TITLE: The Tongues of Men and of Angels - 2 parts AUTHOR: bugs EMAIL: bugsfic@yahoo.com URL: www.underthewing.com/bugs DISTRIBUTION: I'll do Gossamer. Please ask if you'd like to archive the story. SPOILERS: Early season 9 setting. RATING: Mild NC-17 for sex and language CLASSIFICATION: S, A, R KEYWORDS: Christmas, Holiday, Romance, Angst SUMMARY: Friends and lovers come together for Christmas. AUTHOR'S NOTES: There have been a couple of stories that have a similar idea as their base and I expect more as Christmas nears. But I never claimed to have an original plot in my head.Thanks to syntax and Branwell for helping me on this story. ******* Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. Paul's First Epistle to the Corinthians, 13:1 ******** December 23rd, 2001: //soft, moist, flush pink, silken hair, fingerpads on my spine// "You want chicken pot pie or macaroni and cheese?" //swell, round, mound, hard, thumping heartbeat// "Pot pie, please." Close the door. Close it. Agent Mulder opens the freezer door, and I watch crystallized fog envelop him. He extracts two boxes and tears their ends open. Thump, thump, ice blocks tossed in the microwave, the moments count down in digital green, then the bell dings. Lunch time. //whispers in my ear, Mulder, Mulder, teeth grip my shoulder, soon, soon, touch, her touch// I carefully press bite after bite of soggy crust and hot chicken cubes into my mouth. Close the door. Close the door. Our eyes meet. His fill with shame. "Sorry, Gibson." "It's all right. I understand." "Yeah, but it's still not right. I'll try harder." "Thank you, Mr. Mulder." ***** I wait until we're in the car, heading to lunch, before I tell him, "I need to run a quick errand." John's features take on the male martyr's look when I twist the car's wheel, sending us towards Annapolis. "We can eat at Dos Amores. You'll love the chipolte." His expression changes to the dull pain of a man who wanted a cheeseburger. Using care, I weave through the rainy streets. Wet Christmas decorations look like shit and I make a comment to that effect. He glances out and then shrugs. "Shouldn't even bother if there's no snow. What's Christmas without snow?" Or without your family, a home and rewarding career. I keep the thought to myself, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch John watching me. He wants me to say it. He's got a new point of contention when I pull up in front of Dana's building. "So this is your errand?" "I promised to water her plants and feed the fish." Affecting a casual attitude, he asks, "She's gone?" "Yes, she said she's taking a vacation." He holds open the entry door after I unlock it. "Why'd she go off? Shouldn't she be takin' it easy?" "She's not the type to sit around all day watching TV." "Gotta point." Now he's holding the elevator for me. I've been following two steps behind him all day. I'll need to get a jump on him when we get to her floor. "I'd think Skinner would be doin' this for her." His voice cracks on the forced casual tone. "I don't know anything about that." Opening her front door, I glance around for the watering can she said she's put out. Finding it, I head for the kitchen sink. John calls after me, "Think he's gone with her?" "I hadn't thought of that," I reply, trying to sound neutral. He props himself against the sofa back. "They've been spending a lot of time together. And Skinner told me he's goin' on vacation this week." "A lot of people go on vacation around Christmas." With my fingernails, I snip off a few drooping brown leaves from a philodendron. When I turn back, John's leaned over, peering at the fish tank. Without facing me, he says, "How does Skinner stand it? The fish being here?" The question is both strange and irrelevant. "He loves Mulder too." And Walter Skinner loves Dana Scully, I silently note. **** The wheels hiss on the wet highway, lulling me to a near nap state. Only William's constant babble keeps me conscious. Like father, like son. I force my eyelids open, and focus on the back of Skinner's head. He turns the radio volume up. He's figured out I'm not a big talker. The radio's set to adult contemporary, and Celine begins moaning about some lost love. Hard rock; I want some good old-fashioned rock, Tom Petty or even Bon Jovi. I want to roll all the windows down and speed. I want to kiss while trying to keep an eye on the road. But it's the wrong decade, the wrong guy, and I've got a baby in a car seat. ***** "Where'd you want to go to lunch?" Standing at the passenger door, waiting for Monica to unlock my door, I take deep breaths, clearing my throat of a sour taste that's settled there. "Why don't we just go back to work. Get something at the cafeteria," she says as she slides into the driver's seat. Her mouth is held in a tight line, and I feel that familiar anger, confusion and fear that comes from pissing off a woman in some unknown way. "Sure. I can get a burger." She squeals rubber pulling away from the curb and I hang onto the armrest. *** The Gas 'n Go station sits at the crossroads of US 60 and Highway 7. The winter sun has dipped low and my vehicle's headlights hit the CLOSED sign on the door. I flick the lights twice. Scully, who's been drowsing for miles, brushes her hair