TITLE: A Midnight Clear AUTHOR: mountainphile RATING: R for language CATEGORY: MSR, another Christmas story FEEDBACK: mountainphile@yahoo.com URL: http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile SPOILERS: Post "The Truth" and sequel to the Christmas tale "What Child Is This?" These two stories can be enjoyed as standalones, but for maximum appreciation I suggest reading the previous one first: http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile/whatchild.txt DISTRIBUTION: Since it's an honor to be archived, tell me where so I can visit. Also, please link to the story only through my website. DESCRIPTION: The phrase "Peace on earth, good will toward men" is nothing more than outdated drivel, considering what he knows of the future. However, this Christmas Eve stranger realities shanghai Mulder's thoughts from doomsday concerns. DISCLAIMER: In the holiday spirit I'm once again borrowing these very special characters for a jaunt. Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and TPTB still retain all ownership and rights. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: In truth, I never expected to write this story, but apparently the muse had other ideas. Deepest thanks to Diana Battis, for beta, encouragement, and the creation of an amazing dustjacket; and to Forte for another discerning beta romp. Happy holidays to all! A Midnight Clear by mountainphile ****** This is the way the world will end, Mulder thinks, gazing through the window into blue-black night. Not with a preemptive bang or a whimper, but in the guise of perfect normalcy. Like starlight on the cold chalkboard of heaven, peppering the sky, mesmerizing the earth into holiday's complacency. Invasion designed to take humankind unaware by means of an ultimate finesse. The heavy-handed approach was abrogated by the fall of the old consortium and the death of the Smoking Man in New Mexico. Failure, caused by human mistiming, disorganization, alien infighting, and in a large way, he hopes, his ongoing quest for the truth. His dogged interference joined by Scully's, a true partner in crime. For nearly a decade they've been two flies in the Consortium's black ointment. He knows the date's set for such a finale. December 22, 2012 and the clock ticks, the sand runs unhindered. All too often his panic look of silent terror stares back at him from the mirror, because Fate's hourglass can't be flipped to forestall the unstoppable. They've altered appearances to augment their cover. He likes the subtle honey dye on Scully's silky hair, but despises the natural silver that flecks his own chin. The goatee was her suggestion. Though the additional trimming is a nuisance, he admits his camouflage seems effective. He looks different, older, transformed from discredited former-FBI agent-turned-criminal to mild-mannered George McHale, new college instructor with privacy issues. Each day while winging his classes in beginning psychology for first-year students, he ponders this inevitable holocaust. After work, he eats a small dinner, grades paperwork, and awaits Scully's return from her shift at the hospital ER. They talk and touch, sometimes intimately into the night. Then he sleeps in fits and starts, dreaming Technicolor Armageddon until dawn. Such is his present, furtive life on the run in pre- apocalypse Grand Junction, Colorado. Not his best career move, but expedient for the times. Resources wear thin and few messages are leaking through from the resistance headed by Kersh and Skinner. As a result, scant progress has been made over the last six months and Mulder wonders whether a power shift has sent them underground, curtailing their involvement for the present. He tamps down his anxiety, reassured by the fact they haven't materialized out of thin air yet, like other ghosts from his former life. Even though it's that traditional "Night Before" date, the spare McHale apartment on Mesa Drive offers no clue. Scully needn't have deterred him from decorating for the holiday because the practical matter of survival takes priority. He was never a huge fan of Christmas frivolity anyway, after Samantha disappeared. Now he simply can't relate, with his focus light-years away from twinkling trees and wrapped gifts beneath. Call him jaded, but he considers the trite "season for miracles" propaganda to be nothing more than religious book. Holiday fables haven't jived with what he knows to be legitimate paranormal phenomena and reputable urban legend. Even now he questions what really happened that blood-soaked Christmas Eve at Maurice and Lyda's mansion. Considering what he knows of the future, the phrase "Peace on earth, good will toward men" is nothing more than outdated drivel. Until tonight. This Christmas Eve, stranger realities shanghai Mulder's thoughts from doomsday concerns. For the moment he feels incapable of speech, like the woman who's huddled against his chest, limp from overwork and weeping. Bleary-eyed he strokes Scully's hair, staring out toward the dark sky, craving answers. The truth. On the couch beside them rests the fuzzy brown baseball mitt she brought home from the hospital. A toy that has all the power to squeeze his aching heart dry. Her