Title: Interstice: Monday (1/6) Author: Christy E-Mail: attalanta@aol.com Rating: PG-13 Category: MSR, Christmas Fic Additional Headers in Saturday: Part 1 * * * * * Monday, December 24, 2001 "In this body, in this town of Spirit, there is a little house shaped like a lotus, and in that house there is a little space. There is as much in that little space within the heart as there is in the whole world outside." - The Upanishads "The heart has its reasons, whereof reason knows nothing." - Pascal * * * * * DANA "Okay," Margaret Scully said as the family gathered in her kitchen the next morning. "I have ingredients for sugar cookie dough and gingerbread dough. I thought we'd make two batches of each, and then you could all take some home with you." Scully nodded, watching her mother's excitement manifest itself as a glow that she had not seen for so long. Too long, she thought, feeling more than a hint of guilt for the role she had played in her mother's unhappiness. But she quickly pushed it away, knowing her mother wouldn't appreciate it, knowing that she herself had never appreciated Mulder's second-hand guilt. At first, she had been tempted to blow off the Scully family cookie baking session; the prospect was oh-so-tempting to spend the day home alone with Mulder and Liam, recuperating from yesterday's trip to the mall and resting up for the family-time marathon that would stretch into Christmas day. But Scully knew how much this rare family time meant to her mother, and she had decided that she shouldn't begrudge her this small happiness. After all, who knew when they would all be together again? Even with Bill moving to Virginia, Charles didn't often find his way back East. Maggie set two laminated recipe cards on the kitchen counter. "Fox and Dana, you know where everything is kept," she said. "Why don't you two gather the ingredients. I'll get everything else we need -- bowls and spoons and the mixer." "What should we do?" Bill asked. "Read the recipes," Maggie said. "And watch these two." She passed Liam over to Tara as Bill helped Matthew climb up on the stool next to his mother. "Mommy, when will the cookies be done?" Matthew asked. "I'm hungry." "Matthew, we just ate brunch," she said, bouncing Liam up and down on her lap. The baby gurgled and munched on the fist he had wedged into his mouth. "And we haven't even started the cookies yet." "But I'm hunn-gree," he whined, reaching out for his mother. Matthew gazed longingly at Tara, then frowned at his cousin. "I wanna sit with you, Mommy." "Honey, I'm holding the baby right now," she told him. "Why don't you sit on Daddy's lap?" "Come over here, slugger," Bill said, reaching for his son, but Matthew was not in a compromising mood. Again his arms stretched out towards Tara. "No! I want yoo-oou, Mommy." At the sound of Tara's sigh, Scully turned away from the pantry and set a handful of tiny spice jars on the counter. "I'll take him, Tara," she said, her arms held out for her son. But Matthew was already crawling, albeit grudgingly and with a much-practiced pout, onto his father's lap. The little boy furled his eyebrows, concentrating his pout on his oblivious cousin, who grabbed at Tara's hair as he bounced on her lap. Tara shook her head at her sister-in-law. "Matty needs to get used to not being the only child around," she said in a low voice. "Otherwise it'll be that much harder when the baby's born." Scully nodded and settled for a quick caress of her son's face. Mulder and Maggie, arms full, joined them back around the kitchen island. Maggie separated the cup measurements and ingredients into two piles, and they began measuring and mixing and sifting and flouring. As her mother sorted through ingredients and utensils, Scully remembered so many past Christmases. Every year her mother had urged the four of them to help her with her holiday baking. But almost always Scully had declined, usually in favor of reading or playing outside with the other kids from the base. Charlie and Bill had never helped either, Bill claiming that baking was "girls' stuff," and Charlie grabbing a sketchpad and colored pencils and taking off in the opposite direction as Bill. It was only Melissa who stuck around the kitchen to help their mother, who eschewed plans with her friends, simply saying that "My mom needs my help." And every time Scully was tempted into the kitchen by the smell of freshly baking cookies, she saw Melissa and her mother sitting at the kitchen table, sharing cookies and stories and secrets. And every time Scully regretted having abandoned her mother and sister for her own pursuits. Yet, when cookie baking came around again the next Christmas, the temptation would be too great, and she would invariably disappear again, leaving Melissa and her mother in the kitchen. "Dana?" her mother called, and Scully turned away from the counter, where she had been smashing a scrap of dough into a dirty little lump. "Could you take out that first tray of cookies? Check the bottoms first to make sure they're browned." "Sure, Mom." Scully slid the cookie sheet out of the oven, then replacing it with an unbaked sheet. "I've got the icing," Charles said, setting a bowl of thick white goo on the kitchen island. "They need to cool first, Charlie," Tara said as she sorted through the tiny tubes of food coloring. "At least a little." So Scully transferred the cookies to the wire cooling rack and joined the rest of the family around the kitchen island. They hovered over the cooling racks, inhaling the sweet sugar-cookie smell. Bill and Matthew set aside the bowl of plump walnuts they'd been pressing into the centers of the raw dough. To Scully the walnuts looked like tiny brains, two perfect hemispheres, curled and coiled. She smiled as Matthew reached out a flour-dusted hand, aiming for a crisp sugar cookie, then pulled it back at his mother's warning gaze. "They're not done yet, Matty," Tara said. "We need to plan first," Bill announced. "Do we want frosting and sprinkles on all the cookies, or do we want to do a batch with just sprinkles or just frosting? And we have to decide about the round ones. Are those going to be ornaments or wreathes or--" Charlie laughed. "We don't need to plan out every last detail, Bill. Just pick up a damn cookie and decorate it." Bill narrowed his eyes at his younger brother. "Planning isn't a bad thing, Charles," he said. "I've always found that life moves along more smoothly if you have a plan in place. Cuts down on the unexpected complications." Scully wanted to laugh at her brother's unbelievable seriousness, but she did not dare. Come on, Bill, she thought. We're talking about Christmas cookies here, not battle strategies or missile trajectories. Charlie rolled his eyes. "You don't plan art," he said. "Art just... happens." "Art isn't the only thing that just happens," Bill said under his breath, and Scully hoped that she was the only one who had heard him. "What?" Charlie asked. "Nothing," Bill replied. "Let's just do the cookies." And so they did. Charles grabbed a sheet of paper from his mother's cake decorating kit and molded it into a cone. He spooned the white frosting into the cone, then tested the tip on a piece of wax paper. Scully watched, impressed at her brother's not-unexpected ease with the frosting. On the few occasions that Charles did help their mother out in the kitchen, Scully could always pick out the ones he'd done, the cookies that were the perfect balance of color, never too much frosting or sprinkles. Charles knew when to stop. At least in his art, Scully thought. Tara slid a hot cookie over in front of her, seemingly considering the decorating possibilities. Bill hunted through the cabinets and unearthed several small bowls, each of which he filled with a large dollop of icing. Then he dropped some food coloring in each bowl, and mixed. "Be careful with the coloring," Charlie said, looking up from his gingerbread cookie. "It doesn't look like much when you add it, but it gets dark quick." "It's fine," Bill insisted, mixing the contents of one bowl. Tara grabbed the other two bowls and handed one to Matthew, and they, too, started stirring. But Scully saw that Charles was right; Bill's frosting blossomed from lime to emerald to evergreen to an inky, almost black color. Thankfully, though, Charles's attention had drifted from his brother's icing to his own cookie, onto which he was tracing an intricate snowflake. It was beautiful, Scully thought, but she wasn't surprised. Art, in any form, had always been Charlie's thing, and she suspected that by the end of the afternoon Bill would be joking about the uselessness of artistic talent, the benefits of being left-brained, the waste of time that was cookie decorating. Some things never changed, Scully thought, grabbing a holly-shaped cookie and passing one over to Mulder, who sat beside her with Liam on his lap. She used a tiny plastic brush to paint a layer of egg whites onto the cookie, then reached for the container of candied sprinkles. She was careful to keep the red sprinkles on the berry-shaped end of the cookie and the green on the leaf-shaped end. When she finished she held the cookie out, admiring her creation. "Looks good," Mulder murmured, reaching across her for the bowl of egg whites and brushing against her shoulder and chest. He dropped his head close to her ear. "Sorry," he whispered without remorse. She smiled, but leaned back against the chair, away from his invading arm. It was silly, she knew, but she still felt awkward with Mulder in front of her family. He had always been a toucher, at least with her, keeping his hand on her lower back even before they were together, touching her face to comfort her, setting his hand casually on her shoulder or arm. And she had never minded his touch -- actually, she had enjoyed it, even when she tried to convince herself that it was thoroughly unprofessional and unenjoyable. But outside the privacy of their office or their apartment, in front of others and especially in front of her family, it made her uncomfortable. It wasn't like her family thought Liam was a virgin birth, but knowing and seeing are two entirely separate things. Scully didn't mind so much when it was just her mother, the three of them and Liam alone at Thanksgiving. Mulder had touched her freely, and she hadn't had to quell the urge to back away. But with Bill right there... And Mulder knew it, too, damn him; he knew that the feeling that coiled in the pit of her stomach when he touched her in front of her family wasn't arousal. But still he tried to sneak little touches, brushing his hand against her face, her back, her arm. Nothing overly suggestive, but it made her nervous anyway. She could feel her face burn every time he touched her, as she glanced around to make sure no one had seen them. She would have to talk to him about it again later... Or maybe not, she thought as he again brushed against her breasts as he reached for the egg white brush. It wouldn't do any good anyway, she thought. Probably it would just encourage him. Plus, she was angry, embarrassed almost, that she even cared what her damn family thought about her anyway. She felt like a naughty teenager, caught necking with the quarterback under the bleachers after the big game... Not that she had ever had done such a thing, with the quarterback or anyone else, but eight years working with Mulder had done a great deal to boost her imagination. Scully wished she could adopt the same to-hell-with-them attitude that Charlie had always flaunted, but it just wasn't her. Never had been. Even though she might not be as loving, as demonstrative, as her mother was, Scully knew that she couldn't deny the role her family played in her life, like them or not. "Cute, Dana." She looked up to see Charles watching her oversprinkle a bell-shaped cookie with multicolored candies. "Instant cavity." She smiled and brushed off some of the sprinkles, then looked over to Charles's plate of cookies. He had only finished three so far, but they were beautiful, intricately decorated, like something out of a Martha Stewart special, almost too good to eat. "Wow," she marveled. "Look at those. They're beautiful, Charlie." Charles glanced down, as if unsure. "You think so?" "They're perfect," she said. "I don't know who you get your talent from." That had always been a mystery to her. Neither of their parents were artistic, though Maggie had always had a flair for decorating, for arranging anything from a vase of flowers to the unlikeliest of couples. "Certainly not from me," Maggie said, echoing her daughter's thoughts. "And not from Dad," Bill chimed in. "No," their mother said. "Certainly not from your father, either." She dropped another plate of warm cookies on the kitchen island, and Scully picked up one of the frosting cones, ready to try something a bit more ambitious. More adventurous. "Missed a spot," Bill said, snatching a cookie from Charlie's plate of masterpieces and dabbing a spot of frosting in the center. "Hey," Charlie exclaimed. "What are you doing?" "Calm down," Bill said, dropping the corrected cookie back on the plate. "It's just a cookie." "But it was my--" Charlie stopped, bit his lip, then shook his head. "Never mind," he said, dropping his frosting cone on the island and joining his mother at the oven. Damnit, Bill, Scully thought. Can't you just leave him alone? Bill had always been like this, picking and prodding until Charlie couldn't take it anymore. Then Bill got angry when Charlie lashed out at him. Scully remembered once, when they were kids, when Charlie had short sheeted Bill's bed after enduring a week of teasing after Bill discovered Charlie was the only boy amongst the winners of the third grade art prize. Then Bill had lost it, knowing it was Charlie who had fixed his bed but unable to prove it. So he did what he had always done when he wanted to reinforce his older brother dominance; he got physical. He had poked and smacked and pushed at Charlie until he simply wore the younger boy down. Like always. Scully sighed and snatched a gingerbread cookie off the plate. "That's probably not cool yet," Tara warned, concentrating intensely on a circular cookie that she was trying to decorate like a wreath. "I don't care," Scully murmured under her breath, taking out her frustrations on the defenseless piece of gingerbread. She tried to make the cookie, which was shaped like a snowflake, into a work of art, like Charlie's, but it ended up as a mess. "You okay?" Mulder asked her, touching her gently on the arm. "I'm fine," she said evenly, and he gave a little hum that meant that he wasn't buying it but would wait until they got home to press the issue. And it would be another day before they were home, she thought with a victorious grin. 'Thanks,' she mouthed, and he nodded. "Come here, sweetie," she said, and reached out for Liam. Mulder stood, moving towards her, then smiled and handed her the baby. "Thought you meant me," he said in a low tone, and she raised an eyebrow at him. Then she glanced around the kitchen, checking to make sure no one had heard him. Her stomach tumbled when she saw Bill watching them intently, his eyes darting between her, Mulder, and Liam. Bill's mouth was set in a stubborn line, and Scully could see the tips of his front teeth digging into his lower lip. Transferring the baby to her hip, Scully stood and wandered over to her mother and Charlie, who were starting in on the pile of dishes that had accumulated in the sink. "Need some help?" she said. "Sure," Charlie said. "You could find some more dishwashing soap." He nodded at the empty bottle on the sink, and she squatted down, then leaned heavily into her brother's legs until he got the hint and stepped aside. She sorted through the contents of the cupboard until she located a fresh bottle of detergent, then handed it to him. A minute later Mulder finished decorating his last cookie and came over to the sink to wash his hands. Her mother and brother moved aside, Maggie hunting through a drawer for more towels. "Hey, look," Charles said, pointing at the ceiling. Scully glanced up to see that she and Mulder were standing beneath a sprig of mistletoe that was tacked to the light fixture above the sink. Mulder reached around her to take a towel from Maggie, pinning Scully against the sink as he dried his hands. "It's mistletoe," Tara said, looking up from her cookie and smiling indulgently at them. Mulder stooped down a bit, equalizing the increased height difference between them due to Scully's bare feet. He brought his head down to hers and his lips brushed hers, gently, quickly. "I don't *think* so," Charles scoffed. "I'm sorry, but that's the way you'd kiss your grandmother, not, well..." Scully suddenly felt warm, the small semi-circle of her family pressing too close. They had all moved a step of two closer, Bill abandoning his stool to stand, arms crossed like a disapproving father. But Charles was grinning mischievously, his eyes twinkling. Her mother and sister-in-law were smiling knowingly, hopefully. Even Matthew watched them, a curious expression in his eyes and smear of dark green frosting at the corner of his mouth. Scully took a step backwards, her back digging into the countertop. She shifted Liam on her hip, using him as a sort of shield. But Mulder gave her a half-smile and stepped into her. "You don't--" she began, but stopped when Mulder took her chin in his hand. She was going to tell him that he didn't need to perform for the amusement of her nosy family. The situation made Scully uncomfortable in so many ways, her family watching them, Charles urging Mulder to kiss her again. But Mulder bent over her, and, as his mouth approached hers, Scully rose to her toes as if she were being tugged by an invisible string. He captured her mouth with his, their kiss quickly turning into something more full, more passionate. As his tongue pushed past her lips, Scully forgot where she was and who she was holding and who was watching... forgot everything but Mulder. It all came back to her when they finally pulled apart, each of them sucking in a desperate breath of air. She looked up at Mulder, who shrugged and gave her a little smile, and Scully felt a blush creep over her face. Damn pale skin, she thought, rolling her lips. "All right," Charlie exclaimed, clasping his sister and Mulder on their shoulders. "Now that's more like it." "Da da da," Liam called out, clapping his hand against her clavicle. She pulled him in front