinner had ordered Mulder
to fly out three days ago and had only withdrawn the instruction on
being reminded by his secretary that all flights on the
twenty-fourth are full of people returning home to enjoy the season
of peace and goodwill with their adoring families. Or not. The
twenty-sixth was almost a compromise.
Mulder pushed himself to his feet, handed her the bag from the
overhead locker, tried not to sound too irritated, failed. "You
think I manufactured a case, just so you wouldn't get a vacation?"
She lifted her chin in challenge and Mulder decided not to prolong
the debate, grabbed his own case and concentrated on willing the
flight attendant to open the plane door. He soon got his wish and
the icy draft of air to go with it.
The 45-minute drive to the hotel took 3 hours and Scully slept all
the way. Which was probably a good thing as the longer she slept the
less likely she was to be still complaining tomorrow about that
hangover headache that she'd described as a virus. Or about the
after-effects of the pig-out that she'd put her stomach through but
which she now said was a slight muscular strain caused by doing too
many sit-ups. He snorted at the transparency of the lies.
"What?" she challenged, her eyes flying open the instant Mulder
brought the car to a halt in the snow banked parking lot.
Mulder was just grateful that his other wrist wasn't within grabbing
distance. "We're there." There - Mulder noted, was depressingly
festive. Just great - even the hotel insisted on reminding Scully
that she was supposed to be at home doing that Christmas stuff.
The hotel was full, but by some miracle or perhaps merely by some
seasonably guilty twinge on the part of the AD, Skinner's assistant
had at least insisted to the hotel that their rooms be kept safe
despite their late arrival.
They moved gratefully to their allotted numbers. It was already 3am,
which meant that food was going to be a matter of getting lucky with
whichever pizza company really meant the bit about 365 days / 24
hours. Scully said she didn't want anything, which made sense.
Mulder suspected she might not eat for days after what she'd
admitted to tucking away. But he was hungry, and already too tired
to sleep. He switched on the TV and waited. And waited. And waited.
Ninety minutes. Not bad. Particularly given the weather. He handed
over the cash and what looked like a decent enough tip. The kid with
the icicles dripping from his nose didn't seem to agree. Mulder
wandered back into the room, feeling like Scrooge and wondering
where he could look up the derivation of "bah humbug!"
He'd only completed the first 180 degrees of the pizza when he heard
something that could have been a whimper. Scully? Whimpering? The
whimper turned into something more like a scream, but quiet,
strangulated even, as if her vocal chords couldn't deliver more.
The TV maybe? Or maybe not. He cleaned off his greasy fingers with a
swift rub against his pants. Weapon held firmly in his hand he
pushed through the connecting doors into Scully's room, marveling
that such miracles as connecting doors occurred perhaps once a year
- and thinking himself lucky that this was the night.
He checked for dangerous motion and intruders, saw neither. Just
heard Scully's quiet sob of a groan. "Scully?" he mumbled, going to
her and kneeling on the floor by her head. Her eyes were closed but
the lids were fluttering. Her mouth was wide open, her throat
tensing to shape a howl of despair yet only the quietest murmurs of
complaint were coming out.
A nightmare, then.
Wake her up? Or let her ride it out? The choice was taken from him
as sharp fingernails bit down into his wrist again. A quick yelp
from him and bright eyed instant awareness from her. "A nightmare,"
he said quickly.
She nodded, not loosening her grip.
"I'll go back to my room."
She shook her head, her fingers still locked in place.
"Are you OK?"
"Stay a while," she said.
He swallowed, nerves jangling at all the possible meanings and
mysteries that her words might be hiding.
She slid back deeper in the bed, not loosening her grip on his
wrist, inviting him to move into the warm patch that she was
vacating. He took her lead, following her in.
"Just until I go back to sleep," she added, drowsy now, yawning her
words as she let go of his hand and rolled to the other side of the
bed, turning her back on him as she did.
Huh?
Mulder didn't know whether to be impressed by her trust or annoyed
by her lack of hormones. He groaned and gave himself a brief mental
kick to remind him of exactly how and why he had suddenly found
himself in his partner's bed.
She was in pain. Over what he couldn't say, but hell there were
plenty of nightmares for her to choose from. Her abduction? Cancer?
The chip in her neck? Those burning abductees? Emily? The search for
a soulmate? Her decision to have eggnog for breakfast? Her obscenely
overdue triple X bill?
Who was he to say.
27 December
The receptionist's bold statement, "There's only one room available
tonight," was the perfect end to the perfect day.
A snow monster. A giant rumbling snowman of a demon who trampled on
cars, swept through houses and who so far hadn't killed but who'd
come damned close. And a couple of days before Christmas, it'd
gatecrashed a party at the daycare center where half the local
Bureau seemed to have kids. Federal with a capital F. The call had
gone out to the domestic terrorism unit in DC, who'd smoothly
sidestepped the request.
Mulder had spent the day profiling the terrorist, he'd even bragged
about the uniquely accurate physical description he could offer.
"White. Less than two weeks old. Height varies between 6ft and 20ft,
with corresponding changes in other dimensions to maintain constant
volume. Weighs tons. Avoids heated buildings. You going to raise the
APB or should I?"
Scully shook herself back to reality, or more accurately for what
passed for it in her increasingly surreal life. "We had two rooms.
We did not check out," she insisted to the bottle blonde behind the
hotel desk.
"It's an emergency situation. The airport's closed. It's the holiday
season. We were already full. You only used one bed last night. And
as you're public servants yourselves, we felt -" The blonde shrugged
to suggest some form of natural justice was at work. "We've even
moved your luggage for you." The receptionist leaned forward,
fake-apologetic, smirking, conspiratorial. "If you need a receipt
for two rooms I can do that. I guess you guys can get into some kind
of trouble if it's known that you only use one bed."
Scully bristled and the receptionist's face moved from friendly to
something darker. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. "Just give me the key."
Mulder, who was waiting by the elevator with the usually battery of
files, briefcases and portable computers, stretched out his hand in
anticipation of receiving a key from his partner, and frowned as she
walked straight past him. He followed her into the elevator dragging
the bags with him. "So?"
"They've given away your room."
Taking her time over showering, she gave herself long enough to
shave her legs and pits and soothe in her favorite body lotion.
She'd scared him off with a facemask when they'd gone undercover as
husband and wife. Tonight she took extra care to look...