story about meeting William -- is it wishful thinking by a woman plagued with guilt and regret over a decision made in desperate times? Or is it evidence that their son is alive and well, breathing the same Colorado air they do at this very moment, on this very night? Supernatural encounter? Or a case, however cruel, of mistaken identity? Scully seems so convinced of the former that every molecule of her being is affected. Only a short time before, she rushed into their apartment, pouring out her tale and chasing it with a flood of tears. To say he was stunned is understatement. Her sobbing avowals, the soggy little toy... to say nothing of the silky reddish filaments glued to the palm of her hand -- Definitive proof? DNA testing would be crucial, but nearly impossible to accomplish in their present circumstances. She realizes this as well as he does. She's always been the pragmatist in their partnership, self-contained and sensible to a fault. Experiencing her outburst, the raw depth of her anguish has shaken him to the core. He finds that it's his turn on this revolving merry-go-round of emotion. From a psychological standpoint he knows that the mere absence of a loved one isn't what causes the pain, but sudden renewed awareness of that loss, akin to ripping open a scab nearly healed. While comforting the mother of his child, he feels the need to grieve for William all over again. Tear-damp cheek on his shoulder, Scully finally drowses in the aftermath, eyes closed, her breathing slightly ragged. Her body's familiarity and slender softness, the wisps of hair tickling his mouth, bring his love for her more acutely home. He admits that on occasion miracles do occur. Scully's pregnancy and William's birth are cases in point to say nothing of what they've both experienced working the X-files. Sighing, he strokes the fuzzy toy and realizes he has no tangible gift to offer Scully in return for this little mitt, no matter what its purported origin. He decides to hit the midnight streets in order to hunt up a present, ruminate on recent events, and search his own heart. "I'm going out for a while," he explains in a whisper, easing her wilted body down so she rests prone on the couch. He drapes her with a blanket and is reminded of another night not so long ago. One that began with mutual conjecture over tea and ended between his sheets in a thorough exploration of the final frontier that remained between them. He knew even then, after tasting such intimacy, that he could never go back to the way things had been before. "Mulder, it's late!" She blanches, eyes wide with sudden panic. She imagines him cruising the city in pursuit of their child and the potential ramifications -- "No," he smiles and shakes his head, reading her. "Nothing like that. And if anything, it's early. I just need some air. To think things over." This she understands, knowing his habits. They kiss, her fears assuaged. Reaction makes her limp and sleepy. She welcomes the blanket's warmth and, fetus-like, curls up on her side to await his return. Zipping his coat he hesitates, turns, and then on a whim slips the plush little toy into his coat pocket. Outside, Christmas Eve slips over the edge into Christmas Day proper. Has it been only forty minutes since Scully came home? Stars and multicolored lights twinkle through the darkness. The air is quiet except for an occasional car panting across frosty asphalt and echoes of holiday cheer. "All is calm, all is bright," the carol maintains this night should be. Yeah, Mulder scoffs. Just as the world will most likely end, on a midnight clear, with aliens-for-angels. In Oregon he was taken away from earth on such a night, just like Scully had been at Skyland Mountain. Later, on another starlit evening, she gave birth to their child at great risk and in an agony of terror. Under the zombie gazes of mutant Super Soldiers bent on stealing him away, to implement their evil plan for takeover. He stands alone in the parking lot, breath misting, to contemplate the heavens. What does the future hold for mankind this Christmas Day, knowing what he knows now? The logic doesn't jive. In a burst of agnosticism he questions whether this holiday has finally become obsolete, a mere religious opiate for the masses until the final takeover. He'd never suggest it to Scully, but Nietzsche could end up being more prophet than philosopher after all. He also chastises himself for negligence, for being too preoccupied with his own concerns to anticipate any psychological consequences surfacing in the woman he loves. Holidays are traditional fodder for depression, mania, regret, and loneliness. Worse, his knee-jerk reaction when she rushed into their apartment was to disbelieve her story. Bad form. He assumed she might be grasping at straws when making her case for the unbelievable. And since Catholicism pushes a doctrine of works, he suspected the rigors of her job in the ER were a form of penance, a purgatory through which, in her own mind, she might obtain eventual absolution and atonement for her sin. As Scully would say, he's over-thinking the situation. And her story is certainly worthy of his acceptance and belief, considering the incredible slack