of her body again, this time to protect her from her family instead of Mulder. She turned to face the sink, absorbing herself in trying to wash a cookie sheet with one hand, attempting to forget that her family was standing behind her. Sighing, she gave up on the tray and reached instead for a small bowl, rubbing the crusted-over red frosting off with her free hand. She could feel the stares of her family burning into her back, Bill's judgment, Charlie's playful antagonism, Tara's amusement, her mother's concern. Damn them, she thought, wishing she meant it. It wasn't just with Mulder: she had always been uncomfortable with public, or even semi-public, displays of affection. She remembered her relationship with Jack Willis. It had been just up her alley, sneaking around together and hiding, never bringing him to meet her family and never getting introduced to his, rarely going out together for fear of being spotted by one of her friends or his colleagues. The only person she'd told about Jack was Melissa, and that had been months into their relationship, and then only because she couldn't stand to keep him a secret any longer. It wasn't just with Mulder and it wasn't just in front of her family. The truth was, Liam was the only one she felt completely comfortable kissing or touching Mulder in front of. She had always been a private person; it wasn't just in front of her family, she told herself. Of course not. But she supposed it had gotten worse with Mulder's disappearance, when she knew the whole world could see that she was pregnant and assume the baby was her partner's. Suddenly everyone who saw her had known the most intimate details about her life. Strangers came up to her, their overeager hands finding their way to her belly, their overeager mouths asking about the sex, her due date, even her plans to breastfeed. She had felt the gazes, which had started out with a knowing smile before dissolving into a sympathetic sadness when their eyes traveled down to her naked ring finger. True, she had always been a private person, had never felt comfortable sharing her emotions. Only with Melissa, she thought. But now she wondered whether Mulder's disappearance had made this worse. It had burned her up that strangers could question her and touch her and show concern for her, when Mulder -- the only person with the right to do these things -- could not. * * * * * CHARLES Charles ran the worn Santa Claus towel over the wire cooling racks, fitting a pinch of terrycloth between the slats. His gaze drifted out the window, to the sprinkles of snowflakes that fell from the sky and stuck to the window. Charles watched a single flake, an ice crystal that stuck to the window pane yet did not melt. A soft wind whispered through the trees outside the kitchen window, yet the single snowflake held on, and was soon joined by another. Then another. Charles set the dried cooling wrack on the counter and craned his head to better see outside. The snow was beginning to accumulate, slowly, but they were predicting a new couple of inches by morning. It would be a white Christmas. The phone rang, and Dana, who was standing nearest, wiped her hands on a dishtowel before picking it up. "Scully residence." She paused, and her brow crinkled in apparent confusion. "Sir?" Another pause, then, "How did you know where...?" She sat down on the barstool beneath the phone. "I see. Yes, sir, he's here. Just a minute." She lowered the phone and cupped her hand around the receiver. "Where's Mulder?" she asked Charlie. Charles shrugged. "Bathroom, maybe?" She raised the phone to her ear. "Can he call you back, sir?" Another pause, and then Dana reached out her hand, snapping her fingers softly in his direction. She made a scribbling motion with her hand, and Charles handed her a pen and paper. "Okay, go ahead, sir," she said. Charles finished drying the rest of the dishes, one ear stuck on his sister's side of the conversation. "That's okay, sir... Mmm hmm... Yes, sir. I'll tell him." She capped the pen and set it on the counter. "And merry Christmas, sir," she said before hanging up the phone. Charlie quirked a curious eyebrow at his sister, then paused. Fifteen years ago, even ten years ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to barge in on his sister's business and ask who was on the phone and what they wanted, even if, as was clearly the case here, the call wasn't for her. But now he wasn't sure. It could be something about work, either hers or Mulder's, and Charlie knew that that subject was probably best left confidential... or at least unsaid, he thought, remembering the few details he had ever heard about his sister's job, as well as their brother's reaction to those details. But just then Mulder walked into the kitchen, and Charlie didn't have to wonder any longer. "You just had a phone call," Dana said. "Me?" She nodded. "It was Skinner." "Skinner? How did he know where we were?" "I asked him, but all he would say was that he had his ways... whatever that means," she said. "What I'm wondering, though, is why he didn't just call you on your cell?" "He probably did," Mulder said. "But I turned it off." Dana raised a surprised eyebrow at him, but the edges of her lips hinted at a smile. "What did he want?" She consulted the message she'd taken down on the notepad. "He said he needs your help. There's a man -- a Marvin Ross -- who--" "Marvin Ross?" Mulder asked. Dana nodded. "You know him?" "Yeah," Mulder said. "All too well, as a matter of fact. I profiled him several years ago, back when I was with Violent Crimes. He was brought in on a serial murder charge, but the Bureau couldn't make it stick." "But he did it?" "Oh, yeah," Mulder said. "He did it, all right. Killed a dozen women in DC alone, plus four other possibles in the New York City area. But the Bureau didn't have enough to keep him, so..." "He went free," Dana finished, and Mulder nodded. "Well," she continued, "according to Skinner, he's holding a half-dozen people hostage -- including one member of local law enforcement -- in a DC church. Apparently he's a suspect in a recent murder, and a DC cop just happened to spot him on the street. He chased him into the church, where Ross pulled out a weapon. Skinner wants to know--" "No," Mulder said. "I hope you told him no." "But--" Mulder cut her off. "I'm not going. I'm not going to miss Liam's first Christmas. If you didn't tell him that, I will." He reached up for the phone, but Dana intercepted his hand. She slipped her fingers between his and let their hands drop. "All I told him was that I'd give you the message," she said. "But, Mulder, you don't want to go?" "The only place I want to be is here," he said, and they stood still, eyes locked in silent conversation, their fingers still intertwined and Dana's thumb grasping Mulder's wrist. As quietly as he could, Charlie continued putting the dishes away, the harsh clinks of flatware and china filling the room. Finally, Dana broke the silence. "I think you should go," she said. "What?" "I think you should go," she repeated. "Skinner said you don't have to stay -- he just wanted a consult. The agent who's handling the case could use your expertise. Skinner gave me the agent's number." Mulder opened his mouth to object, but Dana wasn't finished. "You won't miss anything," she assured him. "It's just Christmas Eve. The only other thing we're doing today is going to mass, and that isn't until after we eat. You should go." Mulder looked at her, considering. "Fine," he said finally, "but I'll be back for lunch." Dana nodded. "And tell Skinner I'm not angry," she said. "He apologized twice over the phone; he thought I was mad at him for interrupting our Christmas." Mulder nodded and bent down to give her a quick kiss. "Make sure you apologize to everyone for me," he said with a glance and nod at Charlie. "They won't mind," Scully said, but Charles could tell that she was lying. Maggie and Tara might not mind, especially if they didn't think Dana did, but Bill would. Bill would take it upon himself to be insulted for his sister. Certainly Dana knew that, and Charles would bet his plane ticket home that Mulder did, too. But he left anyway, pausing to give Dana a more leisurely kiss and mutter something unintelligible into her ear. She tried -- unsuccessfully -- to stifle a smile as she watched him leave the room. Charles grinned. "You should thank me, Dane," he said. "Thank you?" "Yeah," he said. "I knew if I gave him a push--" he nodded at the mistletoe "--he'd take it from there." Dana smiled and cuffed him none-too-lightly on the upper arm. "Though I hope for your sake that he doesn't always need that kind of encouragement." "Charles," Dana said with a sigh and a blushing smile. In response he bumped his hip against hers, bending slightly to equalize their heights. "Only kidding, Dane," he said as the kitchen door swung open to admit his brother, sister-in-law, and mother. "I put Liam down for his nap," Maggie told Dana, setting the receiver of the baby monitor on the countertop. "And Matthew's watching a Christmas special on TV in the family room. After all the sugar in those cookies, I'm afraid his nap's been pretty well spoiled." "Maybe not taking a nap will tire him out," Tara said hopefully, grabbing a metal tin and lining it with wax paper before stacking cookies inside. "Otherwise he'll be up till all hours, too excited about Santa to sleep." "I remember those days," Maggie said. "Dana and Melissa sneaking downstairs to check out the presents when they thought their father and I were asleep." Dana smiled and glanced at him with narrowed eyes. "Charles did it, too," she offered weakly. "I did not," he replied. He had, but not as often as Dana and Missy, who used to go through their parents' closet and search beneath their bed for their Christmas packages. They were both so impatient, so stubborn when it came to the secrets and surprises they thought their parents were keeping from them. "Oh, you all did," Maggie said with a good-natured smile. "At one time or another, you all snooped for your Christmas presents; every child does. Did you think we never knew?" she asked, off her children's surprised looks. "I never did," Bill said proudly, and Charles wasn't surprised. Of course Bill wouldn't snoop. Not goody-two-shoes Bill. "Of course not," Charles said in a low voice as he snuck a cookie off the cooling rack. Gingerbread, his favorite. He bit the head off the cookie man, letting the spicy, warm dough melt in his mouth. "And what is that supposed to mean?" Bill asked, setting his fists stiffly at his waist and turning to face his brother. "Bill," Tara said, setting her hand on her husband's arm, and, surprisingly, Bill let it drop. But Charlie could still feel his brother's prickling irritation, and he wasn't surprised that it was then that Bill first noticed Mulder's absence. "Where's Mulder?" Dana met Bill's accusatorial stare. "He had to go," she said. "The phone call was for him." "Go?" Maggie asked. "Go where? It's Christmas Eve." "It was Skinner," Dana told her mother, who nodded. "Our former boss," she explained to the rest of them. "He needed Mulder's help." "I thought you two didn't work on the X-Files anymore," Bill said. "We don't," Dana replied. "But we still help out sometimes. I've examined several bodies at Skinner's behest, and he calls Mulder in to consult as well." "So Mulder--" Bill spit out his name "--left you here, on Christmas Eve, to investigate an X-File? I can't believe him, and, frankly, Dana, I can't believe you would tolerate that kind of crap!" Charlie looked back over to Dana, who had yet to break eye contact with their older brother. "I spoke with Skinner," she said evenly, "and gave Mulder his message. He didn't want to go, but I told him he should." "You what?" Bill asked, and this time Tara's gentle touch was not enough to calm him. Charles leaned back against the oven, bracing himself for the storm of Bill's anger. "Jesus, Dana. I don't understand you. I would think that, since you did bring him to spend Christmas with the family, he would be polite enough to stick around. Or at the very least tell us he was leaving." "Mulder asked me to apologize to the family for him," she said. "He had to go, and it was important that he leave immediately." Charles waited for her to explain the hostage situation and Mulder's past experience with the suspect, but she said nothing. Charles considered explaining, but he stopped himself. It wasn't his business; maybe the case was confidential, and he shouldn't have heard as much as he did. Besides, explaining this away to Bill was Dana's responsibility, not his. So he, too, said nothing. "Bill," Maggie said, trying her hand at calming her son. "I'm sure it was an emergency. I'm sure he didn't want to go." "Yeah," Bill said, his stare turning from suspicious to something almost cruel. "After all, it's not like he's ever disappeared before." Dana opened her mouth to respond, but she was cut off by a loud and strangled cry from the baby monitor. Without a word she spun on her heel and dashed upstairs. The four of them stood there, saying nothing as the pound of her feet on the steps echoed through the kitchen. Charlie nibbled the edges of his cookie, watching his brother's reddened face, Tara's obvious exasperation, his mother's helplessness. A minute later they heard a rustling sound, then Dana's voice, infused with light static yet gentle and soothing, from the baby monitor. "It's okay, Liam," she cooed. "Sshh, sweetie. Go back to sleep. Daddy'll be back soon." This last sentence was punctuated by a sharp intake of breath on Bill's part. Charlie, Tara, and Mrs. Scully turned to look at him, waiting for a response. Though Bill said nothing, Charlie could almost read his thoughts; Bill was nothing if not predictable. Charlie suspected that Bill had arrived in DC with a wisp of hope that Mulder was not Liam's father. But that possibility had been slipping away, inch by inch, right in front of Bill's eyes these last three days. Charlie knew from experience that Bill wasn't just going to let it go. And if he didn't blow now, Charlie knew that only meant that it was building up, and that, when it did come, it would be a doozy. They stood there for a minute, listening to Dana comfort the baby, Bill visibly tensing each time Dana said "Daddy." Then Tara went into the family room to check on Matthew, and Maggie soon followed her. Only Charles remained in the kitchen with Bill, intermittent whimpers and "Dada"s and the answering words of comfort hanging in the air between them. Finally Charles followed his sister upstairs, standing at the closed door to the bedroom for several minutes, considering. He wanted to knock but wasn't sure she would let him in, even if she knew he wasn't Bill. He wanted to tell her not to let Bill get to her. She would say that he wasn't, though Charles could tell from her stone-still stance and cool responses that he was. Like always. Bill had always been able to get under Dana's skin. Over the years she had gotten better at fighting back, eventually discovering that the best way to annoy Bill was just to ignore him. Charles could tell she was trying valiantly to do just that, but he wondered just how long she could keep it up. Charles raised his hand to knock, then stopped. He wanted to tell her that not all of them felt like Bill did; that, to him, Mulder seemed like a good guy, trying to do the best for his family. Obviously he loved both Dana and the baby. Charlie could see that, and knew that his mother and sister-in-law saw it as well. He wondered how it could be that Bill could not. * * * * * DANA "Maybe we should go to an earlier mass," Margaret Scully suggested as the weather report faded into a commercial. "It looks like the storm's going to hit earlier than they thought." "I know I wouldn't mind going earlier," Tara said. "Without his nap, I'm sure Matthew will be pretty out of sorts by midnight." "What do the three of you think?" Maggie asked, turning to her daughter and sons. Scully shrugged. Early mass or midnight mass, she didn't much care. She was just anxious for Mulder to get back. Sure, she was the one who'd told him to go ahead, even though she'd known that Bill, at least, would give them a hard time. But now that the snow was starting to come in earnest, she was starting to worry. It was stupid, she knew. So stupid. Mulder had been in many situations that were a hell of a lot more dangerous than this before. But usually she was with him; usually she had his back. Even since they'd stopped officially working on the X-Files, they usually went on consultations together, even though they usually split up once they arrived on scene, her to examine the body, him to talk to Doggett or Reyes and comb through the evidence. Just like old times. But not, Scully thought. She gazed down at Liam, who sat on her lap, working a cold plastic teething toy with his mouth. Things were different now. They'd already had several discussions about how careful they would have to be, not running off half-cocked, using their heads before following their instincts. That was more Mulder's problem than hers, but over the years they had each made their share of stupid decisions. They had resolved to be more careful now, especially when they were investigating together. "So we'll go to the earlier mass, then," her mother announced, and Scully looked over at her. "Sure, Mom," she said as the commercial clicked off and the Channel Five newscasters reappeared. "And our last story this Christmas Eve," the over-dyed, over-coiffed newscaster pronounced, "has an appropriately happy holiday ending. News Channel Five has been covering the hostage situation downtown for the past several hours, and we're happy to report that police have captured the suspect. We now go live to Sandra Stark on the scene. Sandra?" The newscaster's face was suddenly replaced a live feed from the scene, a small stone church Scully recognized as being on the city's south side. She studied the screen intently, phasing out the overexcited voice-over. She looked past the yellow crime scene tape and the huddles of uniformed police officers, past the blaring lights of the patrol car and the handcuffed suspect being escorted through the crowd. Where are you, Mulder? she wondered as her eyes darted back and forth across the screen. Finally she spotted him, standing on the outskirts of a small throng of FBI agents, recognizable by the white letters on the backs of their