She sighed as she slid into the soft cotton top that she'd chosen to
sleep in. Silk pajamas would have been better, attractive but
non-committal. Unfortunately the dark navy pair that were in her
luggage had faded to some more patchily blue color scheme. She'd
been planning on replacing them for a while, but as no one ever saw
them what did it matter?
She checked her reflection in the mirror and did another swift
change, concerned that Mulder might choose tonight to reclaim the
Knicks T-shirt that he'd foolishly left lying around and even more
worried by the idea that he might try to psychoanalyze the theft.
She dressed again, putting on her bra this time before pulling on
her own favorite T-shirt. Better. The fabric hugged but didn't
cling, the length was a perfect match for her hips. The color was
virginal white. The slogan "Eat Me" highlighted her breasts.
Full body armor for tonight's battle.
She walked back into the bedroom and found Mulder already in bed
wearing only his fluorescent green alien head boxer briefs. Face
down and sprawling and looking for all the world as if he'd just
fallen from the skies and landed without a parachute.
Sound asleep.
Just great. Had she said that the receptionist's remarks were the
perfect end to the day? She'd been wrong. It was this.
Sensing her presence he stirred, rolling slowly onto his back. "Oh,
you out of there?"
She carefully arched her eyebrows in a gesture meant to spell
"obviously." She stared at the shadowy structures outlined too
clearly by his underclothes. He'd been asleep hadn't he? Or had he
just flung himself onto his belly when she opened the bathroom door?
Couldn't a man do permanent damage to himself like that?
He stood up, apparently oblivious to his condition or hers. "I'll
grab a shower then."
She slithered into bed, carefully arranging the pillows on her side.
Her side?
When he returned a few minutes later he was fully dressed. Well,
fully pajama'd at any rate.
Had he dealt with any not so little inconveniences in the shower?
That fast?
"Are you going to watch TV?" she queried, knowing that he liked the
reassurance of it flickering away even as he slept.
He shook his head. "I'm beat, I didn't get much sleep last night.
You can if you like, it won't disturb me."
"I may read for a little while. OK?"
He shrugged and slid into the bed, careful not to invade her territory.
She waited out the next five minutes in silence before putting the
book she'd been pretending to read down on the bedside table. "Maybe
a back rub will help you to relax."
That earned her a brief groan and a, "I really don't think so."
She insisted. After all, just how hard could it be? That is, how
difficult could it be? She'd done a few physiotherapy sessions in
med school, been on the receiving end in a couple of spas. She'd
read that book about sensual massage. Really, it would be no trouble
at all. "Mulder. You're tense, let me help you unwind."
Not wanting to make it into too much of a big deal. That is to say,
not wanting it to assume an inflated sense of importance. Or rather,
in order to minimize its significance, she didn't wait for a reply,
just dived straight in. Or rather on.
She slid her hands under his pajama top and pressed down into the
hard muscles of his shoulders, sweeping up to the soft hair at the
base of his neck.
"Ow."
Ow? "Am I hurting you?"
"Your hands are dry."
"I'll get some lotion."
"The stuff you put on after your shower?"
"Yes," she purred.
"Nah, it smells of dog biscuits."
Dog biscuits? Dog biscuits! "What?"
"It's got that artificial strawberry stuff they put in things and I
think it's going off."
"You hate the way I smell?"
"Oh." He was suddenly returning to very wide awake. "I don't mean -"
He started to turn over, she pushed him back down. "On you, it's
fine. No - great really. It's just -"
"Just what?"
"Not really my style."
Wonderful. Strawberry Shortcake and Whipped Cream from the Wheatgerm
and Honey Naturals Collection. She'd started wearing it a few months
ago, just after going on that dairy-free, gluten-free diet. And he
hated it. Just great. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Huh?"
"Never mind." OK, no lotion then. But she was determined not to give
in so easily. One of those fingertip massages perhaps?
He flinched. "That tickles."
A little firmer then, "OK?"
"Hmmm," he moaned.
The next sound he made was a soft rumble of a snore.
Wonderful.
28 December
The hotel still didn't have any rooms free. Not even the option of a
move to a room with twin beds. They were lucky to have a king size,
the receptionist insisted. Mulder tried to check the alternatives.
"Other hotels?"
"A couple by the airport. But with the..."
"... airport being closed. Right."
"Did you and the Ice Queen quarrel?"
Mulder shook his head, glanced at his shivering partner as she bent
and straightened, and did little stretching exercises with her toes.
He decided not to prolong the debate. He wandered over to her,
shrugged apologetically, and handed her the lone key.
"So, the alleged Mulder charm didn't work then?"
His temperature rose suddenly from sub-zero to near boiling point.
"How was I supposed to know that you were going to go walkabout on a
lake and pick the one bit that wasn't frozen?"
"You knew it was a lake?"
Busted. But if not a lake then what the hell did she think it was?
He kept his head down, torn between laughter and apology and not
wanting to admit to either.
OK, tonight she deserved first crack at the bathroom and just as
long a shower as it took to get her warm again. She was lucky that
she only went in up to her knees. He frowned, but was wise enough to
suppress the urge to make the comment out loud.
Amazingly she was in and out of the shower in less than five minutes
which puzzled Mulder until he remembered the body lotion problem. He
still couldn't believe that he'd told her that. Maybe he could blame
it on tiredness? Maybe just on the whole profiling thing, a day
spent in open-minded exploration tended to bring things to the
surface, made him blurt stuff out that was better off kept under wraps.
She was still doing those odd flexing things with her feet though.
"Cold?"
"New boots," she grumbled.
And this time he noticed her slight limp as she hobbled to the bed.
"That's my side," she pointed out.
He obligingly moved away, allowed her to build herself a nest among
the pillows. "Foot rub?" he suggested, doubting that it would make
her feel better, but recognizing like any sensible psychologist that
sometimes an unexpected offer like last night's back rub was
actually a hidden request for a little quid pro quo.
Did she know that he'd earned a little extra cash at Oxford by
becoming a Shiatsu masseur? Had she noticed the books on his shelf?
He couldn't recall telling her about it. Now why was that? Why had
he kept that little personal factoid from her? Some small, vaguely
eastern European voice asked him about avoidance. Psychologist -
heal thyself.
"You needn't."
Well of course he needn't. But he'd offered, and her words were as
close to a ringing endorsement of one of his plans as he was ever
likely to get from Scully so he decided to oblige.
She sighed as his thumbs soothed over her arches.
Hard pads under the balls of her feet from where those high heels
hadn't held her weight quite right, the signs of corns next to her
bigtoes from too fashionably tight a fit. But the biggest shock had
to be between her toes.