she's given to him over the last decade. He unlocks the car, gets in, and drives into the night. The toy, pulled idly from his pocket, gives a sleigh bell jingle in his hand. He squeezes it, then sniffs at the plush fur, discovering a mixture of Scully scent and something else. A sweetly stale odor, familiar yet indefinable. Is this what his son smells like? Is this what he was deprived of by his own long absence? He thinks back to all the things he hasn't deserved and received anyway. What was offered and then denied. Things he allowed to slip away through his fingers... Fatherhood eludes him, handed off to another man. Scully did what she thought was best for that desperate time, but it still pains him that he only knew William as a tiny mewling infant several days old. In wonder he watched him open his little rosebud mouth to seize her nipple, cheeks working and eyes closed. Felt in his own arms the baby's feather weight. Bestowed a good-bye kiss on that small melon head the next morning, before fading into obscurity and out of their lives. He never even got to help change one fucking diaper. Upon his return he was thrown behind bars and his son reduced to flashbacks. Scully remained his constant, taut from fear of the unknown and ashen with regret. Yet tonight she claims the child recognized her after nearly a year apart. Hugged her, called her "Mama." That same recognition would never happen for Mulder with his scant pinch of involvement before bailing out. One or two night's worth of cuddling does not a lasting impression make at a few days of age. This Mulder knows, yet he feels disproportionately wronged, wounded beyond belief. The highway blurs, a frequent occurrence when he's alone. Swallow, breathe deeply, blink, dab. Repeat a few times until the ache eases. Focus on the lights ahead. He wipes his eyes one last time and peers out the window. No self-respecting stores remain open for business, especially in these first dark hours of Christmas morning, but he's up to the challenge of finding a gift for Scully. She expects little. Wants nothing more than his love and a future for each of them. That first thing she already possesses and he's working hard on a solution for the second. Something small then, with special significance, though her gift to him is an impossible act to follow. Navigating the dark streets, he sees that gas stations and convenience stores are his only option. Well, a dose of caffeine might perk him up and quicken the process. He accelerates towards the fringe of the city, to the motel strip and fast food haven near the interstate and spots a large convenience store open for business. It's flanked by one of the cheaper motel chains and crawls with activity for such a god-awful hour. Holiday travelers and truckers are gassing up, grabbing coffee and a bite to eat, shaking off fatigue before continuing on their respective journeys. A glowing microcosm, the place teems with life, warmth, and the briefest of human companionship. A watering hole for ships in the night. Even more encouraging, through the window he spots several aisles of gift items, designed purely with the tourist in mind. A gold mine to Mulder's eclectic taste. He enters and scopes the place. It's loud, bright, garishly decorated and comfortably warm. Christmas music blares, and he catches the last tinny notes of "Winter Wonderland" before they segue into "Silent Night." It's also filled with kids, some accompanied by parents and others roaming alone in small packs. Kids of all ages, restless from long car rides, manhandle the arcade games, loudly consume corn dogs and hot chocolate at the booths, and scrap together over which candy bars to purchase. Too many at the wrong time make his stomach clench. The line for coffee reaches nearly to the restrooms, so he bags it to continue his gift-hunting for Scully. Skirting past truckers and weary vacationers, he works the aisle, passing up rows of tourist kitsch: polished stones glued to picture frames, mugs and snow globes, tiny worthless spoons, refrigerator magnets, and shot glasses, all emblazoned with "Grand Junction, Colorado." Not until he reaches the dining area does he find real pay dirt. Keychain paradise. A gargantuan assortment dangles enticingly, like a myriad of metallic tree ornaments. Sports teams, historical events, beer brands with bottle openers, celebrities, TV and movie themes, nostalgia, cartoon characters, western state emblems, and political logos. Here's the perfect opportunity to replace the commemorative keychain he'd given to Scully years ago and which she's passed on to someone else during his absence. He refuses to explore similar parallels. Instead he admires the wealth before him. The Apollo 11 keychain, he recalls, had been a pretty thing edged with gold, bearing an eagle poised in the act of landing on the moon, next to a safe and distant earth. How times have changed. Scully's appreciation was hesitant, though her eloquence over the intent of that birthday gift always tickled him. He remembered her long-winded and articulate explanation about extraordinary people and their moments in history. About perseverance and teamwork, and the sacrifices of those who make