back off her face. The baby coughs and I find myself tensing. Will he cry? She leans close to his head, whispers to him, and he quiets. One of the garage bay doors rolls open. I drive in, and it's shut behind us. The lights are turned on. I get out and look over the two waiting men. The tall one, with a sprout of pubic-like hair on his pointed chin, says, "ID, please." I pull out my license and pass it over. Scully's staying in the car, but out of the corner of my eye, I see the glint of her weapon lying on her lap. Her pale hand cups William's head. The shorter, plump man, wearing a tie-dyed tee shirt - which strikes me as incongruous during the Christmas season - smiles at me. "Long drive?" I suppose I look tired. I nod. The other guy hands me back my identification. "It's right." He starts to turn away when I ask, "And yours?" Scully's hand, holding the gun, has slipped down out of sight. His heavy eyelids blink slowly. "Okay." "Okay," I reply. Both men dig in their pockets, fishing out a bullet. I say, "Looks good. Where's the car?" "Over here," the shorter one says, flicking another light on. A battered, mud-splattered late model Volvo huddles in the furthest bay. It's got a large rusting dent in the front fender. Scully's unhooking William's car seat. I go to help, but she waves me away. "I'll get it. Why don't you get the bags?" We load everything into the new vehicle. I notice the Nader bumper sticker and wonder if that will blow our cover. I don't think I can pass for a liberal. The shorter man hands me some new identity and charge cards. "They're good. Done by the best." "Glad to hear. Things are going to be checked more carefully." Both men nod solemnly and I notice the tall one is wearing an American flag lapel pin on his black tee shirt. I say to Scully, "So we're set?" She's gotten William's seat strapped in, but has pulled him out of it. "I want to walk around a bit. Give the baby some air." She looks to our helpers. "Is it safe?" "I wouldn't recommend using the public bathroom, but otherwise it should be fine, if you stay in the back," the plump one says. "Thank you." She gives off one of her blinding smiles and both men bloom like my mother's yellow dahlias. I let her go alone but stay in the open back door's sight line as I review the maps. The last thing I want is to get lost and be forced to ask for directions. It's completely dark now, and the baby's white head glows atop his bundled clothing. Scully talks to him, despite the fact he cannot understand her. Maybe she just needs to talk. She's said next to nothing in our first ten hours of driving. There's a crash close by, and my hand flies to my gun. Looking sheepish, the shorter man picks up a wrench he's knocked from the bench. I force my heart to return to its measured beats. This is a hell of a way to spend Christmas. "Should we go?" Scully's at the doorway. "Yes," I say. "I'll change his diaper, brave that bathroom, and then we'll be ready." When she finishes with him, I'm left with the duty of packing the baby into his seat. His limbs, which resemble loose sausage rolls, become rigid as I try to get them through the straps. Still struggling with my spitting, red-faced charge when his mother returns, I defer. "Do you want me to drive a while?" she asks. Realizing this means more baby care time, I answer, "That's all right. We're going to be stopping for the night soon." Our two allies are left in the dark as I drive the car back onto the highway, searching out the next freeway on ramp. **** The water, warm and soapy, laps to edges of my nipples. Low candlelight causes my vision to dance. I lift my damp hair from my neck, arranging it in an unstable tower on my head. This is just what I needed to fight off a cold holiday season and settle unstable thoughts. I inspect my anger towards John. It's counterproductive. I only end up angry at myself. It has the same effect as kicking a dog that doesn't understand why chewing your shoe instead of his leather toy is wrong. I chuckle. Kicking a dog... If only he could see how he's trying to fix his spoiled marriage. He'll try again: a new woman, a male child: he'll attempt to save her and her baby, seeking the approval he's lost. The self- destruction is evident to me. That call from his wife - a woman whose first name I'd had to search my memory for. Her tone had been so casual. "I just had to get away from him. Find myself." And now Scully had driven away without even a backward glance. My hand is searching for my wineglass when the nearby phone rings. I grab it before the second ring. "Hello?" There's silence. "Hello?" "Monica?" "Yes, John?" "I thought you'd be gone." I find the wine. I sense I'm going to need it. "Then why did you call?" "I was leaving a message. I'm going to try to interview Max Pekkle tomorrow, hoping he'll be home on Christmas Eve. Just wanted to keep you abreast." Nestling the phone in the crook of my neck, I stroke warm water over my breasts. I stifle a giggle. "Monica?" "Yes, John?" "Am I interrupting something? I thought you'd have gone to visit your family." He hadn't asked at the office. John Doggett is an assumer. "My parents wanted to go on a cruise to South America. I didn't. I need to find my place in my new