Title: Christmas 1996
Author: probe 
Rating: ummm...pg13 sort of or just pg comment
Note: this had no beta because it is a challenge fic for X-OK and my beta was 
doing the challenge.  Sorry.
Warnings:  no character death, a little Mulder torture involving the pinkie toe 
and lots of angst,with a dash or romance. 
Thank you to frannie the wonderhorse for being so nice to me all the time 

Feedback!  palmerdolph@yahoo.com

South Hampton estate of Senator Matheson
December 24th 1996 

"So you're still an FBI agent, Foxy?"  A drunk and wobbly brunette had placed a 
palm against his chest, to steady herself.  Once a little more steady, she ran 
it down the lapel of his tuxedo, sloppily seductive. 

A white-coated waiter appeared and Mulder traded both their empty champagne 
glasses for full ones. He'd downed a scotch back at Aunt Elaine's to get steeled 
for the party -- "liquid courage" his Uncle Robert used to call his pre-party 
drink. So there was the scotch and no dinner and how many of these champagnes 
had he drunk?  Who cares. The brunette tugged at his jacket again. 

"That's right," he said, "FBI." He craned his neck to search the party for the 
coiffed gray head of his mother.  She was in a somber group of older women, all 
of them sparkling with new beaded Christmas gowns and antique family jewels. 

"You don't remember me, do you?" the brunette purred at him. 

Mulder squinted down at her. She had wide set green eyes and pale skin that 
reminded him of Phoebe. 

"You probably fall into my post-Oxford period," the words slurred out of his 
mouth before he could stop them. When the brunette scowled at him he looked just 
as accusingly at his glass of champagne. How the fuck many of these had he drunk 
anyway? 

"You're a bastard, Fox Mulder," the brunette handed her champagne glass back at 
him roughly and tried to make a staccato turn on her heels. Too much to drink 
made the move impossible in strappy heels and she fell to the marble floor in 
front of him. 

"Damnit!"  the people closest to them turned to stare. 

Mulder handed away the two champagne glasses and lifted the brunette to her 
feet. 

"It's really slick there. The floor is wet I think," he said loudly.  The other 
groups of people went back to their conversations. "Thanks," she whispered to 
him.  Oh fuck she was crying.  Mulder felt the familiar wave of guilt. 

"Don't thank me.  That was a shitty thing to say.  I'm drunk and I was trying to 
be funny," he lied. Then with another look at her face, "Sara." 

He must have gotten it right because she smiled at him. 

*********** 

Aunt Elaine commented twice about his driving but he was fine. 

Hell, he'd had nothing but scotch on the plane from Russia and still made it to 
that joke of a Congressional Hearing. No. He didn't want to think about that 
Hearing because then he would start to picture Scully spending the night in jail 
because of her loyalties to him, to the workÖ It had driven him crazy on the 
plane back to the US. 

"Fox!" his Aunt Elaine screeched. They'd started to spin out but he righted the 
Bentley without a change in pulse. 

"Not to worry, Aunt Elaine.  The FBI trains us for these conditions." Mulder 
shrugged.  Maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe the FBI actually did driving training 
for the regular recruits. 

"I don't like the snow here," his mother said vacantly.  "The flakes are to big 
and wet. My fur looks terrible." 

Mulder stole a glance from the dark road to the glassy eyes of his mother.  
Looks like she took her pre-party courage in the pill form.  He hadn't noticed 
her drinking at the Matheson's party. 

"I don't think the snow is the problem," snipped Aunt Elaine. 

Back home the two women went straight to bed but Mulder searched the library for 
the liquor.  Good old Uncle Robert had always kept a stash of bourbon hidden 
behind the leather bound encyclopedia set.  Mulder had been working his way 
bottle by bottle for every Christmas they visited Elaine.  Last bottle. 

"Looks like I owe you some replacements, Uncle Robert," Mulder raised his glass 
at an empty chair by the fireplace where his uncle once sat.  Then, after a 
thoughtful moment, he wandered over to the carefully trimmed logs in the brass 
fire bin and started piling them in the hearth. 

The blaze of the fire made him feel a little better or maybe it was the bourbon.  
He stuffed another newspaper under the log pile and the fire flared up higher.  
Don't think about Russia, he reminded himself.  Don't think about Krycek. Don't 
think about the Congressional Hearing. Or Scully in jail. Or Scully. 

He rubbed at his face.  How much more did he need to drink to finally get to 
sleep? Something tapped on the French door panes of the library.  Fingernails 
tapping a little rhythm.  He got up, undoing his bow tie and shedding his 
jacket. 

Behind the glass was the brunette from the party, Sara, with a half-full bottle 
of champagne in one hand, smiling.  "Let me in," she stage whispered. 

