From: "John L. Gilson" Date: Sun, 20 Dec 1998 18:57:35 -0500 Subject: TRNT6: Typhoon (Slash/NC17) 8/15 TITLE: "The Road Not Taken 6: Typhoon" AUTHOR: deejay CLASSIFICATION: S, R/A (Story, Romance/Angst? and I _do_ mean ANGST!) RATING: NC-17, for same-sexual situations and adult language. QUICK & DIRTY DISCLAIMER: What's CC/10-13/FoxTV's _belongs_ to CC/10-13/Fox TV. Everything else is mine. You guys go your way, I'll go mine. SEE TRNT6 Part 1 for full disclaimer and summary. * * * * * "THE ROAD NOT TAKEN 6: TYPHOON" (8/15) by deejay <> Most of the discussion on the ride back centered on plans for Caroline's 2nd birthday party. Margaret Scully's only granddaughter was born six weeks premature, with a cornucopia of health problems; her first days were spent in an incubator, with Charles living in the hospital around the clock. Two years later, she was bright as a button, babbling like a brook, and in danger of breaking the land-speed record for crawling. Next Friday's fete wasn't so much a birthday party as a celebration of Caroline's survival. Billy's new assignment forced him to leave for San Diego the day after Thanksgiving, but his wife Tara had stayed behind to help Charles and Karen organize things. Margaret watched Dana work through the gears as she came off the highway. Her daughter's face was a study in concentration; Dana nodded in satisfaction when she made it through the intersection without a missed or ground gear. "You did that very well," Margaret said encouragingly. "Thanks," Scully said, her pleasure evident at the compliment. "I think it's finally coming back to me." Margaret smiled. "Do you remember that Volkswagen Bug we had in San Diego?" "Herbie," Scully laughed. "I think we turned the odometer over twice on that car." "I kept expecting it to? I don't know, blow up or something," Margaret remembered fondly. "But somehow you kids kept it running." "It was the only way Dad would let us keep it," Scully reminded her. "I thought he was going to keel-haul the CPO who sold it to Billy. Herbie was the first car I ever worked on by myself." "You learned to drive in that car too, didn't you?" "We had to," Scully nodded. "The high school only had one car for Driver's Ed class. If we wanted to get behind the wheel more than once a week, we had to make our own opportunities." Margaret looked down at the center instrument column. A tape of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No.3 was playing. The piece did not have the soothing effect it usually did. "With all the city driving you do, I'm surprised you didn't get an automatic transmission." "This model only has a 3-speed automatic," Scully informed her, gunning the coupe through a yellow light. "I didn't like the way it shifted when I test-drove it. The manual's more fuel-efficient, too." "Oh." *That sounds a _little_ more like Dana.* They rode in silence for a block or two before Margaret spoke again. "Rebecca seems very nice." *That didn't sound _too_ forced,* Scully observed. "Yes. She is." Beat. "Didn't you tell me she was married?" "I told you she'd _been_ married," Scully mildly corrected her. "She got divorced three years ago. She was married to a State Police officer," she added, trying to cut down the list of questions that was sure to come. Margaret nodded again. Paused again. "How long were they together?" "Three years," Scully said patiently. Beat. "Were there any children?" Scully successfully suppressed a sigh. "Nope." "That's a shame," Margaret finally said. "Children can strengthen a marriage." Scully shook her head. "It wouldn't have worked in this case, Mom. Max' marriage was a war zone, for the most part. That's a terrible environment to raise a child." Margaret examined her lap. "You've become very good friends with Rebecca, haven't you?" *I am _not_ ready for this.* "Yes, I have." "And you've become friends with her friends." Scully gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. "And that means what?" "Well," Margaret said cautiously, "you were in some of her friend's wedding pictures. You have those pictures hanging on the wall, next to pictures of your family?" "Mulder's not _family_," Scully said, biting back additional comments. *But he _should_ be,* Margaret nearly said. "Even so?" Margaret stopped, then started again. "You didn't even _know_ these people a few months ago. Now you're putting their pictures on your wall??" *And on my dresser. And Thank God you didn't come into the bedroom?* "Mom, haven't you been telling me how I need to get out more? Make new friends, meet new people??" "I meant someone _here_." Scully's knuckles were turning white. She missed a shift turning onto a side street, nearly stalling the car. "Mom," she sighed, "when do I have _time_ to meet someone here? Or anywhere? When I'm in town, I'm working. When I'm _out_ of town, I'm working. This was the first non-work-related trip I've taken since I left Quantico. I met great people on that trip people I like, who like me, and who have nothing to do with the Bureau. What's _wrong_ with that?" "Nothing! Nothing's wrong with making new _friends_! But?" Margaret wanted to scream with frustration. "Dana? you're not meeting anyone _special_." "Don't you mean I'm not meeting any _men_?" *Don't yell at her. She's your mother. She's worried about you.* Scully mentally rolled her eyes. *If she's worried _now_?* "No," Margaret said bluntly. "You're not." "Yes, I am, Mom. I'm meeting them at work. And _through_ work. And I told you before, I'm not going to get involved with _anyone_ at the Bureau?" "Why not?! You've done it before!" Scully nearly missed the red light. She had to brake hard to avoid going into oncoming traffic. "Yes! And look how _that_ turned out!" Margaret closed her eyes tight. She felt like a fool. She had liked Jack Willis, though she thought he was much too old for Dana. She knew how watching Jack die had effected Dana. She knew how shattered Dana was when she returned from New Mexico, convinced Fox was dead and it was her fault. She reached over and put a hand on Dana's shoulder. Dana put her left hand on her mother's. "I'm sorry I yelled," Dana said penitently. Her mother squeezed her shoulder. "I shouldn't have said that. Please forgive me." Dana squeezed her mother's hand. The light changed and Dana turned onto her street. Margaret put her hand back in her lap and stared at her daughter sadly. *I know it's hard to hear these things, Dana. But I only want the best for you.* "Dana," she said softly, "you are a wonderful daughter. I've? _We've_ always been proud of everything you've done. You're a beautiful, intelligent woman. You are the strongest, most self-sufficient person I know." She took a deep breath. "But _no one_ can go through life _alone_. Honey? you need someone to call your own." Scully couldn't have looked at her mother if she tried. *"Do you have anyone to call your own?" Max was sitting close when she asked me that. "Don't you get lonely?" And then she reached over and turned my head, and her lips were so soft, and I was so scared?* "Mom," she said haltingly, "when you and Dad were first together? how did you know he was the one?" Margaret looked out the front windshield. Over thirty years later, she could still call up the first time she saw Bill Scully, a trim young ensign in dress whites standing across the room at one of the chaperone dances the town held every summer. He was so formal, so polite, not at all like some of the officers who acted like uncaged wolves as the night went on. He didn't even kiss her good night that night, the first night of many. He just sort of bowed and left her standing on the front porch, wondering if she'd done something wrong until the roses were delivered the next day? "I want to say I always knew," Margaret finally said, "but that would be wrong. I just woke up one morning, looked in the mirror and? I just _knew_. I couldn't tell you _when_ that was, or _how_ I knew. It was long before he proposed that day on the dock, I know that?" She laughed softly. "I'm not being much of a help, am I?" Scully didn't say anything. A miracle had happe ned; she had found a parking space next to her building, right in front of her mother's car. She pulled up in front of it and started backing in. "All I can tell you, Dana," Margaret concluded, "is when it happens, you _will_ know it." Scully parked the coupe without much adjustment and cut the engine. She had never skydived before, but now she understood the sensation: She felt like she was about to leap from a great height, and was unsure whether the parachute on her back was going to open. She cleared her throat twice before she turned to her mother. "I already have, Mom." Margaret Scully's face went through a slow change, like a cloud being blown apart by a gust of wind: Blankness, then confusion, then realization. The last expression was more alarming than anything Scully could imagine. Margaret looked away quickly. "Don't be ridiculous, Dana." "I'm not being ridiculous, Mom," Scully said softly. "I'm being honest." Her mother opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She was struggling with her thoughts, and none of them were helping the process. Finally she said, "Dana, that's? I? Sweetheart, you like _men_?" "Yes, Mom," Scully sighed. "I like men." Her mother turned to her, hope starting to flash in her eyes. Scully held up a hand. "But in the last few months, I've found?" Scully dropped her eyes. She could feel herself blush from her toes to her hairline. "They aren't all there is." Margaret Scully was thunderstruck. The shock she'd felt when Dana announced she was joining the FBI was a tap on the shoulder compared to this news. This was a blow to everything the Navy widow thought she knew. She fought to remain calm. She looked out at her blue Escort station wagon. "Dana," she said awkwardly, "you have been through so much in the last few years. Your father's death. Missy's murder. Your? disappearance. You were in a terrible accident less than a month ago?" Scully put her hand on Margaret's thigh. She felt a slight tremor. *Oh my God, she's _scared_ of me?