TITLE:  ORNAMENTAL
Author:  by syn
Feedback:  All types welcome.
synnerX@yahoo.com

~~~~~~~~~~

The snowman on Mulder's tree was broken.

Cracked silver, sharp as a razor, tin and hanging by a thread. Dana
Scully examined it for a moment, careful to avoid its jagged edges,
careful not to cut herself on it, not to turn her fingertips into a
bloody mirror of what lurked inside.

For hiding within Dana Scully, as she sat on her partner's old couch,
was the sharp and bitter pain of gaining and losing a child in less
time than it took to imagine such a scenario.  How exhausting it was,
giving your heart and your soul to such a singular creature, a tiny
child doomed from the beginning and almost kindly so.  Scully was
tired, exhausted beyond all imagining, almost beyond any hope of
activity.

She assumed Mulder had sensed it, felt it when they flew back together
to Washington, with her head tilted down against the plane window, her
profile against grey clouds, but with eyes that remained open and
sleepless.  Still, when she felt his hand twining within hers,
squeezing it upon take-off, she turned to smile at him, grateful for
his faith and care even in this, the most miserable, most exhausting
of hours.

But after the plane had leveled and the flight became a mundane series
of bumps and annoyances, and after Mulder had settled back into sleep,
she remained wakeful.  A child, *her* child was dead, and as unnatural
and suffering a creation it was, the situation refused to rationalize
itself.  Scully wanted to examine her coldly, this child...her lost
child, from her usual distance, with the objectivity of the scientist
and the doctor, or even the pathologist, observing the dead as one
would a book or painting, respecting the story and ignoring the canvas.

But she couldn't.  This child haunted her and Scully truly feared it
would always be like this, with a sharp and aching pain that would
always keep her awake, even when she was ready to drop.  It was a
horrifying thought, that one could be haunted by the dead, by ghosts
that really did exist in their own rational way, specters lurking
eternally in the part of the mind that demanded their presence.

Haunting the part of Scully that wanted to have and keep this
child...her child, forever next to her, for the rest of her life.  To
enjoy every day, every season, every holiday, together...always.

But now, to know, without a doubt, that it could never be.

By the time the plane had landed and Mulder awoke, he noticed
immediately that Scully had been crying, her eyes having turned
glass-red and swollen, her mouth trembling.  So, without a word he'd
led her off of the plane and into a taxi that had only one
destination.  His house.

Scully hadn't argued.  She followed him automatically into his
apartment and fell onto his sofa, leaning her head back, restless
still against the worn leather.  Mulder worked his way around her,
into the kitchen and bedroom, changing, searching, opening and putting
on his best can of soup for their dinner.  With a flick of the switch,
he turned on the blinking, multicolored lights that graced his
haphazard and neglected Christmas tree, a labor of boredom born of
Scully's absence over the holidays.

Scully stared with surprise at the tree, at its odd, Mulder-esque
decorations mixed with a batch of very traditional, very staid
ornaments.  The Elvis stamp collage hanging next to delicate hoops of
gold.  A small spaceship hovering over a choir of white and silver
angels, tiny red lips open in song.  A chain of paper clips, a hatless
elf, two ceramic bagels...

And one broken snowman.

Scully brushed against it again, watching it sway beneath her touch.
Only the upper half of it was left, the head and mid-section hanging
from its string stoically, appearing not to notice the loss of its
bottom third.  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard the bang
of pots and pans in the kitchen and the sound of liquid being poured.

A moment later Mulder entered the living room with two steaming mugs. 
With a smile he handed one to her and she looked at it with a grin,
wondering if the spoon was supposed to stand up so straight, so
upright in the midst of instant soup.  But she sipped it gratefully,
and enjoyed the slight burn against her tongue and the warmth that
seeped down her throat.

"It's a secret recipe," said Mulder, when she decided to dig in with
the spoon. "So, don't ask what's in it."

"I wasn't planning to," she replied, eating it without even a cursory
look.  She turned to him with a small smile and he returned it, but
with sadness in his eyes.

"Mulder, listen," she said, putting the mug down and putting a gentle
