Title: It's A Wonderful Life 2--A Christmas Carol

Author: RocketMan >lebontrager@iname.com<
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to CC, 1013, and Fox. No fringe is 
intended. The book "A Christmas Carol" is by Charles Dickens but this is 
sort of based on all the movies I've seen, especially the Muppet 
version--it's the best.
Notes: This is the second piece to "It's A Wonderful Life", which was about 
Mulder, and this is about Scully. It follows-up that one very closely, so
that one definitely has to be read first.

=-=-=-=
A Christmas Carol
=-=-=-=

Part One

=-=-=-=
Thanksgiving night
Margaret Scully's house
=-=-=-=

Dana Scully watched Mulder become something else before her eyes, something 
she wasn't sure she could find herself in. He smoothed her hair back, his 
eyes a soft shade of brown and grey, his lips formed to say more, but he 
remained silent.

She backed away, and he followed her, capturing her against the side of the 
bed, pulling her almost close enough to touch, but leaving their bodies 
hauntingly apart. He leaned forward, his nose raking the air around her 
lips, just lightly brushing her neck; his eyelashes feathering her cheeks.

She couldn't breathe and she couldn't move. He was doing nothing but invade 
her space and she was already aroused, already weak.

"The dream was so real. . ." he whispered again, and his lips managed to 
murmur along her ear.

"Mul. . .Mulder, you should get some sleep."

Scully had to close her eyes to break the spell, but even that didn't remove 
her from his enchanting touch completely. Not so much his touch, but the 
feel of his presence. The feel of him surrounding her like an aura. She 
breathed in and he was there.

And then it was gone.

She blinked, saw that he was halfway across the room already, his back 
turned to her, his shoulders shaking, heaving with the memories of his 
dream. He had woken up thinking everything would be put right again, that he 
would have back his family, only there was no such thing as his family, and 
nothing was right.

"Mulder?"

He turned back and the crushing hope on his face made her dizzy and 
sorrowed.

"You can sleep in the guest bedroom. You don't have to sleep on the couch."

He paused, watching her for a moment, then nodded.

Scully licked her lips and almost wished he would stand so close to her 
again, but she also wanted him to leave so she could think.

"Thanks," he said roughly and she could tell he was fighting tears.

Then he was gone again.

Scully dropped heavily to the bed and stared at the empty doorway. He had 
come right in, regardless of her privacy and almost catching her nude, his 
eyes alight with some kind of inner peace, inner joy, that she had never 
seen before in him.

And then he had kissed her. It was passionate and full and *knowing* and it 
made her want to stay there in that kiss for all her life. But it hadn't 
been Mulder, not really; it was some kind of dream he'd had and woken to, 
thinking it all his reality.

She didn't know what to do now. Thanksgiving had been nice. All right 
enough, she supposed. Mulder had the tendency to project a gloomy mood 
whenever he was wallowing in self-pity, and his demeanor had affected her 
mother as well. Scully had tried to keep things as cheery as possible, but 
they'd all been thinking about the empty places at the dining room.

She knew her mother missed her Dad. It was natural to do, since he had been 
such a complete part of her mother for a long time. It wasn't a grief but a 
bittersweet remembering, and Mulder had picked up on it wrong and managed to 
feel even more depressed. Scully knew he had. She had felt it.

But the change when he had come into her bedroom, confident and open, loving 
and tender. She had wanted that so much. She had wanted it; yet it wasn't 
really him.

Scully pulled down the covers of her bed and slipped between the sheets, 
trying to revel in the coolness of the bed and the heat of her body and 
forget Mulder's passion.

Except his words echoed in her head.

<I can't go back to that unknowing.>

And the kiss.

She closed her eyes and buried her head in her pillow. She had to sleep; she 
had to get some kind of rest to clear her head. Tomorrow she could think 
about this. Tomorrow she was shopping with her mom on the after Thanksgiving 
sales.

Tomorrow everything would work out just fine.

=-=-=

"Mulder?"

There was a grunt and then his body moved beneath the sheets, slow and 
langorous, his head shifting on the pillow.

"Mulder."

She whispered his name again, biting her lip and shaking his shoulder 
softly. He groaned finally and woke fully, looking up at her and then to 
the clock.

"What's wrong?" he mumbled, fumbling for his gun.

She stilled his hands and shook her head. "Shopping, Mulder."

"Shopping?" he said, as if the word were foreign.

"Yeah. I thought you said you'd come with us."

"Uh. Yeah. . .what time is it?"

He had just looked at the clock but she smiled and humored him. "Five."

"Five o'clock!"

"Yeah, we're late."

He groaned again and collapsed back in the bed. "Who shops at five in the 
morning?"

"On the day after Thanksgiving, everyone does, Mulder. Where have you been?"

"Holed up. And I'm wondering if I shouldn't have stayed there."

She pushed on his inert form and made him grunt.

"Get up, Mulder. I'm making you come with us. I'm coming back in here in 
fifteen minutes and if you're not dressed and ready to go. . ."

She trailed off, letting the threat linger. Mulder peeked out from the 
covers and eyed her with a lewd grin.

"So, if I'm not dressed. . ."

"Mulder."

"Okay, okay. I'm going."

She smiled and left his room.

=-=-=

"Leave it to me," Mulder said and smirked.

They were standing in the middle of a crowded mall near her mother's house, 
ready to pick out gifts for Bill's little boy, Matthew, and Charlie's kids. 
The toy store was spilling over with sales and shoppers, and Scully really 
wasn't in the mood to battle them all.

"Mulder," she warned, shaking her head.

"What? I'm not going to hurt anyone. . .at least not seriously."

She sighed and her mother chuckled.

"Don't encourage him, Mom."

Mulder was positively beaming under their attention. He linked arms with 
them both and began dragging them through the people, shoving their way 
through the crowd in much the same manner the police handled riots. When 
they arrived at the toddler section, he wrinkled his nose but followed them 
down the aisle.

"He's not a baby anymore, Scully," Mulder said.

"Matthew's only three, Mulder."

It stunned her even now. Three. Three years since Emily and the sorrow of 
that Christmas. She lamented more the loss than anything, not so much of 
Emily herself, but more of the idea of being a mother to a little girl. But 
she had put that off rather effectively, telling herself there was always 
time and science and. . .Mulder.

His vivid dream of last night interrupted her momentarily and she frowned to 
clear her thoughts. Mulder was not an option. . .but if she ever did want to 
*adopt* a child, she knew Mulder would support her again.