* "Mom, look at me." When Margaret kept looking straight ahead, she added, "Please." Margaret took a deep breath and turned to her. "Have you ever known me to do _anything_ without thinking it through? Without having a good reason for _why_ I do it?" "No," Margaret said, shaking her head. *That's what's so frightening.* "I have thought about this, agonized about this, more than anything that has ever happened to me," Scully said, her eyes pleading. "About what you'd think, about what Billy and Charlie would think. About what _Dad_ would think, if he were here?" "He'd say it was wrong," Margaret blurted. She squeezed her mother's leg, shutting her eyes tightly. "I _know_ that. There are days when the ramifications of it all scare me witless. But I can' t deny what I _feel_. And I can't lie to you. I could never do that." She had to bear down to stop from shaking. When she opened her eyes, they beseeched Margaret to listen. "Mom? I'm in love. For the first time in a long time. Maybe for the first time _ever_. I look at Max, and? and I feel peace I haven't known in _so_ _long_. She touches my soul like no one else has. I _know_ Daddy would say it's wrong. I'm sure _you_ think it's wrong?" "Dana?" "But it feels so _right_," she insisted. "I feel like? like we were _supposed_ to meet! Like everything that's happened these last two months was _supposed_ to happen! This is not a fling, or a phase, or some unconscious attack on you for something you did to me as a child. This is _real_! _Please_ believe that, Mom! Please believe? that this is real." Margaret started two sentences before she came up with one she could finish. "I have to go." She started to turn, then found she was still belted in. Scully put her other hand on Margaret's leg. "Mom, we have to talk about this?" "No?" Her mother popped her seat belt and reached for the door handle. "Mom, wait," Scully implored. Margaret wrenched around in her seat, taking both of Scully's hands. "Dana, it's? I can't. Not now. It's? it's too much. I have to think about?" She tried to speak, then shook her head rapidly. "I just _can't_ right now." She dropped Scully's hands, opened the door and climbed out of the Saturn. *Oh, no. Oh, please. Please, God, don't let her hate me?* Scully undid her seat belt and jumped out of the car. A red Jeep Cherokee went by, spraying her with slush. "Mom," she called frantically. Her mother was at the driver's side door of the Escort, fumbling for her keys. "_Please_, Dana. Please let me think about this." She got her keys out and unlocked the car. Her hands were shaking. "I'll? I'll call you. Soon." "Mom, I love you," Scully said, desperation strong in her voice. Margaret looked back at her. "I? I love you, too." Scully thought her mother was going to cry, and that made her throat close up. Margaret practically jumped into the Escort, started the engine with much revving, and pulled away in a fishtail of melting snow. Scully watched the car until it turned at the end of the block, then ran into her building wiping her eyes. <> * * * * * "THE ROAD NOT TAKEN 6: TYPHOON" (9/15) by deejay <> Robert Novak was saying something pompous about Clinton's second term when Mulder let himself into the apartment. He put the shopping bags on the kitchen table, walked over to the remote, and muted Eleanor Clift's vacuous retort. Mulder would never be accused of keeping a neat living space, but he was quite meticulous about leaving any appliances running when he went out. He chalked up leaving CNN blaring to the restlessness and frustration that had permeated his senses since the Senate hearing. People had died, and Mulder had nearly won a permanent role as the One-Armed Man in this latest failed attempt to prove life existed outside this planet; the inaction that followed said none of those sacrifices be they real or potential -- mattered at all. *As if it ever does,* Mulder thought morosely. He went back to the kitchen table and pulled a bottle of Saranac Golden Pilsner out of one of the bags. He'd only meant to get beer when he went out, but some deep-seeded domestic instinct made him do a full shop. In Mulder's case, a "full shop" translated to six Budget Gourmets, four boxes of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, two large bags of Baked Tostitos, two large jars of salsa (Hot, of course), a pound of ground French Roast, three half-pound packages of deli meats, a loaf of whole wheat bread, and a box of strawberry frosted Pop Tarts. *I'll never get my own cooking show, but at least I won't be eating out of Styrofoam boxes for a few days?* He took the bottle opener off the refrigerator and popped the top off the Saranac. The bag from Screen Saver Video sat near the table's edge. Mulder had spent an hour in the store, annoying the clerks as he picked up one choice, then put it back and went in search of another, repeating the process numerous times. None of his usual preferences seemed to fit the mood he was in. A trained psychologist, Mulder finally decided he needed more than entertainment; he needed catharsis. He picked up the bag and walked over to the television, pulling out the two hard plastic carrying cases as he went. Mulder dropped the bag on the floor and put the video case on the coffee table; he wanted to be deep into the six-pack before he watched 'Dr. Strangelove'. Then he opened the other box and took out a CD jewel case. His Playstation tastes usually ran to 'Mortal Kombat' or an equivalent, but he had played the updated version of this particular game a few months earlier; he had been quite taken with 'Nuclear Strike', despite its ersatz 'Apocalypse Now' ambiance. Today was the first time 'Soviet Strike' had been in stock. Mulder took that as a sign and snatched up the case before a delinquent-looking 11-year old beat him to it. He opened up the Playstation and was fitting the CD into the player when the phone rang. Mulder made no move to answer it, closing the player and pulling up his office chair. He had decided to screen all calls this weekend, and would only pick up in the event of a miracle: Cancerman begging to admit everything on the Letterman show, or Sharon Stone declaring her undying lust. He noticed there was one message waiting already. *Better check that. Sharon might have finally broken down?* BEEP. "Mulder, it's me. If you're there, _please_ pick up?" Mulder would have picked up for Scully anyway, but the ragged edge in her voice made him pick up faster. "I'm right here. Are you okay?" "I'm fine," she sniffled. "My life's just falling apart. No problem." *Christ, she's been crying?* An awful thought took hold. "Please tell me you two didn't break up." Scully made a sound that could have been a laugh or a cough. "I'd be calling a suicide hotline if that was the case. No, we're still together?" She sniffled again. "I told Mom." Mulder sat down in the office chair. "Uh oh." "Yup. She came by this morning, bearing Thanksgiving leftovers. She met Max, we went out, spent the day together?" "She didn't catch the two of you?" "Bite your tongue!" "Sorry, sorry. Please go on." "Thank you." Sniff. "Anyway, after Max left, Mom started grilling me about her. It led to the 'You're not meeting anyone' speech." Another sniff. "I couldn't stand it. I had to tell her the truth." He already knew the answer, but asked the question anyway. "How'd she take it?" "Are you familiar with the Hindenburg disaster?" Mulder closed his eyes. *Son of a bitch.