Illuminati

By Audrey Roget
audrey_roget@yahoo.com
 

Date: 24 Dec 1998
DISTRIBUTION:  Please forward to ATXC; archive at
Gossamer; others please flatter me by requesting
permission first.
SPOILERS:  Mostly vague and non-specific
RATING:  PG
CLASSIFICATION:  SRA
KEYWORDS:  MSR, Angst, Holiday fic
SUMMARY:  Certain details inspired by (all right,
ripped off from) "Ghosts," but not tracking the storyline
of the ep.  Mulder and Scully visit and avoid their
families, ruminate on faith, embrace loss, and open
presents.
DISCLAIMER: Indulge me a moment.  The principal
characters portrayed herein are ultimately owned by
Rupert Murdoch, spawn of Satan.  I thank Chris Carter
and company for bringing them to life and continuing to
oversee their development and ongoing existence.  At
the same time, Fox Television and 1013 Productions
would do well to acknowledge that, in the larger sense,
these characters belong to all of us, for without us,
there is no they.  With that in mind, I declare a
complete lack of intent to derive profit from the
production/distribution of the following material or to
infringe upon the ownership of the personages not
created from my own imagination.
SEASONAL DISCLAIMER:  I am aware that Christmas
and Hanukkah do not line up so conveniently on the
calendar this year as they occasionally do.  I mean no
offense in fudging the dates slightly so as to create a
tighter timeline for this story.  In the same spirit, kindly
overlook any inaccuracies in the portrayal of religious
traditions.
 
 

Illuminati - part 1/2
By Audrey Roget

Monday, 21 December 1998
Georgetown
7:45 a.m.

"Oh, sweetheart, Bill and Tara and Matty will be so
disappointed," my mother said on the phone this
morning.

"I'll see them - and you - Friday morning," I replied,
willing my voice to strike the appropriate balance
between conciliation and determination, praying like a
nun on speed that she wouldn't ask for too many
details.

"What about midnight mass?  Won't you miss the
candles and the choir singing...?" she intoned in that
forlorn way only a Catholic mother can.

"We'll go in the morning," I assured her, "it's supposed
to snow Friday, it'll be beautiful."

"Wouldn't it be lovely for Matty to have a white
Christmas?"

"Yeah, mom.  I'll teach him to make snow angels."
Since when did images of angels and Christmas snow
make me want to burst into tears?

"Well, you have a nice time at your office party...don't
any of your colleagues have families to go home to on
Christmas Eve?"  Damn, I was almost home free.  Or
not home, actually.

"Yes...of course, but it's considered poor form not to
show up for at least some of the festivities."  My lip
curled at the thought.  "And, since we have a new
assignment, new superior, we, uh - I - should really do
more than just put in an appearance."

How on earth did I lie so easily as a teenager?  As an
adult, I could barely get the words to come out in the
right order.  I've told my mom as little as possible about
the new developments at work, and virtually nothing
about the dark cloud of hostility hovering over Mulder
and me.  Or that the animosity rains down from directly
over our heads in the form of Tropical Storm Kersh.

"All right, Dana.  We'll miss you.  But do try to come
first thing Christmas morning, okay?"

I breathed a sigh of relief.  "I promise, Mom.  Give
everyone my love.  I'll see you Friday."

###

J. Edgar Hoover Building
3:17 p.m.

Mercifully, there is no such FBI office party that I'm
aware of.  Nor would I go, under threat of
assassination by Cancer Man himself.  In fact, I may
take Thursday off altogether.  I never thought I could
feel any more claustrophobic than I did in the five
years I spent in the cluttered basement office under my
partner's variably disinterested or overly-watchful
gaze.  The place was a palace compared to the "gerbil
bin," as Mulder has taken to calling it, where we now
spend our on-duty hours.

"Psst, Scully..."  Mulder grabs my attention away from
the sixth pile of manure (or report of suspiciously
copious quantities thereof) I've signed off on today.

My eyes flick up to the top of the salmon-colored
upholstered cubicle divider.  The color reminds me of
dirty pencil erasers.  Mulder has his two index fingers
poking over the top.  He's drawn little faces on each,
one with long eyelashes, I'm guessing, to indicate that
finger is female.  Add ambidextrous to his many
unusual talents.