dark jackets. Someone must have lent him a jacket, Scully thought absently. Theirs were both hanging in the hall closet of their apartment. Mulder's head was bowed, and she realized that he was dialing his cell phone. She smiled as her mother's phone began to ring. Tara answered it, then passed it over to her. "It's Mulder," she said with a grin. "Hey," Scully said into the receiver. "Hey, it's me," he said, and she watched him, in the corner of the screen, as he stepped away from the other agents. "Just wanted to let you know that I'm heading back. The situation's been resolved." "I know," she told him. "We're watching it on the news." "I'm on the news?" he asked. "Yup," she said. "Hope they got my good side," he joked. She watched him turn around in search of the news cameras. But the 'live' feed was just slightly delayed, and she saw his lips moving even though the phone line was now silent. "I'll see you in a few minutes." "Be careful," she said. "The storm they were predicting for Wednesday's coming early." "I will," he said before clicking off the phone. She watched him on television for another second as he dropped the phone into his pocket and stepped off screen. "He's on his way back," Scully told them as she handed the phone back to Tara, who hung it up. "That his case on TV?" Charles asked. She nodded, then stood as she lifted Liam onto her hip. "I'd better change him," she said, heading out of the family room. "I'll do it, Dana," her mother said, taking the baby from her. She set one foot on the stairs, then turned back to her daughter. "Everything okay with Fox?" "Yeah," she said. "Fine." Her mother nodded, then disappeared upstairs. Fine, Scully thought as she wandered into the living room. But she didn't feel fine. She felt more than a little embarrassed at her worry for Mulder. He was headed back, and, besides, the situation hadn't even been all that dangerous. Just a consult, tapping into Mulder's experience with the suspect. So what was her problem? Scully glanced around the room, her gaze resting on the manger -- less the baby Jesus, which, she knew, one of them would add after they got home from mass that night -- before drifting to the fireplace. Lined up on the mantle of her mother's fireplace were several dozen Christmas cards. One of Margaret Scully's most enduring talents was the assiduous way in which she maintained a friendship. There were women her mother had known from elementary school that Maggie still corresponded with; other friends from high school; some from Japan, where the Scullys had been stationed for a few years, back in the 60s; from Germany, where her parents had lived part of the time Scully was in college; and from various other pit stops their family had made during her father's years with the Navy. Scully admired this ability of her mother's, an ability she had never had, though she always meant well. When she graduated from high school and college, and then from medical school, she had promised her friends she would keep in touch. But each time her busy present had kept her from returning to her past, as much as she might treasure it. Scully's eye caught a familiar card, a card with a childishly drawn angel amid a dark sky dotted with golden stars. The Christmas card she had sent to her mother, bought from the MD Anderson Cancer Center in Texas. The young patients of MD Anderson crayoned and painted new holiday cards each year, and each year Scully bought her cards from their catalog. It was a small thing, she knew, but for her it was also a necessary thing, a connection to a past that she knew she would never forget. This year Scully had received the small box of cards in the mail at the end of October. She had stashed them in her desk drawer, telling herself that she had weeks before she needed to write them out and mail them. But this year was busier, with Liam, with settling in at her new job, with settling Mulder into her apartment. She had almost forgotten about the cards until she sifted through the contents of that drawer while looking for a pair of scissors. She found them and panicked; it was already mid-December and she had yet to even begin them. So the next day, an unseasonably warm Sunday morning, after Mulder took Liam out for a run in the jog-stroller, Scully dug out her address book and her favorite pen, and set out to write her Christmas cards. But when she opened the first card, after she addressed the envelope, she found that she didn't know what to say. The recipient of the card, an elderly aunt she hadn't seen in years, was not the problem; Scully needn't write a long note, just a quick Merry-Christmas-and-Happy-New-Year, but what stumped her was how to sign the card. This had never been a problem before; all she ever had to do was scribble "Dana" and stuff the card into the envelope. But this year she didn't know what to write. Should she include Mulder's name? And, if so, what should she write: "Dana, Mulder, & Liam"? "Dana, Fox, & Liam"? Though it seemed odd to use Mulder's surname on a greeting card, the other combination seemed wrong, though Scully knew that was how her mother thought of them. But, to Aunt Gladys, those names would bring only confusion. Scully doubted the elderly woman was aware of either Liam's or Mulder's existence. Writing "Dana, Fox, & Liam" would likely cause poor old Aunt Gladys to check the address label to figure out who the card was from. She knew "Dana," but who were these "Fox & Liam" interlopers? Obviously what she wrote would depend on who was receiving the card. To her distant family she could simply sign "Dana" and write a quick note to announce Liam's birth. To her close family -- her mother and brothers -- she could sign all three names without explanation. But she was still undecided about what to write to in-betweeners, to old friends and semi-close family members. Scully thought of Ellen, a college friend whom she had held on to through her time at medical school and the Academy. But her years on the X-Files had estranged her from Ellen, not because of any conscious effort but because her work had taken so much out of her, had exhausted her so thoroughly that, on her rare days off, she had often wanted to do nothing but take a long bath and forget there was such a place as the Hoover Building, such an entity as the US government, and such a man as Fox Mulder. But now, she felt a sudden longing to reconnect with Ellen. But what to write? "Ellen, we haven't been in touch for years, but I thought I'd check in. Guess what? In May I had a baby with my partner. Here's a picture -- the baby, not the partner. What's new with you?" Sure, Scully thought with an almost-laugh, that would work. Certainly it would earn her a panicked and excited phone call. Finally she decided on a short note: "Ellen, sorry I've lost touch. Too much to share on a card. We should meet for lunch. Love, Dana." She was still working on her cards when Mulder and Liam returned from their run, Mulder reeking of sweat and old athletic shoes. She didn't have many cards to send, but having to consider what she would write on each made it a time-consuming task. Mulder parked the stroller beside her, and, after taking a detour to the kitchen to refill his water bottle, he returned to join her at the desk. Scully unstrapped Liam from his stroller and lifted him out. His head drooped sleepily onto his shoulder. "Hey, my sweet boy," she said to the baby, then kissed the tip of his nose before cradling him against her chest. "Good run?" she asked Mulder. Mulder nodded. "Gotta work on the kid's endurance, though," he said, then chugged some water from his sports bottle and wiped his wet hand on his t-shirt. Ick, Scully thought, trying not to grimace. She had promised herself long ago that she would have to relax her anal-retentive standards of cleanliness if she and Mulder were to live together peacefully. Not that there were many of those tendencies left, she thought ruefully, noting the pile of baby laundry on the couch and the toys scattered across the floor. "What're you up to?" he asked. "Writing out my Christmas cards," she said. She paused, glanced at the small pile of sealed and addressed cards and the larger pile of blank ones. She checked her watch. "For the past two hours." "Lots of cards?" "Not really," she said, sighing. She twirled the pen around her fingers. "I'm... I don't know what to write." Mulder picked up the card she had been working on when he walked in. The half-finished note was addressed to her cousin Michael, who lived in Chicago with his family. Scully and her siblings had all been close to him while growing up, but Scully hadn't seen him in years. Not since her father's funeral. Scully reddened as Mulder read the message, in which she mentioned Liam's existence but not his. At least not yet. She had been puzzling over that when he walked in. Finally he finished reading the short note and looked down at her. "What's the problem?" "I can't figure out what to say," she said. "About us." He nodded. "I've done the cards for my mom and Bill and Charlie." She looked up at him. "I signed your name. I hope that was okay. I--" He smiled at her. "It's fine, Scully. Whatever you want to write." It wasn't the answer she was looking for, and, most days, she probably would have left it at that. But she was frustrated and emotionally drained and feeling brave. "But what do *you* think I should have written?" she asked. "What do you want me to say... about us?" He leaned back against the desktop, looking at her over his shoulder. He raised the hem of his t-shirt, revealing a trail of dark, sweaty hair leading to the waistband of his shorts. He wiped his forehead with the shirt, then let it fall back into place. "You're right," he said finally. "You should sign my name to your mom and brothers. If we're really doing this, that is..." He looked down at her almost uncertainly. "Of course, Mulder," she said, still surprised -- and, she admitted, a little disappointed -- at how often he needed to hear her reassurance that she still wanted him, that she still loved him. "Of course we're 'doing this.'" He smiled. "Just checking," he said. Clutching the now-sleeping baby to her chest, she stood and rose to her tiptoes. To hell with the sweat, she thought, pressing her lips to the salty hollow at the base of his throat. She grasped the back of his neck, pulling him down to her level. Looking directly into his eyes, she said, "You don't need to check. Nothing's changed." He nodded solemnly, then stood as she released his neck and dropped to her flat feet. Scully sat back down in the desk chair, again looking up at Mulder. "But I still need to know what you want me to sign," she said. "And to whom. My immediate family is taken care of, but what about friends and other family members?" she asked. "Do you want me to include your name if you've never met them?" He shrugged. "It's up to you, Scully," he said, but she watched him carefully, wondering if this was yet another test. Ever since he had moved in with her, they had each had their moments of uncertainty, Mulder certainly more than she. At times Scully almost felt as if he were testing her, making sure she didn't want him there just because of Liam. And, she admitted, at times she had tested him as well, when daytime nightmares brought up worries that he was there out of some misplaced sense of guilt or obligation or overprotection... or that his only feelings of love were directed at their son. Their tests had become less and less frequent, Scully realized with relief. And, as far as she could tell, she had passed each of Mulder's, and he hers. But now, as she watched Mulder in silence, Scully realized that this was very definitely another one of them. She suppressed a sigh, wondering when it will all end, wondering if they will ever be able to just *be*: be happy and secure and together. But she just smiled at him. "I want to include your name," she said. "I'm sick of hiding; I want everyone to know about you and Liam." She stood and grasped his chin with her hand, forced his gaze to meet hers. "I love you." This time it was his turn to lean in for a kiss, and she obliged, running her fingers through the sweat-soaked hair on the back of his head. He rested his hands behind her, caging her against the chair, and she deepened the kiss, sliding her tongue past his lips. He dropped his hands from the back of the chair to rest on her waist, and snuck his thumbs inside the waistband of her jeans. Finally they pulled apart, and Mulder straightened. "I should take a shower," he said reluctantly. Transparently, Scully thought. She smiled. "Care for some company?" she asked with a nod to indicate that Liam had fallen asleep in her arms. "Thought you'd never ask," he said, offering her a hand. She took it, and he tugged her towards the bathroom. "He still asleep?" he asked when she rejoined him after detouring to Liam's bedroom to set him in his crib, kissing his forehead in thanks for not waking up when she laid him down. "Mmm hmm," she said. "We have, oh, maybe, half an hour, forty minutes." "S'enough," he rumbled as she closed the bathroom door behind them. "Scully?" She whirled around as the voice behind her drew her out of her memories. Just in time, she thought, not entirely sure she wanted to relive that afternoon's activities in her mother's house, with the rest of her family weaving in and out of the room. "Hi," she said to Mulder. "Hey," he said with a smile. "I was just wondering where you disappeared to." "Just... thinking," she said as he came closer and she stepped into his arms. "What about?" "Things," she said coyly, resting her head against his chest. "How did the case go?" "I'm sure you heard it on the news, but they got Ross. Neil Juden's pretty good -- the agent in charge of the case," he explained. "You ever met him?" "No," she said. "Wet behind the ears, but he shows potential. I think he was a cop once, so he's got some experience. Skinner had gotten him a copy of my profile, but he had some questions about Ross's background, his MO, that sort of thing." "So all's well that ends well?" she asked. "Mmmm," he said noncommittally. "Ross had already shot one of the hostages by the time I got there, but it was just a flesh wound. He'll be okay. Juden eventually talked Ross down and he's in police custody now. He--" Suddenly she felt him stiffen. "What?" she asked. He set his hands on her shoulders and turned her around so that she was facing the same direction as him, so that, once again, she could see the fireplace. "What?" she repeated. "Stockings," he said softly. Her gaze drifted over the mantle, which was not only covered in Christmas cards, she noticed, but decorated with the family's stockings. Her eyes flitted past her mother's well-worn stocking, then Bill's own broken-in one, Tara's newer one, her own worn stocking, and on down the line. Then she stopped, darting her gaze back to her own. Hanging between her stocking and Charlie's was another new one. The stocking was made of bright red felt, and the fold of soft white fabric along the top bore three letters, carefully stitched in red: Fox. Scully turned in Mulder's arms and smiled up at him. His own expression was a mix of surprise and happiness, and she felt her grin broaden as she watched the emotions work through his face. "Your mom," he said, half in question, half in wonder. Scully nodded. "I told you not all us Scullys are so resistant to good-looking, hard-assed g-men," she said, punctuating her words by slipping her hands down Mulder's back and into the back pocket of his jeans. "I haven't had a stocking since I was a kid," he said softly. "Not since we celebrated Christmas at my mom's parents' house. The year Samantha disappeared we stopped going; Mom said we shouldn't celebrate Christmas, after..." He paused, looking down at Scully, his eyes awash with emotion. She settled into his chest, tightening her arm around his waist. "You shouldn't be so surprised, Mulder," Scully said. "You're a part of this family, like it or not." Mulder laughed. "Like it," he whispered into her ear. Even if it doesn't always like him, Scully thought. * * * * * BILL "Time to eat," Bill called as he stepped into the living room. "Time to eat, Day--" He froze when he saw them, Mulder facing the fireplace and Dana standing on the other side of him, blocked from Bill's view. All Bill could see was her hands fitted in Mulder's back pocket, her thumbs resting on his ass. They pulled away at the sound of his voice, and Bill felt the tiny muscle above his eyebrow twitch uncontrollably. "--Dana," he finished. "Time to eat." "Okay," she said, and Mulder followed her into the kitchen. Bill stood in the living room for a moment. He, too, had noticed what it was on the mantle that had caught Mulder's attention. He stared at the stocking, biting his lip in frustration. Damnit, Mom, he thought. You have to make things easier for him, don't you? Treating him like he's a real member of this family, when we all know that he's just going to take off again when the mood strikes him. Fools, Bill thought at his mother and sister. Even at his wife, who had felt it necessary to lecture him on the drive from the airport to his mother's house while Matthew zoomed his toy trucks across the backseat of their rented van. She had lectured him like a mother, and he had felt a rush of embarrassment at being reprimanded by her in front of his own son. "Now, Bill," she'd said, her tone condescending. "I'm sure Dana's bringing Mulder..." "Yeh," he grunted back, concentrating on the road as he switched lanes without bothering with his turning signal. "Bill, I know the two of you don't get along," she said. Understatement of the year, Bill thought. "I don't understand it, but you can't hide it." I'm not trying to, he thought. "And it doesn't much matter when we're in San Diego. But when we're in DC..." He'd nodded, grunted again. "Bill, please listen to me," she'd said, her voice strung out with the weariness of preparing for, and finally taking, a cross-country trip with an overexcited almost-four year old. "In a few months we'll be back East. You don't need to start out on everyone's bad side." He'd burned with anger as she continued lecturing him, frustrated at what she was doing while fully understanding why she was doing it. She didn't trust him to be on his best behavior at his mother's house. Hell, he didn't trust himself either. He may feel calm -- well, relatively calm -- right then, but he knew