* "I'm really sorry, Scully." "It might not be _that_ bad," Scully said doubtfully. "She didn't disown me, or anything. She said she had to think about it. Maybe when the news settles, we can talk more, but?" Her voice caught. "Mulder, she looked so? _terrified_! I mean, I expected surprise, shock, even anger, but? I _never_ expected _fear_!" "She's just had thirty years' worth of image changed on her, Scully," Mulder counseled. "That kind of thing tends to be hard to swallow." Scully was losing any sense of calm. "I shouldn't have said anything. I should have just told her what I usually tell her, that I wasn't meeting any interesting men, and?" "Scully, Scully, Scully," Mulder said soothingly, trying to calm her down. "After all this time swimming in the sewer with me, you _know_ how damaging lies can be. Even little white ones. Besides, the main reason the truth is better than lies is you don't have to _maintain_ the truth. You couldn't have kept Max a secret _forever_?" "Maybe not _forever_," Scully conceded. "But I could have waited until Mom was?" "Ready for it?" Mulder was incredulous. "Were you going to wait until she bought a bumpersticker that says, 'Straight but Not Narrow'? Your mom's a great lady, Scully, but somehow I can't see that scenario unfolding any time soon." Scully made the laugh/cough sound again. "Y'know, Mulder, I need you to be more supportive than right at this moment." "I'm a talented guy. Why can't I be both?" He was trying to think of another joke when there was a knock on his door. "Hold on a sec." He put the phone in his lap. "Who is it," he called. "Maggie Scully, Fox." Her voice had more rasp than usual. *I don't _remember_ ordering any psychodrama.* Mulder put the phone to his ear again. "She's here," he whispered. Scully gasped. "My _mother_?" "No, Madeline Albright. Yes, your mother. What do you want me to tell her?" "God, I don't know. That I'm not a pervert?" Mulder couldn't stop himself. "I'll only say things I can swear to." "I shot you in the shoulder last time, Mulder," Scully said, her voice deadly quiet. "Want me to try for center mass?" "Better get me with the first shot. Hang in there. I'll call you back." He hung up without waiting for an answer. After giving the apartment a quick look for any dirty laundry, he steeled himself and went to the door. Margaret Scully's eyes were red enough to double as traffic lights when Mulder answered the door. She seemed to have shrunk inside her favorite overcoat. "If I'm interrupting, I'll?" "No, no, no," Mulder said quickly. "Sorry I took so long. Some telephone solicitors just won't give up." *That's not a lie. It's a statement of fact.* He opened the door wider. "Please, come in. Excuse the mess." By Mulder's usual standards, the apartment was immaculate, but he knew Scully's mother could beat Martha Stewart when it came to domestic hygiene. Margaret did give the apartment a cursory once-over, but if she disapproved of it, she didn't say. "May I sit down," she asked politely, her hands still in her pockets. "Please," Mulder said, indicating the couch behind her. "Umm, would you like a drink? I've got?" He paused when he realized he didn't have a great variety of beverages to offer. *I don't know how old the milk is, and she doesn't seem like the type to drink bourbon?* Margaret nodded tentatively at Mulder's Saranac bottle as she sat. "Do you have another one of those?" "Sure," Mulder said, a little surprised. He'd seen her drink wine at dinner, and an occasional brandy after dinner; she seemed less likely to drink beer than she did to drink bourbon. He went to the bag and pulled out the rest of the six-pack. "Let me get you a glass?" "That's all right. In the bottle is fine." Mulder nearly had a Roger Rabbit Moment. *Man, this _did_ hit her hard.* Mulder put one bottle on the counter, put the rest in the refrigerator, popped the cap off the bottle and wiped the top off with a paper towel. He walked over to the couch, gave her the bottle and picked up his own. "Cheers." Margaret clinked her bottle to his and drank a short swallow. She made a face. "That's good." *She's a lousy liar.* Mulder looked apologetic. He sat back down in the office chair, pulling it forward so his knees almost touched Margaret's. "I' m sorry I don't have any brandy or?" "No, that's all right. This is fine." She looked around the apartment again, stopping at something she saw on the wall next to his desk. "Have you had that up long?" Mulder turned the chair to see. It was the picture of him with Scully at that wedding last fall. Scully had asked him to accompany them, mostly at the insistence of her mother. The ceremony was long and winding, but the reception had been a blast. "I put it up right after you gave it to me. It's a great picture," he added lamely. Margaret smiled at it. "Yes. It is." She started to tear up, but pulled herself together after a wipe of her eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be troubling you like this?" "It's okay?" "?but I don't know who else I can talk to. I can't talk to the boys. I can't talk to my friends?" "Sssh, it's all right," he assured her. "If I can help, I'd like to." *That' s _definitely_ not a lie.* Margaret nodded distractedly. She pulled a Kleenex out of her coat and wiped her eyes again. The crumpled tissue had obviously performed this task recently. "Fox?" She cleared her throat, sniffed. "I love my daughter. I want her to be happy?" "I know that," Mulder said gently. "And she loves you, too." *Easy. Let her set the pace for this.* Margaret nodded, though the information didn't seem to help. She gathered her thoughts before she went on. "There's this? Well, you know her, don't you? You both worked with her last month in Boston. The policewoman?" "Max," Mulder put in, nodding. Margaret looked at the space between them. "Max?" She shook her head. "That' s not a name for a woman." "It's just a nickname," Mulder said, as neutrally as possible. "It doesn't mean anything." "But I don't know? I mean? She seems like such a _nice_ woman?" "She is," Mulder informed her. "I like her a lot." "Really?" That seemed to befuddle Margaret even more. "Dana just?" She shook her head. "I still can't believe she said this?" She cleared her throat and leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Dana told me that she and? she and Rebecca? are? Well, they're?" It was painful to watch her struggle with it. "Together," Mulder said gently. Margaret looked up. "You know?" "Yes," Mulder affirmed. Her reaction was immediate. "Did you try to stop it?" Mulder frowned. "No." "Why not?" *Because I couldn't have stopped it if I tried. Because I would have lost her, both as a partner and a friend. Because most of her unhappiness is related to the X Files, and I blame myself for that?* "It's not my place," he said simply. She couldn't believe it. "But it's? it's _wrong_! It's a _sin_?" Mulder looked hesitant. "I'm probably not the best person to talk to about that. My feelings on what sin is have changed radically in the last few years." Margaret was flabbergasted. "And you're not angry? Or even _concerned_?" It was Mulder's turn to focus on the space between them. "I admit I _was_ concerned when Scully? when I first found out." *Too late, Mulder. Another cat's out of the bag.* Now Margaret knew Scully had told Mulder first. He glanced up at Scully's mother; her eyes communicated another layer of disappointment, maybe even betrayal. "I am _still_ concerned," Mulder added hastily. "We work in a profession that's less than enlightened, no matter who's in the White House. It could cause Scully trouble if the wrong people found out." *And that's just the normal pabulum-brained bureaucrats. Then there's a certain scum-sucking nicotine addict?* "But I'm _not_ concerned about Max." "Why not," she asked again, desperate to understand. *One reason the truth is unpopular is because it hurts.* "Because I don't think you could find someone who cares as much about Scully as Max does." *"I've been waiting all my life for her, Mulder. Words haven't been invented to describe how much I love her?."* Mulder remembered the look in Max' eyes as she sat across from him at Friendly's. He would have needed a bathysphere to traverse the depth of feeling, in her statement and her eyes. Mulder's last sentence seemed to dumbfound Margaret. "But? But I thought ? I 'd always hoped the two of you would?" She gestured helplessly at the picture on the wall. Mulder looked at the picture and sighed. *I've never told anyone there's no Santa Claus before?* He turned back and took Margaret's left hand in both of his. "Mrs. Scully, I love your daughter very much. She is?" He thought for a moment. "As close I'm probably ever going to get to having a sister again." For a moment, he was flooded with anguish; that was as close as he'd ever come to admitting he'd never be able to bring Samantha back. He pushed the feeling down and patted Margaret's hand. "But as far as anything beyond that? it's just not meant to be." Margaret shook her head firmly. Denial flowed out of her. "You've been her friend, her protector. You've fought for her, searched for her, _saved_ her?" "She's saved my life as much as I've saved hers," Mulder pointed out. "Even so, that doesn't mean we're supposed to be _together_." "How is that possible," Margaret wanted to know, her voice high and choked. "You and Dana aren't supposed to be together? but Dana and this woman _are_?" Mulder looked out the window. "I'm the last person I'd expect to say this, Mrs. S. But some things just can't _be_ explained. Some things just _are_." Margaret closed her eyes now. She didn't cry, but she didn't speak. Mulder waited, knowing something would come out sooner or later. Ultimately, she said, "I don't know what to do. We? It's a terrible clich, but it's true. We raised her differently than this. Dana's a _good_ girl. She knows right from wrong?" "Yes," Mulder agreed. "She does." He squeezed her hand. "So if she knows right from wrong, and is _still_ doing it, what does that say to you?" "Fox, it's not that simple?" "Yes, it is. You can't believe how much thought Scully has put into this. She knows the risks. She knew this might cause you pain. And you _know_ she would never deliberately try to hurt you." "No, she wouldn't," Margaret said, shaking her head slightly. She looked at her barely touched beer bottle. "So you don't think this? will go away. That this? this is real." Her voice picked up. "She said she still likes men. Maybe if she meets someone?" Mulder shook his head solemnly. "Mrs. Scully, this is not a teenage crush. Your daughter knows that this is what she wants." He had a thought. "You say I've been Scully's protector. I guess that's true, though she's more than able to protect herself. Would I trust _Max_ to protect her? Guard her life, her safety, her feelings?" He nodded. "Yes. Without a doubt." Margaret's eyes never left the bottle. "She's? She's a good person?" "You've met her. Talked with her. What do _you_ think?" Margaret considered the question. "I don't know what to say _now_. I liked her. She seemed so?" *Normal.