landmark achievements possible. Sacrifice, he feels, still being the operative word these days and in the short time remaining -- He crouches before the low display, perusing what's available, what's attractive, what she'd find meaningful as a gift from the hundreds of chains that crowd one another and sway from long hooks. Within spitting distance two women occupy the nearest booth, chatting together while they ride herd on their numerous offspring. Kids of varying ages squirm in and out of the seats diagonal to theirs. The mothers seem glad for the few feet of space, away from the din, mess, and perpetual motion. From scraps of conversation that tempt his ears, he deduces that both women are strangers who have met for the first time tonight. They speak with an easy rapport and language, from a secret sisterhood of married females who care for young children and raise families. Has Scully ever spoken this way? Unburdening herself to another woman about husbands' demands and the hassles of being wife, mother, nursemaid, chauffeur, and housekeeper? Knowing her the way he does, he has his doubts. "Deck The Halls" fills the airwaves and the silver Navy Seals keychain captures his interest. As his brain adjusts to the new volume and rhythm overhead, snatches of conversation bleed through the music again. "... this many people around, as long as they're close by, they're fine. I see your little guy right there, near my two. Hey, buddy, come back here and don't give your Mom a heart attack for Christmas... " Mulder glances idly toward the left and notices the object of their discussion lurking behind a display of potato chips and trail mix. Short and feral, he peeks between the packages, playing hide-and-seek. "He's very shy around strangers. We don't live in a regular neighborhood, so he doesn't get to play with other kids that often." "You poor thing! And you've got a lo-ong way to go before he starts kindergarten or even nursery school," laments the first woman. "How old did you say he is?" "Not even two yet." A hum of compassion. "How are you feeling now?" Puzzled by the comment, Mulder hazards a peek in their direction. Brown-haired and well into her thirties, the woman facing him wears the haggard mask of a weary traveler. She yawns often, casting worried looks toward the chip rack. Mulder notices that a fresh bandage, partially obscured by bangs, is taped high on her forehead. Her fingers press the center gingerly. "I'm okay for now and my little guy is too wired to settle down. It's important my husband get in a few good hours of sleep first. We'll probably be back on the road at first light. A little later than we thought, but after what happened tonight... " He swallows. Waits for her to continue. "Now, how *did* that happen?" "It wasn't our fault; someone hit us from behind at a stoplight. Fortunately no one else was hurt. The visor gave me a pretty deep cut, but I'll be okay." "A Christmas to remember! How did you ever manage at the hospital with your little boy?" Suspense and anticipation prickle Mulder's scalp. He's already heard a version of this story just a little while ago from Scully's lips. Knees complaining, he adjusts his crouch, settling in as he pretends to browse the keychains. "They were so nice there! We went to the smaller one not far from here. Community Hospital, I think it's called. My husband said a doctor watched him for us." Mulder's heartbeat ratchets a notch. He sweats, his throat closing. "Isn't that strange? I mean, isn't it more of a nurse sort of thing to do?" "I suppose. But she was a lady doctor, so maybe that explains why she offered. My husband said our boy really took a liking to her. He gave her a big hug and everything." "Wow... I don't call that being a bit shy." Leaning against the chip rack, the red-haired tot under discussion balances on one sturdy leg, swinging the other back and forth. Comically he bobs his small head in sage agreement, pert mouth fluctuating from a pucker to a grin and back again. When the two women notice and laugh at his antics, he hides his face behind a pudgy hand. "He's simply precious!" the other woman gushes, leaning toward him. "Grandma and Grandpa are just gonna eat you up, darlin'!" The child backs away from her, swallowed by yet another tangle of kids at play. His mother quickly intervenes, her tone hushed. "They haven't seen him in person yet. Except for the pictures, of course. That's why this visit's really special." Down from Wyoming, Scully had said. The woman's name and address are hospital record. Soft strains of music drown her voice momentarily, a holiday ballad seeking heartfelt answers to deep questions concerning a child... "Right, that's what I thought you meant before. Well, remember what happens when you adopt -- the next year you end up conceiving one of your own... " "No. No, I doubt that'll be an option for us... " For Mulder their words are lost puzzle pieces coming to light, finding their places in a bigger picture. Like gems of confirmation that tumble over him in a cooling whir, blanketing him snowdrift deep. He closes his eyes before the keychains in a posture akin to prayer. Feeling invisible to his surroundings, he surrenders to