From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 16 Dec 2001 06:49:55 -0000
Subject: A One-Elf Caper by Diana Battis
Source: direct

Reply To: all4mulder@aol.com


TITLE: A One-Elf Caper
AUTHOR: Diana Battis
DISTRIBUTION: OK for Gossamer. Anywhere else, just ask. I usually
say yes. 
CLASSIFICATION: V, H, MSR (implied)
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: Nothing Important Happened Today II
SUMMARY: I could blame friendship, the season, or too much eggnog,
but in reality it was my damned shoes' fault.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never have, never will, damn it. 
FEEDBACK: All4Mulder@aol.com or DianaBattis@aol.com
Author's notes at the end.
My fanfiction can be found at: 
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Vault/4090/TheXFilesFic.html

********

It seemed like a good idea at the time.  Hell, after countless cups
of Langly's special eggnog, hacking into the CIA's computers would
sound like fun.  I never imagined it ending like this -- with me
facing the barrel of a gun.

I hate Christmas.  All this peace on earth, joy to the world stuff
is bullshit -- just a way for corporate America to make a buck.  If
I had my way, I'd go to sleep the end of November and not wake up
until the middle of January.  Call me Scrooge or the Grinch, I don't
care.  To quote old Ebenezer, my Yuletide motto is 'bah, humbug!'

But this year it was going to be different: I was a man with a
mission.

It wasn't dangerous or even difficult, just a small favor for a
friend.  All I had to do was haul my ass out of bed Christmas
morning to take a couple of packages to his family.  That's
simple enough, right?  But I didn't go with simple.  My rum-laced
brain topped itself with a red, fur-trimmed hat and decided playing
Santa was a good idea.  I'd sneak into their apartment on Christmas
Eve, and leave the packages under the tree to surprise them in the
morning.

Now before you start thinking I'm totally deranged, let me make a
few things clear.  I didn't have the whole St. Nick suit, just a
Santa hat and fingerless red gloves.  I wasn't planning on hijacking
a sleigh or kidnapping eight reindeer from the National Zoo.  And
squeezing my ass down a chimney was definitely not on the agenda.
Hey, I have my dignity...not to mention master keys.  Add a nice
canvas bag, courtesy of Lamperella's Liquors, to tote the gifts and
I was all set.

Or so I thought.

I could blame friendship, the season, or too much eggnog, but in
reality it was my damned shoes' fault.  Unlike that non-stirring
Christmas mouse, they squeaked.  I'll give you three guesses who was
the one surprised when the lights came on...

"Care to explain yourself, Frohike?"  I jump at the sound of her
voice, causing the tree ornaments to clank with alarm.  The words
are as steely as her eyes, and the hand holding the gun never wavers.

I've had fantasies starring Scully; I like the one where she gives me
the third degree.  But somehow this isn't the same.  For one thing, I
never imagine me sweating like a pig in a Santa hat.  And my
Dream-Scully never scared the shit out of me, either.

"Would you believe I'm a right, jolly old elf?" I offer, pulling at
the fraying edge of a glove.  I'm hoping for a smile but her mouth
never twitches, though she does put the gun on the mantelpiece.

"Where are your two cohorts?" she asks, folding her arms.  If she
weren't so damned beautiful she'd remind me of a very pissed-off
teacher ready to kick class ass.

"This is a one-elf caper," I joke lamely.  Perspiration is trickling
down my face, and I pull off the once-jaunty hat, which is now limp
and sweat-stained.  "Mind if I sit down?"

She waves me toward the couch, then seats herself in the bentwood
rocker by the fireplace.  "What are you doing here?" she asks
quietly.

Oh, shit, how do I even begin to explain?  "I'm sorry, Scully," I
mutter, twisting the damp Santa hat laying in my lap.  "I didn't mean
for it to turn out this way." 

"No!"  She leans forward, her body stiff and her fingers settling in
a vise-like grip on the arms of the rocker.  All the color has
drained from her face, making the freckles scattered across her nose
even more noticeable.  "Please, God, no!"

Fuck, I'm such an asshole.  Those nuts roasting on an open fire
should be mine.  She thinks something's happened to Mulder.

I drop the hat and raise my hands.  "It's okay!  Mulder's okay!"

She stares at me with narrowed eyes. "Don't sugarcoat this."  She
half rises, her lips tight.  "I don't need your protection.  I need
the truth."  

The room crackles with so much tension I expect the tree to
spontaneously combust. What can I say to convince her?  Christ,
communication with Mulder has been nonexistent, so it's not exactly
surprising she'd expect the worst."I swear, it's nothing bad," I say
with what little confidence I can muster.