* She stopped herself, recognizing that was too hackneyed, even in her present mental state. "She was funny, intelligent, easy to talk to. We were having a nice time?" "And none of that has changed, just because now you know she loves your daughter. And she _does_, Mrs. Scully. Take my word for it." She took another sip of beer. She didn't seem to like the second sip any more than she liked the first. "So what am I supposed to do now? Accept her? Accept this?this??" "I can't tell you _what_ to do, Mrs. Scully," *Much as I'd like to, and much as Scully would like me to?* "All I can say is? I know Scully would want your support. This is as big a step for her as it is for you." He reached out and squeezed Margaret's shoulder. "You are such a large part of her life. It would kill her if she lost you. Over this, or anything else." Margaret seemed to think about that. After a time, she put the bottle down on the table and stood up. "I should go," she said quietly. Mulder stood up with her. "I hope I've helped, if only a little." "You have. A lot. But?" She stuffed her hands back into her pockets. "This is something only _I_ can really help _myself_ with." She held out her hand, which Mulder took. Then Margaret said, "Ohhh?" and wrapped Mulder in a fierce hug. Mulder returned the embrace loosely. It wasn't like this was a new experience; Scully's mother had hugged him before -- at Christmas, and at the end of the Scully family dinners he'd been invited to. But this was different. He had known for too long that Margaret Scully wanted him standing by her daughter's side as the priest took them through the wedding vows; now she knew that day would never come, and Mulder knew how much that hurt. Mulder walked her to the door, his hand in hers. He stopped before he opened it. "She's still your daughter. She's still the same person you love. That hasn't changed, either." "No, it hasn't?" She looked up at him, her eyes cloudy. "But it _has_." She gave him a smile of thanks, opened the door herself, and walked out. Mulder closed it after her and put his forehead against the door. *Shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit?* <> * * * * * "THE ROAD NOT TAKEN 6: TYPHOON" (10/15) by deejay <> Scully rubbed her eyes with her free hand. The bone weariness from the bumpy flight seemed to increase while she listened to the message: "Dana, it's Billy. I _hope_ you're out on the job, and you're coming back in the near future. Call me as soon as you get in. I don't care how late." Beat. "I don't know what you're trying to pull, Sis, but if you think it's funny, you're _sadly_ mistaken!" Click. BEEP. Scully ran her fingers over her scalp. *At least there's only _one_ message, and he hasn't been calling since I left Monday morning?* She tried not to be angry at her mother. *She probably couldn't carry it any longer. Still, I would have _liked_ to break the news to the boys _myself_?* It had been five days since Scully told her mother her true feelings for Max; the few times Scully had been able to call Margaret from the road, she had gotten the answering machine. *No, that's not right. Tara picked up the phone last night, but Mom was out then, too. At least, that's what Tara _said_?* Scully picked up her hanging bag and lugged it into the bedroom. *Come on, don't be paranoid. She was perfectly friendly. Tara's _always_ perfectly friendly?* The doorbell rang long and hard. Scully emitted a low growl. *Can't I sit down, at least, before I get pilloried?* She strode to the door and looked through the spyhole. "Fabulous," she said under her breath. Charles stood at Parade Rest in the hallway, bundled against the weather in a dark blue watch cap and a blue hooded parka. He bounced on the balls of his feet, looking more impatient than angry. To Scully's dismay, Anger waited until she opened the door before it showed itself. "Have you lost your mind," Charles asked rhetorically, pushing past her into the apartment. Scully felt her ears getting warm. "I'm fine, Charlie. A little jet-lagged from the flight, but otherwise?" "Don't try to be smart," Charles said quickly, using one of their father's favorite lines. "Close the door." "Do you want to talk," Scully asked sharply. "Or do you want to scream?" Charles waved a hand at the open door. "Will you close the damn?" "Unh unh," Scully said, shaking her head. "No way. You want to holler, you can serenade the neighbors. You want to talk like socialized life forms, I' ll close the door." "Do you want the whole _building_ to?" "_No_, Charlie, I _don't_. So if you want to talk, that's fine. You want to chew me out? That's fine, too. But you do it in a civil tone of voice, or the door stays open. Or I close it after you leave. Your choice." Charles smoldered for a moment, then nodded quickly and waved at the door again. Scully turned to close it. She didn't want to alienate either of her brothers, but she was damned if she was going to be yelled at in her own apartment. She had hoped she'd have less of a battle with Charles than with Billy. A month after she told her parents she was joining the FBI, Charles informed them of his intention to go into Naval Aviation, instead of climbing the same ladder to Command their father had climbed, and Billy was already climbing. Charlie's news was received only a little better than Dana 's news (Their father referred to Navy pilots as "sideshow acrobats."), so 'the two mavericks' had done quite a lot of commiserating. The night before Dana left for Quantico, Charlie told her his decision was inspired by her decision to go her own way. Charles didn't look like he was in Scully's apartment to commiserate. He pulled off his watch cap, dropped it on the side table, and unzipped his parka with a flourish. "I don't know where to begin here." Scully leaned against the door and folded her arms. "How about by telling me when Mom told you." "_Mom_ didn't tell me. She wasn't going to tell either of us. But she told Tara late last night. Tara called Billy, he got it out of Mom." *Tara,* Scully thought darkly. *Who's always got a kind word for everyone.* Scully got along well enough with her older sister-in-law, but sometimes she was too much of a California ex-cheerleader to live. *At least Mom _tried_ to keep it to herself?* "'Got it out of her,' huh? What'd Billy have to use? Thumbscrews? Scopolamine? Cat'o'Nine Tails?" "What do you expect? You think she was bursting to tell us this _wonderful_ news?" "I'd _expect_ you to respect her wishes, which were probably to let _me_ tell you. Something I was going to do after Mom and I talked some more?" Charles glared at her. "Talked some _more_? Why the hell did you tell her in the first place?!" "Because she asked," Scully shot back. Charlie could raise his eyebrow at a moment's notice, too. "She asked you if you were sleeping with a woman?" "She was doing everything _but_," she maintained. "She'd met Max. She was asking about her?" "Max?" Charles shook his head like he had water in his ears. "Her name is _Max_?" "Her name is Rebecca Maxfield," Scully sighed. "Her friends call her Max." Charles snorted. "Yeah, well, Max _would_ be a more _appropriate_ name?" Scully walked toward him, eyes flaring. "You're pushing the envelope, Charlie." "Hey, excuse me if I'm a little abrupt," Charlie retorted. "Christ on a crutch, Dana! You're _not_ _queer_!" Coming from her younger brother's mouth, the word 'queer' was jarring in the extreme. Scully didn't back down, though. "I'm not _straight_, _either_, Charlie." "Oh, that is _such_ a fucking hedge?" *That's what I always thought. But I'm not telling _you_ that!