apartment." "Your place--" "I'm taking a bath." "Oh. Sorry to interrupt," he repeats. "It's all right." I make my voice low and watery. "What are you doing for the holidays?" Sometimes I'm just a bitch. "I was going to interview--" "--Max Pekkle," I join him. "What about dinner?" I can hear the bouncing tennis ball racketing off the inside of his skull. Should he? Shouldn't he? What will I assume? What will he assume? Finally, "I don't have any plans." "I was going to make dinner. It's hard to only make enough for one. My ham will feed me for a week. Would you like to come over and join me?" It's wrong of me to put him directly on the spot. There's no way he can say no. He croaks, "Okay. What time? Thank you for asking. It's real nice of you." "What about seven?" "All right. Can I bring anything?" I restrain myself and say, "No." "Well then, I'll see you at seven. Goodnight, Monica." I turn on the faucets to reheat the bath water, and hold the receiver close enough to the rushing torrent for him to hear. "Goodnight, John." ***** "Would you like to shower first?" Scully asks me. Suddenly very tired, I say, "No, you go first." She glances towards William, high on his car seat throne atop the motel room's table. "I'll watch him." I try to sound confident. "Let me check his diaper first." As she does this, I pull the curtains closed, blocking the world's view of Mr. and Mrs. Hal Hampton and their baby Jake. If we have to keep this up for any length of time, William will develop a personality disorder. Hell, I will. I stretch out on the room's bed, flick on the TV, find ESPN, and watch Scully through half closed lids as she rustles through her suitcase. It's easy to fall into the fantasy. I'm half-asleep when she comes out of the bathroom, hair in a towel turban. "How was he?" Glancing over at the dozing baby, I say, "He's been quiet." She frowns. "Most babies like to sleep in the car. He doesn't." "Maybe he knows where he's going." Many emotions, none of which I can put my finger on, flick across her features. She says, "Your turn." When I see her reach for William and begin to unbutton her pajama top, I flee. There's only so far my brief, betraying fantasies can go. When I exit the bathroom, a delivered dinner of greasy fettuccini and limp salad awaits on the table. I tuck the thin paper napkin into my lap and begin eating. "What time do we have to get up tomorrow?" she asks. Swallowing a thick bite of garlic bread, I tell her, "Early. About six. If we plan on getting there by dinner time." "That's what he was told. I don't think we should call." "No, not unless we get behind schedule." I gulp down some warm soda. I'd like to get ice, but don't want to be seen outside the room more than necessary. Wiping my mouth, I glance over at the queen-size bed. "I'll sleep on the floor." Her touch is light on the back of my hand, but I still jump. "Walter, we're probably going to be doing this for a while. Don't worry about it. Unless you're bothered--" "No, no," I insist. She nods and goes back to picking the onions out of her salad. I watch, and examine my slight irritation. Shouldn't she be at least somewhat intimidated by this situation? **** //throbbing engine, pinpricks across my skin// Agent Mulder has to slow his pained breathing, and I breath with him, calming his anxiety. He tries again and I concentrate. //the voice, the words, smack? snack? heart?// His frustration grows, blocking out the past. We're in a hall together, running our hands along the damp, warm walls-- //stroking tongue, a breath, light lips on my cheek, fingers in hair// Now I'm the one frustrated. Agent Mulder's eyes are still squeezed shut and his respirations have slowed to almost a sleeping rate. //sleek skin of her neck// Quickly, I close the door. Giving up on our work, I glance around for the TV remote. Mr. Mulder has finally gotten cable and the Loony Tunes Hour is beginning soon. //"Fox, I get the red one! You have to eat the green one." Crunch. Sweet. Corn// Forlorn, I mentally catalogue the kitchen cupboards' contents. A few stale animal crackers and one Yoohoo. //lights dancing among pine boughs, "I'll be home for Christmas, if only in your dreams", crinkling paper// Oh, good, it's Tweety Bird. I like Tweety. //Samantha, Father, Father, Melissa, Mother, friends, enemies, we're the only ones left// "Let's go get a tree, Gibson." His eyes are wide and bright in the dim room. "Isn't it too late?" "No, the lots stay open late these last few days before Christmas. And the Super Kmart is 24 hours." Leaping up, he heads to the hall. I pull myself reluctantly from the Lazy-Boy. "Come on. Don't you want a real Christmas?" he asks as he hands me my coat. I pulled its zipper snug under my chin. "My family didn't celebrate the holidays. My father thought it was a waste of resources and was forced, false emotion." Agent Mulder's hand, about to turn the doorknob, stills. He looks down at me, gaze concerned. "My emotions don't feel false, Gibson." I agree, "No, they don't." **** Skinner's silhouetted in the bathroom's light, then he flicks it off. He carefully moves around the bed to the free side. The mattress dips under his weight. I understand his apprehension as I feel myself sliding towards him. "I'm