Sara thrust a sprig of mistletoe over his head, laughing.  It bothered him that 
he could only remember her name and none of the particulars of their 
involvement.  He pulled the mistletoe from her fingers and pushed her coat off 
her shoulders looking at the swells and dips of her body under her velvet dress. 

"Let me help you with that," she told him and she shimmied out of the dress.  
Except for the stockings and garters, she was naked.  "Remember me now, Fox?" 

He did remember her, flashes of her legs crossed beside him at a ball game and 
her breasts under her hands.  She laughed a lot, he remembered.  He'd liked 
that.  He couldn't remember anything they'd talked about.  It hadn't mattered. 

"Kiss me," she told him. 

He did. Her tongue was in his mouth, warm and slick but her lips were cold and 
they made his tingle and go numb. Mulder thought the bourbon must have been 
working on him because he felt dizzy and staggered backward. Sara fell heavily 
onto his chest. 

"We should lie down," he slurred but his stomach clenched and he thought he 
might pass out. Sara was crumpled on the ground at his feet. When had that 
happened?  He turned and tripped over a footstool; pain shot up his foot. 
"Fuck!"  Something was wrong. Mulder wiped at his mouth where Sara's tongue had 
touched, finally vomiting on Aunt Elaine's vintage Turkish carpet. 

********** 

Even before he opened his eyes he knew he was in the hospital, the smell, the 
beeping of a heart monitor, the squeak of rubber soled nurse shoes. Someone 
pried one eyelid open to shine a light on his pupil.  He knew it wasn't her but 
he couldn't help himself, "Scully?" He tried to pull himself up but a determined 
little Indian man pushed him back down. 

"You haf been poisoned." 

"What?"  His throat was so dry that he croaked. 

The Indian man smiled and poured him water in a plastic cup.  Mulder drank the 
entire thing in one gulp and held it out again. "Not too much or you vill be 
sick again," the Indian man patted his arm and his face shifted from smiling to 
frowning. "I am Doctor Tubani, I haf been treating you and you are fine now 
but," the frown deepened, "I mus tell you that the young woman brought in wif 
you has died." 

Mulder stared at him.  Then, "My mother? My aunt? Are they here?" 

Aunt Elaine's prim manners were a relief to him in a way.  She was far too 
scandalized and proper to question what Sara was doing in the house. Like an 
idiot, a very lucky idiot, Mulder had forgotten to open the flue on the 
fireplace. 

The smoke had set off the fire alarm and brought Aunt Elaine and her housekeeper 
in time to save his life. "You know what a sound sleeper your mother is, Fox." 

He closed his eyes a moment then mumbled, "Doped up, you mean." 

Aunt Elaine cleared her throat, "I'll bring you by a change of clothes and 
something to read tomorrow.  I'll have to think about the etiquette surrounding 
the Sinclair girl's death, since it was a suicide." 

Mulder's eyes popped back open, "What do you mean?" 

"Well Fox, the poor girl obviously tried to poison herself and if you hadn'tÖ"  
Aunt Elaine cleared her throat again.  "I think it would be best to just pretend 
nothing happened." 

"Sara didn't seem suicidal.  Is that what the police are saying?" 

He'd said something wrong because Aunt Elaine pursed her lips that way she used 
to at a slip in his table manners or grammar. 

"Goodnight Fox," she clipped both words like an order.  Aunt Elaine could move 
fast for an old woman and she was out the door before he could get out of bed.  
Doctor Tubani was back by the time Mulder had his feet on the floor and caught 
him as Mulder crumpled in pain. 

"Ah Mistah Muldah, you haf also broken your toe." 

"Don't I get a cast?" Mulder growled and sat back on the bed.  Doctor Tubani  
leaned his head back in surprise like it was the most surprising request he'd 
been given all night. "No Mistah Muldah, not foh the pinkie toe." 

Sinclair Home 9:45 AM December 26th 

Mulder winced when he got out of the car.  His foot hurt like hell. He'd been 
surprised at the gourmet quality of the food and the immediate acquiescence of 
the nurse on his request for less medication and finally to leave; there was no 
last doctor visit to check him out.  In fact, there was no one to check him out. 
The "hospital" that his Aunt Elaine had used was a "private and discrete" place 
she had told him.  He'd grimaced at the possibilities behind her explanation. 
Apparently it was so private and discrete that they kept only the most necessary 
and opaque documents on their patients. 

Sara Sinclair's death certificate listed "alcohol poisoning" as her cause of 
death.  Doctor Tubani had apparently left for Bombay shortly after tucking 
Mulder back into bed on Christmas Eve. 

He'd called Scully but only left the message to have a merry Christmas with her 
mother before he turned off his phone.  His desertion to follow Krycek to the 
prison camp in Russia and the ordeal of the Hearing he'd cost her was still 
heavy in his soul. 