She groaned as his fingers folded over tired muscles and bruised and
blistered flesh.
"Do you have some fungicidal powder with you?" he asked.
"Wha...." she shrieked, dragging her feet from his hands and up the
bed, tucking her heels firmly under her buttocks and her toes well
out of sight. "What?"
"Athlete's foot. Nothing too serious. I guess wearing nylon hose all
day plays havoc with air circulation and those rubber boot things
you wear when you're doing autopsies..."
He stopped talking, knowing that if he opened his mouth again it
would be to put his foot in it. Or worse still perhaps it would be
one of her feet.
29 December
The power failed approximately five minutes after Mulder left the
room for his late night run. Scully was smart enough to quickly
rinse the shampoo out of her hair in the thirty-odd seconds that
remained before the water failed as well.
Mulder had been out on the trail of a snowman all day and as if that
wasn't bad enough he'd enlisted most of the local kids in his
effort. "It's not a real snowman, Scully. It's a rage monster," he'd
claimed.
"A rage monster."
He'd even had the sheer nerve to look hurt when she'd referred to
him as Buffy.
OK, so there had been that Golem creature that Ariel created from
her murdered fiancé. And of course there was the slimy garbage
monster who was eating Arcadia. And then there had been the way that
the weatherman in Kroner had become, well, a weather man in Kroner.
But a twenty foot tall snowman as the personification of one man's
rage? No comment.
Which was exactly what she'd told the local TV camera crew who'd
started to follow them around the town, forcing her to keep her pace
brisk and her head down. And it was only going to get worse.
She'd cope. Whatever they threw at her, she'd cope. Whatever he threw...
It was the waiting that was the worst. The not knowing. Wasn't it?
She hadn't told him about her nightmare the other night and he
hadn't pushed.
That was just it. He hadn't pushed. Anything. Not even his luck.
Well, not with her anyway.
Well, not in the bedroom at least.
Besides, even if he'd asked about her darkest dreams, she wouldn't
have told.
How exactly do you tell your longtime business partner and your
strictly platonic best friend that you're having a recurring
nightmare? About him. About how, even if the two of you went
tumbling out of the sky and landed on that proverbial desert
island... About why, even if you were the only girl in the world and
he was the only boy...
About how it was starting to look as if nothing would happen.
Not so much as a decent lead-in for a joke about, "Is that a gun in
your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?"
And how even if it did, then it was a safe bet that it would indeed
be a gun.
In her nightmares, he'd slept in her bed without so much as a lewd
remark.
Kind of like last night. And the night before. And the night before
that.
Enough.
The door opened and he stumbled in the darkness, falling over her
shoes first and then falling over his own even as he kicked them
off. "I'll take a shower," he said quickly, vanishing before Scully
had time to tell him that running water was a twenty-first century
luxury and time (and the hotel's water tank) had run out, at least
until the power returned.
"Damn," was the least illuminating of the four letter words he
mumbled as he returned from the bathroom wearing only a towel and an
extremely disgruntled expression. "No water," he added, as if she
didn't already know.
The candlelight flickered and Scully congratulated herself on her
foresight in always packing wax.
He wandered across to the closet and pulled out a change of
underwear mumbling a, "yeeuuuh," followed by a "sorry" as he caught
a whiff of his underarms. "I wouldn't have gone running if I'd known."
"It's OK," she said, smiling. Finding it oddly cute that the man had
no idea how alluring the scent of a male might be. A male like
Mulder. Honest Mulder-scented sweat.
And garlic she noted, as he slid into the bed.
And something sharp and almost astringently pungent that might have
been gorgonzola but probably wasn't.
Not to be deterred she didn't turn away from him, continued to look
softly into his eyes.
Then she heard it, a slow gurgling sound coming direct from his
stomach to her ears. "Mulder?"
"What?" he queried, all light and innocent and utterly fake.
"You haven't JUST been for a run, have you?"
"I did go for a run. It's the cold weather. It makes me hungry."
"What did you have?"
"A couple of tacos." He paused and she waited. "A few onion rings.
And a chili dog. Oh," he added as if it was a mere afterthought, "A
couple of slices of pepperoni pizza."
"With garlic bread."
"With garlic bread."
"And you did that after your steak and baked potato in the hotel
restaurant?"
"Do I complain when you snack?"
A few pieces of raw carrot and a third of a Luna Bar were hardly a
fair comparison. Whatever. Besides, "I thought you profilers didn't
eat when you were working?"
"If I didn't eat when I was working I'd be dead."
His stomach made that ominous gurgling sound again.
"Goodnight, Mulder." Scully blew out the candle, purely as a fire
precaution.
30 December
Scully was not amused and had been looking increasingly unamused as
the day went on. Still, it couldn't be helped. The case was there to
be cracked and that was just what Mulder planned to do.
He was on the verge of a breakthrough and, by bribing the local kids
with Federal Bureau of Investigation monogrammed pens and pencils
for every snowman recorded, the answer was about to fall into his
lap. To prove validity the snowmen had to be recorded
photographically, mapped geographically and accompanied by detailed
measurements and as much biographical detail as they could supply.
Only then did they receive their payment and of course a little
badge to attach to the iceman to indicate that the FBI was aware of
its existence.
"They're building them for you," Scully had complained, glancing up
briefly from her copy of Autopsy Today International - incorporating
Post Mortem Pro - The In Depth Journal for Today's In Death Specialist.
Not important statistically speaking, manufacturing evidence purely
for personal gain would have no effect on the validity of the
experiment.
Unfortunately the line of miniature informants heading into the FBI
headquarters had proven irresistible to the local press corp. When
the airport finally reopened and a team from Fox were offloaded it
was only a matter of time before the crap hit the fan. Skinner had
dutifully swiveled the fan back in his agents' direction and now
they were under siege from the national networks, too.
Which coincidentally put paid to the idea that once the airport
reopened, they would get their own bedrooms again.
Scully was not merely unamused now, she was preparing to go apeshit.
And as the CNN team stuffed a video camera in front of her nose they
nearly found out exactly which weapon the modern female Fibbie
preferred to carry.
Scully had learned more than she ever wanted to know about the media
from her experiences with the Cops TV crew and Hollywood's vision of
life on the X-Files. Mulder just wished that she wasn't quite so
good at visualizing her family's expressions as they witnessed her
shame on national TV.
Of course the nationals were interested, it was the ideal blend of
family fun, Federal frustration and fantasy phantom. The perfect
Christmas story. It would probably get remade as X-Kids.