Too many things would have to change first, too many things she wanted to be 
and do and live right now. She couldn't imagine giving up the X-Files to 
have a child, but at times, she could feel that child in her arms so 
powerfully that it ached. Still, she wouldn't trade.

Emily had taught her that much.

"Scully!"

She jumped and whirled around.

"Surely Rock-n-Roll Ernie is not that fascinating?" Mulder quirked, smiling 
lopsidedly at her.

She put back the Sesame Street toy and shook her head. "I was thinking."

"Well let me resolve your problem. Matthew does *not* want a Rock-n-Roll 
Ernie."

"And how would you know?"

"I'm a guy. Guys know."

"Right."

She rolled her eyes and grabbed a package out of his hand. It was a New 
World Order wrestling figure with a mean looking face, black tights, and a 
bare chest. She raised an eyebrow at him and held up the plastic box.

"Wrestling, Mulder?"

"Much better."

"Uh, Mulder, once again, Matthew is three. Maybe if he were five, I'd think 
about it. But I don't think that the poor kid even knows what wrestling is. 
I pray he doesn't ever know."

Mulder pouted and put the toy back, grumbling. "What do you have against 
wrestling, Scully? Surely your brothers wrestled with you as a kid."

"Yeah, and it hurt. No thanks."

He grinned. "We could wrestle, Scully."

She smiled benignly back. "Only in the forest Mulder."

He sighed and shook his head. "You wound me."

"Well, that's probably a prerequisite too."

"Ha ha. Funny. You are so funny at six o'clock in the morning."

"You're not so bad yourself."

He suddenly pushed passed her to grab another toy, his mind wandering again. 
She smiled to herself, realizing that their exchange had been very odd. 
Mulder rarely managed to keep focused on her long enough to banter like 
that. It had been almost. . .warm. It was comfortable and comforting and she 
had missed it.

Her mother called her over to look at Teletubbies and she left Mulder to the 
wrestling figures and MicroMachines. She hoped he had forgotten his dream 
and their conversation in the dark of her room; memories like that could 
ruin their easy partnership.

=-=-=

They had leftovers for dinner: turkey sandwiches with gravy piled on top, 
heated until they were just hot enough to burn the roof of her mouth. Mulder 
asked for milk and Scully's eyebrows shot up, making him laugh. He teased 
her until she asked for milk too, and they all sat down and ate together.

It was completely different from the night before. Scully was weary and 
ready to fall into bed, but the conversation was lively and Mulder didn't 
seem so preoccupied with sorrow and aloneness as he usually was.  He exuded 
a kind of confidence and warmth she hadn't ever really seen before, at 
least, not so much of it at once.

When they were done, they continued to talk, sitting around the table until 
the sun set and her mother had to turn on the lights. Another Christmas 
special was on television and they settled down to watch it.  It had been a 
good Thanksgiving, despite the almost melancholy mood Mulder had been in the 
day before.

She began to wonder if this was a permanent change.

=-=-=

The office was heated nicely when she walked in, and Mulder was wearing a 
tie in various shades of green, with dots of red presents like tiny 
minefields.

"Mulder?"

He glanced up. His suit was dark charcoal grey and his shirt was a smart 
French blue. Without the tie he would look quite handsome.

"What's with the festive tie?"

He frowned and glanced down to the green and red spectacle.

"Uh. . ."

"All those different colors of green really don't match that well, Mulder."

She was trying to be gentle.

"Green? No, Scully. This is grey. I asked a sales clerk this time."

"This time? Mulder, it's green and red. I can see it."

He sighed and yanked the tie off, his frustration and embarassment written 
in his eyes.

"Mulder, it's okay. . .it's not a big deal."

"Yes it is, Scully. I specifically asked the salesman what color it was and 
he. . .he lied to me. Made me look like a fool."

Scully was missing something and she leaned forward and took the tie from 
his hands, smoothing his shirt with the other.

"Mulder, why didn't you know what color it was?"

"I'm red-green colorblind. It's dominantly green. . ."

"Oh. I forgot completely."

"Yeah, well. . ."

She smiled and shook her head. "You looked pretty cute, you know?"

His eyes rose and he glanced up at her. "What?"

"I'm sure all the women in the bullpen watched you walk by, and I'm sure 
they all thought how cute it was that you couldn't cordinate your outfit, 
that you got caught up in the holiday spirit."

"I usually do very well."

"Yeah, you do. But this time. . ."

"You think it's cute?" he said, his eyebrow raising to tease her.

She shrugged. "I didn't say me. I said all the women in the bullpen.  
Personally, I think you ought to let *me* shop for your ties so you know 
what you're getting."

"I think I will," he said quietly.

She smiled hesitantly, but realized that something had happened. She had put 
them on different footing somehow, and he was reading more into her words 
than he should.

In fact, since Thanksgiving he had been different. Changed in a good way 
mainly, but then there were quirks, times when she didn't know what was 
going on.

Like now.

"I'll get you a good tie for Christmas," she said, trying desperately to 
kill the strange look in his eyes.

"Thanks. I should probably get you something equally as domestic," he said.

Scully's mind raced for answers, clues, hints, anything. Equally as 
domestic? She supposed it was rather domestic, buying his ties, fixing his 
wardrobe. . .almost like she was his wife or something.

She wondered dismally if she could have the old Mulder back. Not that this 
new one wasn't loads more content, but. . .she had no idea where he was 
going anymore.

=-=-=-=
December 24
Margaret Scully's house
=-=-=-=

Her mother had a thing for Jimmy Stewart, and she loved Donna Reed, so they 
watched "It's A Wonderful Life" on the television one last time.  Mulder 
wanted to complain, but Scully was falling asleep and he liked to watch her.

She was scrunched into a corner of the couch, conspicuously keeping herself 
away from Mulder, who was at the opposite end. She kept nodding off, only to 
be reawakened by a laugh from the television or her by her head slipping 
down the arm of the couch.

Finally, she scooted down a bit and leaned against the cushions, letting her 
eyes close. She could feel the heat of Mulder's thigh near her toes; he was 
sprawled in every direction, watching with some degree of interest.

It got completely dark, her mother having turned out the lamp so there 
wasn't a glare on the television. She was falling asleep but couldn't stop 
herself, and Mulder's hand came to rest on her foot.

Her stomach felt filled with lead, sitting low and heavy and making her 
almost nauseated by it. Her mother's Christmas Eve feast had been a little 
too good, she thought. She didn't dare move, for fear of actually throwing 
up, and she tried very hard not to think.