sorry, Walter," I say. He doesn't answer and rolls away, his broad back radiating heat. His breathing slows and deepens. He begins to lightly snore in tune with William's snuffling breaths. I'd set up the bassinet close to my side of the bed and reach out to touch my baby. He wakes and grabs my questing finger. His tiny gums chew on it. For some reason, this comforts me, and I fall asleep. *end 1/2* The Tongues of Men and of Angels - (2/2) by bugs *** December 24th, 2001: Blue sweater? Too tight. Brown silk top? Too low cut. I catch sight of my confused face in the mirror. What am I looking for in this closet, a nun's habit? I finally choose the brown blouse, exposed bra be damned. The fragrance of spiced ham warns me I need to check on dinner. Pulling the meat from the oven to rest, I start in on homemade biscuits. My old neighbor from New Orleans, Mamma Edie, would tell me John Doggett was the sort of man who'd appreciate a fluffy biscuit. I sit on a kitchen stool to contemplate what the fuck I think I'm doing here. Why don't I just strip buck naked, put on an apron and greet him at the door that way? I'd walked away once already, telling myself that this relationship wasn't going to work out. I toy with an apple peel. I'd managed to keep it in one piece when I cut it. Dropping in on the floor, I lean over to see if it makes a J.D. And you jumped right back to his side the first chance you got, I remind myself. And speaking of repetitive, destructive patterns, there's you and the fucking of the co-worker. I'm defending myself - he wasn't technically a co-worker when you fucked him, and you haven't fucked him again, yet - when the doorbell rings. Glancing at the clock, I see John's prompt as always. I'm true to form as well. My thoughts are in disarray - I have no idea what I'm going for here, friend, lover, or supportive co-worker - and dinner isn't finished. As I hurry to the door, I also notice I've got a grease stain on the silk blouse. Par for course -- "Hi, John. Thanks for coming." He cracks a small smile. "Thanks for asking me." He shifts from foot to foot. He's wearing a forest green, soft sweater. I'm glad he passed on the suit and tie. Green does great things to his eyes, bringing out the dark ring around his blue pupils-- "Oh, sorry! Come in," I gush, stepping back. "Something smells good." He looks around my living space. "Finished unpacking those last boxes?" "Sure." Guilty, I think of those four boxes I finally shoved in the closet. "This neighborhood turning out okay?" he asks, peering at some old Christmas photos I've arranged on the shelving. "It's got its good points and bad points." I go around to the kitchen. "You were lucky to get into the market when you did. Your house is nice." "Yep." I keep babbling. "I'd like to buy, but I think I'll get stuck with a townhouse or condo." He leans on the counter, folding his arms. "So you plan to stay a while?" I furrow my brow, confused. "Yes, John. I'd hoped to be assigned to the X-files division ever since I heard of it. Unless the division gets eliminated, I want to keep at it." He doesn't say anything and his gaze is unreadable. "What about you, John? I didn't think you were as enthusiastic as I am about this section's work. Are you protecting the X-files because you believe the work is just, or because you think there's some corruption in the Bureau--" I turn away to stir the carrots. "Or because you're saving it for Dana?" "I like the cases. They're different," is his frustrating answer. Changing course, I ask, "And what if Mulder comes back? Do you think he could get reinstated?" John's accent thickens with resentment. "I always had the impression the division was Mulder's pet project and someone was protecting him. His family connections, somethin' like that." I laugh. "And now?" He has to chuckle too. "Okay, so there doesn't seem to be any love in the halls for him these days." I sober up. "What about us?" "You mean, what have we gotten ourselves into?" "Maybe more, what have you gotten yourself into. You had a future in the FBI, John. Where is it going?" "And your career, Monica?" I shrug. "I've been on everyone's 'list' since the day I came out of Quantico. Whether it be the shit list, short list, or freak list." I gather up the plate of ham and a handful of silverware. He grabs two bowls of food and follows me to the table. "Don't discount yourself. You're creative." He pauses. "And I'm not." I flash a quick smile over my shoulder. "So we make a good team." He smiles back, says, "I suppose," and I hate the warmth that rises into my heart. ***** When I was eight, and Dad was home on leave, we all piled in the station wagon to go to Disneyland. We kids had talked about the trip for weeks. I decided what rides I wanted to go on first- Tea Cups, followed by the Pirates of the Caribbean, then Toad's Wild Ride - and what hat I wanted - Peter Pan's. As the drive seemed to ttake forever, I bounced off the car windows. "Are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet?" "Dana, if you don't settle down, I'm going to make you stay in the car while we all go into the park," Mom threatened. I forced myself to remain still, but began to sob, my stomach knotting. This was the happiest day of my