"Hey, FBI woman," Mulder makes his voice super low
and husky and wags the `male' finger, "What's say you
`n' me defy direct orders for a change?  The boys
tipped me off to a haunted house outside Baltimore
that's the site of several long-unsolved double murders
- all of which took place on Christmas Eve.""

It takes every muscle in my face not to snicker like a
ten year-old.  Why do I bother anymore?  Do I honestly
think my refusal to enjoy this silliness discourages
him?  No.  But the longer I hold out, the further he'll go,
and there are days I want to find out exactly how far
Fox Mulder will go.

"Oooh, Mr. FBI-Man," he makes a swoony,
high-pitched voice for the girl finger, "I'd looove to
stake out a haunted house and piss off my superiors
with you!  But I have very important dung piles to
investigate.  And after that, I have to strip-search every
deadbeat dad between here and Wilmington."

"Hey - I bet you're lookin' forward to that action!" says
the male finger.

I crack the barest hint of a smile.  "Dung piles, Mulder?
What am I, a beetle?"

Mulder takes the pun and runs with it.  "Well, we are
more popular than Jesus, you know," he attempts a
Liverpool accent.

"Was that George or Ringo?" I ask, pushing his
buttons and letting more teeth show.

The male finger bangs its head against the partition.
"Now look what you've done," the high voice returns,
"that's how he went wacko to begin with, you know.
Now all he can talk about is flying saucers and
werewolf babies."

I lose it, finally, bringing one hand down over his and
hiding a fit of giggles behind the other.  We catch a
nasty glare from Kersh's assistant, who's flirting with
Mel Barney two cubicles over, and figure what the hell,
and laugh openly at our secret joke.

"You make a tempting offer..." I begin, "but...silly as it
may seem...`How the Grinch Stole Christmas' is on
tonight and I wouldn't miss it for the world."  That's not
an outright lie.  I /was/ thinking about watching it while
wrapping presents and setting up the tree.

He sighs dramatically, "I suppose, if it's that important
to you...I could put aside this extremely pressing
investigation to watch the Grinch with you..."

What just happened here?  Did he just invite himself
over to watch TV?  "The Grinch it is," I acquiesce,
adding, "your idea, your place, your pizza."  This way, I
can leave as soon as the show's over and get things
done at home, rather than have my insomniac partner
lingering until the wee hours at my place.  Though,
under other circumstances, that idea would be rather
tempting.

"Ooh, Scully, I love it when you take charge."

"Hey Mulder," I say, holding up one of my own fingers,
"don't say I never gave you anything."

###

Alexandria
6:48 p.m.

If I were a practicing shrink, I could learn all I needed
to know about a patient by asking one simple question:
`Which character in "How the Grinch Stole Christmas"
do you most identify with, Cindy-Lou Who, the dog, or
the Grinch?'

See, Cindy-Lou is an innocent archetype, a believer in
the fundamental goodness of others, a curious,
open-hearted child unwise to life's harsher realities.
The dog is a cowering little beast whose survival
instinct drives him to do whatever it takes to please his
master, in the hopes that he will eventually earn his
reward.  And the big green man himself?  For him,
kindness and joy are illusions people construct to
convince themselves they're happy.  But he's on to the
whole act.  He sees how ugly people can be inside,
and he's fundamentally suspicious of everyone elses'
motives.  Anyone else's happiness.  Nothing is pure,
nobody is truly happy, so he stews in isolation on his
cold mountain top while hatching a plan to bring down
all of Whoville's prettified notions that love and security
and peace really exist.  But the Grinch, in a single
morning, experiences a complete spiritual overhaul.
And tonight, inexplicably, I feel like I may be on the
verge of one myself.

Don't ask me why I take this particular Dr. Seuss story
so much to heart.  Sam and I loved it, insisted on
watching it every year, though what we knew of
Christmas was mostly second-hand knowledge
gleaned from classmates, neighbors and television.  I
think I must have been in junior high before anybody
explained its religious origins to me.

In truth, I haven't had any desire to watch the show in
years.  I didn't think Scully would actually want to come
- I was really just kidding around this afteernoon.
Things have been tense between us the last few
months and we're not quite in sync like we used to be.
The exhilaration I felt bringing Scully back alive from
the bottom of the world, and the assumption that she
had all the first-hand experience she needed to make
belief possible, disintegrated like the fragile pages of
files I've been trying to piece back together.
Nonetheless, she issued her orders:  the Grinch, pizza,
my place.  I couldn't have backed out even if I wanted
to.  Despite the added complications of our
reassignment and the derailment of our work, I hold out
hope that her visit tonight is a sign that we can be
repaired, too, piece by piece.