Luckily for Mulder, Skinner would almost certainly be on his side if
Scully did him permanent damage.
At least, that was how Mulder saw it. PMS, he mumbled, wisely
keeping the comment out of earshot and his mouth out of sight of the
cameras' lenses, lest they broadcast it nationally for the benefit
of lipreaders.
Which was why Mulder understood perfectly when Scully went to bed
early and pulled the covers over her head. Hiding her eyes allowed
her to pretend that if she couldn't see it, then the danger couldn't
see her. Mulder watched the TV news alone.
When he finally dared to look round, amazed by the volume of sound
her neat and graceful nose could produce as she slumbered, he saw
the last few inches of blanket disappear into the Scully version of
a Gordian knot until she was completely cocooned in fleecy warmth.
He'd seen something similar in a museum - part of the Tutankhamen's
Tomb exhibit.
Really, sleeping with his partner ought to be a hell of a lot more
fun that this. He sighed, changing into his jogging gear and adding
an extra couple of layers of clothes rather than taking any off.
It had to be an X-File.
31 December
Mulder had come up with some ridiculous theory about mapping all the
snowmen in the area, cross-correlating it with census data on the
age and locations of children living in the town and plotting that
versus the housing density and public open space figures and
identifying the neighborhood where it didn't add up.
It was exactly how she wanted to spend New Year's Eve. Not.
Or perhaps it was. Damned if she knew or could remember a time when
a holiday was just a holiday. At least there weren't any zombies
involved.
The visit by the child protection service had added that extra spice
to proceedings today. Fortunately the kids had already left, a soft
spoken and oh-so-sincere Fox Mulder thanking them for their service
to the community and the FBI. God bless you, one and all. Beaming
children scattered into the frosty world with FBI monogrammed
post-it note blocks in their pockets and the rosy glow of
self-satisfaction on their faces.
The social workers headed back to their cars with the satisfaction
of a job well done and an aura of seasonal calm.
The only person not smiling was Dana Scully. Had she believed in
such things, she'd have assumed that Mulder had bewitched them,
clouded their minds perhaps. As it was. "Mulder. You can be such a
suck-up at times."
"How can there be anything wrong with children learning to trust the
Department of Justice?"
"You don't trust the Department of Justice."
He shrugged and she wondered briefly if it would be murder or
manslaughter to act now.
Of course those bare facts about housing density, community size and
age distribution which pop up in an instant on every TV show's
computer search are a hell of a lot harder to obtain in real life.
Particularly when said alleged real life had gone into a drunken
stupor around the twenty-fourth and had only occasionally popped
bleary eyes above the parapet since then. Especially on a weekend.
Especially on New Year's Eve.
"What were you planning on doing tonight?"
"Hmmm," mumbled Mulder glancing up briefly from the figures that
showed property tax valuations across the city. "Oh right, yeah.
You're right."
She arched a single quizzical eyebrow. She was right about what
precisely. "So?"
"I'll come back to the numbers tomorrow - clear head, fresh eyes.
I'll finish up the profile tonight."
"It's New Year's!"
"I don't need the car." He waved a hand in a way that was far too
carefully dismissive to be taken seriously. "If you want to go to
the FBI New Year's Ball with Agent Asshole."
"Agent Ashmole."
"Right. Or there's something on at the hotel."
Was that an invitation? Well, it would have to do. Though why Mulder
couldn't just come out and ask her to join him at the hotel party,
she really had no idea. She gave him one last glare and headed for
the coat rack.
The party at the hotel might have been OK if the cameraman that
Scully had growled at earlier hadn't spotted them the instant they
walked through the door.
"Can we have one night off?" smiled Mulder, handing round glasses of
fruit punch to his adoring press corps. "Please?" he added, in case
they hadn't got the sincerity bit the first time.
With the camera crews agreeing to at least a temporary truce, Mulder
turned back to his partner. "Dance?"
"With them here?"
"With me, actually."
Scully didn't speak, didn't move, not getting her plan together
quickly enough for Mulder's taste or his attention span either.
"Never mind. Forget it. I'll see you later."
When she did see him about five minutes later, he was looking deep
into the big blue eyes of a leggy brunette CNN reporter who was
giving him that transparently fake - "tell me more you fascinating
man" look.
"Ms Scully? May I have the next dance?"
The guy was from Fox, how ironic was that?
It was almost midnight before Mulder met her eyes again, smiling
over the shoulder of the photographer who'd suggested that she come
back to his room and he'd show her his state-of-the-art steady-cam.
She'd offered to show him her Glock.
"They're playing our tune, Scully."
Her ears perked up, listening for hidden messages in the lyrics.
Sudden optimism that he might choose to express in song the things
that he repressed and couldn't admit to in words.
The band launched into an enthusiastic rendition of Psycho Killer
from Talking Heads.
Just great.
The official new year's kiss was the briefest meeting of lip on lip,
tentative hand on tentative arm. If they were going to get anywhere
tonight, it wouldn't be down here. Not with all these people around.
"I'm going up to the room," announced Scully.
Mulder nodded, "Yeah, me too. I need to get the profile finished."
"You're working?"
He shrugged and the rest of the journey to the room was carried out
in silence.
"I've been thinking," she announced a couple of minutes later as he
returned from the bathroom and slid into the bed.
"You can switch off the lights if you want to go sleep, I just need
to daydream." His voice sounded a little rusty, his tone a little
breathless.
"I've been wondering about your rage monster."
He snorted a single amused grunt.
"I was thinking about that weatherman in Kroner. You know - he loved
that woman so much and yet thought that he could never have her. How
sad is that? If only he'd asked sooner. Such a waste of a life."
"I don't -"
She started talking again, determined to have her say before the
fruit punch wore off completely. "He put her of a pedestal, saw her
as a goddess. Unattainable. Saw himself as unworthy. As if he should
be apologizing for his feelings towards her."
"I -"
"No. Let me finish. And she might have been giving off the wrong
messages, too. Appearing to pigeonhole him as friend when he was the
most important thing in her life and had been for a long time.
Perhaps even the only person who could ever really love her the way
she needed to be loved."
Mulder didn't reply, though Scully could tell that his breathing was
becoming a little labored. "It's wrong to suppress such powerful
emotions. All that love turning to pain. Denial could have killed
them both, and it cost them so many years, so much comfort and care
they could have shared."
He groaned. His voice sounded a little hollow as he tried to speak.
"I doubt the UNSUB has reached puberty."