life, and I was so excited I threw up on Charlie. That exact sensation is in my stomach now. The freeway signs tick down the miles to Little Rock, churning the bile higher and higher into my esophagus. William begins to fret. I try to calm him. He must be adorable and placid for Mulder. He must show Mulder how easy parenting is. Finally, I offer him a breast and he quiets. Perhaps that will work for Mulder too. I catch Skinner's eyes in the rearview mirror and note the concern. He can read me too well. I try for humor. "Are we there yet?" He rewards me with a low laugh. "Almost. Should we stop and call?" I check my watch. "We're on schedule. Let's go on." "All right." I smooth William's hair down. Mulder will be expecting to have sex, I'm certain of that. But I can't seem to summon an ounce of desire. I was in a constant lather those last few months of my pregnancy, nearly injuring the poor guy after the doctors cleared him for 'rigorous exercise'. But since he's gone, dark thoughts keep rising. I find myself worrying so much; I cling to Mulder's every word on our rare phone calls, yet I'm unable to say more than a few words. I need to be strong for him. He must be expecting a happy mother and eager lover after our months of separation. Sherwood. Skinner exits the freeway. Almost there. In the darkness, the sharp neon edges signs glow: Walmart, Best Buy, Old Navy, Wendy's, Barnes and Nobles. I'm overwhelmed by the sensation of being nowhere and everywhere. How many times did I wake from a nap and had to ask Mulder, 'Where are we?' Skinner asks, "It's 43rd Avenue?" I quickly dig through my bag, flip open my Palm, and unencrypt the notes. "Yes, turn right." After a few more turns, he drives through a neighborhood of shabby homes, only a few of which show Christmas displays, then pulls into the driveway of a small, dark house. My heart hammers in my chest and my hands are shaking so badly I can barely get William loose from his seat. Skinner has the luggage out by the time I'm finished. Glancing to the one front window, I see the curtain flick. The porch light goes on. "Here we go," Skinner whispers, his hand resting on his holstered gun. Lost in my unlabeled fears, I'd forgotten the real danger. I clutch William to me, feeling not for the first time since his birth, weak and feminine. The door opens, and two figures appear in sharp relief: a tall solid man, and a short, stout, bow-legged teenager. It's them. I hurry forward, Skinner behind me, his head swiveling right and left. A hand reaches out and sweeps me into the house. "Scully." "Mulder." William passes gas. I say, "He needs his diaper changed." "In here." Mulder ushers me to a small bathroom. I lay William on the countertop, focusing on his squirming limbs. "Walter has the diaper bag, I think." "Let me get it." Mulder squeezes around the door. By the time I've undone the baby's clothing, he's back. "Here." "Thank you." When I peel back the diaper, Mulder, who's been leaning over my shoulder, recoils. "God!" "What?" I wipe and powder automatically, but give Mulder a questioning look in the mirror. He's leaned against the closed door with his mouth open. "The smell," he says. I shrug. "I don't notice. Studies show that the parents of a baby are insensitive to the odor of their own child's defecation." His shoulders droop. "Oh. I guess I haven't been around enough to develop that immunity." "No, you saw him for one day." I press my lips together, wishing I could have caught the words before they flew out. Mulder's eyes go very wide; he blinks once, then his gaze drops to my task. Lifting William, I give him my bob test to make sure the diaper won't slip off. "Next time, you'll have to try the changing." "I'll find a clothespin for my nose first," he jests. I force a smile. "Good idea." We find Skinner and Gibson sitting in the living room on an ugly brown velour sectional sofa. "Hello, Agent Scully," Gibson says to me. My smile is real now. "It's wonderful to see you, Gibson. How are you?" "I'm fine, thank you." His round eyes are on William. My cheek twitches nervously. "Is this your baby?" "Yes." My questions are all bubbling at my throat. The queasiness is back. "I like babies," he says. Skinner's intrigued. "Really?" "Yes. Their thoughts are so clear." Mulder asks, "Can you see in William's mind?" The young man closes his eyes. "Yes. He's...yellow." "Yellow?" Skinner says, glancing to William. "I think that means happy," Gibson replies. He smiles at me again. "It's like reading a rainbow. Shifting colors for moods. Simple shapes drift by. It's very peaceful." He looks to Mulder and frowns. Mulder's face grows guilty. Skinner must catch this. "How's the work going?" Mulder shrugs. "It's been going. We've gotten some stuff. We just don't know what it means." He claps his hands together and hurries to the corner of the dark room. "But that can all wait. Let's have some fun." He hunkers down by a dark conical shape, and suddenly twinkle lights blaze and I realize it's a tree. Mulder pops back up and looks to each of us. "What do you think? Gibson and I did the best we could." The tree is only one grade up from Charlie Brown's, and doesn't have enough ornaments to cover this defect. There's lots of lights, so I grasp