The Sinclair's welcomed him gravely as "Bill and Teena's son," then served him 
coffee. They had no pertinent information to give him about Sara.  But Mulder 
held more hope for Sara's dead ringer of a sister named Candace.  She'd glowered 
at him through the excruciatingly stiff visit over coffee and iced reindeer 
cookies. 

*************** 

"So Candace, Sara told me a lot about you," Mulder lied. "Did she mention that 
no one calls me Candace, has EVER called me Candace?" 

She had offered to walk him to his car and then on the drive let the rage show 
plainly on her face. "How about that I begged her not to go to that party at the 
Matheson's estate?  She obviously wasn't invited."  Candace, or whatever she was 
called, motioned behind her to the comfortable but unimpressive Sinclair home. 

Mulder nodded.  He was all business now.  He had to be.  "Did Sara tell you I 
was an FBI agent?"  He turned to face Sara's sister and pulled up to his full 
height despite the jolt of pain from his foot.  She stepped back a pace.  
"Listen, Miss Sinclair, I don't think your sister killed herself and I'm pretty 
damn sure that wasn't alcohol poisoning.  Whatever she got a hold of affected me 
fromÖjustÖ" Damn the FBI agent persona wasn't going to allow for making out with 
the victim. 

"She went to that party for you.  She wanted to try and seduce you again, so you 
don't need to explain the rest for me," Candace Sinclair filled in bitterly. 

"Why would she do that?"  Mulder asked her.  He had let his shoulders slump and 
his voice go less formal. 

Candace Sinclair glanced behind her at the house again.  "Can we go somewhere 
and talk about this.  My parents don't want me talking to you.  They seemed 
pretty anxious about it too." 

*********** 

 The cafÈ Sara's sister suggested was dingy and smoky; but at least it was open 
the day after Christmas. Mulder mumbled something about how they couldn't be to 
picky because of the holiday and that made Candace Sinclair smile snidely, "This 
isn't really on your set's radar." 

 They sat at a cracked formica table and drank watery sodas.  "Sorry that this 
isn't up to your usual standards," she said sarcastically. 

Mulder checked his frustration.  "What did you want to tell me Miss Sinclair?" 

"It's Candy." A disgusted snort in his direction, then, "You ruined everything 
for Sara.  Did you even know that?  You busted up her marriage and she was left 
with nothing. She started doing drugs, had to move back in with our parents," 
the woman's eyes became glassy with tears and her voice lost its hard tone. 
"Then you moved on to the next girl.  Sara tried to contact you butÖStephen's 
family and yours made her feel so crappy, like she was a gold digger and a 
whoreÖ" Candace grabbed a paper napkin from the metal dispenser and sobbed 
silently behind her hands for a second. "Sara got herself a job as a 
receptionist.  She was doing better.  But when she heard you would be in town at 
the Matheson's partyÖI guess she thought she might still have a chance at the 
high-life she used to have." 

Candace Sinclair's hard tone was back and Mulder traced a finger on the Formica 
and took whatever condemnation the woman had for him. He had used her sisterÖ 
and others.  She was right about him. 

Despite his guilt, something had snagged the part of him that was still rational 
and working though. 

"Stephen was her husband?" 

"Yeah," Candace blew her nose on some of the paper napkins.  She has a pile of 
them beside her crumpled from her tears and her clenching fists.  "It was 
practically an arranged marriage. Stephen was an only child and his parents were 
really anxious for grandchildren.  That's a big deal for your set isn't it? The 
line?  The family line?"  Candace stabbed her straw against the ice in her 
Pepsi. 

"HmmmÖStephen's family was wealthy then? Did they object to their son's marriage 
to Sara?" 

Candace Sinclair smiled her snide, sarcastic smile and shook her head,  "You 
don't know anything do you Fox Mulder?"  Her voice started to crack again, "You 
don't know a thing." 

Stephen Hollingsworth oceanfront bungalow 3:00 PM December 27th 

"God, it's just awful," Sara's ex-husband was nothing that he expected. Mulder 
had remembered meeting Stephen when they were both home summers from their 
separate prep schools.  But not much past the fact that Stephen was thin, blond 
and pouty. 

The bungalow Stephen Hollingsworth lived in was the opposite of the Sinclair 
home and its colonial family respectability. A vintage Porsche was parked in 
Stephen's tiled driveway. A Picasso dominated his sumptuous living area. The 
only concession to the holiday was a coil of holly inside a fat crystal vase. 

When Mulder arrived, Stephen's eyes were red from crying and he kept grasping a 
silk monogrammed handkerchief to his mouth but never wiped his eyes with it. 