Shit, what time is it?  Better order the pizza and see
what's around to drink.  I get off the phone with the
pizza guy and wander into the kitchen.  No beer; no
iced tea.  A bottle of red wine lurks in the corner
behind the empty breadbox.  When did I buy that,
anyway?  What the hell.  Reaching up to the top shelf
of the cupboard for the wine glasses, I spy it way in the
back corner.

It always reminds me of a hand with too many fingers.
Silver and simple in design, my mother sent it to me
the first year I lived in England.  I've never used it.
Now, I take it down from the shelf and dust it off with
the sleeve of my shirt.  The one I remember from my
childhood was more ornate, gold, with swirls and
curlicues and crystals embedded in the base.  Each
night, Samantha and I would wait eagerly for my father
to get home from work so we could light the candles,
adding one a night as the week passed.  And then on
the eighth night, there was always a big dinner at my
great-aunt's house on the Cape, and usually, we got to
stay home from school so we could go over for the
whole day.  I wonder what's happened to all those
cousins we used to see once a year.  The year she
disappeared was the last time my parents took me
there, though for the next few years we still went
through the motions of lighting the candles and saying
the prayers.  Mine were never answered.

###

7:12 p.m.

Mulder's window looks unearthly from the street, eerily
blue in the early dark of December.  I knock at his door
twice before deciding he isn't home yet and let myself
in.  But he is there, slouched on his sofa in the glow of
the television, two empty wine glasses on the table
before him and a silver object in his hands.  He looks
lost in thought, which explains why he hasn't heard my
knocking or the bolt sliding in the lock.  I watch him
ponder the candelabra and decide to let him come
back from wherever he is, rather than interrupt.

After several minutes, without looking up, he speaks.
"It's the first night," he says quietly.

I take that as my cue to doff my coat and gloves and
head over to sit next to him on the sofa.  "This is
beautiful," I say, indicating the menorah as he places it
on the table.

He nods, then shoots a glance my way.  He's never
told me about his religious upbringing.  I only recently
realized he even had one.  I can't tell if he wants to talk
about it, or if he'll feel I'm intruding into to territory
that's too personal, too painful.

The quiet has filled with tension, so I clear my throat to
break it and plunge ahead.  "I only knew one Jewish
family growing up.  Melissa dated their oldest son
when she was in junior high.  We were so envious that
all their kids got presents for eight days instead of just
one."  I smile a bit at the memory of Missy being
allowed to wear high heels for the first time - thick
wood-platform affairs - when Gabe took her to the
eighth-grade graduation dance.

Mulder smiles at his own memories, too.  "Yeah, but
the first night was always the best.  I'd compare it to
Christmas Eve, except I'm not really sure what that
feels like.  Besides, Hanukkah is more a celebratory
feast rather than a sacred one."

"I thought it was the celebration of the victory of an
underdog against a tyrant?" I say, struck by the
obvious analogy.

He nods.  "And the miracle" - he waves his hand
around, embarrassed to use the word even in its
appropriate context - "that oil that should have only
lasted one day kept the lamps burning for eight."  He
clears his throat self-consciously.  "But it's not one of
the holier celebrations.  Traditionally, it's more about
being with family at home.  It's basically the Hebrew
version of the more ancient winter solstice celebrations
- you know, the triumph of light over dark.   Did you
know most tribal peoples, in one way or another,
celebrated the first day of winter because it marked the
end of the days getting shorter and the beginning of
the return of the sun?"

He's on a roll, in full professorial-lecture mode.  Such a
handy way to distance oneself from that which hits too
close to home.  On this I am a bona fide expert.  Still, I
nod attentively, soaking up endless fascinating facts
about Druids and pre-Columbian peoples, waiting for
him to run out of steam.  Which he does, just as the
pizza deliverer knocks at the door.

While he rummages around in his wallet to find the
right change, I find the correct channel on the
television and settle into the couch.  We eat our pizza,
drink a little wine, which Mulder produces from the
kitchen with a flourish, and comment on the strides
animation has made in the last thirty years.

The last strains of the Whoville choir fades out as the
300th obnoxious toy commercial blares up, so Mulder
mutes the sound and we similarly grow quiet.  I glance
at the menorah again.  "Do you have any candles?" I
ask.