"You think I'm wrong to imagine rage in love unacknowledged and
unresolved?"
"It's not love. I need to get some sleep - I feel awful."
I January
The earth moved.
And Scully woke up.
What the hell was going on? An earthquake? What about that noise?
She leapt smartly for her weapon on the bedside table only to
discover that it was missing.
Defenseless!
Instinct overtook FBI training and she reached for the light-switch
hoping to banish the demons that way. Her eyes squinted closed as
the brightness hit.
Mulder rolled over in the bed, stealing her warm patch. The awful
noise and the shaking stopped, restarting an instant later as he
repositioned himself again.
Well, she'd heard it before, coming in loud and clear through the
thin walls of a cheap motel room somewhere, but that wasn't quite
the same as up close and personal. Maybe she could give him
something to clear his sinuses. What did she have in her medical bag?
She realized immediately that her supplies were running worryingly
low. A visit to an old Med school pal was in order.
Which medically under-equipped region should she say she was going
to visit in order to get her no-questions-asked prescription-only
drugs? She'd used the two months trekking in the Amazon basin story
last time. Old friend or not it was best if everyone involved had a
clear conscience.
Hmmm, muscle relaxants. Well, they'd have to do. After all his
shoulders had been awfully tense.
When she woke up a couple of hours later it was with no memory and
with her head pounding. What the hell had they put in that stuff she
was drinking last night? Why was she in bed with her partner?
And why were his boxers at half-mast?
Oh God, what had they done?
She checked herself for evidence, found nothing conclusive. So if
they had... Then he probably hadn't...
"Eerrrggghh," he groaned.
Not yet, she needed more time to think.
She leaned across to the bag at her side, and extracted a sleeping
pill. "Mulder, take this, it'll make you feel better."
Still asleep, he did as he was told and she wondered briefly if that
might be a good way of obtaining his compliance in future.
No! What the hell had she just done? That hadn't happened - she
hadn't just popped a sleeping pill in the mouth of someone who was
already asleep. Her partner's mouth moreover, which almost certainly
only made matters worse.
Fortunately she had his medical power of attorney so he couldn't
actually sue her. Probably. Could he? She shook her head, looking
for clarity but finding only a pounding of drums in her ears and a
sudden rumble of discontent in her stomach. She lurched quickly
toward the bathroom.
On her return she checked the empty packets on the bedside table and
confirmed her own worst nightmare. Nothing so innocent as a Trojan
wrapper. No - the discarded foils at her side were far more
incriminating. Flexiril. And morphine? She'd given him a morphine
shot during the night!
And now she'd given him a sleeping pill.
911?
After all, what were they going to do to her even if she admitted
her crime? Strike her off the clinical register? She wasn't on it.
Practicing medicine without a license? Oh God.
She checked his pulse, steady and comfortably in range. Felt his
forehead, hot but not impossibly so. Maybe she should take his
temperature? She glanced down at the muscular ass cheeks so brazenly
displayed, considered the option and decided against. In the
unlikely event that he woke up - she shuddered to think how he'd
react. She noted the evidence of hematoma around the injection point.
If she had to do the autopsy...
Ooops. Don't get melodramatic, she reminded herself. His heart was
in good shape. His pulse was strong. There were no indications of
pulmonary distress. Well, provided that you ignored the wheezing
coming from his chest.
But that was probably just a cold coming on. She surveyed the
packets again. From the looks of things she'd given him a morphine
shot, at least one muscle relaxant and a sleeping pill. He'd be fine.
The phone rang and Scully nearly shot it. It escaped its fate only
because she still hadn't found her gun.
"Dana."
"Mom?"
"I'm visiting your Aunt Barbara, and you know what?"
"What?"
"She's moved. I'm no more than two blocks from your hotel!"
"Mom, could you do me a favor?"
"Of course darling. Anything."
-----------
When Mulder finally woke up he felt worse than awful. He felt hazy,
like there was no connection between his brain and his body.
Almost as if he'd been drugged.
"Scully?" he attempted, but no sound came out. He tried to rustle up
a groan or a cough but the best he could do was a whisper of a
frog-like croak.
"Fox, you're awake. At last."
Fox? He tilted his head in the direction of the voice. "Mrs Scully?"
Though the phrase sounded more like a "Grr grr Sgrr grr."
"You just rest you poor darling. Dana said you'd been overdoing
things. Running around at goodness knows what time of night. Not
eating properly. Having trouble sleeping. You should have come over
to us on Christmas Day - I had no idea that you were all alone. You
poor thing. You know, I've always thought of you as my own son who I
never see - a bit like Charlie really. And you could have brought
your boss with you. That nice Walter Skinner, he's your step dad
isn't he? I've always had a thing for bald guys."
Mulder didn't even attempt to reply. "Scu grrr?"
"She's running a few errands. She only had one shot of morphine in
her kit and it's obvious you need more."
"Gror green!" he responded in what would have been a scream if the
decibel level had made it past barely audible. He tried to wobble
upright and found that he couldn't. Looked down at himself and found
a catheter. There! What the fuck?
"Muscle relaxants, she said you were awfully tense."
Tense? Just let her get back here and he'd show her the meaning of
the word tense. And the phrase pissed off. What the hell was she
thinking of? With an effort, he tilted his head to look at the
clock. Three. And going by the daylight streaming into the room,
that meant three o'clock in the afternoon. Where had the day gone?
Surely he couldn't have been that ill?
Of course he wasn't ill. Scully would have called a real doctor if
he was ill, not her damned mother. Her mother? He almost smiled. Now
it made sense. He was dreaming. Fine. Now all he had to do was wake
up. OK. Now would be a good time.
Unfortunately Scully took that moment to confirm his worst
nightmare. She staggered into the room shaking off snow and cringing
under the weight of Gatorade, prescription drugs and other vaguely
medical looking supplies.
"Grrr da gruk's griring on?"
"Mulder!" Language - she mouthed, looking pointedly at her mother.
He delivered as much of a glare as his over-relaxed muscles allowed.
She sat on the bed at his side, gazed down at him, long-suffering
and a little moist eyed. "When I woke up your breathing was labored.
You were sweating. You were running a temperature. I gave you
something to take the pain away."
"Gror green?"
"It was the only thing I had. And it worked. You've slept. You're in
no pain."
No pain? Damned right he was in no pain. "No grugs!"
She nodded, her eyes damp with horror and concern. "Maybe a little
chicken soup? Mom made it specially."
"Grow gray."