Mulder made a sudden move and gently pulled her down the couch so that she 
was laying stretched out, her head in a more comfortable position--his lap. 
His hand rested on her elbow now but she couldn't possibly make herself move 
away. He was warm and so obviously wanting, needing her that she didn't want 
to pull back.

She was just tired. Just so very tired.

=-=-=

"Scully?"

She heard him from far off, still wrapped in the guaze of sleep and denial, 
her body heavy and warm.

"Scully, your mom's already gone to bed and the movie ended hours ago."

She woke up at that and pushed away from his lap, still tangled in his arms 
and using her sleep-confusion as an excuse to stay that way. He smiled 
haphazardly and looped his arms around her waist, cocking his head.

"You okay?"

She nodded. "Where's my mom?"

"She went to bed," he repeated and felt the darkness of the room like liquid 
oiling their touches.

"Oh, I guess we should too."

"Guess so. You've been asleep for three hours."

She smiled softly and realized she was half in his lap, her legs on either 
side of his right leg, and her body facing his on the couch. She wondered 
how that had happened, but tried not to think about it.

Her stomach ache was gone.

"Scully?" he asked, but there was no question behind his eyes, no doubts or 
wonderings. He knew exactly what he was going to do and his saying her name 
was only a fair warning.

She waited until his lips were mere seconds from hers and then she closed 
her eyes, her fingers trembling against his thighs.

The kiss was a gentle pressure of his lips, his nose against her cheek and 
breath heating her skin. His tongue teased her mouth open but did not 
venture inside, and she found herself wishing he would, wishing she had the 
vulnerability to let them and he the courage to do it.

Her eyes opened when he pulled back and she licked her lips unconsciously. 
She smiled despite the awe, despite the scene Thanksgiving night that had 
made her want to run. It was a confident, indulgent smile, her lips spread 
across her face where once they had been meshed and molded into his.

He smiled tentatively back, but the confidence of the move still remained in 
his eyes. He wanted to kiss her again, but once was enough, one at a time 
for now.

His fingers worked at her belt loops and then pushed her from his lap with a 
gentle grip. She seemed confused and he stood up, bringing her with him.

"You should go to bed," he said, and made sure his wording was clear. He was 
not rushing her into anything. It had just been a sweet kiss.

"Yeah," she said and moved to leave him. His hands were still on her waist 
and as she turned, he gripped her tighter, not letting her go.

"Ah, Mulder," she said with a faint smile, turning back to make him release 
her.

This time his kiss was a complete surprise, and the shock of it mingled with 
his flavor like rum in egg nog, thick and sharp. His lips were urgent but 
gentle, almost as if he were staking claim before her dreams stole her away.

They separated with a deep breath, Scully shaking but wishing she were not, 
Mulder steady and sure and intense. There were places he had been to on 
Thanksgiving night, things and events and a family for him to come back to. 
He was doing his best.

"Good night, Scully."

"Mulder," she sighed and shook her head.

He became guarded immediately, his eyes growing flinty and cold. She knew 
she had hurt him. She didn't know how not to.

"This isn't a good idea, and. . .I. . ."

"Just sleep on it, Scully. This is fast, I know, but it's something already 
here."

"No. Mulder, there's just too much. . .I just don't have the energy to keep 
up."

"You need sleep, Scully. You'll feel better in the morning."

She wanted to scream. A night of sleep wouldn't suddenly give her enough 
energy, enough of a force to deal with a relationship other than what they 
had. There was just too much Mulder, too much her, too much old baggage and 
too much work involved in keeping them more than civil. It was just so much 
easier to fight with him, so much easier to occasionally hate what they did.

"I'll see you in the morning."

She nodded and left the room; her footsteps soon echoed off the stairs and 
met his ears and his frown. He could change this around, right?; it was 
possible for her this to be easier than she thought. And maybe she would 
dream about him, he thought, maybe he would dream about her.

But he wasn't holding out for much. Maybe this had all been a mistake.

=-=-=

She had finally made her heart stop pounding long enough to fall asleep but 
her dreams were wild and frightening and seducing. She couldn't stay in one 
place long enough to know what happened, and she couldn't get out of the 
dreams that changed to nightmares.

She woke at one point during the night and got up for a glass of water.  She 
peaked in on Mulder in the guest bedroom and his body was splayed across the 
sheets in utter abandon. She smiled and moved to the kitchen, running water 
in an old Tupperware cup and drinking it all at once.

When she had settled back into bed, she couldn't seem to get to sleep, and 
she lay there for an hour watching the clock change. Just when she was 
beginning to drift off, when her conscious mind was letting go, she began to 
dream again. Her eyes were open, her body loose but tense, and she could see 
the clock's hands move. But other images battled in her view for dominance 
and she had vague impressions of blood and a knife, of herself being chased 
through dirty streets by Mulder and policemen, and death all around her.

One phrase swam through her haze of dreaming and wakefulness: "Because I 
could not stop for Death-- He kindly Stopped for me." That's how she saw it 
in her head, with those letters and punctuation, even though she knew it was 
different in the real Dickinson poem.

She couldn't understand what was going on: she was dreaming and she was not. 
She was wide awake, she knew that, could see the clock, could lift her hand 
to her lips, could look around the room.

But her heart was pounding loudly, so that the entire bed shook, and her 
blood sang through her head like Sirens. She couldn't move her legs to get 
out of bed, but she could close her eyes and open them, and she could curl 
further into her bed.

She was murdering people. In her dream-hallucination, she was killing people 
nearby and far away. Her knife would fall fall fall and the dead man/woman 
would fall too. She wanted to stop the dream, but couldn't get away; she 
wanted Mulder to catch her but she was afraid of what he would do.

There was her sister, gone was her sister. There was her Emily, gone was her 
Emily. There was her father, gone and gone was her father. There were mother 
and brothers and nephews and neice, gone were they all.

She was killing everything in her life, killing herself, death to all, gone 
everything gone.

Scully shook her head on her pillow and felt her head thud thud thud thud 
thud. . .

Someone stop me something wake me up. There's no one here to make it stop; 
the dream won't end and it won't even begin.

Then the death was over and she was awake as she always had been but no 
images and no night terror.

Her heart was slowly regaining normal speed and function, she thought, but 
her head was still dizzy and reeling. She lay there for a long time trying 
to balance her heart rate and breathing, telling herself that it was all 
okay.

She felt an icy grip on her ankle and tensed, praying it was Mulder.  
Please, Mulder, please.