onto that. "It's very bright and cheery. Thank you, guys." Skinner says, "Yeah, great work." I joke, "Where's dinner, then?" Mulder and Gibson exchange glances. Mulder says, "Let me show you around first, Scully. We'll put your things in the bedroom." He leads me down a dark, narrow hall, my bags banging against the walls. I suddenly arrive at the theory that he makes his dwellings what they are, not that he happens to find black warrens to live in. He opens a thin, rattling door, flipping on the light as I pass. It's a small room, dominated by a queen bed, draped in what appears to be a Motel 6 refugee for a comforter. The small window is covered with a heavy puce drape. Crammed between the bed and the wall is a crib. Mulder sets my suitcases on the bureau top, brushing aside a large pile of change. "Is this okay for William?" he asks, nervously gripping the crib's rails. I inspect it and give it my approval. "Good," he says as he starts to move closer to me, arms outstretched. Focusing on his right ear, I say, "What about that dinner?" He pauses, regroups, and tells me, "I made dinner." "Really?" "Don't sound so surprised, Scully. I've become downright domestic." He looks offended. I try to keep the light tone going and divert him from his obvious intentions. "The two of you seem well fed." His face becomes more upset. "That hurts, Scully." Confused, I ask, "What?" "Okay, so I've put on a few pounds--" I protest, "That wasn't what I meant--" He grabs my free hand, saying, "Feel this," and pulling up his sweatshirt so I can squeeze his waistline. "Squishy as a marshmallow." I giggle--giggle--I haven't giggled in a year--and he's there, eyes laughing, breath warm on my cheek, then lips on mine. My arm wraps around his middle - he has gotten wider - and I let myself kiss him back with all my strength, until William gives out a screech and we jump apart, guilty as two teenagers. "Let's go get that dinner," I whisper. In the living room, we find Gibson and Skinner putting on their coats. "What's going on?" I ask. Gibson glances at Mulder and says, "I asked Mr. Skinner if he could take me to dinner. I'm tired of Mr. Mulder's cooking." Skinner looks tense, but says, "I thought it would be nice for Gibson to get out of this house for a while. And give you and Mulder some time together." Men conspire together... "All right," I say stiffly. "See you later." "It'll probably be late. I want to go see 'Lord of the Rings'," Gibson says. Mulder brightens. "That's right. And I've been a bad father. Haven't taken you." Skinner yanks the front door open. "Now Uncle Walter will. See you later." We're alone. Mulder hurries towards the kitchen. "I know it's not very festive, but I've made lasagna. It was easy and I could keep it in the oven." "That sounds fine." I trail after him, jostling William to keep him awake. "I didn't get a highchair for him," Mulder says. "He'll be fine." For some reason, my words cause Mulder to grimace. "I'll hold him." Balancing William on one thigh, I work my way through Mulder's offering of lasagna, salad from a bag, and yet more garlic bread. My taste buds were just recovering from last night's meal. Mulder breaks into my thoughts. "How is he?" "What do you mean?" "What do the doctors say? Tests?" "I haven't had tests performed." "Don't you want to know? Are you worried?" My blood pounds in my ears. I'm lightheaded, and feel as though I'm floating above the room. Yet my body is too heavy to leave my chair. I turn, and stare at the black window. Our family tableau reflects back, dark as the night. I can breathe again, hiding in this shadow, out from under the glaring fluorescent lights. "I didn't want to worry you," I say. "Scully-" I can't let him talk. I must purge this darkness away from us. The face above William's appears thin, her eyes huge. Her mouth starts moving. "When you were taken, I couldn't think about anything but getting you back, or that you weren't coming back. As the months went by, and hope should have faded, this heartbeat grew louder within me. You." Tears wet the face in the mirror. "Then you were back. And that was all that mattered. Your recovery, listening to the heartbeat. The threat to our lives, to the lives of our friends. I had so much more to worry about." Her mouth opens and a sob gasps out. "But now, you're gone, and I have to be both of us." Teeth bite at her lip, trying to hold back the last words. "I'm so afraid, Mulder. Things have started to happen. William--I don't know if he's entirely human. We've uncovered evidence--" The man's mouth moves and a bare whisper comes out. "Is that what frightens you? That he could have been modified in some manner? Like Gibson, perhaps?" "I'm not concerned about William having Gibson's abilities. That I can deal with. I'm afraid he'll be like Gibson, ending up alone, no family-- " The man's face crumples like a paper bag, forming sort of a smile. "Living in a craphole with a guy who can only heat TV dinners?" The woman's brow furrows. Her gaze drops and I watch a shaking hand stroke the baby's fair hair. "I--I'm afraid he's not our baby. I let myself believe all these months that the test was wrong and that we made him. I had to have that. We've lost so much--All those years I