Mulder also remembered Stephen's partner from their summer's home.  Nick 
Papalgos played some basketball with Mulder when they were still kids.  His 
parents divided time between the Hamptons, Martha's Vineyard and a private 
island near Sardinia. Nick rubbed at Stephen's back, clucked and shook his head 
in sympathy. "Sara was a nice girl, but her parents were so gauche. Stephen's 
father had to keep them in line with threats and bonuses.  The poor girl." 

"Mr. Sinclair worked for your father?"  Mulder asked Stephen. 

"Of course.  That was how Daddy found Sara for me!  I was an only child and my 
mother wouldn't let me out of her sight so the compromise was made for a 
grandchild." 

Nick Papalgos interrupted, "You know, Stephen and I never minded about the two 
of you but Stephen's parents were furious -- especially his fatherÖ" 

Mulder waved away Nick's comment.  Then, "I'm not following you.  A grandchild 
was needed?" 

Stephen Hollingsworth stopped his grasping of the handkerchief and looked at 
Mulder, perplexed.  "Well, you know.  All that business about giving one child." 

Mulder's stomach clenched the way it had at Sara Sinclair's poisonous kiss. 
"What do you mean?" 

When Stephen and Nick exchanged worried looks, Mulder decided to say the words 
out loud: "Are you talking about The Project?" 

Nick Papalgos leaned forward and placed a hand on Mulder's knee.  "We told her 
the baby was still-born but Stephen's father was just so angry that she'd drawn 
attention to the family through you." 

Stephen covered Nick's hand with his own and guided it back to his own lap. 
"There just couldn't be any questions about the baby's parentage, you know, or 
my father would have been Ö" Stephen grasped at the handkerchief and made a 
coughing, sobbing sound.  "Well our entire family would be devastated!" 

Mulder felt like he might get sick on Stephen Hollingsworth's expensive rug the 
way he had on Aunt Elaine's. "After the affair with me, your father told Sara 
the baby had lived?"  Stephen closed his eyes and nodded yes. 

"Then the baby wasn't still-born?" Mulder clarified. 

Stephen had the handkerchief at his mouth again. Nick shook his head sadly, "No.  
Of course not." 

**************** 

Mulder drove for a time without a particular destination in mind.  His broken 
toe was making his entire leg throb.  The thick wet Hamptons snow clogged the 
bottom of the windshield. 

If he could just talk to Scully, he thought. 

But what good would that do? There was no body to autopsy. The Sinclairs had 
Sara cremated immediately. And did he really want Scully witnessing all the 
horror that was his family and their friends?  ÖScullyÖ  She'd gone to jail for 
him. Would she have done that if she knew about his past, his family, the filth 
he came from? The car was acting sluggish.  He'd driven blindly onto a country 
road that was mostly mud and snow slush.  "Great." 

He threw the car in reverse and the tires spun without budging the car. 

"Fucking great." 

********** 

Mulder was soaking wet and freezing when the cab dropped him off at his Aunt's 
home.  The maid told him that his mother had eaten dinner already and retired to 
her room and his Aunt Elaine was visiting with friends for the evening. 

"Did you want me to make you something to eat, Sir?" 

"No." 

Mulder took off his dripping shoes and went to the library in search of the 
hidden bourbon bottles. The Library was clean: the rug removed and the oak floor 
polished, the fireplace swept and the logs replaced.  Mulder moved several of 
the encyclopedias with a growing sense of dread.  The bourbon was gone.  "Shit." 

He paced up towards the fireplace deep in thought about Sara Sinclair and her 
stolen baby. Why had she come to the Matheson's party to find him? Why would 
anyone poison her?  He was certain that she had been poisoned and not trying to 
kill herself that night.  A woman who successfully crashes a party and manages 
to connect again with the man she is looking to seduce is not a woman out of 
options. 

He stood looking at the glass of the French doors and saw his own reflection and 
the growing dark outside. "Merry Christmas," he whispered at the image of 
himself in the window. 

"Sir?" 

Mulder turned and took a step towards where Aunt Elaine's maid stood in the 
doorway. A shock of pain made him gasp.  It was worse than getting beaten by the 
guards at the Russian prison camp, it was worse than when the oil well exploded 
and knocked him to the groundÖ"That goddamn footstool!" 

"Sir?"  the maid's voice was confused now. 

"Nothing," he ground out. 

"There's a call for you, Sir." 

When the maid left Mulder picked up the receiver to the library desk phone. 
"Hello?" he barked. 

"Mulder, you okay?" 

"Scully?" 

"IÖI just wanted to tell you Merry Christmas.  I couldn't reach you earlier." 

"I'm sorry about that."  He held onto the phone and listened to her breathing on 
her end. Behind her he could hear a child screaming and the other noises of 
family. 