Not Mulder. She closed her eyes and looked again.

An image of white, shimmering and small, like a child smiling at her. It was 
a little boy and not Emily, but that was her first thought. The child had 
thin hair and a thin face, his cheeks were white and his old-fashioned 
clothes were white and he looked like a television show's idea of an angel.

Scully lay back down and closed her eyes, yanking her foot up to her body 
and shaking loose the image. This was not happening.

"Dana?"

No, this was not happening. This was not happening.

"Dana. Open your eyes."

Scully buried her head further into her pillow and squeezed her eyes shut. 
This was one of those waking nightmares again. She needed to change her 
sleep habits or diet or something; this was getting ridiculous.

"Dana."

This time the voice was a command and before she could do anything, she was 
yanked from bed and on the floor, eyes open wide and a bruise on her elbow.

"Oh God."

"No, it's not God, silly. He wouldn't like that at all. . ."

Scully whimpered but found her eyes would not shut this time; she could not 
escape the child-form in front of her. Wisps of hair seemed to float around 
the boy's head like he was statically charged, and Scully leaned against the 
bed to get as far away as possible.

"Dana, I have some things to show you."

"Who are you?"

"The Spirit of Christmas Past."

=-=-=-=

Part Two

=-=-=-=

"Oh no. . ." she groaned and shook her head. "This is the nuttiest dream 
I've ever had."

"I am!"

"Okay, sure. Are you lost?"

"No. I know where I am. Stop it!"

The boy pushed away Scully's helping hand, and the contact was like ice but 
stinging, cold and daggers. Scully froze and really looked at the little 
boy, finding it hard to accept the actuality of his existence.

"Dana Katherine Scully. You're pitiful, you know."

"And you're a child. What do you know?"

"I'm the ghost of Christmas Past."

"I thought you said spirit."

The boy-spirit rolled his eyes. "Same thing. You know, Holy Ghost, Holy 
Spirit."

"I see," Scully said, but she did not. She didn't want this to be happening, 
but she figured if her mind were playing tricks on her, then there was 
something that needed to be said by her unconscious. Right?

"You know the drill, right? Dickens made a fortune with this."

"The drill? As I recall, Dickens' story was rather formal and noble 
sounding. You sound rather-"

"Hey, we have to change with the times, otherwise no one would take us 
seriously."

"Yeah, I know the drill. Where are we going?"

The little boy looked delighted and he leaned down and kissed Scully's 
cheek. The touch was still chilly, but rather gentle and almost friendly.

"We're going to see everything!"

"Everything? That will take a lot more than one night, won't it?"

The boy looked petulantly at her and frowned. "You ruin everyone's fun, you 
know that?"

Scully looked thunderstruck, and the boy covered his mouth with his hands, 
his eyes wide. Evidently, he wasn't supposed to have said that.

She felt herself close down again, that burrowing inside herself whenever 
something hurtful was said. She had gotten used to the feeling of 
protection, but here, against this child, it felt wrong. The boy's words 
hurt more than they should have.

"I'm sorry. Please don't be mad at me. Please don't be mad."

Scully looked into the boy's face again and saw something so very familiar, 
so very painfully familiar that she almost couldn't breathe.

"Mulder?"

A tiny grin quirked the child's lips and he took her hand in his, the touch 
cold and dead.

"You can call me Fox."

"What?"

She glanced to the doorway, then back to the little boy spirit of Mulder, 
Mulder, her mind clicked along fast like a train derailing.

"Mulder. Is he okay? Is he. . .dead?"

"Of course not."

"Then why are you his spirit? No, I mean, why are you him? If he's not dead. 
. ."

"Here, I'll show you."

She felt as if she'd been shoved again, the room was cold, her bare feet on 
the floor felt only air, windy sheets of cold; her eyes were shut tightly.

"Look, Dana. Be careful not to wake him; he wouldn't understand."

She opened her eyes and found she was standing over Mulder's bed, his form 
still spread out and slack with sleep. She reached out and touched his neck, 
felt the steady thumping pulse of blood through his artery and sighed with 
relief.

The boy tugged on her silk pajama top and she withdrew her light touch.  Fox 
took her hand and she was spinning crazily again, being violently shoved 
aside as time marched forever on.

And then she was not in her mother's house. She did not know where she was, 
but Fox was at her side, his small hand tightly clasping hers.  Scully 
glanced around, trying to understand why the hallway looked so familiar. So 
many countless hospital hallways, and this one was no different.

"Where are we, Fox?"

"Just wait, Dana. You're too impatient."

She frowned and glanced back down the corridor again, irritated at Fox for 
having brought her here when she did not know what she was supposed to be 
seeing.

Was this even real?

There was her father!

"Dad!" she blurted out and ran for him before she even knew her feet were 
moving.

"Dana! Stop, he won't be able to--"

Her hug went unnoticed and unfelt and Scully halted in the hallway, her eyes 
inches from her father's, her breath not touching him even as loud and close 
as it was.

Right. Christmas Past.

When he began to move, she scuttled quickly out of the way, following his 
wake like a submarine tracking an enemy destroyer. It was how she felt; it 
was appropriate for her father. Hulking, large, Navy man.

William Scully opened a door and she slipped inside with him, finding Fox 
already in the room, his small smile almost teasing. Behind the smile his 
eyes seemed sad and bitter, almost too much like the Mulder he would grow up 
to be.

She saw herself four years old in the wide bed, her hair still that too 
bright day-glo orange that curled on her head like a mop, like Annie.  Her 
mother was stroking her forehead and singing something and there was a small 
tree in the window that edged the wall.

"Hey, Starbuck. What did you do?"

The little girl version of herself looked into her father's eyes and began 
to cry, tightly and without control. Her father shook his head and kissed 
her forehead, then hugged her carefully, afraid of hurting her.

"You managed to get us stuck here for Christmas, huh girl?"

The small Dana nodded but still cried, and Scully could see her father 
wince. She remembered this Christmas Eve, remembered clearly her father 
wincing. She had been afraid her father did not love her enough, and had 
winced because she was being so weak, so girly. A boy in her class had told 
everyone how his father said all dads wanted boys, they never wanted girls.

Her father's wince was a reaction to her crying, yes, but only because he 
did not know how to deal with it when his children, his wife, cried.  He 
hated seeing her in pain; Scully knew that now. She had not known it then.

"I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault."

"It's all right, pumpkin. You didn't mean to get your tonsils all swollen."

Her mother's words had meant nothing at that point; her father was the only 
one who could make it right.