Mulder shrugs, gives me an odd look.  "Somewhere
around here..." he hauls himself off of the couch to
rummage through a couple of desk drawers, then
searches noisily in the kitchen.  "Aha!" he exclaims,
striding back into the living room and holding up two
small white votives, "from the brownout last summer."

He places one of the candles in the center position and
touches a lit match to it, then dips the wick of the other
one into the flame.  The flame flares, and Mulder sets
the second candle in the holder next to the first.  He
flicks off the television, leaving us in darkness except
for their yellowish glow.  Again, we are quiet,
contemplative.  The candles and the wine work their
magic, blurring the lines between us.  Mulder reaches
out to my hand resting next to him.  He takes it in both
of his and holds it for several long moments, caressing
it with his thumbs.  What he says next is unexpected,
but not surprising.

"I wonder whether she's lighting the first candle
tonight.  If she and her kids and her husband are
gathered around the dinner table, singing songs and
saying prayers.  If she remembers the words.  If she
believes in them now."

"Your sister," I state.  He nods mutely, not taking his
eyes from the flickering lights.

I slip my hand away and lean forward on my knees.
"Have you tried to contact her since...the last time you
saw her?" I ask.

He shakes his head, then shrugs.  "She asked me not
to.  She doesn't want to remember, Scully and I think...I
think...she knows that being around me would be like
going under a microscope."  He sighs.  "She's afraid of
me, and I can't say I blame her."

"Did you ever tell your mother about seeing her?"

"No," he says quickly.  "My mom doesn't want to
remember anything, either.  I think she regards the
stroke as something of a blessing in that respect," he
mutters bitterly  He leans forward for his wine and
swallows the rest of the glass.  Rising to clear away
the pizza box and the bottle, he mumbles something
about wishing he could put the past to rest so easily.
As he trails back in from the kitchen, he stops and
peers down at me in the dim light.  I feel the blood
pump a little faster in my veins whenever he regards
me so closely.  It's not a bad feeling, not at all, and
with the wine tonight, I feel the color rising in my
cheeks.

But this discussion about holidays and familial
estrangement has gotten me thinking about something
I've considered bringing up from time to time, but never
had the guts to follow through with.  Still gazing at the
candles, I begin, "Mulder, have you ever thought about
just...and I don't mean to stick my nose where it
doesn't belong -"

"Your nose is welcome anywhere, anytime, Scully," he
interrupts.

"- never mind."  I chicken out momentarily, but find my
voice again.  "Maybe, if you were just to visit with your
mother...without trying to interrogate her."  I hold up a
hand to waylay any further interruptions.  "I'm sure
there's a lot I may never understand about your
relationship with your parents, and maybe I'm out of
line to suggest it, but if you could sit down with her, just
like you're sitting here with me and...and - talk.  Talk
about good things you both remember.  You've been
able to tell me about some of them.  Why not reminisce
with someone who was actually there?  She may need
to be reminded that there were some good moments
just as much as you do."

He opens his mouth, but I continue, "Wait.  Hear me
out before you disregard what I have to say."  We both
grin slightly to recognize this as Mulder's usual line.  "I
don't think you have to pretend that what followed
didn't happen.  Or that your mother didn't contribute to
the family tragedy and probably did you a terrible
injustice by trying to erase the past."  I reach up to take
his hand in my and smooth my thumb over his
knuckles.

"That's a relief," he remarks sarcastically,  "in case you
hadn't noticed, I'm not really a subscriber to the `think
happy thoughts' school of psychology."

"You know that's not what I'm suggesting," I reply,
undeterred.  "I know it's rough....sometimes my mother
and I, we talk about Missy  - and my dad," here my
voice feels like it's going to break, "and it hurts
sometimes to remember even the nicer moments, to
realize those moments are gone, and there's no
chance to relive them, or to create new memories.  But
it keeps them alive for us, Mulder.  We remind each
other of how lucky we were to have them."

This time, he's the one to break contact, circling back
around the coffee table to sit at the other end of the
couch.  "Scully, I appreciate the thought," he says
wearily,  "but it's not that simple.  Not everybody's mom
is like the unsinkable Maggie Scully.  Mine may be
mentally fragile, but she's also impenetrable as the
Great Wall."