Her eyes scan my face.  What she sees seems to reassure her, and the
air whooshes out of her with a whispered "Thank God!"  Like a puppet
whose strings have been cut, she collapses back into the chair and
closes her eyes, her hands falling limply to her lap.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Scully.  I didn't mean to scare you.  I had
presents to deliver and..."  Reaching down, I snag the hat from the
floor and start swinging it by the pom-pom.  "...I guess I got swept
up in the spirit of the season."

"I doubt that's the kind of spirits you've been in contact with," she
mutters.  She's silent for a few moments.  "I ought to shoot you
anyway," she says finally, pressing a hand against her forehead.

"You should," I agree, my voice gruffer than normal.  "But I hope
you'll reconsider.  Peace on earth and all that jazz.  Besides, you
don't want to wake the sprout."

She nods, a tiny smile finally making an appearance.  "Consider
yourself lucky.  And this better not ever happen again," she warns.
"I'd hate to have to explain to my son why I killed one of his
godfathers."

I grin back at her.  "I'll knock first, or something."

"You'll knock first or nothing," Scully says firmly.

"You have my word."  I place my hand over my heart.  "Scout's honor,"
I add with a solemn nod.

"I want more than your word...and since when were you a Boy Scout?"
Scully scoots forward to perch on the edge of the rocker, her hand
outstretched.  "I want your keys.  Hand 'em over, Santa," she orders
in her best no-nonsense voice.

"Uh, are you sure that's such a good idea?  What if..."  My mind
races as I try to think of a reason or two good enough to convince
her I should keep the keys, but it's useless.  Hell, who am I
kidding?  Scully could knock me six ways to Sunday and not even
break a sweat.  She can take care of herself and the kid.

"My patience is wearing thin," she informs me, a crinkly little ridge
appearing between her brows.  The wrath of Scully is a fearsome sight
to behold, and I stare in fascination.  "Frohike...I'm waiting."

I know when I'm licked.  Pulling the chain of keys from my belt, I
fumble through them until I find the one she wants and drop it into
her waiting palm.

She puts the key in the pocket of her robe, then stands and
stretches.  "I don't know about you, but I could do with something
hot."  Turning, she pads into the kitchen.

"I guess coffee would be a good thing," I agree, trailing after her.

Scully works with quiet efficiency.  It seems like no time at all
before she's setting steaming mugs of coffee on the kitchen table,
along with a nice selection of holiday cookies.  They look good, but
I have memories of a batch of butter cookies Scully once made.
Sawdust had more flavor.

"Help yourself," she invites, pushing the tray toward me.

"Ah, no, thanks.  I'm not very hungry," I murmur, even though my
dinner had been mostly alcoholic and my stomach feels like it's
digesting itself.

"They're safe to eat," she says wryly, grinning at my hesitation.
"My mother made them."

The heat spreads across my face.  I'll bet it's redder than that
damned Santa hat.  "Oh," is all I'm able to say as I reach for a
sugarcoated Christmas tree.

"So," she says, nibbling on an iced wreath, "care to explain this
'Santa' business?"

I take a swig of coffee to wash down the cookie.  Baking does not
seem to be a Scully strength.  "I thought it would be fun for you
two to wake up and find your gifts under the tree in the morning."

"That was sweet of you to want to surprise us, but did it ever
occur to you that you might have ended up hurt?  With all that's
happened this past year..."  Her voice trials off and she gets a
faraway look in her eyes.  It doesn't take a genius to know what
she's thinking.

"I'm sorry," I reply, crumbling the rest of the cookie in a napkin.

She nods, and pushes her mug to the side.  Resting her forearms
against the table, she leans forward, brushing impatiently at a
strand of hair that's fallen across her cheek.  "You could have
brought Will his gift in the morning.  He's young...he doesn't even
know about Santa yet."

"Yeah, but these presents are special...they're from Mulder."

"You've heard from him?" she asks in a breathless voice, her cheeks
coloring.  People say red looks lousy on a redhead, but obviously
they've never seen Scully.  She's a babe, though she'd rip me a new
one if she knew what I was thinking.

I shake my head.  "Not really.  But I did receive an express
delivery last month.  Not to worry," I continue in a rush, noting
the way her eyes widen.  "Mulder was so damned careful I almost
didn't accept the carton.  Anyway, there was a note inside.  Said if
he wasn't back by Christmas I was to give the packages to you."

She looks down at the table, a finger tracing the center seam.  "For
a minute I thought...maybe he was..."  Sighing, she looks back at
me, her eyes a bit brighter than normal.  "Wishful thinking."

I want to hug her, but force myself to remain seated.  Instead, I
reach out and touch her hand.  "He'd be here if he could, Scully."

"I know."  She brushes her fingers across her eyes and her lips curve
slightly.  "Thank you, Melvin."