hand to his cheek.  "I know this has been hard, harder than perhaps
anything that's come before, but I just want you to know that I'm all
right.  Or... perhaps...I'll be all right.  It'll work itself out, and
I have faith that this isn't the end, not for Emily, and not for
myself."

Mulder simply nodded in reply, his grin tight.  They sat silently for
a few moments, the blinking lights from the tree reflecting from the
walls.  The snowman caught Scully's eye once more and she pointed it
out to Mulder.

"Looks like Frosty here had one heck of an accident," she said,
lifting the ornament carefully with her finger and showing it to him.
"Maybe it's time for a new one?"

Mulder gave a short laugh and shook his head.  "No.  He's been like
that for years and I don't plan on a replacement any time soon."

Scully raised her eyebrow curiously.  "Why not?"

Mulder shrugged.  "That's my ornament.  In my family we each had one
favorite ornament that only we put on the tree.  See up there?" He
pointed to an ancient Santa Claus, his beard peeling and cracked. 
"That was Sam's.  And him," he continued, pointing at the snowman. 
"That's mine."

Carefully he pulled it off of the tree and dangled it from his index
finger.  "My mother gave it to me when I was six or so.  I broke it
the day I got it, but up it went, every year, and no one else could
put it up or tell me where it went.  She told me that her mother and
her grandmother had each their own also. "

He shook his head at the memory.  "Strange. My family had so little
love, so few things in common, but this custom, this strange
ornamental gesture was almost a sacred rite, our only Christmas
celebration.  And I can't let it go, I still do it, still hang onto
the ritual memory for some reason. Odd, don't you think?"

"No," replied Scully, her hand unconsciously reaching for her cross. 
"I don't think it's odd at all."

"And when I have my children, they'll probably get their own too,"
said Mulder, almost to himself. Scully just nodded in reply, as Mulder
suddenly turned to her with a grimace.  "God, Scully.  I'm sorry," he
said sorrowfully.  "How thoughtless that was..."

Scully held up her hand.  "No, no...not at all.  I think that's a
beautiful tradition your family had," she smiled.  "In my house we
just ripped open the gifts."

"I find that hard to believe," replied Mulder seriously.

"No, or...maybe I'm just taking for granted the closeness we had,"
said Scully, watching the snowman twirl on its string.  "I never
thought it could be any other way.  But, perhaps that was our
tradition, a tradition of taking love for granted."	Her eyes stung,
her throat burned when she said this and she didn't know why.

But Mulder seemed to understand.  As always.  "Well, I'm sure of one
thing, Scully.  Your children will always be able to take your love
for granted," he said gently, taking her fingers and entwining them
with his own.

She turned to him and stared through burning blue eyes.  "My children?
 Oh, Mulder, I don't think that..." she stumbled, but Mulder shook his
head.

"Yes, your children, Scully.  I don't believe that you have no
alternatives, that there is no hope for you.  I can't believe that,"
he said, squeezing her fingers tightly.  "You've proved yourself too
good a mother already.  They'd be passing up a great opportunity if
you were passed by."

Scully laughed at this, a short sound, cut by tears.  "Do you think
so?  Think I can deal with a child and the family life?  All my time,
filled with a child..."

"And filled with love, with holidays, with your own traditions...even
with your weird friends," Mulder replied sardonically, with a raised
eyebrow.  "If anyone can handle it, I'd say you could, Scully."

He hesitated.  "Or if it gets too much, you can always dump your weird
friends."

With a slight smile, Scully feigned thoughtfulness, and then shook her
head.  "No.  I think I need my weird friends," she said, leaning over
to embrace her partner warmly, suddenly enjoying the holiday she
didn't have.  "They keep me sane.  And make me very, very happy.
Believe it or not."

Mulder hugged her back and together they sat, entwined and warm. "I'd
like to believe that," he whispered against her hair. "Because
tonight, that's all we really wanted."

Scully simply held him tighter, underneath the blinking colors and
lights, shining from the broken silver and golden tinsel, feeling the
warm...the hopeful, Christmas she missed when in San Diego.  "Well,
Merry Christmas, Mulder.  If that's what you wanted, that's what you
got.  And guess what?"

"What?"

"I  think I might have gotten something I wanted too."

~~~~~~~~~~~
The End.

Happy Holidays!

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