"It's okay. We'll have a great Christmas here, Starbuck. Santa will find 
us."

The relief on her face was clear that Scully felt embarassed for her father, 
her mother, herself. To be so obviously dependent on her father's 
acceptance. . .

"You love your Dad," the boy said and Scully's head whipped around to see 
him gesturing to her.

"Yes."

"You love your father; it's okay to be dependent on him. They understand. 
It's how children are supposed to be. And you know that your Dad loved you."

"Yes, I know. My brothers and sister hated me for ruining Christmas, 
though."

"But your parents made it okay. It was all okay. Your father loves you."

Scully glanced down to the boy, remembering with a flash that this was Fox, 
was Mulder as a child standing before her. She moved forward with him and 
took his hand.

"Yes, I was lucky to have parents who wanted me, who loved me."

Fox nodded, but his eyes were sad, his face like cold white marble.

"Let's go," he said.

She felt the shove, the sense that all her being was being crunched into a 
tight space. She wondered briefly if they shouldn't be flying. Didn't the 
ghost of Christmas Past fly in all the movies?

And then she was back. Vision returned slowly, her eyes adjusting to the 
slight darkness.

She saw herself, maybe seven years ago? she couldn't tell. Her body was 
curled into the couch small and tight, her eyes slipping shut. Scully could 
see the leftovers on the counter of her small apartment kitchen; her 
pre-Duane Barry apartment on the ground floor.

Never again. Her mother, after paying her rent for two months during her 
disappearance, had let that apartment go. Scully wouldn't have wanted to 
live there again anyway.

She saw the huge Christmas tree in the living room: the tree that dwarfed 
the room and made her feel even smaller than she actually was.  She smelled 
the cooking, the casserole she had made especially for her father that 
night. It was not Christmas Eve.

"Why this?" she asked the ghost.

"Why not?"

Scully shook her head and watched the infomercial on the quiet television, 
knowing what would come.

The version of her on the couch woke slowly, eyes blinking. And then the 
shimmer of her father on the chair, his favorite chair at her apartment, the 
shimmer that mouthed something to her. She had never known what he had 
mouthed, but this time, she could hear.

It made her weep: she could hear him.

"I'm proud of you, Starbuck. The FBI is a rough place, but you've made it. I 
will always be proud of you, my baby girl."

She sank to the floor even as the self of her shook, even as the phone rang, 
even as the news came over the line. She cried as her old self cried, the 
tears in her eyes relief instead of fresh grief.

"Proud of me," she whispered and buried her head in her arms. He had always 
been proud of her. Everything she went through with Boggs, every doubt about 
her father and about herself. . .It even made her strive to be better to 
Mulder, made her not want to disappoint ever. . .not like she had her 
father.

But she hadn't disappointed him.

"Dana?"

Her head snapped up, the tears still fresh and streaking her cheeks. She was 
in a different place again; she had felt the shove-aside but had been a 
little more prepared for the rough feelings.

"Fox. . .I just want to go home, please."

She knew instinctively what would be next and she didn't want to see it.  he 
didn't want to even know what her next 'lesson' was supposed to be.

"Dana, you need this."

She dried her eyes with a hand and looked around. Another hospital. Why had 
she spent so much time in hospitals?

Shakily, she stood up, watching the nurses bustle around her, seeing the 
long hall to her left and the door to her right. She glanced inside and saw 
Emily on the hospital bed, her cheeks and eyes sunken and hollow, her 
forehead sweaty and glistening. She saw herself, standing behind the glass, 
her own forehead pressed to the window.

Scully closed her eyes tightly, trying to contain the emotions threatening 
to overspill. There was a noise from the hall and she turned to see Mulder 
hurrying down the corridor, his face set grimly and his hands clutching 
something.

She watched him pause outside the door, his palm revealing a smooth metal 
canister. It looked like he had just gotten back from the retirement home, 
his tie was loose and his eyes were wild.

She watched him shut his eyes briefly, then slip the metal tube into his 
pocket. He glanced inside once, saw her standing there against the glass. 
She heard his heavy, heart rending sigh that seemed to rip apart her soul. 
And then he opened the door and walked inside.

Fox took her hand and they were snapped inside the room, watching Scully 
tense as Mulder approached her. She could hear their voices, low and soft 
and bitter. She could feel the memory of the pain like a hand pressing her 
down.

She didn't remember exactly what he'd said then; she'd been too focused on 
the dying girl behind the glass.

"If you could save her. . ."

Scully held her breath, seeing the image of the canister in Mulder's palm, 
knowing now that he had let her make the choice honestly, without personal 
pain or desperation getting in the way. She had made the decision to let 
Emily go, but only because Emily was so very sick.

"She's wasn't meant to be."

Fox took her hand, but she shook him off, trying to move forward, to make 
her other self do something, reach out to him.

Mulder asked if she wanted company.

"She needs you, Mulder, please. Don't go, don't go."

But her other self denied his touch, his sympathy, his sorrow, and pushed 
him away. He left with a heavy head and clutched hands, both of them hurting 
so very much. She couldn't believe she had let him leave; she had needed to 
be touched so very badly, but she had pushed him away.

She followed her other self into Emily's room, disregarding the hazard signs 
and the quarantine procedures. She curled at the foot of Emily's bed, 
watching with a shattered heart as her other self lay down slowly and 
agonizingly. Emily's little body struggled for breath and then gave up.

Scully, past and present, sobbed.

=-=-=

A hand on her forehead soothed the tears until she could relax her muscles 
and almost drift into sleep. But then she startled awake and stared into the 
dark eyes of a white haired woman.

"Who are you?"

"Fox said you knew the drill," she answered, and her accent was heavily 
Navajo.

"Fox?" she repeated, and then her mind unfuzzed. "Oh, oh, right. You're the 
ghost of Christmas Present?"

"Right. Spirit at your service," she said and stroked Scully's forehead 
again with a well worked hand. Calluses scraped her skin, but it felt oddly 
reassuring.

The Spirit was regal looking, with wide cheekbones that were not sallow with 
age, merely soft with life. Her hair was white, but her face and body were 
young, and her breasts and wasit were curved with supple flesh. She seemed 
robust, healthy, cheerful, giving.

Scully remembered the Christmas Present ghost from television shows, the fat 
man that ate too much, the laughing voice, the broad hands.

"You're not what I expected," she admitted.

"You didn't expect any of this."