that when he stepped into his mother's house and saw Dana and Mulder... And Dana's baby, he reminded himself. He had seen pictures of the baby as a wrinkly faced newborn, and he'd been confused and ashamed at the anger and guilt and frustration he'd felt. It happened every time he thought about or spoke with his sister, a tightness forming in Bill's stomach that he couldn't quell. He imagined Dana and her baby, living with Mulder, and he wondered how that could be his sister's life, how she could chuck her upbringing and beliefs for this man. How she could turn her back on what had once been such a promising future. "Remember," Tara had said as he parked their rented van in his mother's driveway. "Please, Bill, remember that Dana's an adult. She's been through some tough times recently, and she deserves to be happy. Please just remember that." Bill felt a shout of anger rise in his chest, but, of course, he subdued it, sublimated it. He knew that Dana deserved to be happy; he knew all about her kidnapping and cancer and (supposed) infertility. That last one he had his doubts about. Obviously. And he guessed that her job had destroyed any hope of her having a normal personal life. Dana might not be overly forthcoming about her job, but Bill knew that she had been through so much -- too much -- with Mulder. Maybe she had just gotten used to his disrespect and workaholism and self-centeredness. Maybe she was just with Fox Mulder out of habit, because she was there and so was he, and, hell, why not be there together? Bill stared at Mulder's -- Fox's -- stocking, hanging right there between Dana's and Charles's. Like he was a part of the family or something. Bill shook his head. Fox Mulder would never be a part of his family, he was sure of that. Bill gave the guy six more months, at most, before he took off for greener pastures... greener pastures decorated with crop circles, Bill thought bitterly. "Bill? You coming?" his mother's voice called from the dining room, and Bill turned away from the stockings and wandered into the dining room. He took his seat at the head of the table, then grabbed the metal tongs and dug into the salad bowl. "Chicken and dumplings, Daddy," Matthew said excitedly. Matthew loved chicken and dumplings, Bill was proud to say. The dish was also one of his favorites, and his mother had given Tara her recipe soon after their wedding, claiming it was the key to a successful marriage with anyone named William Scully. Chicken and dumplings had also been his father's favorite. "It looks delicious, Mrs. Scully," Mulder said as he settled Liam into the high chair between his and Dana's seats. "I love your chicken and dumplings." Bill shot a glance over at Mulder. I'm sure you do, he thought. "I think it's a guy thing," Tara said as she watched her husband spoon an extra dumpling onto his plate before passing the hot casserole dish over to her. She placed a small helping on Matthew's plate, then spooned out some for herself. "This is Matthew and Bill's favorite, too." "I don't know," Maggie said, rising from the table to fill their wine glasses. "It was never Charlie's favorite." Bill looked over at his brother, who shrugged. "It's fine," he said. "But you're right; it's never been my favorite." He took a sip of his wine. "But Melissa used to love it." Maggie smiled. "The only thing Missy and your father agreed on," she said. "Chicken and dumplings." They laughed. That's not the only thing they agreed on, he thought with a glance at Dana. Bill knew that their father loved all four of his children, but he also knew that Dana had occupied a special place in his heart. She was his baby girl. Even more than Melissa, who had acted the part of sugar and spice and everything nice so much more convincingly than Dana ever had. And, though Melissa had always been especially close with Charles, she had also had a special relationship with Dana. A sisters' bond, Bill figured. They told each other things that they'd never shared with him. They used to sit together in the back seat of the family car, smashed hip to hip, giggling over private jokes. Charles sat next to them, half-listening and half-daydreaming. When their father was at sea, Bill occupied the coveted front seat with his mother, and had often had to turn around and tell one of his siblings to quit kicking his seat or flicking bits of paper at him. Bill remembered passing the door to Dana and Melissa's shared bedroom late at night as he headed to bed. They were supposed to be asleep, but each night he could hear them, talking and giggling. Sometimes they played Melissa's record player, the volume turned low so no one would hear. But Bill heard. Bill always heard. "So, Fox," Maggie said, "how did your case go?" Mulder glanced briefly over at Bill, then returned his gaze to Maggie. "It was fine, Mrs. Scully," he said. "And I'm sorry--" Yeah, right, Bill thought. Not so sorry that you didn't go, though, huh? "That's okay, Fox," she said, tapping his hand gently. "I was married to a Navy Captain for over thirty years. I understand that crisis doesn't take a break for the holidays." Thanks, Mom, Bill thought. Forgive him for leaving on Christmas Eve. And while you're at it, why don't you forgive him for everything else he's done to this family. For Melissa and for Dana's cancer and for taking off after getting Dana pregnant and for putting her through hell for the past nine years... "I'm glad it went well," Maggie continued. "I know you can't go into detail about what you do, but I get so worried sometimes, with the two of you traveling all the time." Bastard, Bill thought at Mulder. His mother had enough difficulties; she didn't need to add her daughter and Mulder's escapades to the list. She's too old for this, he thought, his eye caught by the wrinkles that lined his mother's eyes and mouth. "You shouldn't worry, Mom," Dana said, and Bill bit his tongue. Yeah, as if she could stop worrying about her daughter. Her only daughter, who had made probably the most dangerous of career choices, with the most treacherous of partners. "Besides, we won't be traveling again, not like we used to," Dana said. "Not for a while, at least." She caught Mulder's gaze and held it, and Bill felt a whiff of something pass between them. Regret? Restlessness? Was Mulder getting bored with the Daddy routine? It was just a matter of time, Bill figured. "Not with our new jobs," Dana finished. Ah, yes, the almighty New Jobs. Bill had heard all about the New Jobs months ago, from his mother over the phone, which was how he heard anything worth hearing -- and a few things that weren't -- about Dana. Heaven forbid his sister should pick up the phone herself just once and let him into her life. His mother had been ecstatic about the New Jobs and, according to her, so had Dana and Mulder. Both were at the FBI Academy, Dana teaching forensic pathology and Mulder, criminal profiling. His mother, however, hadn't mentioned that they still 'consulted' on the X-Files, as Dana had put it earlier that day. But maybe she didn't know; maybe they hadn't told her, either. He wouldn't be surprised. On the phone that day Bill had questioned his overjoyed mother about the New Jobs. Hadn't Mulder been fired from the FBI? That little tidbit of info had leaked through the Scully grapevine long ago, despite Dana's attempts to keep it from him. How could he be back with the Bureau again? Bill suspected his government wasn't as forgiving as his baby sister was. But Maggie had said that there had been some sort of shakeup in the upper echelons of the FBI. The agent who was currently assigned to Dana's former beat had investigated some Bureau Director or another, uncovering a slew of inappropriate activities. There had been a wave of firings and reappointments, and, before anyone knew it, Mulder was back in, though the Bureau's forgiving nature apparently didn't extend into the X-Files. Not that Bill expected the New Jobs to last very long. Certainly Mulder would get bored of teaching and 'consulting' and ask back on his old beat. And, of course, he would drag Dana back along with him. But his mother saw the New Jobs as the solution to all problems of the Mulder-Scully universe, allowing the two of them to be home with the baby more often. At least, Bill thought, until Mulder got restless and the baby was dumped off with Maggie, who sometimes watched him while Dana and Mulder were at work. Bill thought back to when Matthew was a baby. He had had to ship out such a short time after his son's birth that he had missed so much, but he did remember the late nights, the teething, the messes, the terrible twos... Not that he thought Dana wouldn't be a good mother, but Bill doubted she and Mulder were prepared for the difficulties of parenting. Sure, the baby was cute now, but babies grew up, became children and then teenagers. And then, Bill thought with a glance over at Charles, who was picking at his chicken and dumplings, they became adults. * * * * * Later that afternoon Bill was kneeling down in front of Matthew, fixing his son's tiny bow tie when Tara emerged from the bathroom connected to their bedroom. Bill stood and smiled at his wife. She returned his grin and stepped over to him, reaching up to straighten his tie. He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her close. "You look beautiful," he muttered into her ear, trailing his fingers down her velvet-clad back. "I look fat," she said, smoothing her hand over the front of her dress and pulling away from him to inspect her profile in the mirror mounted above the dresser. "No," he said. "You can't tell." "I don't know," she managed to say before Matthew grabbed hold of her legs. "Careful, Matty," she said in a louder tone, reaching down to smooth her nylons. "Momma, I don't wanna wear a tie," Matthew said, tugging at his tie. "I'm sorry, baby," she said, squatting down beside him and redirecting his prying fingers, "but we're going to church, and it's important that you look nice for Christmas Eve mass." "We should get downstairs," Bill reminded Tara. "We're leaving at 5:20." She nodded and took Matthew's hand, and the three of them went downstairs. His mother and brother were already there, Charles looking presentable for once in a clean blue button-down shirt and dark pants. He slipped on a matching blazer and ran a hand through his unruly hair. No tie, Bill noticed. So did Matthew. "Daddy," he whined, looking up at Bill, "you said I hafta wear a tie." "You do, Matthew," Bill said, glaring at Charles. "But Uncle Charles isn't wearing one," Matthew said, tugging impatiently at his collar. "Don't own one," Charles said with an apologetic shrug. Bill opened his mouth to remind his brother of the existence of department stores -- and their visit to a mall just the other day -- but Tara cut him off. "Uncle Charles is a grown-up," she told Matthew. "He can choose his own clothes. But you," she said, bending down to plant a kiss on the top of Matthew's head, "are our little boy, and you have to wear what Daddy and I choose." Matthew's grasp on his mother's hand grew limp, and the little boy fell dramatically to the floor. Bill sighed, sensing a temper tantrum coming on. Thanks, Charles, he thought, stooping to stand Matthew squarely on his feet. "Dana," his mother called upstairs. "You ready?" Bill turned his attention towards the stairs. His mother's exclusion of Mulder didn't escape Bill's attention. Of course Mulder wasn't coming to church with them. Bill was well aware of the man's aversion to religion. He had picked up on that much during his weekly telephone chats with his mother. Of course she hadn't out and out said that Mulder was an atheistic heathen, but Bill was no idiot. He read through her words. Bill suppressed a shudder. Maggie Scully was unbelievably transparent, and it was disturbingly clear to Bill that, for some inexplicable reason, she loved "Fox" like a son. "We're ready, Mom," Dana said, finally appearing at the base of the steps. "Oh," his mother exclaimed upon seeing Liam. "Don't you look adorable!" She took the baby from Dana and smoothed a hand over his fuzzy red-gold hair. Dana took her jacket from the hall closet and slipped it over her dress. She pulled Liam's tiny snowsuit out of the closet as well, then looked up when Mulder descended the stairs. He was wearing a suit and tie. "Are you coming with us, Fox?" his mother asked, the hope in her voice almost palatable. He nodded, then took Liam and, with Dana, tried to tuck the baby into his puffy fleece snowsuit. Bill narrowed his eyes, watching them. So Mulder was coming to church, was he? What a suck-up. Obviously this guy was trying to get on the family's good side. Bill grunted in frustration and, after a stern look from Tara, stepped towards the closet, brushing past Mulder on his way. Clearly Mulder had enough hope for this relationship -- Bill grimaced at the word -- that he would bother to kiss up to Dana's family. Bill yanked his family's coats out of the closet, sending the wooden hangers clattering to the floor. He handed Matthew's and Tara's coats to his wife, then pulled his own on. Okay, so he had been wrong about one thing: Mulder wasn't going anywhere, at least not yet, despite his repeated disappearing acts during Dana's pregnancy. Bill conceded that point, but he wasn't ready to surrender the war. * * * * * They arrived at the church early, but already it was crowded. Bill circled the front parking lot and drove around to the back before finding a space. Of course, Mulder, who was driving Dana, Charlie, and the baby, had parked quickly, pulling into a space vacated by a parishioner late to leave from the earlier mass. So Charles, Dana, Liam, and Mulder were already seated when the rest of the family stepped into the church. Dana and Charles were kneeling on the fold-down kneelers, but Mulder sat in the pew holding Liam. Not praying, Bill noted. Apparently that was as far as Mulder was willing to go for Dana: come to church, but don't participate. Nice. Bill, Tara, Matthew, and Margaret Scully wove through the crowds of gathered families, then filed into the pew with the rest of the family. Bill stepped aside to allow his mother take the seat next to Mulder, then slid in after her, with Matthew and Tara following. Bill unfolded their kneeler and he and Tara urged Matthew to join the rest of them. Surprisingly, Matthew actually obeyed and knelt down beside them. But the little boy quickly grew bored with his child-sized view of the back of the seat in front of him, and he stood next to Bill. After finishing their prayers and tucking the kneeler back beneath the seats in front of them, the family sat in relative silence while they waited for mass to begin. Tara had smartly brought a small book in her purse, and it amused Matthew for longer than Bill expected. Thank God for small miracles, he thought. Bill glanced down the row. His mother was turned around in the pew, talking animatedly with an elderly couple sitting behind them. Bill nodded at the man and woman when his mother introduced him, then looked past her, to Mulder and Dana, who were talking quietly. "Scully," he heard Mulder say before he dropped his voice, and Bill felt a chill run down his spine. It still grated on him the way Mulder called her by her last name, the way he said it, Scully, low and endearing. It was such an informal, buddy-buddy thing to call your partner by her last name. As a Navy man, Bill was used to it; he had called co-workers by their surnames for years. He said her name like a verbal caress, like a lover's touch. It was because of the way he said her name that Bill first knew that Fox Mulder was trouble with a capital T. And Dana and Mulder had always acted so damned innocent of it all. Like they had never realized the charge of sexual energy between them, when it was so thick that Bill could almost taste it even years ago, just before Matthew was born, when Dana had called Mulder after discovering that sick little girl she thought was her daughter. Bill tightened his fists into balls. Just thinking back to that time made him angry. It should have been one of the happiest times in his life, the birth of his son, the child whom he and Tara had tried so hard for, for so long. And his mother's and sister's visit was an added bonus; that they might be in town for the baby's birth was unbelievably lucky. But then it was all complicated by Dana's discovery of this little girl and the arrival of Fox Mulder. When he met Mulder several months before, Bill had never imagined that the man would be sleeping on his sofa come New Year's, that he would be sleeping with his sister sometime thereafter. Mulder had, of course, tried to convince the judge that Dana be allowed to adopt this orphaned little girl, never once considering that Dana's life wasn't fit for a child, and certainly not for a sick child. Never even considering that a woman who'd never given birth, who'd been diagnosed as unable to conceive, could not possibly have a daughter. All of a sudden, everything was about Dana: the discovery of her supposed daughter and then the little girl's death. Bill was sorry for his sister -- even if the girl wasn't Dana's, Dana believed that she was, and her grief was deeply felt -- but just thinking back to that time still angered Bill. He seethed when he remembered how a time that was supposed to be so joyous had turned into such a circus, with Fox Mulder as ringmaster. And now, here Bill was, spending another holiday with Mulder, sharing his family with the guy, the prospect of many more Christmases and birthdays and Thanksgivings hanging before him. Unbelievable. Of course Bill knew that Dana and the baby would be at his mother's house for Christmas; Dana lived nearby and Bill figured that even the unbelievably numerous demands of her job wouldn't keep her away for the holidays. But he wasn't sure about Fox Mulder. He supposed he should've assumed the man would be there. After all, he thought bitterly, they were living together. Surely Dana would bring Mulder. So, while he had eventually realized that Mulder would probably be joining them, Bill had also hoped that something, anything, might keep the man away. Maybe some alien invasion or secret government conspiracy; those things had always done the trick in the past, he thought, thinking of the phone calls that had lured Dana away from more family gatherings than he cared to remember. But of course he had come, arriving with Dana like he belonged there, like he was