"Grow gray?"
He groaned, mustered up as much strength and force as he could.
"Leave me the gruck alone!" Ah, that was better. His throat hurt
like hell after that but at least it was coherent.
"Fox! How dare you talk to my daughter like that."
Actually it wasn't just the daughter he was talking to.
"It's the drugs, mom. He doesn't know what he's saying."
The hell he didn't. He tried to get enough moisture into his throat
to try again but Scully clamped her fingernails back into his wrist.
"I think you'd better go. His temperature's falling back to normal.
I can sit with him now."
"Are you sure that's safe?"
"Mom, it'll be fine."
"You had to shoot him last time he was drugged."
"Then you know that I can do it again if I have to."
Mulder groaned, feeling the hazy warmth of the drugs rising in his
body. Maybe when he woke up next time the nightmare really would be
over.
2 January
Scully's much delayed hangover had drifted past the pounding stage
into the merely rumbling. Unfortunately, her stomach still churned
like it had been fitted with an overenthusiastic eggbeater.
Delicate - that was how she was feeling. She glanced at the tight
set of Mulder's jaw and said nothing.
She'd tried retracing her steps a hundred times but she still
couldn't believe it. An apology wasn't really going to cut it so the
only thing she could do was brazen it out. Though in fact the more
often she argued her corner the more convinced she'd become that
there was nothing to apologize for.
"No one likes being ill, Mulder. But you only make it worse by not
accepting proper care. Not eating or drinking, not taking the drugs,
checking out of hospital AMA."
"When did I do that exactly?
Not the point. Besides, he was the type who looked like he might.
And there was that time when he got shot in the head and still
chased off down to the Antarctic. Though it seemed a little churlish
to criticize him for that.
"You were unconscious. As a doctor, I took it on myself to decide on
the appropriate course of treatment."
"I was asleep. And you're a pathologist."
He rubbed a tired hand over his brow and Scully headed for her purse
preparing to offer him a couple of Tylenol.
He shook his head glaring and then turned back to the computer
screen and the electoral registrations by district.
If he wanted to sulk about it - fine. She decided to leave him to it.
When he returned to the hotel that night it was already past
midnight. He glanced briefly around the room and sniffled. The cold
hadn't cured itself but Scully was damned if she was going to offer
him any help.
She wondered briefly if she should ask him what he was looking for
but decided against, particularly when he stopped stumbling about
and picked something up. Her medical bag? How dare he.
He vanished from the room.
When he returned she was sitting up in bed waiting for him. "What
have you done with my medical supplies?"
"I've put them in the hotel safe."
"You don't trust me?"
Trust, the magic word. The word that to Fox Mulder and Dana Scully
meant more than love or money.
Mulder didn't bother to reply, stripped quickly to night attire and
slipped into bed, turning his back on her as soon as he was between
the sheets.
3 January
Mulder found it difficult to stay angry with Scully. Moreover the
sad fact was that in this mood she was no fun to argue with. She was
rather too comfortable when it came to playing the immovable object
thing. Whereas he'd never really understood the compulsion to play
the role of irresistible force. In his experience it was generally a
lot easier to go round, or over, rather than through.
Plus, he was sympathetic, kind of.
Actually he'd have forgotten about the whole thing ages ago if the
other agents hadn't kept giving him those quizzical looks. The kind
of looks you give someone whose hangover was still in full flow on
the second of January. Well he could hardly tell them that - "No, it
wasn't the drink, at least not anything I drank. My drunken partner
drugged me." In fact he wasn't even sure he could read that phrase
out loud. Still, apart from the cold, today he was obviously back up
to cooking speed and the novelty of being angry with Scully was
wearing off.
Besides which Scully had a new problem for them to worry about. "The
receptionist told the CNN reporter that we're sleeping together."
Mulder waved a "keep the volume down" warning at Scully as the FBI
regional office fell silent. "And she's threatening to go public
with that?" he whispered.
"No. She was checking up on you. Your availability!"
"Ah. So, maybe I'd better make myself more available to the press?"
Scully looked horrified, then angry, then resigned, or possibly just
confused.
Mulder continued with his theorizing and plotting. "And maybe you
should accept that open offer for a night on the town with Agent
Asshole."
"Ashmole."
--------
Despite having been the one who suggested it, Mulder was still a
little surprised when his disheveled-looking partner finally
stumbled through the bedroom door at 3 in the morning.
"Scully?"
"Shhh. Schmulder's ashleep."
Mulder checked the room quickly and was relieved to find that the
medicine bag was nowhere to be seen. He really didn't want to have
to defend himself by sleeping in the car or locking himself in the
bathroom. Was this how she'd been when she injected him the other
night? Lucky it had "only" been morphine.
He could only guess that he must have been very sound asleep.
Scully swayed as she kicked off her shoes, the left one vanishing
under the bed, the right crashing into the mirror. "Heee, heee,
heee," she chuckled, a bad girl sort of laugh. "Shhhhh," she added.
"Are you OK, Scully?"
Little girl pout. "Broke 'em," she said waving her hand to reveal
two fingernails suddenly much shorter than the others.
On Agent Asshole? The fucker was dead.
"I had to change the wheel. You should have seen Asshole's face."
"Ashmole's?"
"He hated being shown up by a girl. That's the great thing about
you, Mulder." She waved a hand to make her point more forcibly and
tumbled back onto the bed. "You don't give a shit."
Mulder stared at her in amazed delight. It was a shame he'd missed
the rest of the party tonight. His cold had almost vanished now and
he'd caught up on a lot of sleep. He was finding it hard to hold a
grudge.
"Gotta' go!" she complained, scrambling suddenly at the blankets
desperately trying to find the leverage to stand up.
Mulder stepped in to pull her to her feet, and guided her to the
bathroom.
Even with the door shut the noise was painful. The sound of rejected
alcohol being emptied in angry gulps into its porcelain grave.
Mulder switched on the TV but wasn't quick enough on the volume
control to be able to ignore it all.
"Mulder."
"Yeah?" he queried, dreading her next words.
"Could you hold my hair away from my face?"
Yeeeuuuuwwww. No way. He might dare entering the bathroom again,
sometime tomorrow maybe, after the maid service had been in. But
otherwise?
His shoulders slumped as he realized that he really didn't have much
say in the matter, so he ought to go for the least worst solution.
"I'll help you wash your hair. After you're finished."
Another gut-wrenching choking sound followed by the noise of a
bucket of custard landing in a marshy bog. "That'sh better," she noted.