He didn't want to talk because he was afraid of revealing how pathetic his own 
night was but the knowledge of her on the other end of the line made him feel 
warm the way the fire had Christmas Eve. 

"You sounded like something was wrong when you answered." 

"Oh.  My foot hurt." 

"Your foot?" 

"I broke my pinkie toe."  He could hear her smile and then he felt the line 
between her eyebrows the next moment.  "It's nothing Scully. I tripped over a 
footstool." 

"OkayÖ" she said it like she was letting him off with a warning.  "Try and stay 
off it though." 

"Yeah."  They both listened to the other breathe for a few more minutes and then 
Mulder hung up. 

Hollingsworth Estate West Hampton December 28th 

"How nice to see you, Fox."  Mrs. Hollingsworth was on the heels of the butler 
when he opened the door to Mulder.  She was a round matronly woman in pressed 
linen and pearls.  "I was so sorry to hear about your father.  Your mother told 
me you were involved in a work project at the time.  She said you couldn't even 
get away for Bill's funeral." Mrs. Hollingsworth lead him into a sunny chintz 
covered sitting area.  "Have a seat Fox."  Her brow wrinkled, "Have you hurt 
your foot?" 

"It's nothing." 

A uniformed maid came in with sliced fruitcake on china plates and eggnog in 
old-fashioned cut glass cups.  "Stephen told me you stopped by to see him.  I'm 
so glad you boys have stayed friends." 

Mulder coughed. He had been reaching politely for the fruitcake the maid had set 
out but he let his hand drop.  This ridiculous pretence of courtesy had gone far 
enough. "Is Mr. Hollingsworth able to see me, Ma'am?  I wanted to ask some 
questions about Sara Sinclair." Mrs. Hollingsworth blinked at him like he had 
suddenly started speaking a language she didn't know. "I don't think her death 
was an accident.  I think she was murdered before she could tell me something or 
ask meÖ" 

Mrs. Hollingsworth had dropped her cup of eggnog onto her lap and her mouth was 
opened in the perfect round Oh of a caroler. 

"Mrs. Hollingsworth?"  Mulder sputtered and stood to help her.  Her eyes bulged 
and she began to quake as if she was having a seizure.  Mulder laid her flat to 
the ground and yelled for help. 

***** 

Mr. Hollingsworth was not going to play the same social games with him that his 
wife had played.  "I'm not interested in what happened to Sara," he told Mulder, 
and he spat out his former daughter-in-law's name when he said it.  "The two of 
you, you and that slut Stephen married, embarrassed my son and this family's 
respectable name." 

Mulder stared back coldly at the man, a knot tightening in his cheek.  "So you 
decided to tell her the truth about her babyÖthat you gave it away in place of 
Stephen to be a test subject." 

Mr. Hollingsworth looked down at his shoes a second.  He had ushered Mulder away 
from the chintz sitting room where his wife was being cared for the uniformed 
maid.  The two men faced each other in a library similar to the one in Aunt 
Elaine's house, except that the Hollingsworth library contained an antique 
liquor cart with heavy decanters of scotch and port. 

"Let me get us both a drink," Mr. Hollingsworth murmured.  His head was still 
hanging down and his eyes on his shoes until they squeezed closed a moment.  
"Have a seat, Fox." 

The scotch seemed to deflate Mr. Hollingsworth from the man who had first tried 
to stare Mulder down.  He was broken and grieving, Mulder could tell and then 
the whole story became plain. 

There was no way that Stephen could be the father of Sara's child, and the 
syndicate would only have accepted a biological child from the Hollingsworth 
family.  That left Mr. Hollingsworth to father the child. 

No wonder he was so outraged at Sara's affair with him.  He'd thought that he's 
found the perfect answer to his son's sexuality -- a beautiful daughter-in-law 
who could double as his mistress. 

"I thought she couldÖwe couldÖhave other children. My wife only had Stephen."  
Mr. Hollingsworth started to cry softly.  "I never should have told her about 
the baby but I was so angry over the affair with youÖ I thought Sara loved me." 

Mulder smiled bitterly at that.  Obviously Sara had never been more than the 
mistress to Mr. Hollingsworth since he was so willing to give away her child 
rather that have his wife suffer the loss of Stephen. 

"I hadn't told my wife about Sara's death.  She has a very delicate nature, as 
you could see." Mr. Hollingsworth waved a hand in the air. "Sara was like a 
daughter to her.  The thought the baby was going to be her first grandchild and 
it was such a blow to her when that couldn't be.  My wife has never really 
understood about Stephen and Nick." 

 Sara had balanced on a tightrope between being a lover to her father-in-law and 
a daughter to her mother-in-law. Her husband was already in a committed 
relationship with Nick Papalgos and her baby supposedly dead.  No wonder she had 
escaped into the affair with him, Mulder reasoned. 