part of the family or something. When Bill finally got a glimpse of the baby, he had studied him carefully. Of course, because of Dana's illogical devotion to the man, they had all suspected that Fox Mulder was the father. As far as Bill knew, no other man had played a serious role in his sister's life since, well... ever. Still Bill held out hope that William wasn't Mulder's son. First there was Dana's inability to conceive, which Maggie had told Bill about in San Diego four years ago in an attempt to excuse Dana's cool reaction to Tara's pregnancy. In retrospect, the diagnosis had obviously been incorrect. And if that had been wrong, maybe there was also another explanation for the baby's paternity. Maybe artificial insemination, as much as that idea creeped Bill out. Or maybe there was another man in his sister's life, a man whose existence had never been shared with Maggie and, therefore, had not been passed on to Bill. Of course Bill had seen the pictures of the baby that Dana had sent him and Tara, but in those he looked like any other newborn; it was difficult to tell who he looked like, though Maggie swore that he resembled Charles as a baby. However, seeing the child in real life had given Bill an improved perspective. On first sight of the baby, all Bill could see in him was Dana: her red hair, her fair skin, her blue eyes. But then, looking closer, he had to admit that he could see Fox Mulder as well, in the baby's nose and mouth, in his long fingers. Unfortunately, Bill's suspicions had been confirmed by Dana's own words, said to the baby when she thought they were alone, overheard by the rest of the family through the baby monitor: the child was Mulder's. "Daddy," Matthew said, tugging on the corner of his father's suit jacket. "Yes, Matthew?" "Daddy, I'm bored," he whined. "What about your book?" Bill asked, glancing around for the book. But Matthew simply repeated, "I'm boo-ored," and leaned his head against his father's arm. "I know, Matthew," Bill said with a sigh. He checked his watch. "It'll be starting in a few minutes," he told his son. "You know, your grandma told me that last year that there was a special Christmas pageant during this mass. You'll get to see a play." "A play?" he asked. "Like the Rudolph play?" He and Tara had taken Matthew to see a children's puppet theater version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on the base the previous week. Matthew had loved the play, and, after Tara dug out their Christmas CDs, the little boy had figured out how to set the Rudolph track on repeat. It was all they had listened to for a good four days, Bill remembered with agony. "A little like Rudolph," he told Matthew. "But a different story. Do you remember the children's Bible the Easter Bunny got you last year?" he asked, and Matthew nodded. "The play will be the story of baby Jesus's birthday." "Like my birthday?" Matthew asked, his eyes brimming with excitement. "Not exactly," Bill said, and was about to begin retelling Matthew the Christmas story when the church organ struck a chord, filling the church with music. The idle conversations that had been whispered back and forth among congregants quickly fell off. But Matthew was not to be dissuaded. Again he tugged on his father's coattails, and Bill leaned down. "Maybe they'll play 'Rudolph,'" Matthew said with a hopeful smile. Bill held in an amused chuckle, whispering to Matthew, "Maybe." Mass progressed slowly. To Bill, Christmas Eve mass always had -- leftover excitement from his childhood, he supposed. As a kid he had always fidgeted during mass, imagining the presents that would appear as if by magic the next morning, so many with his name on them. But, even as a child, he had tried to disguise his impatience. Even back then he was cognizant of his parents' need for him to be the big kid, their responsible oldest child, to behave and, more often than not, make sure that Melissa, Dana, and Charles weren't acting out of turn, either. This was especially the case when their father was at sea. Each time their father left, he reminded Bill of the responsibility of being the man of the house, the need to protect for his younger sisters and brother, and to care for his mother. Bill had always taken that responsibility seriously, knowing that the family's well-being was in his hands, knowing that he his father would expect a thorough report on the family activities upon his return. And Bill took his responsibilities most seriously on Christmas Eve, whether it was the threat of no presents if he misbehaved or the conscious realization that it was a special time, and they were in a special place, and he should be on his best behavior. And, even though Bill had long outgrown the excitement of awaking on Christmas morning to find piles of surprise presents, still he was impatient during mass. He found his focus drifting as the lectors plodded through the readings, as the priest began the gospel. It didn't help matters that the gospel was the same every Christmas Eve, the journey of a pregnant virgin and her new husband to Bethlehem, the birth of the Son of God, the visitation of shepherds and angels and Wise Men. This year, however, at least the reading kept the attention of Matthew, who watched the play with wide eyes. Bill himself regarded the pageant with a bit more cynicism. There was Joseph, walking with Mary to the innkeeper, to ask the man, played by a little boy in an oversized bathrobe, about a room. There was Mary, flat-stomached yet pregnant one minute and a mother as soon as she picks up the baby doll lying in the straw-filled manger. The magic of theater, Bill thought, remembering the thirty-three hours of labor Tara had endured to bring Matthew into this world. Bill supposed that, if you were giving birth to the Son of God, maybe you were given certain perks. "Dada," the baby called out suddenly, and Bill turned to look past his mother and Mulder, to Dana, who was holding the baby. "Dada," he called out again, reaching for Mulder, who took the baby from Dana's arms. The baby gazed out over Mulder's shoulder, Dana's wide blue eyes staring intently at Bill, and Mulder's full lower lip trembling on the verge of tears. The little boy was quiet now, and still. But his gaze was steady and serious, and Bill couldn't help but feel slightly uncomfortable for the scrutiny. Sure, he knew that babies that age probably couldn't focus on objects as far away as he was sitting, but, to him, it looked as if the child were studying him, judging him. Bill had thought the baby had Dana's eyes, but now he could also see Mulder in the intensity of the baby's stare. Then Mulder shifted Liam in his arms, breaking the baby's eye contact with his uncle. Bill turned his attention back to the mass, to the gold-robbed priest who was pouring wine into a line of shiny chalices. "What Child Is This?" the choir asked softly in the background, the organ tones replaced by the more understated sound of a piano. Matthew sighed, heavily and deliberately, as he leaned up against his father, and Bill put his arm around the little boy. Finally they stood, preparing for the Lord's Prayer, which had always been Bill's favorite part of mass. When he was a child and all six members of the Scully family attended church together, they would hold hands for the Our Father. Bill remembered when the prayer, when the entire mass, was performed in Latin. He was still young when the switchover to English began, so he couldn't recall the Latin words to the prayer. But he did remember the feeling that the archaic phrases had given him: that he was a part of something larger and more important, a feeling made stronger when he clutched the hands of his parents or siblings. "Our Father," the priest prompted, and the congregation joined him. Bill's hands reached out, his right searching for Matthew's tiny hand, his left for his mother's. This priest was still fairly old-school, Bill noted with a pleased grin, and the man chanted, rather than simply spoke, the words of the prayer. Bill tried his hardest to lose himself in the prayer once again, but he found that he was no longer able to. Trying to be inconspicuous, he peered around his mother, catching a glimpse of Fox Mulder. Mulder's right hand held Mrs. Scully's left, and his left held Dana's right. Though Dana was now holding the baby in her right arm, she also had the baby's hand clasped in her own, and Mulder's hand held theirs, easily covering both her hand and the baby's. Bill craned his head further, trying to catch a more thorough glimpse of Mulder. Finally his mother stepped back slightly, and Bill could see that Mulder, though joined in the chain of Scullys, was not reciting the prayer along with the rest of the family. Typical, Bill thought. Just typical. Always has to be different, stubborn, doesn't he? That image stayed with Bill after the prayer ended, after the family dropped hands, when the baby started fussing, furiously kicking his tiny legs and escalating his cries to new volumes. Bill glanced over to his sister, who rubbed her son's back as she stepped close to Mulder. Dana nodded towards the upstairs baby room, which was tucked away to their right. She turned around to reach for the diaper bag, but instead Mulder reached for her, his hand finding her waist, his fingers spreading across her stomach. He leaned down, whispering something into her ear. She pressed her mouth closer to him, trying to make herself heard over the baby's strangled cries. Mulder's hand on her abdomen pressed her closer, then he shook his head and took the baby from her arms, hitching the struggling child up against his chest. Bill read his sister's lips: Thank you. He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding -- touching his sister like that right in front of him, in church no less, in the sight of God and the entire Christmas Eve congregation. This guy had no shame. He watched as Dana slung the diaper bag over Mulder's shoulder. On his way to the aisle, Mulder moved past Maggie Scully, who caught the baby's foot in an affectionate gesture. Bill pressed back against the pew to let Mulder pass. The man squeezed by, Bill getting a stiff shoulder in the upper arm as he passed. Bill's eyes trailed Fox Mulder down the aisle through the church until the man disappeared through the double doors that led to the baby room. He redirected his gaze to the tiny yet crowded room, watching for Mulder, but was distracted when he felt Tara's hand on his elbow. He turned to his wife as her hand ran down his arm and caught his hand. "Peace," she said with a smile, and he leaned down to kiss her while they shook hands. Reaching around Matthew and Tara, Bill shook hands with the rest of the family, then turned to share peace with the parishioners sitting behind them. Soon it was time for Communion, and Bill stood, along with Tara, Dana, and Maggie, to join the extended line-up. But Charles did not join them. Instead, he kicked up his kneeler and scooted back on the pew to allow his family to pass. Their mother touched him gently on the shoulder as she went by, but Bill felt like kicking his brother. Give me a break, he thought. Charles always was one for dramatics. Of course he couldn't just get up and go to Communion with the rest of the family, with the rest of the damn church. No, he had to sit in the pew and draw attention. At least Mulder was still in the baby room, Bill thought as they stepped slowly towards the altar. No need to completely embarrass the family with both men not going up to Communion. Bill allowed his gaze to drift over to the baby room, which was crowded with families with small children who either were too young or, more likely, had not been properly taught to behave during mass. Bill wasn't looking for Mulder, per se, just scanning the seats of the claustrophobic room. But he saw him nonetheless. Mulder was standing against one of the long glass windows, the baby slumped over his shoulder, asleep. He had shed his suit jacket and loosened his tie, and the diaper bag no longer hung from his shoulder. It was just Mulder and the baby, standing and staring down into the church proper. Bill squinted at the man, trying to follow his gaze. He's looking at me, Bill thought with a start, then realized that it wasn't him Mulder was looking down at: it was Dana. Only his mother stood between Bill and his sister, and he watched Mulder watch Dana as the line approached the priest, Bill banging his knee after not paying attention to where he was going. Damnit, he thought, forgetting where he was, then mentally castigated himself for his transgression. But still Bill watched Mulder watch Dana until she stepped up to take the Communion wafer, then stepped to the side to sip wine from the chalice. Bill lost Mulder's gaze only as he accepted his own Communion host. He hesitated as he progressed towards the woman holding the chalice. She offered him the gold cup and, after a second's uncertainty, he took it from her. Bill didn't usually take wine -- he had seen all too many parishioners cough and sneeze throughout the mass, then waltz up and brazenly drink wine from the communal cup -- but this was a special day, he thought as he raised the cup to his lips. Christmas Day, he thought as the wine poured into his mouth and down his throat. * * * * * MULDER By the time they got out of church, the parking lot was covered in a thin but steadily growing layer of snow. White flakes immediately coated their eyelashes and hair, and the cool air froze their skin. The sky was black and pinpricked with stars, and their breaths puffed out in small clouds. The wind blew through his jacket and chilled Mulder to the core. He raised his collar to protect his neck, then stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. He turned to see that Scully was holding Liam's sleeping form tight against her body. With the way her arms wound around him, the only evidence of their son was a large spot of pale blue fleece against his mother's dark winter coat. "Good thing we decided on the earlier mass," Margaret Scully said, her words spun and twisted by the howling wind. "Drive safely. We'll see you back at the house," she called out as she followed Tara and Bill, who was carrying a sleepy Matthew. Mulder, Scully, and Charles stepped carefully through the icy parking lot, the three of them huddled close against the wind. Mulder placed a steady hand on Scully's back, hoping that her new black velvet heels were up to the challenge of the icy parking lot. Mulder's own shoes were also fairly new and unscuffed, but they had considerably more surface area than Scully's. Still, he didn't know whether he could catch her if she went down. Charlie's shoes, Mulder was glad to see, were actually boots with thick rubber treads, and he let the younger man lead the way to the car. Once they got there, Mulder walked Scully around to the passenger's side before unlocking the doors. He slid into the driver's seat and started the engine, then found the ice scraper between a blanket and the medical bag Scully kept in their trunk. "Let me," Charles said, pausing at the open back door and holding out his hand for the scraper. "Get in. I'm fine," Mulder insisted, slamming the trunk lid and, in the process, knocking off the dusting of snow. "At least take my gloves," Charlie said, snapping his gloves off his hands and offering them to Mulder. "Thanks," Mulder said, fitting the gloves onto his fingers. They were warm, lined with flannel and still heated from Charlie's hands. Mulder flexed his fingers, then started scraping at the windshield. Scully buckled Liam into his carseat, then slid into the front passenger seat. Finally Mulder had scraped the windshield and windows to his satisfaction, and he deposited the scraper in the trunk before getting in the car. He turned down the heat a bit, then pulled the car into gear. Slowly he followed the parade of taillights through the church parking lot and onto the street, which, Mulder was glad to see, had been recently plowed and salted. Nevertheless, traffic crawled through the frenzied flurries of snow. Though he was busy concentrating on the slick roads, out of the corner of his eye Mulder could see Scully glance intermittently in the backseat. But her focus was not on her son, who was zonked out in his carseat, but on her brother. Finally Charles gave in. "I know what you want to ask me, Dana," he said. "So just ask and get it over with." "What's that?" she said. He smiled. "Why I didn't go up for Communion." By Scully's guilty silence, Mulder knew that Charles had guessed right. "I don't really go to church Seattle," he said. "But I remember the rules, Dana. No Communion until you've gone to confession and cleansed your soul of its sins. And I haven't been to confession in... I can't remember how long." "That's an old rule, Charlie," Scully said. "And I challenge you to find a priest who would refuse Communion to someone simply because he hasn't confessed." "It's not... It's just... I just didn't feel right about it. And I know I'm gonna hear about it from Bill later on -- he gave me this dirty look as he squeezed by me on his way up -- but I just couldn't. I'm not... I didn't feel worthy." Mulder said nothing, but he knew what Charles meant. Over the years he had tried -- God knows he had tried, he thought, remembering his moment of despair in a DC church after Ruby Morris's reappearance -- but he had never been able to accept the infinite forgiveness that, he had heard, was offered by religion. Neither of his parents' paths, not the Judaism that his father had rejected nor the Christianity that his mother had abandoned, had been able to soothe his unending grief and guilt. But it had not been the fault of those creeds. Mulder knew that, if he were to try out each of the world's religions, he would feel the same way. It was not that these faiths did not offer adequate forgiveness; it was that he was unable to accept it. "Oh, Charles," Scully sighed. "If it was a matter of being worthy, none of us would take Communion. Why do you think one of the last things we say before Communion is, 'Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed'? It's the Communion that's the healing." Charles was quiet, and so was Mulder. What Scully had said gave him hope, but not hope for himself. He had found his faith almost ten years ago, in the guise of a petite redheaded g-woman with an arching eyebrow and an indomitable spirit. His faith fell asleep beside him every night