* "It happens to be the _truth_!" "Oh, Jesus," Charles snarled, turning away from her. He looked out the window at the headlights below. "Damn it, did you _have_ to tell her?" Scully spread her arms out. "What was I _supposed_ to do? Lie to her?" "Yes," Charles said immediately. "That's _exactly_ what you should have done!" "Really? That's very interesting, Charlie. And how long was I supposed to keep this up? A week? A month? A year? Til she _dies_?" "As long as it takes!" "As long as it takes for _what_," Scully said, completely exasperated. Charles spun around. "For you to come to your _senses_!" Scully pressed her fingers to her eyes. *Give me strength!* She held out her hands. "Charlie, I am not under some _spell_ here. This is not a? a _whim_, or a _caprice_?" Charles held his ground. "It is not _you_!" Scully lost it. "How the hell do _you_ know what I am?! Up until six months ago, you were living in Italy and patrolling the Mediterranean! I haven't seen you more than three times since you were transferred to Norfolk?" Charlie shook his head rapidly. "I don't need to _see_ you to know that what you're doing is _wrong_!" "Is it wrong to be miserable, Charlie? Is it wrong to not let yourself _feel_ anything? Because that's the way I've lived my life the last few years! I've had to be Mount Everest, hard as a rock and just as cold, even when it hurt so bad, all I could do was sit in the shower and cry!" She stabbed a finger into her own chest. "Well, I'm _not_ made of stone! I have needs, just like everyone else!" She advanced on him slowly, reaching out to him again. "Charlie, for the first time in years, I'm _happy_! I've found someone who _cares_ for me?" Charles shut his eyes and turned away, unwilling to hear any more. The look of disgust on his face cut through Scully like a Ginsu knife. She raised her voice, words leaping from her mouth. "I'm not asking you to approve, or even accept it. But damn it, can't you _understand_ how I could?" Charles exploded. "Understand? _Understand_? I'm supposed to understand that my sister is in love with a fucking _dyke_?!? How-" Charles' head snapped right. He hadn't seen his sister wind up, much less launch the slap that cut off his diatribe. She had always been strong for her size, and the stinging blow let him know that strength had not diminished one whit. He put a hand to his cheek and ran his tongue along his gum line, searching for loose teeth. He gave Dana a sidelong look; the hand that had slapped him was now clamped over her mouth. Her eyes were wide with emotion, but that emotion wasn't fright. The words came out of nowhere. "I don't want you at Caroline's party tomorrow." Scully's eyes nearly popped out of her head. "What?" "You heard me," he heard himself say. "Until you make some decisions about yourself, I don't want you around my kids." "For God's sake, Charlie," Scully cried out. "I'm not _contagious_?" "I don't know _what_ you are. Like you said." He went to the side table and snatched up his watch cap. "But until you decide to live like a normal person again, that's the way it's going to _be_." He stuffed the cap in one of the parka's huge pockets and started for the door. "Charlie, wait!" Charlie stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He turned to his sister, staying blank with all his might. Dana stood by the window, fists balled at her sides. Charles said nothing, waiting. Suddenly his sister ran into her bedroom. He was going to leave when he heard paper rustling furiously, like Dana was searching for something. Curiosity was about to get the better of Charles when Dana stormed back into the room, marched up to her brother, and stuffed a glossy yellow gift bag into his hands. A pink card envelope stuck out of the top. The look Scully gave him would have turned lesser men to stone. "You can have it sterilized if you want," she said sarcastically. "But it'll mat the fur." Charles looked into the bag. The yellow rain hat all Paddington bears wore peeked out from behind pink tissue paper. The bag was heavier than a teddy bear should have been. *She must have gotten her the book, too.* He looked up at Dana, started to speak, then just opened the door and strode out. Scully didn't react when Charles belatedly slammed the door behind him. She just stood still, staring at the space where Charles had stood. The phone began to ring; Scully did not move to answer it. Her machine kicked in after five rings, as usual. When the message ended, the machine made its usual obnoxiously long beep. A caller's voice had a metallic sound when it came out of the speaker: "Dana, this is Billy! You'd better not be ducking my calls?" Scully started to shake. <> * * * * * "THE ROAD NOT TAKEN 6: TYPHOON" (11/15) by deejay <> *Scully has way too many glasses for one person,* Mulder reflected, taking two small snifters out of the cupboard and placing them on the counter. He squatted down and opened the cabinet where Scully kept the booze. Mulder was about to grab the Jim Beam when he spotted a familiar brown bottle; he grinned despite the circumstances of his search. He uncorked the bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream as he stood, pouring a generous amount into each glass. Scully was in the same position Mulder had found her when he let himself into the unlocked apartment. She lay on the bed facing the far wall, her knees hiked up in the fetal position. He paused in the doorway; she looked very small, and he could almost see the pain radiate from her. "You've been holding out on me." "How's that?" Her voice was as small as she looked. He walked around the bed, keeping his Smirk to a minimum. "You've been keeping the good stuff for yourself." He held one of the snifters out to her. Scully smiled weakly when she saw what was in it. "I just thought you were a bourbon man." "A likely story. Sit up. I didn't bring a straw." "You just blew your tip," she muttered. She rolled onto her back and hiked herself into a sitting position, accepting the snifter with a slight nod of thanks. They touched glasses and sipped. The thick liqueur went down as smooth as silk. "My father loved this stuff." *Ooops.* "Bad choice?" She shook her head, taking another sip. "It's a very _peaceful_ drink. Peace is what I need right now." If Charles' visit had been bad, Billy's phone call had been an absolute nightmare. Not only wouldn't he listen to reason, he wouldn't listen to anything else; he shouted down every objection, ignored every plea. He dressed her down like an Annapolis plebe, blaming her entirely for the tearful state their mother was in when Billy finished interrogating her. His final comment was akin to a direct order from a commanding officer to the lowliest of subordinates: "I don't want to hear from you until you've ended this? _relationship_? and apologized to Mom. When that's done, you will never mention this again -- not to Mom, not to me, not to _anyone_. And Dana, I swear to God, if you want to stay in this family, you will _never_ do something like this again!" He'd slammed the phone down without waiting for a response. Scully couldn't have given him one, even if he'd been willing to listen to it. By the time Billy had hung up, she was sitting sideways on the couch with her knees against her chest, shaking like a leaf, her cheeks soaked with tears. It took her a good ten minutes to pull herself together enough to call Mulder, and another five to get up and go into the bedroom. Mulder sat on the edge of the bed and looked his partner over. Her cheeks were dry now, but her eyes were still puffy and red. She needed a hug, among other things. "Do you want to talk about it?" Eventually Scully nodded, but she didn't speak. Mulder stuck with his psychology training. "Tell me what you're thinking." Sculy took a sip, then another. Finally she said, "I'm thinking about how stupid I am." She shook her head slowly. "I knew the boys would react badly. I _knew_ that?" She was shaking again. "But I wasn't prepared for how? how _angry_? how _hateful_?" "You couldn't have known," Mulder told her gently. "I know this happens," Scully maintained, her voice shaking now. She brought her knees up to her chest again, wrapping her arms around them. She nearly spilled her drink. "There was a girl in my dorm at Maryland, Julie?" She sighed and shook her head when she couldn't think of the girl's last name. "She was going to be an ophthalmic surgeon, like her dad. Great girl. Always made you laugh in Pathology class when you got too green. She?" Scully took another sip. "We came back from Christmas vacation, and the RA was helping her move her stuff out of her room. Her parents had pulled her out of school. She'd told them?" Scully started to tear up again, her voice becoming progressively strangled. "They'd shut her out of the house, closed her bank account. She had no money and only the clothes on her back. We gave her what we could, but she had nowhere to go. The RD wouldn't even let her sleep on the floor in one of our rooms?" Mulder held out a hand. Scully took it, squeezing tightly as she cried. He couldn't think of anything else to do, so he fell back on humor. "Good thing the lease is in your name." Scully snorted. She amended the snort by saying, "It's not funny, Mulder." "No," he said quietly. "It isn't." He let go long enough for her to dry her tears. When she'd finished, she sought out his hand again. They drank in silence, sipping their Bailey's and holding hands in the dimly lit room. After a while, Scully said, "I am sohhhhhhhh? _furious_?" *That's a good sign.