"It all comes down to a matter of trust," I say, almost
under my breath.  He looks at me sharply.  "Mulder,
you and I have spent years building the trust we have
between us.  As strong as it is, we still have to work at
it every day.  And every other day, it seems, there's
another leap of faith one or the other of us has to
make."

"I know there's a point in there somewhere, if I just look
hard enough..." he smirks.

"The point being that your mother doesn't know she
can trust you, Mulder.  You may never feel that you
can trust her completely, but what about her
insecurities?  For her own safety - and possibly for
yours - she must have had to keep so much to herself.
If you only see her as a befuddled old lady - or worse,
as an enemy who's been veiling the truth from you all
these years - she can only see you as someone who
threatens whatever small measure of stability she
might have.  But if you love her, Mulder, if that's still
within your grasp, just be her son.  Give her - give
yourself, for godsakes - the chance to rebuild whatever
you might be able to salvage, and then...see what
happens."

He is silent for several minutes, twitching his foot
around lazily, and finally turns to me.  "Time to come
down from Mount Crump, huh?"

I smile warmly, offering whatever strength I can to get
him through this.  Mulder stretches his arms to me and
pulls me close.

"Just one thing, Scully," he says softly, warm breath
tickling my ear and nearly making me forget the thread
of conversation.

"Hmmm?"

"Sitting down with my mother is nothing like sitting here
with you."

And so, we sit silently for a time, holding hands and
watching the candles flicker.
 

End part 1/2
 

Date: 24 Dec 1998 11:02:27 -0800
From: Audrey Roget <audrey_roget@yahoo.com>
Subject: NEW:  Illuminati 2/2
 
 

Thursday, 24 December 1998
9:07 p.m.

If my mother believed the confabulation I created for
her on Monday morning, in her mind at this moment,
I am all dressed up, sipping champagne and
schmoozing my colleagues.  Not sitting alone in
front of the fireplace in my own apartment, staring
hard at snapshots of two whose loss changed
forever the way I think of Christmas.  I feel guilty
about lying to Mom, but not guilty enough to
accompany her to midnight mass, or sit by the
enormous tree in the living room drinking egg nog
with my big brother, trying to pretend I'm the same
person I was before I lost the people in these
photographs.

In my right hand, I hold a picture taken nearly twenty
years ago.  The year I was fifteen, and we lived in
San Diego, Ahab took us fishing on Christmas Day.
With Bill's help, he reeled in a behemoth of a
shimmering blue swordfish.  Back on the pier, my
dad pulled me over to where they'd strung it up to
weigh and clean it, saying, "Starbuck, it's no white
whale, but it'll do for dinner."  I wrinkled my nose at
the smell of decaying fish, and in that instant,
Charlie snapped a shot of the two of us with the
pocket camera he'd unwrapped that morning.  I
threatened him with instant, violent death if he didn't
turn over the picture to me when it came back from
the developer's.

In my left, is the now dog-eared image of a three
year-old Emily.  As much as I've tried to imagine
what those first three years were like, and agonized
over her final days of life - the only days I was
fortunate enough to have with her - I find myself
wondering what she might have been like at four, at
five, six...

And, ultimately, I bring the two together, wondering
if somehow their souls have made each other's
acquaintance yet.  I'm utterly at a loss to imagine
how my father would have reacted to learning he
had a granddaughter under those strange
circumstances.  I am sure he would have supported
my decision to petition for adoption.  And he would
have loved Emily, of this I have no doubt.  In that
first year after his death, I carried tremendous guilt
over his not having lived to enjoy Scully
grandchildren.  If I had just fulfilled his ambitions for
me, I might have been able to give him that.

Gifts withheld, by choice or by circumstance, leave a
void in the soul of the giver.  I place the pictures on
the end table and curl up on the sofa.  /Help me
bear it, Ahab.  I need your strength./  Tears streak
down my face, but I don't bother to wipe them away.
I realize now how much damage I wrought by not
allowing the hurt to sink in when Ahab and Emily
were taken away.  Tonight, I can feel it seep into my
bones, as an arthritic senses a storm coming.  And I
embrace it.