4 January
The only thing Scully remembered about the night before was changing
Agent Ashmole's wheel and breaking two nails in the process.
Mulder looked a little queasy every time he glanced her way. She
didn't ask him what that was about. Maybe he'd drunk too much on his
night out with the big brunette from CNN?
"Fox," cooed the reporter, confirming all of Scully's darkest
suspicions.
"I'm working," Mulder grinned.
"Of course - Agent Mulder. And errr Agent - "
"Scully," finished Mulder.
"Right. You've made a breakthrough, I hear."
"Aww, Carrie. That is," he paused, leaned back in his chair, "Ms
Dennington. You know I can't tell you about that. But when I can,
you'll be the first to know."
"Later, Fox."
"Later."
"Bitch," grumbled Scully as five feet nine of legs topped off by a
pinhead-sized brain waddled out of the door.
"Scully?"
"So, can you tell ME about this big breakthrough you've made." She
checked her watch, wondering if it was time for another couple of
pills yet.
"Sure, but you already know. The UNSUB's male, under seven and comes
from this area." He waved vaguely at one of the neighborhoods on his
map.
"And you know this how?"
"The Christmas bicycle to snowman ratio. It's not an exact
relationship but it's clear enough when you map all the sales across
the city. Mostly the more sales, the more snowmen. But here, plenty
of bikes and scarcely a snowman to be seen."
"Which means what exactly?" she questioned, more from habit than
curiosity.
"That something is using all the free snow from around there to make
one big snowman."
"Under seven?"
"Who else do you think would see a snowman as a threat?"
Her eyebrows moved involuntarily high as she found a rebuttal.
"Well, the StayPuft Marshmallow Man was the big bad monster on
Ghostbusters."
"No, people always say that. But he thought of the Marshmallow Man
precisely because he didn't consider it was a threat. This is
different, this is impotent childish rage made manifest."
"But a snowman? What - this kid doesn't watch TV? The amount of
cartoon violence..."
"But that's just TV. This is a smart kid, he knows TV is make believe."
"Whereas a twenty foot tall snowman?"
"- is scary. Right?"
She shook her head sadly, her voice dripping with resignation. "And
male?"
"Well, for that we have to go back to the physical description given
by the eyewitnesses."
"I didn't read anything about a p..."
"Yes, there's a pipe. I know there are some cultures where women
smoke pipes but I don't think that's likely to be a factor here.
Besides, ignoring political correctness, there is a genuine gender
gap on violent crime. But I'll admit that's the weak link in the
profile. I may be taking the monster design too literally instead of
seeing it purely as a cultural icon. A female could just as easily
feel impotent rage as a male."
Damned right, agreed Scully, swallowing another couple of Tylenol.
It had been years since Scully last put her body through this kind
of alcoholic workout and she'd sworn long ago that she would never
do it again. So how the hell had it happened three times in one
week? Hormones, she decided. A bunch of fucking dumb-assed chemicals
prancing around her body giving her orders. Well, fuck them as well.
"Agent Scully. About last night." Ashmole was looking down at her,
smiling sympathetically. "I should never have let Agent Valdes
challenge you to that drinking game. At least I should have warned
you, she's the State tequila slammer champion."
Mulder was standing behind the man and trying not to laugh. He was
dead. They both were. "Can she change wheels?" queried Scully,
irritated.
"I was wondering about that. I changed the wheel while you were
asleep. I'd just gone to wash my hands and when I got back you were
putting the punctured one back on..."
Mulder wisely chose that moment to bolt from the room.
Ashmole looked perplexed. "Anyway, Janie, Agent Valdes wants to make
it up to you. Dinner - just you and her, somewhere nice. She'd have
asked you herself but she's a bit embarrassed about last night."
"I really don't think so."
Ashmole didn't take the hint and walk away, he just stood and
stared. Scully glared at him, puzzled. Spit it out, man.
"I was wondering," he continued.
"About?"
"Well, I tried the old double date routine, inviting you and Mulder.
I admit I was a little disappointed when he didn't show - if you get
my drift. Do you suppose there's any chance?"
Better and better. Scully sighed, "Why don't you just ask him?"
"I would if I knew him better, but you know how it is, the Bureau's
an awfully macho kind of place. Hit on someone who's not interested
and they can get really stupid about it. Like it's some kind of
insult to their masculinity, you know, to have tripped another guy's
gaydar. Anyway, I just wondered."
Scully didn't bother to reply, just turned on her heel and headed
for the door.
------
"You see what I mean. Eerie isn't it?"
Whatever. Scully looked out of the car's window without really
seeing anything. She was never going to drink again. She was never
going to appear on TV again. She was never going to go on even a
fake date with another agent.
Never.
"No snowmen at all," Mulder added.
"Not even a twenty foot tall one," Scully noted, just a little more
derisive than she really intended.
"But he can squash himself down to a few inches, he could be laying
low." He smirked, biting down on a couple of sunflower seeds to
reward himself for the bad pun.
Eventually the silence overwhelmed him again. "Scully. Why don't you
go back to the hotel, you could use the rest."
"And you'll be doing what exactly?"
"I'll be," he paused, clearly trying to find the right lie, "in the
hotel bar so I don't disturb you."
"With her?"
"Who - the Tequila Slammer champion?"
"You know with who - Carrie."
"Does it matter?" he asked, sounding a little sorry for himself. "I
know this has been a rough week for you. I know that you wanted to
spend more time with your family."
"Don't start pulling that guilt-trip crap on me, and if you say
sorry one more time."
"Actually I don't think I did say -"
"Whatever. You can drop me at the hotel."
-------
Three hours later and Scully was waiting for Mulder to be discharged
from the hospital ER unit. She studied the sling that was protecting
his shoulder.
"This reminds me of that other New Year."
"The millennium zombies?" he agreed.
"The millennium was in 2001."
"Of course. So," he slowed her down as she tried to walk away from
him, forcing her to a halt, "to complete the circle." He leaned
forward, tugging her towards him with his one functional arm.
"How do you think Krycek copes?"
"Huh?" Mulder stepped back, startled.
Oh dear. Maybe it was the leather jacket. Maybe it was the fact that
his hair was a little longer than usual. Or perhaps it was the
Christmas lights reflecting green in his eyes. Or maybe it was just
that she felt like shooting him.
He'd found the snow monster, of course, less than twenty minutes
after resuming his cruise of the UNSUB's neighborhood. And he'd seen
the chubby cheeked five-year-old looking down from his bedroom window.