and woke up next to him every morning. His faith was in his partner, in the mother of his child. He knew that, with her and through her, he would find his truth. And maybe someday he would be worthy of it, and of her. No, what Scully had said gave him hope for Liam. Mulder couldn't make himself forget the knowledge he had spent his career accumulating, the threat of alien invasion, the government's role in the enslavement of the planet. But still he dared to hope. Maybe that was something else Scully had given him, he realized, hope for a future of any kind, hope for a better future, for them and for Liam. Boy, you're getting maudlin in your old age, Mulder thought as he pulled the car into Maggie Scully's driveway and parked behind Bill's van. He decided to blame it on the season and the stuffy warmth of the car's interior, not to mention the overlong and overcrowded Christmas Eve service. "How'd Bill beat us home?" Charles asked as they unbuckled their seatbelts and tested their footing on the icy driveway. "Maybe Mom knew a shortcut," Scully said, "where the roads were plowed better." Scully stood and slipped on the icy pavement, catching Charlie's coat sleeve to steady herself. "Whoa," Mulder said, hurrying over to her side of the car as quickly as he could, despite his unsteady footing. "You okay?" "I'm fine," she said, then opened the back door. "Let me get Liam," Mulder said. "Your shoes are death traps." "Yours aren't much better," she retorted, but she did follow Charlie up the freshly salted steps and into her mother's house. With one knee balanced on the cushiony back seat, Mulder carefully unhooked Liam's carseat from its base. He shifted his weight back onto the foot that was balanced on the ice and swung the carrier out of the car. The baby squirmed gently and turned his head to the side, but his eyes, which were barely visible through the wrappings of cotton and fleece, remained closed. Mulder shut the car door and swung the carrier in front of him. Blinking back the snowflakes that were settling on his eyelashes, Mulder navigated the steps and opened the door to Maggie Scully's house. * * * * * MAGGIE By the time the other car pulled into her driveway, Maggie had already changed out of her church clothes and was in the kitchen, throwing together an impromptu dinner for her family. She heard Dana's and Charlie's voices first, followed by a quick stomp of their feet to clear the snow from their shoes. "Mom?" Dana called out as she and Charlie stepped into the kitchen, Dana almost sliding on the tile floor in her stocking feet. She grabbed the edge of the counter to steady herself. "I'm getting together some dinner for us," Maggie said, stepping back from the refrigerator. "Are you hungry?" Dana nodded. "And cold," she said. "But I'd better go change before I kill myself on this floor." She disappeared back into the living room, and Charlie took a seat on one of the bar stools arranged around the kitchen island. "What about you?" Maggie asked him. "Hungry?" "Of course," he said with a smile, then snatched a cold shrimp from the circle they made around the bowl of cocktail sauce. "Good," he said, his mouth still half-filled. "The kids go to bed and we get some adult food, huh? Nothing to mush up or cut into bite-size chunks?" His mother smiled. "Where's Fox?" "Getting the baby out of the car," Charles said. Indeed, in a minute Fox joined them in the kitchen, the baby carrier gripped tightly in his gloved hands. "Slippery out there," he said, carefully setting the carrier on the table and lowering the handle. Liam was still sleeping, his fleece-clad head lolled against the side of the carrier. Mulder pushed back the baby's hood and carefully unzipped his snowsuit. The baby stirred, but just barely. "I had Bill sprinkle some rock salt on the steps, but I'm afraid I didn't have enough for the entire front walk," Maggie said, removing a tray of cut-up vegetables and dip from the refrigerator. "Thanks," Fox said to Charles as he slipped off his gloves and handed them to the younger man. Charles nodded and set them on the counter in front of him. "How're you gonna get him out of there without waking him?" Charles asked Fox. Fox simply smiled, then proceeded to perform the delicate operation of separating the sleeping baby from his snowsuit and carrier. He unbuckled the straps and slipped them over the top of the carrier, then carefully began to extract the baby from his snowsuit. When he had finally loosened the garment from around Liam, he turned to Charles. "Give me a hand?" he asked. Charles nodded. "Try to slip the snowsuit off when I lift him." Charlie smiled. "This is gonna work?" he asked, and Fox nodded. Charles shrugged, but he did as instructed and they successfully separated the baby from his garments. "Bravo," came a voice from the doorway, where Dana stood, having already changed into a long sleeved t-shirt and University of Maryland Medical School sweatpants. Her hair, longer than it had been in years, was now pulled back in a ponytail and, to Maggie, she looked like a little girl again. Her little girl. Maggie remembered that first Christmas break from medical school when Dana had visited them, and she marveled that, dressed so casually and with her hair pulled away from her face, Dana looked almost the same, though over a decade had passed. A very eventful decade, Maggie thought with a glance at Fox and Liam. "You're a natural," Dana said as she moved to stand next to her brother. "Yeah," Charles scoffed. "Sure." But Dana simply smiled, and took the baby from Fox. "He's out," she said. "Let me go set him down upstairs." "And I'd better change," Fox said, following Dana out of the kitchen. Maggie watched them go, watched the way Fox's hand brushed against her daughter's back. They made quite the odd couple, Dana in her sweatpants and bare feet not quite reaching the shoulders of Fox, who still wore his suit, though he had loosened his tie. Maggie removed several mugs from the cabinet and checked on the tea and coffee she had set brewing. Almost ready. She stacked plates on the counter next to the food, then stood back to survey her work. "Looks good, Mom," Charles said, this time stealing a spear of broccoli and scooping a thick dollop of dip onto it. "Sure does," Bill said as he and Tara stepped into the kitchen. Both had changed into more casual clothes. "Matthew still sleeping?" Maggie asked. "Half," Tara said. "He woke up when I changed him into his pajamas, but he's pretty wiped out from missing his nap, so he might stay down for the rest of the night," she said. "If we're lucky." "Where's Dana?" Bill asked, glancing around the kitchen. "She and Fox went upstairs to set the baby down," Maggie said, then turned to her younger son. "He slept the whole ride home?" Charles nodded. "A child-free night," he said with a wicked grin and quick raise of his eyebrows. "Maybe things'll get interesting." Maggie turned away to check on the coffee pot, concealing her grimace at her son's statement. Interesting? She didn't know what Charlie was looking for, but things were quite interesting enough for her, thank you very much. She slipped the carafe out of the coffeemaker. "Coffee?" she asked. On Bill's nod, she poured him a cup, then filled three more mugs with tea and handed two to Tara and Charlie. "I don't know what the five of you are planning," she said with a warning glance at her younger son, "but I was going to play Santa. I've got presents to wrap and set out under the tree, and stockings to fill." "Stockings?" Charles asked, a look of mock confusion on his face. "I thought Santa filled our stockings, Mom! All this time you've lied to us?" Maggie smiled, then caught Charles by the shoulders and gave him a gentle squeeze. "Oh, you," she said. "Very funny." "Actually, we have presents to wrap, too," Tara said sheepishly. "Some sort of new security regulations with the airlines: they discourage passengers packing any wrapped gifts." "Well, then," Maggie said, hunting through the cupboard for a tray. "If we move everything into the living room, we can eat and get our wrapping done." She smiled at them as she pulled two matching trays from beneath a stack of pans in the cupboard. "That way we can get to bed early so Santa will come," she kidded. * * * * * An hour and a half later they were in the living room, scattered around the Christmas tree. Spread around them were wrapping paper rolls, scotch tape dispensers, and plates dotted with leftover cocktail sauce and dabs of onion dip. Mugs rimmed with filmy layers of coffee and tea were balanced on end tables and secreted under the leg of an armchair. An old Christmas medley record was playing on Maggie's stereo system. "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas," Bing Crosby crooned, and she had to agree with him. The grandfather clock bonged ten slow tones, almost in time with the music, and Maggie surveyed the damage. The gifts had been wrapped and tucked under the generous branches of the blue spruce Maggie had decorated three weeks ago. Despite its age, the tree was in good shape, its branches still strong and supportive of the numerous ornaments they held. Maggie slowed her gaze as it traveled over the branches, remembering the genesis of almost every one of those ornaments. Despite her children's objections, every year she insisted on decorating the tree with trinkets they had made in elementary school, glitter and felt, construction paper and magic marker. Her favorite ornament hung front and center, a picture frame made of Popsicle sticks still stained with grape and cherry and orange. The small square photo in the frame showed all four children, crushed together on the ugly green velvet couch they'd owned so many years ago. Charlie is a baby in the picture, and Melissa holds him carefully yet proudly. She is flanked by Billy and Dana, whose legs stick out at the camera. All four children sport identical smiles and matching Christmas sweaters that had taken Maggie almost eight months to knit. Maggie remembered that Christmas, one of her favorites, one of the few that Bill had not missed. He had taken that photograph, and then she had taken one of him with the children, a photo that was now sitting on the dresser in her bedroom. Maggie looked around the room warmly, luxuriating in each person sitting around the tree. Charlie was sprawled on the couch, making an intricately woven chain with scraps of wrapping paper. Bill and Tara each sat against an armchair, Tara writing out nametags for their packages and Bill collecting pieces of wrapping paper and discarded paper napkins in a shopping bag. Dana and Fox were leaning against the couch, Dana's legs and Fox's almost touching. But not quite, Maggie noted with a grin, remembering her daughter's embarrassment when Fox had kissed her beneath the mistletoe earlier that day. All six of them were quiet, full and speculative. They had been eyeing each other's wrapped and half-wrapped gifts all night, trying to guess what each had bought the others. Maggie knew this Christmas was complicated, their first all together after Bill's and Missy's deaths, Charles home for the first time in so long, Dana with a sudden family. Maggie herself had struggled for weeks trying to come up with a gift idea for each of them. Matthew and Liam were easy: toys, clothes, books, games. She had overbought for them, she knew, but she figured it was her prerogative as their grandmother. Besides, she thought with a sad realization, she was Liam's only grandparent; it was up to her to make sure that baby was aptly spoiled. It had taken her until Sunday to finally decide and finish buying their gifts. Charles she had been done with for weeks. He had unknowingly inspired her when he said that he had found a yoga class he wanted to take at the University but couldn't because it, combined with his art class, was too expensive. So she'd contacted the University registrar and prepaid the class credits for him. A member of the accounting department had even made up a certificate for her, and it, wrapped up with a yoga mat, made for an interestingly shaped package. Fox and Dana had been a challenge. Originally she had planned to buy them each something; after all, just because they were together, that didn't mean that they had a single interest, a single mind. But then she had puzzled over what to buy Fox; she wasn't sure she knew him well enough to choose an apt gift. And, surprisingly, she couldn't figure out what to get Dana, either. So she had relented and bought them a joint gift, a voucher for a weekend at a tiny bed and breakfast in Virginia. She remembered receiving a similar gift from Bill's parents the first Christmas after Billy was born, when she was feeling abandoned and rundown and frustrated. They had had to save the trip for Bill's next leave, but it had been worth the wait. Maggie felt a flush creep up her neck as she remembered the weekend they had spent in Vermont, the weekend they had conceived Melissa... Maggie looked down, looked away, and picked a fuzz-dulled scrap of tape out of the carpet. Then there had been Bill and Tara. She had decided early what to get them. Each time they visited her, they raved about the fresh seafood that was available in Maryland. So Maggie had investigated a bit and found a seafood place that would ship cross-country, and she had ordered seafood to be delivered monthly to them in San Diego. However, after their announcement of Bill's transfer, Maggie had reconsidered. When they all went to the mall on Sunday she and Matthew had gone to the same travel agency where she'd purchased the weekend voucher for Dana and Fox, and she had bought one for Bill and Tara. They could use it after they moved back East, she thought, to get away for a weekend either before or after the baby was born. And, in each of Tara and Bill's and Dana and Fox's gifts she had included a short note volunteering to babysit for the weekend. As long as both couples didn't choose the same weekend to use the vouchers. Like that would happen, Maggie thought, stifling a laugh. She imagined each couple preparing for a weekend getaway, only to discover the other there. Bill's face would be overtaken by the scowl that, it seemed, had become omnipresent whenever Fox was in the vicinity. Dana would grow quiet, her countenance stern, and she would say nothing to Bill's face but later suggest to Fox that they return another weekend. Tara would laugh at the coincidence, try to make a joke to cover up everyone's obvious dissatisfaction. And Fox... Maggie couldn't predict what Fox's reaction would be. But that was about par where her daughter's partner was concerned. Over the years she had known Fox, she had often felt displaced and confused in his presence, not knowing whether he was going to cuddle up next to her on the couch like an overgrown puppy, or retreat to the basement like an old hound who was grateful he hadn't been sent out to the doghouse. Maggie glanced at Fox, who had rolled his foot over and was poking Dana's gently with his toes. Such a complicated man, she thought, and was filled with a strange new respect for her daughter when she thought of her and Fox together. Maggie had always known that Dana was special -- complicated, yes, and often difficult -- but at times so loving and passionate. For years she had wondered about her baby girl, wondered what kind of man she would choose to love, worrying that she wouldn't be able to find anyone up to the task that was Dana Scully. And Fox Mulder was no picnic either, Maggie admitted. He was at least as complicated and difficult as Dana. But, in a strange way she couldn't explain and would never have predicted, they fit together. Maggie hoped that she wasn't the only one who could see this. Glancing back at Bill, she had the feeling that she was not. Bill stared at his sister and Fox with a steady eye, his focus on the gentle play between their feet. She guessed that Bill also knew that Dana and Fox fit together, though his realization was not manifested in happiness or even tolerance, but in anger. Maggie knew that Bill didn't approve of Fox Mulder. None of her children had ever had an easy time keeping a secret from her, despite distance and their best efforts. And Bill had never been shy about his feelings for Dana's partner, expressing them through thinly veiled worry when Dana was sick with cancer, then distracted frustration when Dana called Fox to join her in San Diego four Christmases ago. The staticky record switched over to a new track. "Silent night, holy night," Julie Andrews sang innocently. "All is calm, all is bright. Round yon virgin mother and child. Holy infant, so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace." Heavenly peace. Maggie sighed, wondering what that was. Certainly it was nothing the Scully family had had in a very long time, especially between Bill and Dana. Things there certainly hadn't improved since Dana had become pregnant. If anything, Maggie thought, they had worsened. Bill had visited Washington exactly once during Dana's pregnancy, having just enough time to stop by her apartment for dinner with his sister and mother. Luckily, though, Maggie had intercepted him before he could lay into Dana with his condescending concerns and accusatorial advice. She and Bill had had words, and Maggie had tried to impress upon her son her happiness for Dana. Sure, she admitted that Dana's situation wasn't ideal, but Maggie knew that her daughter wanted this baby so badly, already loved him so thoroughly. She had thought, perhaps naively so, that she could make Bill understand this. The timing was right; though he hadn't had dinner with them, Fox had returned. Bill could afford to be generous, Maggie had thought. At the time she had believed that she might have made a small inroad into Bill's anger; at least she had convinced him that Dana had enough going on that she needn't be bothered with her brother's disapproval. But it wasn't long before Maggie realized that Bill hadn't changed his opinions of Dana's life choices, just sublimated them. That in itself was a minor miracle, as Bill was not known for his discretion. Months later, when she told him that Fox had moved in with Dana and the baby, Bill had been strangely quiet, filling his end of the conversation with mmm-hmms and yeses before handing Tara the phone. Maggie sighed and glanced back over at Bill. He had shifted his gaze to Charlie, she noticed, and Bill was squinting at his brother, his head