Scully smiled and shrugged, feeling hopelessly lost in her own dreams.  All 
she could tell herself, and remain sane, was that this was all a dream, an 
elaborate way of telling her conscious mind all the answers that her 
unconscious was screaming at her.

"How could this be a dream, Dana? If this were a dream, I'd be exactly what 
you expected."

Scully gaped at the woman, felt her cheeks flaming hot.

"Well, let's get on with it. There's more to show you."

She wondered if the Spirit was annoyed with her and felt that was a 
mistake-- to have this regal woman annoyed with her.

She followed anyway, taking the woman's outstretched hand firmly, closing 
her eyes as she waited for the shove-aside feel of moving through time.

But this time there was a gentle breeze, like a breath of summer wind across 
her cheeks, ruffling her hair. The feeling was pleasant and relaxing, just 
as the woman's hand had been on her forehead.

A delighted laugh reached her ears. "You can open your eyes, Dana-child."

She did and saw her own mother's kitchen, the smells like heaven and 
childhood mixed, Christmas dinner cooked to perfection. Her mother came in 
with Mulder in tow, both wearing strained faces, despite the joy of the 
kitchen smells.

"You just have to let her have some space, Fox. She's jumpy at times."

"I messed that up then. I got her a ring. I guess that wasn't a good idea."

Mrs. Scully turned in shock to see him leaning against the counter, his 
hands in his pocekts. He pulled out a jeweller's box and opened it for her. 
It was an intricate band of silver and gold, the engravings like Celtic 
runes and patterns along the sides. Set into the middle and oval-shaped to 
follow the line of the band was a dark saphire.

Scully felt her knees tremble at the sight and she turned to the Spirit.

"But. . ."

"Oh dear," her mother said. "Is that. . .an engagement ring?"

Mulder looked at it in surprise, his eyes widening. "I hadn't thought. . .I 
don't. . ."

Mulder trailed off looking at it.

"All I can say is, be patient. She wants whatever this means as much as you 
do."

Scully felt her shock grow into confusion and glanced over to the Navajo 
Spirit beside her.

"What's going on?"

"This is tomorrow, at your mother's home."

"Tomorrow? He wants to give me that ring tomorrow?"

Scully felt like fainting, but turned back to the conversation before her.

"I try to tell her. . .she doesn't want to listen. I don't think she wants 
to let me down."

Mrs. Scully shook her head emphatically. "She's just so tired, Fox. She 
thinks it will be too hard. I've tried to tell her that being alone takes 
more work and more energy than giving in to love."

"But to her, this is work. I thought we had moved past that. . ."

"Dana's good at regressing."

Mulder gave her a ghost of a smile and shook his head. "I'm making her 
uncomfortable. This will make her uncomfortable. I think I should leave."

"Fox."

"No. It's better. I. . .I kissed her last night and she. . .she hated it."

"No!" Scully shouted out, her breath and heart rapid. But Mulder tomorrow 
did not hear her, and she watched as he slipped out the back door of the 
kitchen and through the yard. She could hear his car start and her mother 
stood there, shaking her head and sighing.

She watched the door open and her tomorrow self walk in, her face concerned.

"Where did Mulder go?"

"He left, honey. . ."

Her other's face was stricken and she ran to the back door, only to see the 
silence of the street. It was snowing and the whiteness was like a mocking 
deafness to her ears. She strained to see any sight of him, but he had left.

Scully gripped the Spirit's hand tighter and watched herself turn around. 
The mask was carefully in place, but it was so frail and so obviously fake 
that she wanted to scream. Her tomorrow self was an idiot; who did she think 
she was fooling?

"Why did he leave, mom?"

"I. . .I don't think he felt very welcome."

Scully watched her face crumble, like watching herself cry in a mirror.  
First her lips parted with shock, then her knees gave way, then she was 
shaking her head as if to rid herself of the tears. She was shaking but 
silent, and she soon had control over her emotions again.

"Dana, honey, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she answered on her eyes were clear again, her head held 
proudly.

Scully couldn't believe it. The absolute change. If anyone else were 
watching, they would think her nuts. The tomorrow version of herself seemed 
pacified and calm, the only betrayal being a quirk of her lips.

"Are you going to go after him?"

"No," she answered softly. "He must hate me now."

Scully could feel the pain of the words as surely as if she had said them, 
and she had, sort of, but they cut and they tore, and they hurt to hear.

"Dana, he does not. He thinks you don't want him here!" Her mother shook her 
head.

Scully watched herself move away, in control again and fiercely denying 
anything was wrong. She seemed only pitiful. She knew it was what Mulder 
must see all the time. A pitiful attempt to deny reality.

Before she could follow her other self to the dining room, a rushing wind 
chilled her heart and she was being blown away, her hand tightly in the 
Spirit's grip, her eyes closing again.

And then the wind storm stopped and she was on solid ground again.

A hospital. She groaned and shook her head. She saw herself in the waiting 
room, and moved to enter it, but the Spirit tugged her hand and guided her 
to the emergency room doors. They passed through without a murmur and then 
they were inside a trauma room; Scully remembered the one at Georgetown from 
personal experience and interning.

Mulder was lying on the table, blood liberally dousing the sheets, the 
gloves, his body. She turned in horror, clamping a hand over her mouth to 
keep from retching.

"Watch," the Spirit said and she found her eyes being pulled back to Mulder.

She couldn't *not* watch anyway.

There were two doctors and about five nurses, all crowding to place IV bags 
or needles into his skin or hands on his broken places. She saw where they 
had cut away his coat and it was coated with ice and snow.  His fingers and 
toes and even his legs were blue and looked frozen. She put out a hand and 
touched his foot.

It twitched but was chilled. She felt fear rising in her and turned to the 
Spirit.

"What happens to him? Why is he so cold?"

"He was out walking in his neighborhood and a car hit him, but it sped off. 
You came looking for him at six o'clock and by that time he had been outside 
for four hours."

"What?" she whispered, and her head turned back to see Mulder.

"It was an accident. Things happen. He'll die here and things will get 
messed up, but God can righten it all out." The Spirit seemed unperturbed.

"Righten it? He can't possibly make it right if Mulder dies!" she screamed, 
feeling tears in her eyes.

"Oh, you won't have Mulder, but his death will teach you a valuable lesson 
about your own life, about the extent and breadth of love. It's a lesson you 
need to learn, to understand."

"But. . .he doesn't have to die to teach me a lesson. How can that be worth 
the suffering? That's not a reason for this senseless. . .senseless. . ."