###

Somewhere between Greenwich, CT and
Georgetown

Photo albums.  I never realized she'd kept so many.
I don't recall having so many pictures snapped of us
as kids, yet there we are, in Kodak moments up the
wazoo.  I'd almost suspect them of being doctored,
except that each one brought on such a strong rush
of memory:  Pictures of me with a black eye I'd
gotten during little league practice; Samantha's sixth
birthday party - I remember what her best friend's
mother wore and that Donny Gayle from down the
block threw up his entire lunch after a particularly
rough round of Red Rover.  Did my mother know
from the time we were born that she might not have
us for very long?

I hate to be so boorish as to say something like, `I
can't stand it when Scully's right,' especially when
she so often is.  Despite her guarded optimism when
I took her suggestion to drive up to Connecticut to
be with my mother this week, I didn't look upon this
trip so brightly.  In fact, I was almost determined to
prove Scully wrong, figuring I'd get there, exchange
tense greetings, sit through an interminably
uncomfortable meal and be on my way.

Instead, when I arrived in Greenwich unannounced
on Tuesday evening, Mom greeted me warmly, said
she'd been thinking about me a lot lately and had
been meaning to call.  I took it all with a grain of
salt, considering that sometime between my actual
near-death experience and the staged one, my
mother stopped initiating communication with me.

But for the next day-and-a-half, hard as it is for me
to believe, we did mother-son things.  She made me
pancakes for breakfast the next morning.  I took her
car in to have the engine lubed and the tires rotated.
I actually asked her to tell me about growing up in
New York during the Depression and World War II,
ashamedly realizing that I had never done so
before.  She hauled out mountains of scrapbooks I
was amazed to learn she had kept.  We didn't
exchange gifts for Hanukkah - neither of us had
expected to see the other, after all - but we did light
three candles together last night and recited prayers
neither of us truly believe anymore, but said
anyway, as if to establish some sort of faith in
ourselves, more so than in God.

And yes, there was considerable wariness on both
our parts.  We skirted topics.  She clammed up
when she sensed the conversation might turn down
a path too treacherous for her to follow.  With the
self-control of a Zen master, I managed to avoid
pummeling her with questions about Dad's work, his
"associates" and whether they ever knew or
suspected that Samantha was alive these 25 years.
Whether they knew, and decided to keep the
knowledge from me.  And I still didn't tell Mom about
meeting a woman who claimed to be her daughter,
who also claimed to have been raised by the man I
consider the incarnation of pure evil.

Despite the uncomfortable pauses, and the
occasional feeling that we were merely going
through the motions of a friendly visit, I began to feel
a genuine connection with my mother which we
haven't shared since I was a kid.  When we said our
good-byes this afternoon, she asked something of
me, and I think now, it's the first time she's made
such a request.  "Come back soon," she said.

###

11:37 p.m.

I pull up in front of Scully's building.  Her windows
are dark.  except for the tiny twinkling lights
adorning her tree.  I vaguely remember something
about a family tradition of going to midnight mass.

Slipping my key into the lock, I let myself in, and
quietly shut the front door to Scully's apartment, not
wanting to rouse her neighbors.  I head over to the
fireplace, thinking to slip the package from my
pocket into the bright red stocking with her name
embroidered on it in gold thread.

"Who's there!"  The sleepy voice shoots through the
dark quiet like a heat-seeking missile and I nearly
piss my pants.

I draw a deep breath, and try to reestablish my
pulse.  "Nobody stirring, not even us gerbils," I say,
trying to sound cool, but it comes out like one of the
teenage voices on the Disney Haunted House
record.

Scully flicks on the lamp next to the sofa.  "Jesus,
Mary and Joseph," she swears, appropriately
enough.  "I never expected a visit from Santa
Mulder," Scully cracks dryly.  "What are you doing
here?"

"What am /I/ doing here?  Shouldn't you be out
caroling or decking or midnight massing, or
whatever Cleaveresque thing families do on
Christmas Eve?"

"Yeah, well the Beav decided to take a mental
health day from work and the family," she smiles
sadly.  Only then do I notice how her normally
porcelain skin is splotchy and flushed.  I spy two
photographs on the end table, an adorable one of a
teenage Scully and her father, posed with a fish /this
big/ hanging behind them, and the birthday party
snapshot of Emily propped against the first.

I shrug out of my jacket and throw it on the chair.
Settling on the couch next to Scully, I ask, "Want to
talk about it?"

"Make yourself comfortable, why don't you," she
zings flatly, throwing in a perfect Scullybrow for
good measure.  I don't say a word, knowing she'll
come out with it when she decides it's time.  As it
turns out, I don't have to wait all that long.