couldn't understand your faith; how you could believe so strongly in aliens or your sister's abduction. But now, I fear so much...I want to believe that he's normal. It has to be true. He has to be our baby." I turn away from the monochrome figures and look at Mulder. He sits like a child, hands loosely cradled in his lap. His solemn eyes meet mine. "Yes." Maybe I haven't lost my partner. "Marry me, Scully. While you're here. Let's risk flying to Nevada." "What?" "Let's get married," he repeats. I feel dull. "Why?" He looks worried, but says, "Because I love you. Because we have a child. Because you love me." "No, I mean, why do we need to do it now." "I think it might make you feel better." I'm so tired. My heavy head starts to drop. "I'll think about it," I mutter. "Time for bed. Come on." His hand is on my shoulder. He leads me to the bedroom. I feed William, lightly napping, the rhythmic slurps lulling me to sleep. When Mulder's hands pull the baby free from my arms, I snap awake. "I've got to master diaper changing, remember," he says. From a cradle of pillows on the bed, I watch Mulder. His mobile mouth thins in concentration while William takes some perverse pleasure in making things as difficult as possible. Finally finished, Mulder slides William under the covers in the crib. "Does he just turn off, like a light?" Mulder asks. I manage a short laugh. "No." I drag myself from the bed. "Turn the overhead off." I snap on the bedside lamp. "You go get ready for bed. I'll get him to sleep." Mulder rummages through drawers, pulls out a set of pajamas and pantomimes tiptoeing towards the bathroom. I sink to the mattress by the crib, and rub William's belly. His bright eyes meet mine. "Sweetie, Mommy's really tired," I whisper. As though he understands, his eyelids droop shut. ***** I offer coffee and pie and lead John to the couch. With no fireplace, I'd place an elaborate candelabra on a low table. I set the candles alight. Deciding against turning on a lamp, I join him. After taking a sip, I lean forward to set the cup on the coffee table. When I sit back, he's waiting. His mouth settles onto my neck, and one hand goes under the tail of my blouse to find my bare stomach. The other directs my head, turning it to his lips. I let myself fall off the cliff, aware only of his tongue and hand's rotating pattern, moving closer to my breasts. My legs are numb, my hands shaking as they seek out that soft sweater and the strong muscles beneath. I'm so heavy that I can only sink back into the cushions. My hands find his face, pulling it away from mine. "John." "What's wrong?" "You ask?" "I thought--" Air. I get up, searching for the cool swirl coming through my poorly insulated windows. "What did you think, John?" My question is its own lie, but I can't stop probing for something he won't share. "I better go." He rises, yanking his pants downward. I shift my gaze away from his erection. "We sound like our mammas' soap operas." In a strange way, this is my plea to him. Just talk, you idiot. Just talk to me. He's near the door. "Naw." He picks his jacket off the coat rack. His bright teeth light up the dimness. "Our mammas' *stories*." Before I can speak, he repeats, "I'd better go," and then he slips through the doorway. I got my answer. I pick up the plates and cups, blindly stumbling towards the kitchen. I'm licking pumpkin goo from the pie knife, eyeing the Redi-whip spray can when the phone rings. "Hello?" "Thanks, Monica. I went off without thanking you for the great meal." Fury boils up. "Goddammit, John Doggett, stop being so polite!" I'm more infuriated when amusement is in his voice. "You don't want no nice guy?" "Not if the nice guy is you because I know it's just bullshit." "Maybe I don't know nothing else." Suddenly spent, I lean against the wall. "John, I don't know where this job's going to lead, but I think nice guys finish last in whatever's around the corner. We need each other. We need to understand each other." "I think I understand you." His voice has gotten all sexy, damn him. The phone line must give him false courage. Snippy, I say, "Great. Then you know I'm about to tell you I'll see you at work on Monday," and punch the END button before he can be polite again. I start washing the dishes, still angry. The adrenaline has me wide awake. A glance at the clock shows it's 11:30. Tossing aside the dishtowel, I decide to head over to Dana's. I want to see if those fish of Mulder's will talk to each other at midnight. ***** I watch William through the bars of his crib. His tiny mouth is slack as he sleeps deeply. Scully pads into the dark room, feeling her way to the bed. She murmurs, "He's still sleeping?" "Yes." "Good. Let's take this moment while we can." She slips under the covers. She fumbles at her neck, and at first I think she's taking off her top. Her head comes in close so she can see as she fastens her cross around my neck. For some reason, I flash to the sight of the necklace around Emily's neck. Of my own hands removing it once she was dead, per Scully's request. "Why are you giving it to me? Scully, you need it." "No, I need you to have it." Her voice is fierce in the dim. "Okay." "Besides, I didn't bring an engagement ring." She laughs into