But that still didn't explain why Sara had sought him out again that night at 
the Matheson's Christmas party. 

Mulder left Hollingsworth alone to cry in his library; He was satisfied that the 
man hadn't poisoned Sara Sinclair. Stephen's father was still convinced that his 
daughter-in-law getting her life back togetherÖthe receptionist job that Candace 
Sinclair had mentionedÖmeant she would eventually want to rekindle their affair 
. And Mrs. Hollingsworth's had been devastated at Mulder's rough imparting about 
Sara's death. 

Mulder didn't feel any closer to knowing Sara's motives in finding him or in 
discovering who would want her dead. 

He stopped at the liquor store on his way back to Aunt Elaine's house. Back in 
the guest room, his foot elevated on pillows, he was tempted to raid his 
mother's room for her pain medicine. The scotch finally did its work, though, 
and he passed out before midnight. 

Hampton Interiors Design studio December 29th 

The smell of potpourri made him gag when he walked in the door and Mulder 
clenched his teeth and swallowed back the reflex. 

It had been a long time since he drank as much liquor as he'd put away this 
week. His foot was now too swollen to fit in his shoe and so he'd wrapped it in 
some gauze he'd scavenged from Aunt Elaine's cook taken and borrowed a cane from 
Uncle Robert's things. Between drinking Robert's booze, making himself at home 
in the man's library and, now, hobbling around on the borrowed cane Mulder 
started to feel an appreciation for Uncle Robert as a dead man that he had never 
had for his uncle alive. 

"Oh you poor baby!  Get in here and have a seat," a tan blond in a very close 
fitting sweater had him by the arm and lead him to fat leather couch.  The woman 
moved the glass topped coffee table and inch closer to him, inviting him to 
place his bandaged foot on a throw pillow. 

"Skiing?" she asked him. 

"Excuse me?" 

"Your foot.  Did you do it skiing?" 

"Oh.  Yeah, I did." 

The blond pouted at him again before an older woman in a tight white haired bun 
and severe red lipstick shooed her away.  Penelope Carrant had been a fashion 
model and an ambassador's wife before she began her interior design business.  
She had the chiseled features and polite formality as evidence of both former 
careers. 

"Agent Mulder," her voice was low and lightly accented, an affected accent, 
Mulder realized a moment later. 

"I am only open to my dearest clients needs for decorating for the New Year," 
she said and she glanced at where the blond had propped his foot up with the 
throw pillow.  If it hadn't been throbbing so bad, Mulder would have taken it 
down but to hell with being polite or professional. 

"Thank you for making an exception, Ms. Carrant." 

The woman seated herself gracefully across from him.  "I was, of course, 
saddened by the death of Sara Sinclair.  She was such a lovely girl and a very 
discrete receptionist for my business." 

Mulder nodded, chewing the side of his cheek. Penelope Carrant was too posed and 
careful to trust anything she said. 

Mulder watched the woman's face, her eyes closely, "Being discrete is important 
at an interior design firm?" 

"Of  course!" she smiled.  Her teeth were very white.  "Dealing with the very 
rich there is always cause for discretion!  Sara knew how to make herself 
available and useful without drawing attention to herself."  The Carrant woman's 
eyes had lit with a challenge at this last part. 

What was she not saying?  That Sara was privileged to information about the 
clients she had over-heard or witnessed? 

Mulder wanted to ask if there was any particularly sensitive information Sara 
might have been privy to or suspicions.  But it would be a useless question on a 
woman who prized secretiveness. 

"I need to have the names of clients who have been in the office the last month.  
That shouldn't be confidential?"  Mulder decided he really did need to take down 
his foot for this next part but he couldn't hide the wince of pain.  "Of course 
I could easily get a subpoena if you need one." 

The only allowance to her anger was another flash from the eyes. "That won't be 
necessary but it is quite a long list.  We do most of the area's holiday 
decoration." 

"I would appreciate it if you remembered who came in directly and who sent a 
servant or assistant." 

"That shouldn't be a problem, Agent.  Your aunt for exampleÖshe always comes in 
herself." 

************ 

Back in the car, Mulder found a package of sunflower seeds in his pocket and 
dropped a few in his mouth. Penelope Carrant wasn't kidding about it being a 
long list.  The sexy blond had staggered out with a five inch thick mimeograph 
of their holiday design clients.  Every visitor, for every day, was recorded 
including the time of their arrival and their reason for stopping by. "Often our 
clients' memories of their requests differ from our designers." 

"I'm sure," he'd said accepting the thick document.  Thankfully, Penelope 
Carannt included a copy of Sara's schedule that month. 