###

"It's hitting me harder than I expected it to," I say
tightly.

Mulder shifts immediately into comfort mode, raising
one hand toward my shoulder.  I can't bear to look
at him directly, knowing how emotion pools deeply
in his eyes whenever I dare put my feelings on
display.

"Don't," I caution, and his hand stops in midair,
hovering for a second before dropping with a light
thud to the cushion below.  "Soothing is the last
thing I need right now.  I need this anger, this
sorrow, all for myself.  You can't feel this for me,
Mulder.  I want to - I have to - feel it for myself."

He wants to protest.  The space between us is alive
with the tension of his unrealized desire to take on
my burden, to assure me that he feels my pain, that
I am not alone in my suffering.  "Scully, if you're
determined to take this on alone, I can respect that."
He chooses his words carefully.  "All I ask is that
you reach out the second you feel yourself start to
fall."

I sigh and nod, knowing he'll be there to catch me.
"It's just...misery doesn't always love company."

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks softly, as
neutrally as possible.

"No," I reply honestly.

For a long while, we simply sit together in the glow
of the candle: me and my grief, Mulder and his
frustrated empathy.  Together.

It is the most precious gift he could ever give me.

Speaking of gifts, my curiosity has been on red alert
since I awoke to find Mulder stealthily creeping
toward my fireplace mantle, so once I have had my
fill of sadness, I break the silence and re-enter the
world of the living.

###

"What's that?" she says, pointing her chin over to
the chair where I dropped my jacket.

I smile a bit, embarrassed now that my Kris Kringle
act has tanked.  "This?" I say, reaching over to draw
the package out of my jacket pocket.  "I have no
idea.  I almost rear-ended a sleigh out on the Jersey
Turnpike, so the jolly old fat guy driving the sled
handed this to me and begged me not to report it to
the DMV.  But what's this," I tease, dangling it above
her head, "it says `for Dana.'"

I'm incredibly relieved to see a twinkle - however
slight - return to those eyes.  "Well, in that case..."
she begins, tearing herself from the sofa and going
over to crouch under the tree,  "...I noticed
something over here with your name on it."

I turn all warm and mushy inside at the thought of
Scully picking out a present for me.  With a
self-pleased and anticipatory look, she hands me a
smallish package wrapped in shiny paper and tucks
her legs under her as she resettles in the corner of
the couch.

"You first," I say.

"No, you," she counters, of course.

We exchange a quick look and simultaneously set
about destroying the glossy paper and bows.

###

My gift is simply - and surprisingly neatly - wrapped,
and I win the race, eager to discover what surprise
Mulder has in store for me.  He has quirky taste in
gifts, and I am not disappointed tonight.  Once I see
what he has chosen for me, I involuntarily sigh,
distracting him from unwrapping his own treasure.
"Mulder...it's exquisite."  In my hands is a handmade
candle, pale lavender in color, scented like summer
flowers and exotic spices.  The wax is almost
translucent, and is intricately molded and carved,
giving  it the look of fine crystal.  There is a small
card tied to it with a silver ribbon that reads, `PEACE
- light it in moments of stress or despair aand allow
its soothing aroma to restore calmness to a battered
soul.  Light it in times of contentment to enhance an
atmosphere of well-being and to share your serenity
with all in its glowing circle.'

I understand immediately that these are the things
Mulder wants to give me.  It's clear he doesn't
recognize that, for all the friction and worry and
anxiety that exists in our world, he does indeed
bring me a large and potent measure of contentment
and well-being.  Especially by being here tonight.  I
can't think of anything else to say, so I place a hand
on the back of his neck and pull him down to kiss his
forehead.  My lips linger there far longer than any
forehead-kiss has a right to, and I rise to go search
for a candlestick.

###

I listen silently to the muffled banging coming from
the kitchen.  I can still feel the imprints of her lips on
my skin.  Soon, Scully returns with a candle-holder
and a book of matches.  She sets the candle on the
table in front of us and lights it.  A heady fragrance
wafts through the room and she breathes it deeply
and sighs.

"I'm glad you like it," I say, admiring the way the
ivory column of her neck stretches up languorously
as she fills her lungs.  Is it me or does that candle
put out a whole lot of heat?

"I - I love it," she clarifies, then smiles slyly.  "Is this
another find from your head-shop down on M
Street?"