cocked to the side. Bill looked over at Dana, then back to Charlie. He opened his mouth, and Maggie braced herself. "Charles?" Bill said. Charles looked up from his wrapping paper chain. "Yeah?" "Charles, is that... Do you have the same cross as Dana?" he asked. Maggie noticed the gold chain around Charles's neck, then a necklace around Dana's, though, from this distance, she couldn't make out the charm on either. "I don't know," Charlie said, holding the necklace away from his throat and turning to Dana. She did the same, revealing an identical gold cross. Suddenly Maggie recognized the crosses, and her heart sank as she anticipated Bill's reaction. "Yeah," Charlie said as he leaned over the side of the couch to inspect his sister's necklace. "I guess so." "That's a strange coincidence," Bill said evenly. "Don't you think?" The room was quiet for a minute, and Charles and Dana glanced at each other uncertainly. Finally Charles spoke up. "It's not a coincidence, Bill," he said. "This was Melissa's necklace." Bill's face grew tight and reddened slightly, though Maggie couldn't tell whether it was from embarrassment or anger. He glanced back and forth from Dana to Charles. "Melissa's?" Dana nodded. "You remember, Bill," she said. "Mom gave Missy and me these necklaces for Christmas one year." Bill nodded once. "And Melissa gave hers to you?" he asked Charles, who shook his head but said nothing. Maggie stepped in. "I gave it to him," she admitted. "Dana and I went through Missy's things after she died. We each chose a few things to keep and a few to send to the two of you. I thought Charles might want Melissa's necklace." Actually, Maggie remembered, she had sent Charles more than a few of Melissa's things. Maggie loved all of her children, but she recognized the special relationship between Melissa and Charles. She had sent Bill a small box of Melissa's things, mostly books and an album of childhood pictures. But to Charles she had sent several boxes containing jewelry and clothing, as well as crystals, dreamcatchers, and other such items Maggie and Dana had decided Charles would better appreciate. Bill glanced over at her, and Maggie nearly withered from the intensity of his gaze. "Did you want her cross, Bill?" she asked, uncertain as to why Bill was so bothered; he had never gotten along well with Melissa. Maggie blamed herself, mostly. She had always lumped them together, Billy and Missy, her near-twins. She had dressed them in coordinated outfits, hoping in some way to bring them together, trying to give them the closeness she had had with her own sisters. Bill shook his head in response to her question. "No," he said. "I just didn't realize you'd given it to Charles." Maggie nodded, hoping to settle the matter, hoping Bill wouldn't turn this into an issue, as he so often did. He read into things, and would certainly read something into this. She could almost hear him ask, What about me? But Bill said nothing. Tara stroked his hand gently, and Maggie gripped the bag of wrapped stocking stuffers as she stood. "Well," she said with a sigh. "It's getting late and I'm not as young as the rest of you. So if you all will head into the family room, maybe Santa will stop by and fill your stockings." "Oh, Mom," Charlie said, "we're not kids anymore. You can fill the stocking with us sitting here. We don't mind." "Well, maybe I do," Maggie said, shooing Charlie towards the family room. "Come on, Charlie," Dana said as she rose to her feet. "Let's get lost so 'Santa' can do *his* work." She smiled at Maggie before stooping to collect the dirty dishes on a tray. Tara and Mulder helped her, while Charles and Bill gathered the scraps of wrapping paper. They rescued the bottles of beer Charlie had retrieved from the refrigerator and the plate of cookies Tara had brought out. "Good night," Maggie called behind them as she watched her family filter slowly out of the room. First she went to the tiny drawer on one of the end tables, unearthing the Baby Jesus, which she gently placed in the manger. Maggie smiled tenderly as she set the figurine between Mary and Joseph, filling the crèche, signaling Christmas. Then she dragged her bag of presents over to the fireplace. She removed seven smaller sacks from the heavy garbage bag, and went about filling each of the stockings. The needle of the record player lifted and dropped onto the last track. Maggie knew this, knew this final track from almost wearing it out over the past several Christmases. It made her cry -- it had always made her cry -- but especially so since Bill's death. Since the words to the song started to mean something to her. "Greeting cards have all been sent," Karen Carpenter began, and already Maggie could feel the tears spring to her eyes. "The Christmas rush is through. But I still have one wish to make. A special one for you." Maggie sang softly along with the poignant melody, her mellow tones blending easily with those issuing from the speakers of her battered old stereo. "Merry Christmas, Darling. We're apart, that's true. But I can dream and in my dreams, I'm Christmasing with you. Holidays are joyful, There's always something new. But every day's a holiday, When I'm near to you. The lights on my tree, I wish you could see, I wish it every day. Logs on the fire Fill me with desire, To see you and to say, That I wish you Merry Christmas. Happy New Year, too. I've just one wish on this Christmas Eve. I wish I were with you." * * * * * BILL "I still can't get over that earring, Charles," Bill said as they settled down in the family room. He stared at his brother's earlobe, forcing his attention away from that cross around his neck. Trust their mother to give Melissa's cross to Charles, he thought. Charles, who didn't even take Communion... Charles smiled and fingered the small silver hoop in his left earlobe. "Thinking about getting one yourself, Billy?" he asked, then took a swig from the beer bottle he cradled between his knees. No way in hell, Bill thought, but he just shook head and reached for the plate of Christmas cookies. "Hey, you never saw my tattoo, either," Charlie said with a sly smile. "Why am I not surprised that you have a tattoo?" Bill said flatly, chomping off the head of a gingerbread man. "I thought all Navy men had tattoos. Isn't that some kind of initiation when you cross the Equator?" Charlie rolled the beer bottle between his flat palms, a teasing smile stretching over his face. "No," Bill said. "It's not." Tara smiled. "Come on, Bill. You know as well as I do that lots of Navy men have tattoos." She sipped from the mug of hot chocolate cradled gently in her hands. Bill turned to her, a poorly faked scowl plastered on his face. "And just how do you know about other Navy men's tattoos?" he asked, and she just laughed. "It's nothing insidious, Bill," Charles insisted, setting down his beer. "You don't need to show us, Charles," Bill said, holding out his hand to stop his brother. But Charles's pant leg was already rolled up to his calf, and he tugged off his sock to bear his ankle. Then he stuck out his foot, revealing a small circle filled with brightly colored shapes. "What is it, Charles?" Dana asked as they all leaned in. "It's a Charles Scully original," he said proudly. "I designed it myself." "An earring. A tattoo," Bill lamented. "What would Dad say, Charles?" He shook his head. Sometimes he just didn't know about his brother. "Can you believe this, Dana?" Bill turned to face his sister just in time to see her exchange a glance with Mulder. Dana's mouth was upturned in a knowing smile, and Mulder was biting the edge of his lip, trying not to grin back at her, trying not to draw the rest of the family's attention to them. "What is it?" Bill asked, and they turned to face him like children caught snooping for their Christmas presents. "Nothing," Dana said, unable to disguise her grin. She took a swig from her beer and tried to look innocent. "What?" he demanded. "Dana?" Charlie asked with a wicked grin. "Don't tell me...?" "Dana! *You* have a tattoo?" Tara asked, eyes wide. Bill narrowed his eyes, waiting for his sister to correct them, to say that, no, it was Mulder who had the tattoo. Probably an alien cult symbol or something. Bill wouldn't be surprised. But Dana said nothing, just looked at Mulder, and then her face crinkled into a reluctant smile. She brought her hand up to the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, then nodded. "Awwright!" Charles said. "My sister, the rebel. Where is it?" But Dana only shook his head, and Mulder rubbed her back sympathetically, affectionately. "Come on, Dane," Charles said. "Let's see." "Yeah, Dana," Tara urged, and Bill turned to look at her with disgust. He really had no interest in seeing Dana's tattoo, didn't even want to know where it was. It was bad enough to know that she had one, and to know that Mister Special Agent had seen it. Of course he's seen it, Bill reminded himself, taking a long pull from his beer. Idiot, he thought, and didn't know whether he meant Mulder or himself. "Unless it's somewhere you'd rather not show us," Tara said quickly. Dana shook her head. "No, it's okay," she said with a roll of her eyes and a shy half-smile. She glanced again at Mulder, who was still grinning. Not grinning, Bill corrected, leering. "Fine," she said finally, standing. Bill didn't want to look, didn't want to know. But Tara and Charles were watching Dana with wide eyes as she handed her beer to Mulder, then stood, turned her back to them, and pulled her shirt from the waistband of her sweatpants. She lifted it, baring her lower back. Just above her waistband, which was rolled low on her hips, in the small of her back, was a faded, multicolored circle. Upon closer inspection, Bill saw that the circle was really a snake, a snake with the tip of its tail in its mouth. "It's awfully light," Charles said, scooting off the couch to get a closer look. He knelt behind his sister and examined the circle on her back. "Are you getting it removed?" "I was," she admitted, "before I got pregnant." "Wow, Dana," Tara marveled, and Bill couldn't help feeling a little annoyed with his wife's girl-like fascination towards his sister's tattoo. It was just a tattoo, for God's sake, some ink on her skin. He knew a dozen men with them. What was the big deal? "But what does it mean?" Tara asked. "It's an ouroboros," Dana said. "Greek for tail biter," Mulder explained upon the confused looks on their faces. He took a long drink from Dana's beer bottle. "It's an old alchemists' symbol," Dana continued, "a symbol of death and rebirth. The snake has no beginning and no end, just endlessly devours and renews itself." Tara and Charles nodded, as if they understood Dana's cryptic response, which, to Bill, explained nothing. What was that supposed to mean, a snake that eats its own tail? Seemed awfully self-destructive to Bill, some kind of strange masochistic torture. "I'm gonna go upstairs and check on Matthew," Bill said, rising from the couch just as Dana dropped her shirt over her tattoo and sat back down. He spun on his heel and headed out of the room before anyone could say a word. Bill knew that Matthew didn't need checking on, but he had to get out of there. It was him against the family, and Bill couldn't figure out when that had happened. When had he become the villain, the outsider? Taking the stairs two at a time, he remembered back to when his father had been at the helm of the family, keeping them all sailing straight. Bill couldn't figure out how his father had done it, how he had kept the family on a proper course *and* maintained their respect. Several years ago, when Bill finished up at the Naval Academy, Captain Scully had sat his son down. First he told the young man how proud he was of him, how excited he was about his son's sterling future. Then his tone turned sad, and William Scully, Senior, told his son that one day he would be called upon to take care of the family. Of course, he said to Billy, it wouldn't be anytime soon; he didn't need to worry about that. But someday, his father assured him, someday it would be his turn. His responsibility. Despite his years of substitute-fathering his siblings, young Bill Scully hadn't understood the weight of it all until his father died, just a few short years later, of an unexpected heart attack. Suddenly the burden of the Scully clan was his for good and forever, and Bill Scully's worries and fears multiplied overnight. There was Melissa, who hadn't even showed up for her own father's funeral; Melissa, who had been missing from the family for the past several years after what seemed to Bill to be a petty disagreement with their father. There was also Dana, who had forsaken medicine, a sensible career she had trained for for years, to join the FBI, to hunt little green men with some crackpot who believed that aliens had kidnapped his sister. And then there was Charles: Charles, who had never fit into his father's rigid worldviews; Charles, who had rebelled from the life of a Navy man ever since he was old enough to wave good-bye as his father's ship left port. Bill was confused, feeling as though he had lost his anchor. How could he manage this ragtag clan? First he made some decisions in his own life. He and Tara had been dating at the time, and he soon proposed to her, certain that she was the woman he wanted at his side for the rest of his life. He saw Dana, Melissa, and Charles at his wedding but then not again for months, maybe years. Despite this, Bill's life was on track, his career and his marriage both thriving. But his relationship with his siblings was withering. The next time he saw Melissa was at her funeral, where he thought the weight of his guilt would push him into the grave along with her. He had failed his family, failed his father. He hadn't taken care of them as he'd promised: Melissa was dead; Dana was cavorting around the country, trailing slime men and other crazies; and Charles was MIA. Bill skipped the creaky top stair and paused at the guest bedroom where he, Tara, and Matthew were staying. He pushed the door open softly, not wanting to wake his sleeping son. He walked carefully over to Matthew's cot, pausing to gather the sheet and quilt scattered on the floor. Gently he recovered Matthew, laying his stuffed shark next to him. Matthew promptly pulled the shark into a death grip under his arm. Bill smiled, pressed a soft kiss on the top of his son's head, and left the bedroom. He headed toward the stairs, but paused when he passed the door to the study, the room Dana, Mulder, and Liam had taken over from Charles for the night. Again Bill paused at the closed door, this time trying to decide whether or not to enter. Finally he pushed the door open. The room smelled faintly, a combination of peppermint; a light, citrus-scented lotion; and aftershave... the same brand of aftershave that Bill himself used. The room had been designed to be a bedroom and, as such, a closet sat to Bill's left. The closet door was open, and four pairs of shoes were lined in a neat row on the floor: men's dress shoes and running shoes, a small pair of women's black leather boots, and a pair of high heels. A suit and dress hung there together, their sleeves intertwined. Along the wall were a desk and several tall bookshelves. The room was half-filled by the couch that had been converted into a neatly made bed. There was an end table next to the couch-bed, and Bill paused to consider the contents of its half-opened drawer: a glasses case, a plastic tub of lotion, a flashlight. Bill turned away and stepped lightly over to the crib that was set up against the far wall. It was old, and he recognized it from his childhood. It was where Dana and Charlie had slept, he remembered, and probably where he and Missy had slept as well, though he couldn't recall that far back. He leaned over the crib to see his nephew sleeping soundly. Liam was lying on his stomach, his knees tucked beneath him and his rear end in the air. Bill smiled. As a baby and toddler, Matthew had slept in that same position. No matter how they laid him down, once he got old enough to turn himself over he would end up in that position, his face smashed into the mattress or against his stuffed shark. Liam's red-gold hair shone in the wedge of light from the hallway. His tiny fingers were curled into fists next to his ears, clutching the white crib sheets. Carefully, not wanting to wake him, Bill laid his hand on the baby's back, feeling the soft, soft cotton of his Christmas print pajamas, and the rise and fall of his back as he breathed. Bill choked back a cough and tore his hand away. Matthew was almost four, and Bill had almost forgotten how tiny babies were, how utterly helpless and hopeful. How new. Liam was already seven months old, but still... His skin was so pale, untouched by the sun, with a smattering of freckles, like Dana's. Dana. Bill thought back to the scene downstairs, to the fading circle of a snake on his sister's back; to Mulder's shrug when Dana turned to him, uncertain and questioning; to Mulder's gentle rub of Dana's back and his sip from her beer. The thought struck Bill suddenly and for the first time that maybe he didn't really know his sister after all. For years he had slept in the same house as her, just one wall separating them, but now it seemed that there was so much more between them than the miles from San Diego to Washington, miles that in a few short months would shrink drastically when he was transferred to Norfolk. Bill loved her. Of course he loved her; she was his sister. But, standing there watching his nephew sleep, Bill wondered how he loved her. He was bound to her through their shared past as well as their shared genes and their shared mother. But everything else between them had somehow vanished, disintegrated. His love felt hollow and inadequate: he loved her for being his sister, but could he love her for being Dana; for, he thought cautiously, being Scully? Certainly not, Bill realized. He barely knew Dana, and wondered if he had ever even met Scully. It saddened him, but, before his shame could squelch the feeling, it also angered him. His sister had been sucked into this crazy life by that sorry son of a bitch. The birth of this baby had all but guaranteed that. Bill was certain that Dana would not be able to fight past Mulder and emerge out the other end. And he knew that she would not let her brother save her. Just then Bill heard a creak on the floor behind him