He'd just cracked a sunflower between his teeth when his phone rang. 

"Mulder, it's me." 

"Hey Scully," he was a little embarrassed by the eager tone of his voice. 

"What are you doing out there?"  Scully did not sound eager or even friendly but 
like she was already braced for something irresponsible from him. 

"What do you mean, 'what am I doing?' I'm driving to the market and then back to 
my aunt's house."  Well, it wasn't really a lie: Mulder pulled into a spot in 
front of Hampton Liquor Market. 

"Holly told me you asked her to do research on a Penelope Carrant and Sara 
SinclairÖa Sara Sinclair who is recently deceased." 

"Are you already back in D.C?" 

"No, Mulder, I'm not.  Holly called me at my brother's place." 

"Why would she do that?" 

"Because I asked her to if she heard anything from or about you." 

Mulder smiled into the phone.  No wonder Scully sounded irritated; he'd gone and 
lived up to her fears for the vacation and found a case. 

"Listen, it's nothing okay?  Just have a good time with your family and don't 
worry about me."  He'd cut the engine and the car was getting cold but he didn't 
want to be the first to hang up. Maybe she would tell him that she was bored in 
California and could he please fax this phone book thick list of clients to her.  
Maybe she would even want to fly out to help him solve this thing. "Scully?" 

"Stay off of that broken toe, Mulder.  Did the doctor put it in a splint?  
Please tell me you saw a doctor." 

"Sort of.  Come on Scully, it's the pinkie toe.  It's no big deal."  He could 
hear her frown and the puff of air she always blew through her nose when she was 
stifling something she wanted to say. 

"Okay then," she said. 

"Okay then," he answered back and he waited for her to disconnect. 

************* 

December 30 6:40 AM 

"I never allowed alcohol in this house, even when Robert was alive."  Aunt 
Elaine had opened the French doors and bright sunshine and ice cold air filled 
the library. She probably didn't mind the glacial winter air, buttoned up in her 
boiled wool jacket and stiff tweed pants.  Mulder had fallen asleep in his 
boxers and dress shirt though and he definitely did mind the sudden change in 
the room's temperature. 

"Fox, I had your things put in the guest room because I expected you to sleep 
there." 

"Jesus Aunt Elaine!" He'd grabbed his pants and put them on, every brush of 
fabric against his foot sending tremors of pain up his leg. The sunlight was 
another agony entirely. He squinted at his aunt's stern silhouette. "Can you 
please close those doors!" 

"Fox!"  Oh crap. His aunt hadn't used that voice on him in a long time.  "I've 
had to conceal your involvement in the events of Christmas Eve from your mother.  
After all she's been through with your father and Ö" 

Mulder braced for his sister's name but Aunt Elaine seemed to bite her tongue 
against it. "Late yesterday afternoon that darling Penelope from Hampton 
Interiors called me to say that you had forced her to turn over a list of her 
December clients!" 

With the French doors closed Mulder could think again.  He was gathering his 
clothes and the scotch bottles as quickly as he could to get free of his aunt's 
tirade.  "So the very artificial Penelope Carrant called to tell on me to my 
Aunt Elaine.  Should I expect anything different in this place?" 

"Oh please Fox!  She called all of her clients on the list she gave you; I'm 
sure.  That is just like you to be so self-centered, not to stop and think that 
someone was just trying to do a nice thingÖjust trying to helpÖ" Aunt Elaine 
seemed genuinely upset and Mulder felt like an asshole. 

"I'm sorry Aunt ElaineÖ" he clutched his bundle of shoes, clothes and empty 
bottles to his chest.  "I didn't mean to ruin the holiday for you." "Why can't 
you just let that Sinclair girl alone?  She's dead.  She was someone you barely 
knew and she died.  Let it alone!" 

"But she wanted something from me that nightÖ" it was the small voice he used as 
a child against his aunt, his parents.  It was the voice of futility. 

"Sara Sinclair was no one to you." 

He thought of his mother who he hadn't seen once since the Matheson's party. 
Abandoning everyone for her pills and solitude had become Teena Mulder's 
personal Christmas ritual since her daughter's disappearance. Maybe he was using 
this investigation the same wayÖfinding a way to use Sara Sinclair even after 
her death. 

"I'm sorry," he said again and shrugged helplessly. 

Upstairs in the shower Aunt Elaine's words had time to work into his psyche. 
Everything she'd said about him was true. He'd left Scully with that diseased 
rock.  He'd let her face that Congressional Hearing -- to lie for him when she 
was probably worried he wouldn't get back to her alive. He was a selfish 
bastard. 