I bask for a few seconds in the warmth of her smile, just long enough
to realize what a foolish old goat I am.  "Well, I'd better be
going...I've got more presents to deliver," I say with a wink.

"More?  You've never actually delivered any here," she reminds me.

If my damned face gets any redder I'll look like a sunburned elf.
"I'm not good at this holiday stuff," I mutter grumpily as I start to
get up to retrieve the canvas bag.

"You're doing fine," she says, reaching out to pat my arm.  Guess
it's my turn to be reassured.

The bag sits right where the Scully-ambush caused me to drop it --
under the Christmas tree.  Even though the tree lights aren't on, the
decorations seem to sparkle.  Tiny plaid bows adorn the ends of some
branches, while glass angels with gold trumpets bump elbows with
gaudy Santas.

"It's a nice tree, isn't it?"  I turn to find her standing beside me,
her fingers straightening a lopsided bow.  "This is the last year for
breakable ornaments," she says wryly.  "Next year the tree will have
to be childproofed."  Satisfied with the position of the bow, she
reaches over to flick a switch on the wall, illuminating the pine.

"It's...beautiful," I say, and I really mean it.  Haven't had a tree
in decades, and never one as nice as this.  It's obvious even to
cynical bastard like me that there was a lot of love put into this
display.

"Did you say something about gifts?" she prompts, tilting her head
slightly.

Reaching down, I pick up the bag and pull out the two small packages.
One is wrapped in gaudy holiday paper, making it pretty damn obvious
who it's for.  It's a copy of 'Goodnight, Moon,' one that was
Mulder's when he was a kid, or so his note said.  The other package
is covered in silver paper; the tag attached to it has 'Scully' on
it, written in Mulder's inimitable hand.  "Merry Christmas, kiddo,"
I say, in my best Santa imitation.

Smiling, Scully takes the neatly wrapped gifts and sits herself in
the rocker.  She sets the baby's package aside, choosing to
concentrate on the one meant for her.  With shining eyes and flushed
cheeks, She looks like a little girl, full of Christmas anticipation.
I'm getting a charge out of just watching her.

Scully seems to treat opening presents like a military campaign, with
every movement mapped out in advance.  First she slides a fingernail
under one taped end, then she repeats the action with the other.  I
want to yell at her to rip it, but she is obviously trying to draw
out the experience.  Who the hell am I to rush her?  

A final flick of the nail, and the paper is removed and cast to the
floor.  "Oh," she breathes.  In her lap lays an old book, its binding
dark and leatherlike.  Scully touches it with reverence, tracing over
the aged cover with careful fingers before opening it.  She turns the
pages slowly, her eyes becoming suspiciously bright.  "It's a first
edition of 'Moby Dick,'" she murmurs, looking up at me.  "By Herman
Melville," she adds, noting my confused look.

I shift from foot to foot, the now-empty bag hanging from my hand.
She's still turning pages, and watching her makes me feel like a
freakin' peeping Tom.  I've never read the book, but I did see the
movie and I'm pretty sure there's nothing romantic about it.  But
you'd never know that by looking at her.  The way she's caressing it
is embarrassing, almost like it's some piece of Mulder she's holding.

"That's a book about a whale, right?" I blurt out, my not-so-subtle
way of reminding her she's not alone.

"Hmmm?"  She looks up, her forehead wrinkling in confusion.  "I'm
sorry," she says, closing the book with evident reluctance.  "What
did you say?"

"Not important.  Anyway, I'd better get going, it's getting kind of
late."  My voice is surprisingly husky.  "Don't get up," I add, as
she starts to rise.  "I'll let myself out."

She nods, already reopening the book.  "Merry Christmas, Frohike."

Stepping outside, I shut the door quietly and fish out my keys.  A
few seconds later I'm turning the tumbler of her deadbolt.  There's a
moment of panic when it slides into place with what seems like a
deafening clank, but the door remains closed and I'm safe for now.
Hell, I know she'll have a fit when she learns I have another key,
but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.  Besides, I like living
on the edge.

Once outside, I take a deep breath of the cold, clean air.  The
street is dark and quiet, though a few people have left their holiday
lights on.  Looking up, I see the hundreds of stars shining in the
clear sky.  Sure, some of them are already dead stars, but what the
hell does that really matter?  Seeing them in all their sparkling
glory, I could almost buy into this whole Christmas thing.

I glance back at her lighted windows.  "Merry Christmas, Scully," I
whisper, "and to all, a good night."

********
End
Diana Battis

Author's notes: Thanks to Forte, Audrey Roget, and Blackwood for
their incomparable beta.

This story is dedicated to the ladies of Musea: Blackwood, Cameo,
Forte, Mish, mountainphile, and Audrey Roget.  If Frohike knew them,
he'd know what Christmas is all about.


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