and spun around. Standing there was Mulder, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. Embarrassed, Bill felt a scowl overtake his face; he couldn't help it. Mulder nodded at the baby monitor sitting on the nightstand, and for the first time Bill noticed that the green indicator light was shining brightly. "We heard something. We thought it was Liam," Mulder explained. Bill shook his head. "He's fine," he mumbled before pushing past Mulder and into the hall. * * * * * DANA Scully settled into bed not long after. She watched as Mulder checked on Liam, who was still sleeping soundly, peacefully, then slipped into bed beside her. She scooted against him, needing to feel him close to her. The distance of the day had gotten to her, Mulder's leaving that afternoon and Bill's reaction, Bill's disappearance upstairs after she showed them her tattoo. Not that the decision to show them had been made lightly. She had regretted it almost as soon as she had admitted its existence, then again as she stood and turned around, her back to them. But somehow it had felt necessary. This is all of me, she thought as Charles peered curiously at her tattoo and Bill tried to pretend he wasn't doing the same. Her brothers knew so many things about her past, about her successes and her mistakes. But they knew so little about her life now. This is another part of me, she thought as she lifted the hem of her shirt. This is me. It was, she realized now, a test. The same sort of test she and Mulder had been springing on each other, though less and less frequently, ever since he had moved in. This is me, she thought as she woke up beside him, bleary-eyed and sleep-crusted; as she scrubbed the dishes clean before loading them in the dishwasher; as she slowly undid the buttons of her sweater, unhooked her bra. You knew part of me, but this is all of me. Are you still there? Can you still love me? Mulder pulled her to him, fitting his arms around her and slipping his knees around hers. She settled her body into his, and they kissed softly, Mulder fingering her hair, until Scully pulled away, sensing that something was not right with Mulder. "Are you okay?" Mulder nodded. "Just thinking," he said. "About what?" "About your brother, actually." Scully molded her face into a look of annoyance. "You think about my brother when you kiss me?" He smiled. "Sorry," he said, "but he's just so damn irresistible." Scully laughed. "Bill?" she asked, and Mulder nodded. "What about him?" Mulder shrugged, then reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "When I came up to check on Liam, after we heard noises on the baby monitor, Bill was up here. I'm sure you all heard it through the monitor." Scully nodded. "He was just standing there, watching Liam sleep." Again, Scully nodded, this time slowly and almost painfully, and closed her eyes. Once more Mulder reached out to touch her, this time sliding his hand gently over her cheek. She opened her eyes. "Two days," she said softly. "It's been two days, Mulder, and he hasn't as much as touched Liam." "I know." Mulder pulled her body against his, holding her. "And I can't help feeling that I'm responsible for that," he said softly. "You?" "Mmm hmm," he said. "Bill doesn't hate you; he hates me. I'm the reason he's doing his best to ignore Liam's existence. Maybe I should've gone home instead of sleeping here tonight. Maybe it would've been easier for Bill to accept if it were just--" Scully stopped him with a quick hand on his chest. "Stop right there," she said, tipping his head down to meet her gaze. "There is no choice between you and my brother. None." He nodded against her finger. "You being in my life only adds fuel to Bill's fire; he was this way long before he ever met you." Mulder nodded again, and this time Scully was convinced. She trailed her hand off his chin and down his neck, bringing it to rest at his waist. "I keep telling myself that in three days he'll be flying back to California, and we'll be back at home," Mulder said with a sigh. "Just three days." "But that won't be the end of it," Scully insisted, pulling away so that she could look Mulder straight in the eye. "In a few months he'll be back on the East coast. What then?" "I don't know," Mulder admitted. "But Norfolk is a three-hour drive from DC. It isn't like he'll be just around the corner. I doubt we'll start up a weekly card game and get together for a beer after work on Friday nights." Scully smiled, the image of her brother and Mulder socializing, on purpose, was simply unfathomable to her. "Still, I'm sure we'll see him more often. I know Mom'll be overjoyed that two of us are so close by. I wouldn't be surprised if she set up a monthly Sunday dinner and expected us to join her." Through their legs, which were still entwined, Scully could feel Mulder stiffen. "Oh," he said. "Yeah," she said. "This is fine once or twice a year; I don't always like it, but I can deal with it. But I don't think I can do this every month. And I certainly won't subject Liam--" "I understand," Mulder said. "And I can't believe I'm about to say this, but Bill *is* Liam's uncle. He's your family. Maybe he'll come around; maybe he won't. But I don't know if it would be worse to stay away and never let Liam get to know his uncle -- or his aunt and cousins -- or to let him know Bill and possibly be hurt by him." Possibly? Scully wanted to ask, but said only, "It's unrealistic, I know. And I don't expect him to embrace us with open arms, but I wanted... I guess I wanted him not to hate you simply because I love you. I wanted him to love you as much as I do." "Now that would be more than a little odd," Mulder said, and Scully smiled. Mulder grinned back at her. Mission accomplished, she thought. "Seriously, Scully, I don't know what to say about Bill," he admitted. "I barely know the guy. But," he said, "I don't think there's anything we can do about it." Scully nodded. "I know," she said. "I do know that. It's his problem if he wants to act like an ass; I'm used to it," she said, "and I think you're getting used to it, too." He nodded. "But how is Liam going to understand that his uncle doesn't love him?" This time Mulder had no response, but Scully hadn't expected one. She simply allowed him to wind his arms around her and gently rub up and down her arm. There was nothing he could do about it, she thought, and nothing she could do about it. This time it was all up to Bill. * * * * * The clock read 2:14 when Scully awoke later that night. She turned in bed, clutching the too-small quilt over her chest. But the blanket caught on something, and, after slipping out from under Mulder's heavy arm, she propped herself up in bed, frustrated at, once again, having to steal back the covers from him. But when she was upright Scully saw that Mulder was covered little more than she was. She reached down around their feet, fishing for the sheet, then covered them with it, but it wasn't enough. Sighing, Scully got out of bed and grabbed her robe from where it hung on the corner of the crib. After a quick check to make sure that Liam was adequately covered and still sleeping, she padded over to the bedroom door. She opened it carefully, glancing back to the bed to make sure Mulder was still asleep, then slipped into the hall and down the stairs. Scully noticed a light on in the kitchen as she made her way slowly, sleepily, downstairs. Suddenly her heart was pounding in her chest, and she was instantly awake, one-hundred percent awake. Careful to stay in the darkness, she crept through the living room and towards the kitchen, towards the light. She felt suddenly naked, the small of her back empty without her Sig Sauer. Her eyes darted around the room in search of a weapon... until she heard it. "Damn," the voice said. Then again, "Damn," this time accompanied by pounding footsteps and a sort of bouncy plastic sound. "Charles," Scully said, finally stepping into the light of the kitchen. He turned suddenly, his eyes wide with fear as he faced the intruder. Then, recognizing her, he visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumping and his head falling back and to the side. He closed his eyes and sighed. "Sorry, Dana. I didn't mean to wake you." "You didn't wake me," she said, leaning back against the counter. "I was coming downstairs to get a blanket from the linen closet." Scully surveyed the room as if it were a crime scene, from the empty plastic cup lying beneath one of the chairs that were scattered around the table; to the tabletop, which was littered with pads of drawing paper, half-chewed pencils, and a box of multicolored bits of charcoal; to the stack of books piled on the chair next to Charles. "I guess you're wondering what I'm doing down here, huh?" he said, finally opening his eyes, revealing a sadness so deep it frightened her. She gripped the edge of the counter with her fingertips, then nodded. "I don't know, Dane," he said, sinking into a chair. He swiped his hand across the table, sending a box of pencils clattering to the floor. Several rolled out of the box and disappeared under the refrigerator, and sheets of paper floated slowly to the floor. Scully pulled a chair up next to her brother and sat down. "I don't know what I'm doing. I couldn't sleep so I came downstairs to get some tea." He gestured to the teapot on the stove and the mug on the counter next to it. "But I... I couldn't find where Mom keeps the teabags, so I just ended up boiling water. And then I saw how beautiful it looks outside, with the snow and ice on the tree branches..." He gazed longingly out the window, then slipped his fists under his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Scully looked, too, but could only see her own reflection staring back at her, her disheveled hair shining and her skin glowing white against the dark face of the glass. She looked back at Charles. "But nothing was right," he said softly, pausing to sweep another stack of papers on the floor. "Goddamn nothing was right." He slammed his fist onto the table, his thumb poking out of a hole worn through the cuff of his shirt. "Charles," Scully began. "Don't," he said. "I know what you're gonna say: Calm down, Charles. Don't get all worked up, Charles. Go back to bed and it'll look better in the morning, Charles." He narrowed his eyes at her, challenging her. "That's not what I was going to say," Scully told him. In fact, she didn't know what she was going to say, so she just sat there, silent. Charles dropped his head onto his hands, then ran his fingers through his hair. Scully stood and went into the cabinets, then pulled out two teabags from a Tupperware container. She took another mug from the cupboard and dropped a teabag into each one. She poured a stream of steaming water into each cup, then grabbed two spoons from the drawer and sat back in her chair, setting the mugs on the table in front of herself and her brother. "Thanks," Charlie said, then wound the string of the teabag around his finger and dipped it, up and down, into the hot water. "I'm beginning to think," Charles said, then paused. "I'm beginning to think that it was a mistake to come." "No, Charlie." "I think it was," he said. "Bill doesn't want me here. He--" "He does," Scully insisted. "You know how he can get. He's just so stubborn. It's like we're all kids again, like we're playing a game and he's the only one with the rules. You know how he gets, Charlie." "Still..." "Still," Scully insisted. "Mom and I--" "I know you and Mom want me here, Dana. I know that," he told her. "But maybe it's better when we're all in our separate corners of the country: me in Seattle, Bill in San Diego, you and Mom here in DC." Scully shook her head. "Charlie, don't say that," she said, not letting herself think about Bill moving back East. "Forget about Bill; you have two nephews who don't know you. Look at Matthew," she urged. "He's almost four years old and you're meeting him for the first time." They sat there in silence, sipping their tea, the steam rising and flushing their pale faces. Suddenly Charlie looked up, his gaze intense and his pupils large and dark in the dimly lit kitchen. "Liam's beautiful, Dane," he said. "And I can tell that you're a good mother, and you've got Mulder now, and you and Mom are both living your lives..." "But," Scully supplied. But Charlie didn't continue. "I just can't get over her," he said finally. "Her?" "Melissa," he said, exhaling, as if he were letting her out, turning her free to race about the kitchen. Scully reached over and laid her hand on her brother's. His was large and its bones prominent, and she felt strangely inadequate to comfort him. "She was the only one who ever understood," Charles continued. "Why I didn't get along with Dad, why I needed to go away... I know you and Mom try, Dana, but--" You're wrong, Charles, Scully thought. She wasn't the only one who understood the chasm between you and Dad. For a long time that had been true, but not anymore. Scully, too, had come to know both sides of their father, the loving warmth when you had pleased him, and the cool, almost indifferent, separateness of having disappointed him. I understand, too, Scully thought, though I can't fathom how it had been for you, growing up on the wrong side of the Captain Scully. But all Scully said was, "Missy understood. I know. Sometimes she knew things even before I told her. She had this connection." Charles nodded. "A nexus," he agreed, his hand reaching out to touch the hollow of Scully's clavicle, and he fingered the tiny cross necklace that lay there, warm from her skin. She smiled, watching as Charles's inherited cross flickered in the light of the kitchen. "And I'm mostly okay when I'm at home in my apartment, going to work during the day and painting at night," he told her, pulling his hand back from her necklace. "But then, seeing all of you again and not seeing her... It's the first time we've all been together without her." "I know," Scully said, looking again at her reflection in the window. If she unfocused her eyes she could pretend that it was Melissa sitting there at the kitchen table with Charles instead of her: Melissa whose red hair was disheveled and whose skin bore shadowy wells under her eyes from nights awake with a baby; Melissa who was living a life she had not very long ago considered a dream, instead of lying eight feet under the ground because of a gunman who'd mistaken her for her sister. "Sometimes when I look in the mirror I can see her," he admitted in a strangled voice. "Her eyes look back at me instead of mine." Charles coughed, then took a sip of tea. "Those are the good days." A shiver went down Scully's spine. She hadn't had any visions of Melissa since her death, though she had had several dreams of her, and, of course, had had those strange phone calls four Christmases ago in San Diego, leading her to Emily. But Scully knew what Charles meant; she had had visions of their father after his death. The first was the most terrifying, awaking on the couch to see him sitting across the room and speaking to her without sound, before she even knew he was dead. But there were others, months, even years, later. He haunted her still. Scully decided to change the subject. "Charlie, to tell you the truth, Bill and I aren't on the best terms, either," Scully said. "So I can't speak for him. But I do know that Mom and I are glad you're here. We miss you." Charles looked up at his sister. "Bill's mad at you, too?" he asked, his eyes wide and almost hopeful. Scully nodded. "He doesn't approve," she said. "Approve?" "Surely you've noticed," she choked out. "He's like Dad; he didn't agree with my decision to leave medicine for the FBI. When I was sick--" Scully stopped when her brother's hand covered hers. "Dane, I'm so sorry about that," he said, locking his gaze with hers. "I wish I could've been here then. Mom called me and told me. But it was just too much. I couldn't-- I couldn't do it. Especially not with Bill there." "I know," Scully said. "It's okay. I probably wouldn't have been very welcoming, anyway," she admitted. "I was angry with Bill for coming, for interfering. And he got all pissy when I decided to try a controversial treatment that he didn't agree with." "But it worked?" Charles asked. "It worked, right? You're okay?" Scully nodded. "My cancer's in remission. The treatment seems to have done the trick. And," she added, dropping her voice, "my pregnancy didn't affect it." "Your pregnancy?" Charles asked. "What do you mean?" Scully looked away, choosing her words carefully. "It's not always... recommended for cancer patients to get pregnant," she admitted. "Even if they're in remission. It's the changing hormone levels. Sometimes, if there are a few rogue cancer cells still lurking somewhere, a shift in hormone levels can trigger tumor growth. The risk wasn't as great for my type of cancer as it is for, say, breast cancer, but it can happen." "And you knew that? Before?" Scully nodded. "My doctor said it looked good," she said. She didn't want to go into detail about the controversial treatment Bill had disapproved of, but she was certain it was the chip in her neck that had cured her. And she had felt secure enough that the chip had completely rid her body of cancer, and that it would keep any further tumor growth at bay. "The risk was worth taking," she said aloud, remembering Liam asleep peacefully in the crib upstairs. "See," Charlie said, hanging his head. "That's what I mean. You're so brave, so strong. So much has happened -- and for you Melissa's the least of it -- but you keep going. You've got this life," he paused, and it dawned on Scully that she did have 'this life,' the life -- or some strange semblance of the life -- that she had been pining for when chance conspired to reunite her with Daniel Waterston a year and a half ago. "I envy you, Dana," Charlie admitted. "I just wish..." He stopped and swiped his hand over his eyes, drying the tears that had spilled onto his cheeks with his shirt cuff. "I just wish I didn't have to feel it all so much, that it would all go away and I could live like a goddamn normal person." "Charlie," Scully said with a sigh, and her brother leaned out of his chair and over to her. She put her arms around him and held him, patted his head. She felt almost as though she were comforting her crying son, but Charles shifted against her, bent his body to lean his head on her shoulder, and she was reminded that her brother was no baby. * * * * *