The Navajo woman shrugged and Scully turned back to Mulder's limp and cold 
body, not quite dead but rapidly deteriorating. A small box caught her eye 
and she looked closer at the bloodied sheets to see that he was clutching 
her ring in his cold hand. She began to cry, her tears silent and streaming 
down her cheeks, but she didn't care. Scully leaned forward to kiss his 
forehead, praying to wake up, to go back and keep this from happening. She 
could change things, right? She could change it.

Her lips met air and her limbs were shaking with cold. Scully sighed and 
looked up; they were in a dirty apartment building, the rat droppings still 
on the floor and the walls a horrid shade of yellow.

"Where are we?" she asked the Spirit.

"In DC. Christmas Day still."

Scully frowned and glanced around. There was nothing going on, no 
decorations or dogs, people or rats even. A dim bare bulb glowed at one end 
of the hall and she instinctively headed towards it.

The door was open and she glanced inside, feeling the Spirit at her side. 
There was a woman passed out on the couch and the smell of cocaine and meth 
was heavy in the air. A little girl, maybe three or four, was curled up at 
the window, watching the snow with glazed eyes.

Scully frowned and moved closer to the woman, saw that her lips were lined 
with dried blood and her fingers were blue.

"Tis' the season for dying, huh?" she asked bitterly and turned to see the 
Spirit. She only got a shrug.

"Lots of people die in the city. Any day of the year. Why should Christmas 
be different?"

"Because. . ."

Scully found she didn't have answer that sounded logical, only the feeling 
that Christmas should be special for everyone.

The little girl had brown hair that was greasy from not being washed, and 
her eyes had the dead look of poverty and drugs. She was probably high off 
the fumes. Scully glanced to the kitchen and saw a regular chemistry lab set 
up over the stove. The woman was making meth.

Scully bent down and touched the girl's forehead, finding it slick with 
sweat. She was burning with fever and shivering at the window ledge, but her 
eyes tracked the snow as it fell.

She wrapped her arms around the little girl, knowing it would do no good, 
but tried anyway. She had to do something, anything.

"Who is this little girl?"

"Her name's Angel."

Scully smiled despite the situation and kissed the girl's head.

"Angel? What. . .why am I seeing her?"

"She's your little girl."

"My little girl?"

"Well, yes. She doesn't really exist. . .not specifically. But this is what 
you consign your children to."

"I can't have children."

"How do you know if you've never tried?"

Scully paused and glanced to the girl in her arms, the dark hair and glazed 
eyes. She stroked the child's hair away from her face and kissed her 
forehead.

"Why is she with this woman?"

"Because you don't want her."

"That's not true!"

"She's symbolic of what you're throwing away. You know spirits, we have to 
be symbolic and ominous and eccentric."

"What do you mean? I don't understand."

The woman sighed. "Precisely. This child. . .your children are waiting for 
you to accept love, to accept what's being so freely given to you.  She's 
yours, and she's Mulder's, and when you deny him, you deny her."

Scully closed her eyes and shook her head. "Mulder?"

"Where do you think she gets the dark hair and dark eyes?"

Scully glanced to Angel's still form and ran a gentle hand over her eyes.

"Mulder is dead. . ." she whispered, and felt her breath catching.

"Tommorow, Mulder is dead. Only tomorrow."

Scully buried her face into the girl's hair, crying again, not even knowing 
she had tears left to cry. How could she possibly find this girl again? She 
gasped and felt the wind again, felt the girl shimmer around her. She shook 
her head.

"No. No. Let me see how to find her. . ."

=-=-=-=

Part Three

=-=-=-=

Time flashed and she was in her room, at the foot of her bed, sobbing.  
Scully dried her eyes and glanced around for the Spirit.

She gasped at the looming figure in the corner. Her voice echoed off the 
walls eerily and she realized she was *still dreaming* and it wasn't going 
to stop any time soon.

"Christmas Future?" she asked, managing to still her madly beating heart.

A hand reached for her and she was snatched up and away, hurtling through 
space like a shooting star, burning and burning and yet so very cold. She 
was going faster than her body could take, she was heating up on the outside 
but freezing on the inside. She shivered and looked around.

A cemetery. How original. If she was dreaming, then this was exactly what 
she expected.

A figure thudded into her and she turned around to see a towering black 
spectre, all in fuzzy shadows and ill-defined lines, almost as if he were a 
reflection in an old mirror. But a reflection of what?

Herself. Her dark side. She shivered again and asked where exactly she was.

No answer. Oh right, the silent Ghost.

"Okay, I'll figure it out for myself," she muttered and moved away.

It was snowing and the wind was blowing. She felt frozen stiff without a 
coat and her silk pajamas were no help in keeping the wind out. She crossed 
her arms and tried to push through the cold to the graves, but it felt as if 
something were holding her back.

She turned and the black spectre had a hand on her shoulder, a hand she had 
not felt, and he was keeping her from moving. So she stepped back and 
waited, moving closer to his large bulk to keep the wind from attacking her.

A funeral procession was moving forward and she gasped to see her mother 
sobbing as the casket was led through the graves. She watched in imitative 
silence next to the Ghost, keeping her hands beneath her arms for warmth. 
She felt deathly cold.

When it was over she was allowed to move forward and as she did, she 
realized that the wind wasn't blowing--had never been blowing--but that it 
was a constant freezing chill inside of her that felt like wind.

The trees were still, the graveyard was dense with the silence, and the 
Spectre beside her was ominous in his black shadows against the white of the 
snow.

She was surprised to see that a tombstone was already prepared for the grave 
and it was laid carefully next to Mulder's. She bent down in puzzlement; she 
had expected the funeral to be for Mulder.

She traced over Mulder's chiseled name, then sighed and glanced to the other 
grave, still open and the casket accumulating a light dust of snow.

The marker was darkly marblized, but still granite, and a twin of Mulder's. 
She saw her own name on the inscription and she froze, tensely, at the words 
beneath.

"She could not be without him."

Scully reeled back, away from the dirty snow surrounding her grave, away 
from the coffin in the frozen earth.

"No, no. Suicide? I committed suicide because of Mulder. . .?"

She glanced to the dark Ghost to see its head nodding slowly, a finger 
pointing to a rise beyond the graves. She took one last look at her grave, 
so snugly close to Mulder's, and then started for the hill.

There was one lone tree, scraggly and unkempt, and it was just outside the 
cemetery's fence. Technically, none of this land was ordained for graves, 
but she saw many pauper's wooden crosses or plain unfinished markers. They 
scattered over the land like fallen soldiers and she felt tears spring to 
her eyes again.

