TITLE: The Tongues of Men and of Angels 
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. <g> 
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. 


***

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 
take 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