************ 

"Thanks for seeing me again, Fox.  I wasn't very nice to you before."  Candace 
Sinclair didn't look so much like Sara to him the second time he saw her.  They 
met at the same shitty cafÈ as before.  They both looked a lot worse from the 
effects of the last days.  Mulder gingerly placed his swollen foot on the chair 
opposite him. 

"You don't have to apologize.  I guess I wasn't very gentle with Sara when we 
Öwere together.  I didn't realize I had done her life so much damage."  Mulder 
had taken his straw out of his glass and weaving it through his fingers, 
fidgeting and nervous. 

"But your family has been so nice to us.  My parents were worried about what I 
would tell you that day you visited.  They didn't want youÖyour family Öthinking 
that Sara had been ungrateful, that any of us had." 

Mulder looked up from the table to Candace, suddenly still, suddenly calm.  
"What do you mean?" 

"Your aunt has been so supportive through all this even though Sara must have 
disappointed her horribly." 

"I'm not followingÖ" 

"Your Aunt Elaine!"  Candace flipped her long brunette hair behind her shoulder 
impatiently.  "She bought Sara those new clothes for her job at the interior 
design place and paid for her counseling.  Elaine was a good friend to Sara 
after the way your parents treated her." 

Mulder nodded slowly for Candace to go on.  Something had changed inside of him.  
He was tense and waitingÖevery part of him the impartial, calculating FBI 
profiler. 

Candace Sinclair saw the difference and it scared her.  "I don't mean to say 
anything bad about them, your parents I mean.  It was just that after all hell 
broke loose about the affairÖyour parents sort of threatened her." 

"What kind of threats?" 

"They just didn't want her to be more than a fling for you, I think.  They told 
her that a relationship would be carefully planned, that the woman would be 
chosen for you from the right set of people." 

Mulder didn't even limp on his way out of the cafÈ.  He couldn't feel a thing. 

**************** 

Aunt Elaine broke down when she told him the truth.  "I never wanted your mother 
involved with him. I begged her not to marry him. It was inhuman the way Bill 
and his so called 'associates' treated people." She didn't know the half of it. 

"I know so little, Fox, but what I do makes me sick."  Aunt Elaine had only been 
grateful when Mulder produced the last of his hidden scotch.  They were back in 
the library with the fire roaring. Aunt Elaine gripped her glass like the blaze 
in front of her could never warm what was cold inside. 

"I knewÖI knew that when someone was taken from youÖ"  It took her a long time 
with stops and starts to get the story out. "You got her back.  I told her you 
got back the one that was taken from you because you're specialÖ I gave Sara 
hopeÖ And then, they killed her for it." 

The real reason Sara had tried to seduce him that night was not because she was 
a lonely divorced woman, looking for another shot at a life of wealth and 
privilege. And it sure as hell wasn't because she still carried a torch for Fox 
Mulder. She'd been desperate that night but not for him.  She was a mother who 
wanted her child back. Sara Sinclair would have fucked anyone and done anything 
at the chance of making that happen. 

Scully had come back to him.  Somehow his aunt had gleaned enough from his 
mother's drugged ramblings to decipher that. She'd only been trying to helpÖgive 
Sara a little hope that one-day her baby would come back too. Aunt Elaine had 
tapped into a ferocity that she'd underestimated, one she couldn't begin to 
understand; she'd never had children herself. 

Home of Bill Scully Jr. San Diego, California December 31st 11:21 PM 

He hadn't counted on all the drunk brawny sailors when he'd had this idea. 

But could he really call it an idea to get on that plane or an animal instinct? 

Survival.  That was what moved him and right now his survival is sitting, 
looking a little bored, across a confetti strewn military housing living area. 
Surrounded by muscled drunk sailors. 

Right across the threshold is the familiar figure of Scully's asshole brother, 
holding a model of a submarine and a little plastic missile. That must be one 
whopper of story he's demonstrating because even his wife rolls her eyes at 
whatever his boasting is about. 

Lots of champagne as the desperate and limping man makes his way into the room.  
The drunken sailors are at just the perfect stage of intoxication to be friendly 
to a limping man. 

He's offered first a plastic champagne glass bubbling over with the stuff, then 
an entire bottle. 

"Uh no thanks, I've had enough." But the muscled sailor slaps him on the back 
and tries to refill the limping man's already full glass. 

Finally Scully looks up from her chair in the corner. "Mulder?" 

Oh Thank God, because he felt like he was about to fall over and he thought they 
might not find him again in all the confetti and plastic cups. 

"What are you doing here?" she says and surprisingly she doesn't look pissed 
off, not even about the limping.  Maybe she's had a lot of the champagne, he 
thinks. 

"I missed you," he tells her. 

She lets him hug her and then she leads him to the chair. 

"Are you okay?"  she asks because he looks like he might cry.  "What's wrong?" 

"I just really missed you, Scully." 


The End