The Ghost pointed to a specific plot of land and she moved forward, looking 
at the rough wooden marker. It was engraved with a kind of awkward style, 
choppy but beautiful.

"Angel"

She glanced up at the other markers and they all read Angel, every single 
one of them, thousands of children she had never allowed herself to think 
about.

She felt her breath catch and her eyes slammed shut, refusing to believe. 
She felt a great shuddering rush through her like mighty wind of God, and 
she felt the tears freeze in the cold.

"No, I promise it will change. I'll change it. I promise. . .please, don't 
take my children away from me."

She felt ridiculous, crying soundlessly like this at the feet of a shadowy 
man, but she could feel their death in the deepest parts of her, just as she 
had felt Mulder's death in her soul. She was freezing, shivering in the wind 
and trying to keep from dying herslf, her dream self dying? She thought it 
possible.

"Angel. . ."

Don't take her away from us, she amended silently. From us. . .

=-=-=

When Mulder ran in, she was thrashing in the bed mumbling a name over and 
over again. He expected her to be hot with dreams, but she was deathly cold, 
her lips even blue. Easing against the bed, he knelt beside her and shook 
her gently.

"Scully? Scully, wake up."

He could hear her whisper "angel, angel" soft and hauntingly broken, and 
tears streamed down her cheeks. He remembered his Thanksgiving dreams, about 
their daughter Angel, and wondered if she was seeing her.

And crying? He didn't like this.

"Scully?"

She gasped and woke in a flash, like lightning in a bottle, raw energy and 
emotion. Scully blinked away the tears still clouding her eyes and saw his 
concerned face watching her.

"Mulder," she whispered, but everything about the name implied sorrow and 
grief.

He cradled her close to him, shutting his eyes to the desolation in her 
look, trying to ignore the cling of her hands and arms against him.

"It's okay, Scully. You're right here with me."

She shuddered and he felt the tears against his shoulder with surprise.  He 
had been sure she was completely stone-cold to him after he had kissed her 
in the living room. She was warm and alive and reaching for him, now.

"Who's Angel?" he whispered.

She stiffened, but would not let him move away from her. She closed her eyes 
tightly and shook her head.

"Scully. . .did you meet Angel?" he whispered.

She nodded softly, and he pushed back to see her face. She was crying softly 
now, her fingers like steel on his arms.

"Our. . .our Angel?"

Her mouth quirked in a sad smile and she nodded again, blinking away tears.

"What happened to her?"

"It's all my fault," she whispered and her breath caught on a strangled sob.

"No, no it's not. It couldn't be," he whispered and met her forehead with 
his. She was breathing quietly but rapidly, and he could almost taste the 
salt of her tears on his every inhalation.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through his 
hair, holding tightly to him. He could feel the cliff-edge of her control, 
and the dizzying spiral down to her insanity.

"It's all okay, Scully. It was just a dream," he said, even though he 
believed it really wasn't.

"No," she whispered and shook her head against his. "But I can change it, 
let me change it."

He sighed and closed his eyes, wishing he could do something to help her 
fight whatever sorrow was taking hold of her. When he glanced up, her eyes 
were dry and fierce on his, her lips parted.

"Let me change it," she said again and ran a finger over his cheek.

Mulder stilled with the movement, his mind racing despite the shock of her 
touch to his skin. What was she doing? She couldn't possibly be awake now; 
she had to still be dreaming. . .

"Scully. . ." he warned, his eyes frantic.

"Let me kiss you," she said finally.

He froze, and she pushed her head forward to let her lips capture his.  The 
touch was brief and shaky as her neck muscles strained, but he wrapped his 
arm around her and held her up.

She arched again to touch his mouth: sweet gentle kiss on his lips: her 
fingers moving along his neck and hairline: his eyes closed with the 
unreality of it. She tugged and he moved closer to her, sliding so that he 
was nearly on top of her, his chest resting on the bed, his knees still on 
the floor.

Her lips moved and brushed his neck, his Adam's apple, suckled slightly on 
his bottom lip, thick and full and pouting. He held her arms at her side and 
crept into the bed, settling at her side with his lips and tongue dancing on 
her mouth.

She pulled back and watched him above her, his breath spurting as his eyes 
devoured her. Scully traced one hand down his cheek and jaw then rubbed his 
lips with a finger.

"Merry Christmas, Mulder."

He smiled, closing his eyes and shaking his head. She felt him dip down and 
rest against her shoulder, something between a laugh and a cry coming from 
his lips.

"Come with me," he whispered and tugged her from the bed.

She wiped her cheeks free of tears and slipped out of bed to follow along 
behind him. He paused at his room and palmed something, but she couldn't see 
in the moonlight. He made his way down to the living room where the 
Christmas tree still glowed in its multi-colored lights and bright 
ornaments. She spotted the apple with her name painted on it and the 
ornament that was custom-made to announce her birth.

"Scully,"

She turned and he was looking hard at her, an almost frown on his face.  
She reached up and smoothed the wrinkle line in his forehead almost 
unconsciously, blushing when he smiled at her.

He fumbled for her hands and slipped something into her palm, closing her 
fist over it. She felt soft velvet and a box shape and her heart began to 
pound.

"Mulder," she whispered, fear and joy mixing.

"Scully, would you marry me?"

She couldn't breathe, couldn't draw the breath to answer, so she nodded 
instead and pressed her face into his chest, crying good, healing tears 
that eased down her cheeks like beginners on ski slopes.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Of course, yes."

He wrapped her in a tight embrace, crushing her to him. She kissed the 
hollow of his throat, then his chest, as much of him as she could reach.

"Aren't you going to look at your ring?" he whispered.

She laughed and stepped back to open her fist. She pried open the box with 
shaking fingers and found the saphire's dark eye staring back at her. The 
intricate infinity loop spread around the band and she felt her cheeks grow 
hot as he stared at her.

"Do you like it?" he whispered.

"It's beautiful," she said.

"It is. . .just like you. Complex and simple and beautiful and dark and a 
mixture of gold and silver. . ."

He was rambling now, not even thinking before he spoke but it was poetry to 
her and she loved it. His fingers worked at the band until it popped free of 
its holder, and then he slipped it on her finger. It was loose, but not by 
much.

She smiled at him and received a soft kiss, a hesitant touch of his tongue 
to her lips.

"I love you, Scully."

She fought at control and brushed the hair from his eyes.

"I've always loved you, Mulder. I just couldn't believe it."

=-=-=-=

end all
adios
RM