* "Why?" She took a long sip before she spoke. "You told me I haven't had much of a life since we started working together. But if I'm going to be honest, I haven't _let_ myself have a life. I haven't let myself _feel_. I didn't think I was _entitled_ to feel, I guess. I had to be strong, because that was my role. And that's the way I lived my life? until I met Max." She sniffled. "And now that I've found her? now that I'm _letting_ myself feel something?" Her voice rose, her words spoken through gritted teeth. "I'm being told I have to _stop_. That I _can't_ feel the way I do, because it's not _right_, it's not _me_, it's not _allowed_! Because I don't _really_ feel this way, I just _think_ I do?" "They're looking out for your welfare," Mulder said neutrally. "Then why did Billy act like the only reason this happened was because I wanted to hurt Mom? It was a given he'd play Patriarch; that's been his role since Dad died. But how could he even _think_ I could do that? Why is it _his_ decision whether I'm _allowed_ to be part of the family? And Charlie? Suddenly I can't come near his children near my _Goddaughter_ because I' m in love with a woman?" Her voice started to rise. "If I was in love with a no-good son of a bitch who belittled me in public and abused me in private, would it be okay as long as it was a man?" Scully clasped his hand so hard it hurt. "If _that's_ their idea of looking out for me, let them look out for _themselves_!" The vehemence of Scully's statement made Mulder want to lean back. He was torn; while he thought her brothers had acted deplorably, he knew how important Scully's family was to her, and how important she was to her mother. "Have you tried to talk with your mom again?" Scully shook her head. "I think Tara's playing gatekeeper. Mom hasn't returned any of my calls. That's not like her." "She's still shook up?" "Sure, after Billy re-enacted the Spanish Inquisition!" "Then she's probably embarrassed. I think your guess was right: That she wasn't going to tell them, that you'd want to do it yourself." Mulder shrugged, a smile playing with the corners of his mouth. "Besides, _nobody_ expects the Spanish Inquisition?" He would have done the whole Monty Python routine, but Scully let go of his hand and threw a pillow at him. He ducked, but the movement made him fall off the bed with a loud thump. Scully put her glass on the night table and clambered to the foot of the bed, anger replaced by concern. "Mulder, are you all right?" Mulder was on his back, leaning on his elbows. His snifter was on its side, but he'd finished most of his drink, so nothing had spilled. He Smirked up at her. "I'm not worried any more." Scully blinked. "About what?" He red-lined the Smirk. "About you shooting me. If you can't hit me with a pillow at point blank range, how are you ever gonna put a bullet in me?" Scully's response was immediate. "I'll just wait til you open your mouth. I can't miss a target _that_ big." Mulder just chuckled. Scully put her head down on the bed and laughed quietly. She put a hand on Mulder's knee, and he put a hand over it. The phone rang, causing Scully to start. She looked over her shoulder at the white trimline next to the radio on the night table. After the second ring, Mulder said, "You could screen it." Scully considered the suggestion. "I could stay in this apartment with the doors locked the rest of my life. I'm not going to do that, either." She crawled up the bed, took the phone off the stand, and switched it on. "Hello?" Her uncertain expression melted into one of relief. "God, am I glad to hear your voice." Mulder didn't need a crystal ball to know who it was. He got up and tiptoed out of the bedroom, grabbing his snifter as an afterthought. "I'll be out here," he mouthed to Scully. Scully propped herself up against the stacked pillows. "Thank you," she mouthed back. <> Max kept meaning to get a cordless phone, but she never found one she liked at a price she could afford. As a stopgap measure, she bought longer cords for both her phones. The ones on the living room phone let her pace the floor or sit on the couch, which was a fair distance from the phone table in the foyer. She paced for most of Scully's description of her brothers' respective pronouncements. Max had been racked with sorrow when she heard about Margaret Scully's reaction to her daughter's new relationship; now Max was as far from sadness as she could get, particularly when it came to Lieutenant Commander William Scully Jr. "I'll kill him," she said, her voice quivering with rage. "Max?" "I'm serious. I am _dead_ serious. That miserable bastard better get his teeth cleaned, 'cause they're gonna need dental records to identify him when I'm through with his low-rent self?" "I appreciate the sentiment," Scully said quietly. "But when I come up to see you, I'd like to meet somewhere other than the Visitor's Area at Walpole." "Who says I'd get caught? I've seen every mistake a perp could make! I could waste Captain America and no one would be the wiser?" "Max, how many cases have you closed where the perp was _sure_ he'd never get caught?" Max ran a hand over her face, remembering her second case in Homicide. The OneBank vice-president (*What was his name? Donnelly? Donofree? Donofree, yeah. John Patrick Donofree?*) had almost succeeded in making it look like his wife Patricia had left him for another man; his girlfriend had left Patricia Donofree's Lexus in the Long Term lot at Logan and bought a plane ticket to Los Angeles using Patricia's credit card. *Even made herself up to look like the guy's wife. Too bad she used _her own_ credit card to buy dinner on the way to San Francisco.* Donofree looked truly stunned when the Bear slapped the cuffs on him. "Okay, okay," Max muttered. She plopped down on the couch. "Can I neuter him, at least? I'll make sure the samurai sword' s good and sharp?" "Mom wants more grandkids to play with. Sorry." "You're no fun any more." She blew air out her nose. "All right, fine, he lives, and we don't make him a soprano." Beat. "But if he talks to you like that again, I will nuke him til he _glows_. I swear I will!" Scully sighed, wishing she could hug her lover. "I've never had anyone defend my honor before." "Get used to it." She leaned back so the base of her skull lay on the top of the couch. Her voice softened. "What _do_ you want to do about this?" Scully was silent. Max never thought silence could be so loud. "They want me to end it. They want me to go back to the way I was. They want me to shut down?" "I realize this." *Keep breathing, Maxie.* She fixed her gaze on a cobweb on one of the ceiling beams. *That's gonna go condo if I don't sweep it off?* "Do you want to go covert? Fly low, avoid the radar??" "You mean lie." "I know how much they mean to you, girl," she said quietly. "Yes," Scully said slowly. "They mean a lot to me. But up until now, I was supposed to mean a lot to _them_, too. I mean, we weren't just brothers and sisters, we were a _team_! We _always_ backed each other up, no matter _what_ the situation. Now they tell me none of that matters, and I can only be part of the family if I live my life the way _they_ want?" She took a deep breath. "They should be careful what they wish for." Max leaned forward until her elbows rested on her knees. "Baby, I don't want to drive a wedge between you and your family?" "_They're_ the one's doing the driving, Max," Scully said evenly. "I think they should live with the wedge for a while. See how they like it." *Oh, my ears and whiskers?* "Woof!" Max' usual declaration of disbelief had none of the starch it usually held. "There is an element of strategy here, Max," Scully explained. "Mom hasn't talked to me at all since she found out about us. Now, maybe Billy's wife is keeping her away from the phone, or maybe Mom's hoping this will go away if she ignores it; she's always done passive-aggressive really well?" "Or maybe she's just still freaked out," Max put in. "Maybe," Scully acceded. "Whatever the reason? If I do this, maybe I can get her to talk about this some more? maybe get her to understand?" Max longed for a drink; her mouth was dry as dust. "And if she _doesn't_ understand? Or if she sides with the Brothers Grim?" Scully was amazed at how calm she sounded. *The Ice Queen cometh.* "Then I guess Charlie's kids won't have to bunk with him and Karen this Christmas. Because my room will be vacant." Max swallowed hard. "You are the strongest person I know." Scully's voice was as flat as it got. "I won't walk away from you, Max. I won't lie to my family, but I won't walk away from you. I _can't_." For the first time in her memory, Detective First Grade Rebecca Maxfield was utterly speechless. *She's willing to give it all up. For _me_. Oh, Goddess, I love her so much. Please don't make her hate me for doing it?