my shoulder. I allow myself to relax. She lays her head on my chest, and I settle back on the cushions, stroking her hair, missing her so much it hurts. "I'm here," she says. Had I said something aloud? She's started kissing my neck. Her hands, unnaturally hot on my suddenly chilled skin, start rooting, one down my pajama bottoms and one under the top. My brain has to make a rapid adjustment. I'd taken one look at her strained, terrified face when she came through the front door, and had put any such thoughts out on the back patio. Now, cells and neurons adjust, rev, and begin chugging madly. My own hands get to work. I'd planned this all out one, two, six thousand times, all the while watching horror cross poor Gibson's face, the disgust that only a kid can have that an old man could be thinking about 'that'. But my best laying plans are put aside. We want it sloppy, back seat, My Mom and Dad are gonna get home from the movies any minute, fast. There's a giggle - I think from me - a 'sorry' when something gets caught in her panties, the covers get over our heads, we're blind, that's okay, I find what I'm looking for, what she's looking for, she grabs my shoulders, I get a hold on her hips, the covers all slide off, we're exposed, "Will this damage William?" "Shut up, Mulder," and I remember what I was doing, and doing and doing... And then everything stops. She stares at me, not blinking, just fixed as though I'm something wondrous to see. I can't possibly look away. One hand rises, wraps around her cross, and her eyes drift shut. She gives one, deep sigh, and contractions suddenly grip my cock so tight it's as though someone's grabbed my throat and I can't breathe - then all I can do is huff and puff, and everything is pouring out of me, babbling words, air, and semen. I topple over like William off his round bottom. "I've missed you," she murmurs. I'm not sure what that means. Missed making love? I'd hardly put my technique in the category of being worth driving across the country. Missed a chance for a cruddy dinner on Christmas Eve? Missed my jokes? Missed arguing about where to go to lunch? "I miss you all the time," is what I come up with as a response. Her eyes open and she peers at the clock. The numbers glow, 11:45. "Almost Christmas." "I'm sorry. You're missing midnight mass." Her gaze shifts to William. A lazy finger traces the line of my jaw. "That's all right. This is all I need this year." **** //shaking hands, sweat, red hair, breaths crushed in chest// The car inches out of the movie theater parking lot. Mr. Skinner offers, "Want to go to Shoney's? For a milkshake?" //him, me, her eyes, happy, angry, sad, empty// I try to keep my voice steady. "Sure." I'd expected a reprieve from those images, but it was not to be. "The movie as good as you hoped?" he asks. "Yes." For once, my thoughts can overpower all others. It was wonderful to escape for a few hours and join minds equally engaged. Finally free of the parking lot, we enter the stream of taillights. The night sky arches above. The storms have moved on and cold stars pierce the dark. There's an empty field by the side of the street. I find myself requesting, "Can you pull over? I'd like to get out." Mr. Skinner says, "I knew you shouldn't have gotten the refill on that jumbo soda," but eases the car onto the shoulder. I walk to the edge of the barbed wire fence, lean on a splintered post, and stare up at the stars. I've discovered if I concentrate on them, I can block out many of the thoughts around me. Eventually, my mind hears nothing but their hum and sees only their energy. The car door opens and closes. His mind is coming closer. //red, blue, purple -- a single chair in a dark room, the creak of tired muscles// "See anything?" His voice suggests he's jesting, but I can see his fear, see Mr. Mulder being swallowed by a pale blue beam. "No, sir. I just like to look at the stars." I can barely hear him when he says, "They do look really bright tonight. Well, it is Christmas Eve." //white, white, white, white, white, white, white// **** The ringing phone wakes me. My eyes open, I focus - swirling, silent fish under a green light - then I fumble for the receiver. I hear the click, and remember I'm in Dana's apartment and let the machine pick it up. "Hello, Dana, it's John. I know you're gone, but I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas." He pauses. "And I hope you had a nice vacation." Another pause, then a rush, "I'll see you later." I glance to the clock with blurry vision. Midnight. He's so prompt. *The End* ********* AUTHOR'S NOTES: In my endless search for a semi-decent title, I ran across some Christmas Eve practices, including; young women dropping one long apple peel to find out their future husbands, and that animals speak at the stroke of midnight. Would make a cool fic, but too bad, I'd already written this one. They did seem like good Monica Reyes details, though. I touched on CC's love triangle, but frankly, I'm not happy about it. Looks more like a wheel to me, with everyone in love with Scully. Mary Sue 1013, please stand up and confess your sins. Please feel free to share your thoughts at: bugsfic@yahoo.com For more stories, seek my home: www.underthewing.com/bugs