He'd done the right thing, called both her and the local Bureau for
backup and retreated to his car. But a rage monster, even one whose
very existence was threatened by a sudden thaw was not to be taken
lightly.
When the child appeared in the porch, Mulder had tried to drive away
only to find himself suddenly surrounded by a three-foot drift of
ice. When the boy's parents and big sister tried to approach the car
to offer help the snowman had reared up onto its hind legs.
He'd shouted at them to stay back but it was too late, the little
girl was already caught between the monster and the car door.
Escaping through the sunroof, Mulder used his body to provide a
temporary shield to protect the girl.
Mom and dad meanwhile had rushed back towards the house to defend
their young son who they naturally assumed to be in danger rather
than the source of it. Mom squeezed him tight to hide him from the
nightmare.
Dad tore into the house returning with a spade. But a spade was
nothing against tons of compacted snow and dirty ice.
"What's your brother called?" Mulder asked the girl.
"Nickie."
"Ask him to let us go."
"What?"
"Ask him. Don't shout at him. Just ask him. Say please. Make him
feel good about being able to help."
And she did, and when her brother didn't react the first time, she
trusted the stranger at her side and pleaded carefully again and
eventually the snow collapsed leaving them free to walk away with
only a few bruises and a torn shoulder muscle for Mulder.
Or at least that was Mulder's version of the story.
So why was Scully still angry with him? The fact was, she wasn't.
Frustrated maybe at seeing another case cracked in her absence. A
little disappointed even not to have had the chance to watch a
snowman in attack action. Bothered by the fact that he'd gone on
alone, risked death to stop a threat that would melt within days -
maybe.
But Krycek?
Of all the things to say, could anything have killed the passion
more effectively?
Mulder had his own supply of muscle relaxants and sleeping pills
now. He took one of each and was asleep before Scully made it out of
the bathroom.
5 January
Skinner announced himself pleased to hear of his agents' successful
identification of the villain, but utterly insistent that he had no
desire for anyone else to hear about it.
It was actually an unnecessary warning. Mulder didn't really feel
the need to argue with his Assistant Director about the decision to
impose a news blackout. It made sense, not just for the FBI but for
a little kid and his family. This was one truth better kept under
wraps.
At its most basic they had a case that not only would never go to
court, it could never go to court.
The official line was they were dealing with a felon responsible for
the destruction of seventeen cars including Mulder's rental, two
children's play areas, a scout hall that did double duty as a crèche
and a miscellaneous quantity of outdoor furniture, wooden decking,
porches and plants. Vandalism really. And involving no obvious
weaponry. The terrorist threat had melted away like a snowman in a thaw.
"A five year old?"
"The son of Special Agent Tom Brindall and his wife Police Officer
Gabrielle Brindall."
"And you're saying this happened because they were over-protective?"
"Not exactly over-protective. It's just that they see danger
everywhere. But not being allowed to build a snowman above two feet
tall was the last straw for Nickie. The other kids laughed. One
thing led to another."
"This goes no further Mulder. If one word of this gets into the
press you'll be doing school crossing duty for the next twenty years."
"The FBI doesn't do - "
"You think?"
"Understood, sir."
Scully was smiling when Mulder turned around, she'd clearly guessed
the other half of the conversation from the lack of expression on
her partner's face. "He's barred you from talking to the press."
"Any press release will come directly from the Hoover Building. We
have no further comment, except to assure the townspeople that the
threat has past."
"And has it?"
Mulder shrugged. "The Brindalls accept my explanation for now. Kind
of. They're going to take a vacation together. Skiing, snowboarding,
ice modeling. And they'll try family therapy sessions. I think
that's the best we can do. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a
recurrence later on - poltergeist activity when he reaches puberty
maybe. Particularly as after a couple of months of normality they'll
prefer to deny that any kind of paranormal event occurred and will
start talking about coincidences."
Scully shook her head, opting out the argument. "How's your shoulder?"
"Stiff."
The headed back to the hotel. The receptionist noted the departure
of the various camera crews and offered them a second room that
could be made available to them at 8pm. But it really didn't seem
necessary now. More trouble than it was worth, they decided.
A light evening meal in the now blissfully quiet hotel restaurant.
Mulder stayed away from the wine because of the heady mix of drugs
that he was taking. Scully just stayed away from the wine.
The meal was easy and the mood light. The decision to have an early
night was mutual.
"Mulder," sighed Scully as she slid into bed alongside him, dressed
only in his Knicks T-shirt. "Did you ever think you'd spend ten
nights in bed with a woman and not even get to first base?"
Mulder studied the Knicks shirt with interest, confirming it was
definitely his by the identifying mark of a slight tug in the
stitching on one arm. "This sports' night, Scully?"
She chuckled, a slightly hesitant sound.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. "Did you? Ever
think you'd spend ten nights in bed with a man and not get to first
base?"
"Women don't think like that."
"Scully!"
"OK, OK. No, I never did. But then I guess I never imagined a
relationship like ours."
He shifted the angle so that his nose stroked against hers. Their
breath mingled and became one. "How do you imagine our relationship?"
So close together now that his words hit her mouth and the warmth of
them collided back against his.
"I think -"
"Don't," he added, stopping her words with his lips. She was open
and ready for him, and he smiled, opening her wider and outlining
her lips with the tip of his tongue. A touch of warm velvet on silk.
Fire licking at his senses.
He eased back, yawning as he did. Maintaining the contact with the
lightest touch of his lips against her cheekbone. "The world didn't
end."
"No."
His eyes drifted shut and his head rocked slightly on his neck. "Oh,
shit," he grumbled, pulling himself away from her.
"I didn't mean 'no' no - I just meant 'no, the world didn't end,'"
she argued, hurrying to chase him down onto his pillow.
"I know that. No sounds a hell of a lot more like no than that."
"So what's up?"
"Poor choice of words," he sighed, his eyes closing again as he sank
back into the bed.
"What?"
"Try the bedside table," he suggested apologetically.
"We don't need a condom," she assured him.
"Damned right we don't," howled Mulder, frustrated by having to
spell it out as well as frustrated about everything else.
"Antibiotics, cough medicine, muscle relaxants, and sleeping pills.
Get it?"
"Not tonight, I guess."
Mulder nodded, drifting into a deep snore of a sleep....
-------------------------------------
Still here?
Thanks for joining me on this trip down memory lane.
I hope you found at least some of your favorite fanon and canon cliches.
*joann*
(
geocities.com/xmas_files)