possibilities beyond his understanding. Heat stirs the hair near Mulder's left ear and he smells the now-familiar scent of the furry brown mitt he sniffed minutes ago in the car, the one Scully brought home tonight. Stale-sweet, an odor of kid breath and sweat breaks the spell and he turns his head. The toddler stands a hair's-breadth away. "Hey there," Mulder rasps, scarcely daring to exhale, lest the little fluffy-haired boy disappear in a nanosecond like all the other apparitions in his life do. Up close the child looks older, more earnest than shy, staring back at Mulder with intelligent brown eyes. Unspookable. That pointed chin, and even more unnerving, a telltale arch in the right eyebrow. Scully's true hair color and an early hint of the Mulder nose. Christened with the name of two dead fathers, he exists in the shadow of this secret pedigree, gifted with genes from parents who have both survived exposure to an alien virus. "Hey... wanna help me pick out a special present?" The child considers, one forefinger on the center of his full lower lip, pulling it downward as though testing the extent of its give. All at once he grins broadly, so endearingly, that without thinking Mulder reciprocates and the world coalesces into a wet blur. Above them the poignant strains of "What Child Is This?" melt into "It Came Upon A Midnight Clear"... His smile trembles; he tastes salt on a lower lip identical to this child's. Who would have thought that Grand Junction, Colorado would be the new Bethlehem, where a father could once again behold his only begotten son? To their left, the mother's voice surfaces. "...always teething on something," she complains to her companion, flustered. "I wish I could find that new toy my mother sent to him last week. He's been chewing the daylights out of it and carrying it everywhere." Her companion suggests, "Maybe he lost it at the hospital." Mulder accepts this new gem of evidence as the clincher, but enjoys the humor as well. "Looks like the Old Man didn't rat on you," he whispers to the boy. "So, which one of these will it be? I'll tell her you picked it out." "'Kay." That small voice, also sunken into a whisper! Despite the boy's attention, Mulder recognizes innocence and a lack of true understanding. He knows this is not the place to unburden himself, or the right time to impart his version of a father's blessing on this boy. Opportunity is draining away, like the sand in the damn hourglass... He prompts gently, "Which one?" "Oh darn, he's disappeared on me again! Where are you?" The boy glances toward his adoptive mother and the intensity of the spell disintegrates. Impulsively he grabs one of the keychains from a hook and shoves his clammy little fist into Mulder's palm before trundling back out into the open. "There he is!" "Honey, that one's sure going to keep you hopping..." It's all Mulder can do to gather his emotions, locate the cashier on shaky legs, purchase the item, and find his way out the door. Back in the car he releases the hold he's kept on himself. Tears streak his face and he sits behind the wheel for long minutes, mourning what's been lost and at the same time rejoicing in that which he stumbled upon tonight. He wishes Scully were right here beside him. The desire to take her in his arms, to unleash his thoughts and share his heart with her is almost painful in its intensity. He knows now how she felt. What to make of this Christmas, 2002? A family splintered apart by evil circumstance, reuniting over one enchanted midnight hour in a city of refuge. It bears all the hallmarks of a fairytale -- or of a bonafide miracle. The fact remains that, coupled with the information stored at the hospital, they can monitor this child as the minutes tick toward a close encounter of the Doomsday kind. Earlier, he contemplated with Scully the authenticity of those few strands of hair she salvaged as DNA evidence. One day soon he'll see they get that proof, before an invasion ever comes. They share a conviction that the dead aren't lost, that they speak from beyond the grave. By listening, he believes there's a chance to save the world. Perhaps events perceived as coincidental or miraculous are just another aspect of the same transcendental plan, one greater and more powerful than any alien force. Like these magical visitations tonight... Strangely, gazing up into the clear dark sky, he feels a new surge of hope for the future. Along with the jingly baseball mitt, this keychain for Scully will be the extent of their Christmas giving to one another. If she's so moved, she can fill in between the lines, elaborating on the inner meaning and eloquent intent of the gift, like she's done before. In his haste, he never even glanced at the keychain the boy picked -- just paid for the thing and ran to the car before torrential emotion overtook him. He digs in his pocket, pulls it out. The backside gleams of silver in the neon lights that beam through the windshield, with a rectangular shape below the thick key ring. Wondering what design caught the child's fancy and might still have special meaning for Scully, Mulder flips it over. In his palm nestles the state flag of Wyoming. ****** The End December 15, 2004