* When Max didn't speak, Scully said, "Say something." "Sorry," Max croaked. "I'm polishing my imitation of a stunned person. Gimme a minute." Scully's voice sharpened. "Would you walk away from _me_ if your family laid down the law?" "Ain't gonna happen. Mom thinks you're a hot ticket. Mike says he wants to have you cloned, so he can have a girlfriend as cool as mine?" "But _would_ you?" The thought of her family ostracizing her, for any reason, made Max sick with horror. But she didn't hesitate. "I'd rather French-kiss Ross Perot on 'Larry King Live.'" "See," Scully returned. "You _do_ know someone stronger than me." The laughter exploded out of both of them. Max felt tears run down her face. "Mike's right. I _do_ have a cool girlfriend." By the sound of Scully's laughter, she was probably crying, as well. "You too, huh? Aren't we lucky?" *Lucky? I couldn't have this much luck again if the Goddess gave me _two_ lifetimes!* "Oh, baby? Oh, Jesus, I do love you so." "Me too, you," Scully managed. "So, ummm? it's you and me. Forever, and all that good shit." "You and me," Scully whispered. "Forever." Max pounded the couch softly. *Yes. Yes. Yes.* "Then can I ask a question?" Scully gave a long sniffle. "Shoot." "Would you like to see how the Maxfields do Christmas?" "I would love that," Scully said, smiling through more tears. "I would love that a lot." <> * * * * * "THE ROAD NOT TAKEN 6: TYPHOON" (12/15) by deejay <> Max waited until the waitress took their coffee order before she said it again. "'Who the fuck are _you_? Th' Spice Girls?'" It broke both of them up for the tenth time. "Ohhhhh, he was _so_ tough," Bridgit chortled. "Tougher than a pit bull at a cat show," Max agreed, the giggling making her quake. She pulled two plastic-covered menus out of a standing metal clip and handed one to her partner. Red and white Christmas lights blinked above their booth. The last notes of "The Little Drummer Boy" floated out of a radio behind the counter. When the last "rum pum pum" pummed, an unctious voice reminded whoever was listening that there were "only _five_ shopping days til Christmas, and the stores are _packed_! So if you haven't bought your presents yet, better get out the crash helmet and the elbow pads and _get going_?" "How much time did we put in on that son of a bitch," Bridgit wondered. "Including paperwork?" Max tapped the menu lightly, calculating. "Hour at the crime scene, maybe another hour canvassing the neighbors. Fifteen minutes to find the bar our boy was in?" "Wasn't it _nice_ of him to drink locally," Bridgit cracked. "Sure made _my_ night easier." Max' tongue peeped out the corner of her mouth. "Ten minutes for a blue-and-white to show up?" Bridgit considered the question. "Closer to fifteen." "Whatever. Three minutes to haul his half-drunk-and-nasty ass out of there. Twenty minutes to get a raft of shit and no real alibi time from his fellow lush-life devotees. Fifteen minutes for transport. An hour in Interrogation breaking him down?" "You said it'd take _half_ an hour," Bridgit reminded her, her eyes gleaming. "I was right, though, wasn't I," Max maintained, trying not to sound defensive. "He was a crybaby. We had him bawling for his mama when they took him?" "You _said_ it'd take _half an hour_." "This is why I'm buying breakfast," Max admitted, still slightly sour. "Twenty minutes re-living the experience with the rest of the shift, and an hour on the paperwork." She looked blank, then sighed in frustration. "I lost track. How much is that?" Bridgit looked sour now. "_Way_ too much time and effort to spend on a cockroach like that." "Hey, sometimes even Dunkers take a little work," Max shrugged. "At least we got him nailed before the end of shift. If I have to fight the Powers That Be for overtime, I'd like to do it on a case that offers a little challenge." "Perfectionist," Bridgit observed dryly. Max had a mild retort, but she held it back when the waitress brought their coffee. She ordered pancakes with wheat toast and orange juice; Bridgit almost ordered the biggest item she could find, but she spared Max' wallet and settled for a cheese-and-mushroom omelet, "dry rye toast, hold the home fries." The still-half-asleep waitress nodded and went away. Max grabbed some Sweet' n'Lo and dumped the contents in her cup. She laughed at her actions. "Lord love a duck!" "What's the matter," Bridgit asked, pouring cream into her own cup. "We just worked from Midnight to 8. We don't _have_ to stay awake any more. _Why_ are we drinking more caffeine?" "I can't speak for _you_," Bridgit answered, holding the cup below her lips. "Personally, I'd kind of like to be able to make it home without wrapping my Neon around a lamppost." "Good point," Max allowed. "Seeing as you're giving me a ride, and all." She took a sip. It was better than squadroom coffee, but not much. "So. You feel any better than you did when you came to work?" Bridgit thought about it. "Not a whole lot. I guess I'm still adjusting." Max felt sorry for her, but that emotion only went so far. "No offense, B, but if you're gonna go out with married men?" "Mark was separated," Bridgit said into her cup. "Oh, puh-leeze," Max groaned. "I'm sorry, B, but I've had this exact same conversation with my friend K.C.. Twice, as a matter of fact. Until they sign the dotted line and set up the alimony schedule, they are _still_ _married_, no matter _what_ they say their intentions are." Bridgit waved her off. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I know." She took another sip and put her cup back in the saucer. "But for Christ's sake, Max, it's hard enough finding _single_ guys that are worth a shit in this town! I swear, except for Mark, I haven't had a date that was worth following up since I moved back here! They're either Momma's Boys or misogynists. They all dress like male models, but their minds are in jeans and t-shirts. I take one look at the proto-Yuppies lined up at the bar at Friday's, and I just wanna _run_!" "Can't fault you there," Max said sympathetically. "And I sure can't date anyone at _work_," Bridgit went on. "That's a disaster I can live without?" "Tell me about it," Max grumbled. "I've got the divorce papers to prove it." It was Bridgit's turn to look sympathetic. Then she looked off and sighed. "Maybe I ought to just quit, you know? Get an unlisted number and a subscription to 'Playgirl'. At least with a _virtual_ sex life, nobody breaks up with you." "Depends how dysfunctional your brain's fantasy function is." Then Max snickered. "Besides, I can't see you being satisfied with the sound of one hand typing." She rolled up her eyes and started panting frantically. "Will you _stop_," Bridgit giggled, looking over her shoulder. "Shit, I can' t take you _anywhere_!" Max brought her demeanor back to normal, pleased she could do something to bring her partner out of her funk. "Well, I'd hook you up with that Feebie I know, but K.C. already has first dibs if he ever comes back to town." Bridgit gave her a dubious look. "You dealing reconditioned boyfriends now, Max? I don't know who to call, Bunco or Vice?" "Mulder's not my _boyfriend_, B," Max sighed. "I guess not, if you're fobbing him off on poor unsuspecting?" "He's just a _friend_. Nothing happened between us. Nothing's _going_ to happen between us." "Why the hell not? All that gunfire didn't bring you closer together? It's been known to happen?" *You don't know the half of it.* Max searched in vain for the waitress. "Believe me, B, you just don't wanna know." Bridgit's smile looked almost sinister. "Ohhhhh, _now_ you've done it. Now I 'm _intrigued_." She leaned forward and folded her arms on the table. "What' s this guy Mulder's problem? Is he kinky?" "Drop it, B," Max warned. "No chance. Come on, give it up. He likes handcuffs and leather? Whips and chains? Does he want you to put on a halter top and an Afro wig and re-create scenes from 'Cleopatra Jones?'" "The problem is, it's not _his_ problem," Max said quickly. "It's _my_ problem." She lowered her voice. "I'm in love with his partner." "You mean the woman wasn't his regular partner?" Bridgit whistled. "He must be a serious babe if he's better than the guy I saw." Max took a deep breath, like someone who was about to dive into the deep end of a swimming pool. "The woman _was_ his regular partner, B." Bridgit blinked, them blinked again, then smiled. "Come on-You're bullshitting me, right?" Max looked her partner right in the eye. "No shit. Dead serious." Bridgit blinked some more as the smile faded. The waitress arrived, loaded down with plates. The two detectives silently held each other's stare while she arranged their respective breakfasts on the scarred table. Max waited until she went away before she shrugged. "Told ya you didn't want to know." The lanky dyed-blonde dropped her eyes to her breakfast. "Ummm, yeah," she finally managed. "That may have been too much information." *Oh, great. Isn't _this_ special?