"Not even close," I chuckle.  I bought it in one of
those chi-chi places up on the Vineyard one day
while my mom and I were in town.

"You took your mom shopping," she remarks
incredulously.

"Not exactly.  My mother is...um...going on a cruise,
believe it or not, left this morning actually, and had
to pick up a few things for the trip.  She let me tag
along."

Scully nods vaguely and I realize this isn't what she
was getting at.  She's not interested in whether Mom
enjoys herself in Mexico, or whether she found the
right 40SPF-anti-wrinkle-waterproof sunblock.  "It
was a good idea, Scully," I volunteer.  "We had a
decent visit.  It wasn't sunshine and roses, but we
actually laughed once or twice, for what it's worth.  I
may go up again over the long weekend in January.
Thanks."  And, with the perfect opening to return her
kiss, I do just that.

"Don't thank me yet," she murmurs, placing a hand
on my chest, then gesturing to half-naked the box I
clutch in one hand.  With great effort, I pull away
from her and return to the task of unwrapping my
present.

`Nudes! Nudes! Nudes!' the cover of the video box
screams.  The accompanying photo of a
bespectacled, middle-aged nun in full habit clashes
incongruously with the title.  I shoot Scully an
amused glance before reading the box's copy aloud:
"Sister Christopher explains it all to you.  The glory
of the human form in masterpieces throughout the
ages, from Titian to Duchamp."  I can hardly finish
before giving in to a good belly laugh.  God, I love
this woman's sense of humor.  I look over at Scully
again.  Her cheeks are pink, but not from the fire,
and not from tears.

"It's pronounced `TEE-shun.'  Didn't they make you
take art history at that snooty English university?"
Scully does her best, and fails gloriously, to restrain
the grin pulling at her full mouth.

I do my best, and also fail, to control the urge to
touch my own lips to that grin.  I feel her register
surprise for a half-second before leaning into the
kiss, parting her lips, her tongue darting out to make
brief, electric contact with mine.  We pull away,
struck by the intensity of what has just happened.  A
hundred thoughts are spinning in my head at once,
but I can't form a coherent string of words to express
myself, or to ask her what she's feeling.  From the
look in her eyes, she's just fine, thank you very
much.  And her expression tells me, clear as day,
that this moment is not one which needs to be
questioned, analyzed or defined into oblivion.

Eventually, I break the silence.  "Thanks again,
Scully.  Finally, a video I can admit to owning,"  I
muse, then leer at her sideways, "care to watch it
with me?"

In answer, Scully goes to slip the tape into the
machine, and when she returns, sits down close
alongside me.  She rests her hand on my thigh,
palm up.  I take the hint and twine my fingers with
hers.  Turning her face up to mine, she whispers,
"Merry Christmas, Mulder...thank you," and lays
sweet kisses on each cheek.

"Happy Hanukkah, Scully," I reply, pressing my lips
to her temple, then to her mouth.  We kiss gently
and deeply for a little while longer before she
pulls back and looks me in the eye.

Half-seriously, she asks, "Can we still sit together
and watch TV and burn candles even when it's not
Christmas or Hanukkah?"  No, Scully, we don't need
excuses anymore to be close like this.

"Well, there's always New Year's," I tease gently.

"And Epiphany," she adds.

"MLK Day"

"President's Day"

"Valentine's"

"Yeah, Valentine's Day..." she smirks, and I secretly
buzz all over to think that this year I'll buy red roses
for Scully.  "And then what?" she asks.

"And then, we'll start making up holidays.  You
know...Take an Alien to Lunch Week, Give Your
Boss the Finger Day, and so forth."

"I like the sound of that last one," she mutters,
letting her head loll on my shoulder.

"Whatever turns you on, Scully.  Whatever turns you
on..."  And faster than you can say `deviated
septum,' she is snoring.

I cradle Scully's dozing head in the crook of my neck
and turn my attention to the television, where the
good Sister delivers her discourse on the history of
nakes in art.  It pleases me no end to notice how
many of the goddesses and nymphets and lovers
portrayed in these paintings sport tresses in every
shade of red.

So this is what Christmas Eve feels like?
Anticipation that something really great is going to
happen, that you'll feel like a happier, shiny-new
person in the morning?  That you go to sleep
convinced that when you wake, your heart's desire
will be waiting for you to unwrap it?
 

END