* "I take it you don't approve." Her partner looked up, but her gaze went over Max' right shoulder. "It's not that I don't _approve_?" She paused, then shook her head. "I just can't _relate_, I guess?" "Okay," Max said carefully. "That's fair?" "And?" Bridgit seemed to be struggling with something; this surprised Max, who found her partner did not lack for the ability of self-expression. Finally, she said, "I had a bad experience?" "I'm sorry..." "I mean, _I_ didn't have it," Bridgit said quickly. "It was? Well?" "If you don't want to talk about it, don't," Max said, unable to sound anything but curt. "It's okay." "No." Bridgit shook her head. She kept her voice low, too. "I want you to understand where I'm coming from." She took a deep breath. "I told you I was a jock in high school, didn't I?" Max took a bite of toast. "Swimmer, right?" Bridgit nodded. "Swimming, lacrosse? and a little bit of track. Hurdles, long jump?" She took a sip of coffee. "Anyway, one afternoon after practice, I was on my way home, when I realized I left my watch in my locker. It was a new watch, I'd just gotten it for my birthday, so I wasn't used to wearing it yet." She sighed. "So I go back, and the gym isn't locked, which was weird, because practice had ended, like, an hour before." Her eyes dropped to her plate again. "I get my watch and I'm about to leave, when I hear the shower's running. I go over, figuring someone left it on, and solid citizen that I am, I'll turn it off?" She took another deep breath, closing her eyes for a second. "One of my friends, our star sprinter, was in there? with the Girl's Track coach." "Jesus," Max hissed. "They were? engrossed." Max' eyes were as wide as the saucer her coffee cup sat on. "What did you do?" "Bolted. Got on my bike and burned rubber home. Nearly got hit by a car when I crossed an intersection against the light. I quit the team the next day?" "You turned her in, right?" Bridgit looked confused. "My friend?" "No, dipshit," Max snapped in a whisper. "The coach!" Bridgit's expression was unreadable. "You think I should have?" "Yes, of _course_ I think you?" Then Max translated the expression. "Oh, come _on_, B! _Please_ don't tell me you buy that 'recruiting' bullshit! You 've got a _lot_ more sense than that?" "Okay," Bridgit said evenly, gesturing for Max to go on. "What would _you_ call it?" *Don't scream. Wait til you get home.* "I call it pedophilia!" Bridgit started to object, but Max rode right over her. "It doesn't _matter_ that the perp's a woman! For fuck's sake, _you_ were on Sex Crimes! You know that shit's not about _sex_! It's about _power_! You don't _know_ what you are at that age! You only know what you're _told_! Anyone who takes advantage of that oughta be strapped to a satellite and launched into deep space!" "I'm glad to hear you say that?" "What did you _think_ I was going to say? Did you think I would _approve_?" An enraged Max was not a fun thing to look at, even if it was a quietly enraged Max. "I'm sorry," Bridgit said penitently. "That was stupid." "_Real_ stupid," Max declared. She grabbed her fork and savagely cut into her pancakes. Bridgit picked up her fork and cut off a piece of omelet. Nothing was said for some time, until Bridgit meekly spoke up. "I always knew." 'Skeptical' didn't begin to describe Max' expression when she looked up. "_Always_." Her partner didn't hesitate. "From the second Arnie Lingenfelder kissed me outside the Boylston Street Burger King." A smile flirted with Max' mouth, despite her fury. "Arnie Lingenfelder?" "Don't laugh," Bridgit said, wagging a finger at her. "For a sixth-grader, he was a fox. Imagine Fred Savage without the chipmunk cheeks." That got a short giggle. Max was considering the possibility of calming down. "So did you guys? progress to the next level?" Bridgit's eyes narrowed. "We would have if I hadn't found him kissing Melanie Brigham in the video arcade behind the Plaza." "Oh, shit," Max said gravely. "What'd you do?" "Kicked both their asses, and ran home thinking the world had just ended." Max grimaced. "They call it a crush because it hurts that bad when it lands on you." "Yup, yup, yup." Beat. "What you said before? Was it like that for you?" "What?" "You know," Bridgit shrugged. "Not knowing? what you were?" "You did Catholic school," Max pointed out, biting off another piece of toast. "Did they give _you_ any options besides marriage and kids?" Bridgit snorted softly. "Not a lot." "That's the way it was for me." Max put her fork down and picked up her orange juice, though she didn't drink it. "I did the full routine: Dating, boyfriends? even went to the Senior Prom, meringue chiffon dress and the whole nine yards. I got along with guys. I _get_ along with guys." She toasted the air. "Everywhere but in bed." "That must have sucked." Max rolled her eyes. "Did wonders for my self-esteem." "I'll bet." Bridgit leaned forward again. Her tone was inquisitive, not accusing. "Why'd you get married, then?" Max sipped some OJ before she spoke. "Because Richard was sweet in a big-lug kinda way. Because we got along better than most folks did. Because he was going to be a cop, too, and I figured he'd understand what I'd be going through?" "_Big_ mistake," Bridgit put in. "Yeah," Max admitted. *It ain't slander if it's true.* "My parents liked him. He and my dad watched football games together?" Pause. "He said he loved me. I thought? No, I _did_ love him." She sighed. "And the sex was mediocre instead of terrible, and I thought that was the best I could expect?" She displayed a textbook example of an ironic smile. Bridgit could see the sadness in Max' eyes, even though it had dulled with the years. "People have gotten married for _worse_ reasons. Right?" "Oh yeah," Bridgit said dryly. "My first roommate at UNC. She got married the middle of junior year, never got her degree. Boy was the heir to some tobacco kingdom. Grantham was a half-witted Ken doll, but you would've thought she'd landed Prince Charles. She's a Tarheel born and bred, and Big Tobbacky can do no wrong in that state." "Did she smoke?" "Like a shoe factory working three shifts. I had to air out the room every day." Sense Memory brought the smell of it back to Bridgit. It made her want to wash her hair. "Daddy must've _loved_ her." She gave her partner an appraising look. "Is this going to be a problem?" Bridgit dropped her eyes again. "Not as long as you stay on your side of the table." Max closed her eyes. She felt incredibly tired. "You're not my type, B." The rampantly hetero mixed-race woman surprised both of them. "Why the hell not?" Max couldn't help but laugh. "If you're not interested, why do you want to know?" Bridgit looked around the diner, wondering where her last statement had come from. "I don't know," she finally admitted. Then she said, "Maybe Mark's given me a thing about rejection." "See why you shouldn't go out with married guys?" Max laughed a little more, then said, "Well, aside from being too tall, and a cop a cop who happens to be on the same squad I am, which would be another nightmare in and of itself?" "You ain't lying," Bridgit agreed. The laughter faded. "?your name's all wrong." "Excuse me? She almost whispered it. "It isn't Dana Scully." Respect appeared in Bridgit's eyes. "She hits that hard, huh?" "All that and a raspberry lollipop," she said, picking up her coffee and finishing it. *God damn,* Bridgit thought. *I think I'm actually _jealous_?* Outside of high school, which was not the real world, Bridgit had yet to find anyone with whom she could have that depth of feeling. The closest she'd come was the prematurely gray stockbroker who went back to his wife the afternoon before. She changed the subject, for a number of reasons. "I want to keep being your partner." Max looked at her suspiciously. "Why?" Bridgit blinked. "'Why?' I thought you wanted?" "I just want to make sure you're not doing it to be a good liberal Democrat." *She's got a point. And she's got the right to ask, after the mule-ass stupid way I acted.* "There," she said after a moment. "_There's_ a reason. You're the first Republican I've ever been able to talk with without reaching for a blunt instrument. My sister would be so proud." "Hell of a basis for a partnership," Max said, faintly whimsical. "Okay, how about this." She looked Max right in the eye. "You don't treat me like I'm three days out of the Police Academy, with Cream of Mushroom soup for brains. I _know_ Hegeman has twenty more years on the job than I do. But God damn it, I was police for five years in Charlotte before I moved back here. Most of it was uniform, sure, but I did two years in the trenches with Robbery, and _three_ years here at Sex Crimes before I got kicked up to Homicide. I'm not a fucking _rookie_?" "No, you're not," Max assured her. "You're a good cop, and your gonna be good Murder Police." Bridgit's usual devilish grin made a comeback. Max held up a hand. "But you've got to understand. Homicide's like Major League Baseball: It's as high as you can go. The veterans will make you prove yourself, no matter what you've done at other levels. The Bear did it to me, to the point where I was ready to shoot it out with him in the middle of Copley Square." She made an accommodating gesture. "Though I will admit Dave lacks Bear's bewitching vibe?" "Hegeman's about as _bewitching_ as a rhino with PMS." "You're such a phrasemaker." The two women broke up, giving each other real smiles, friendly smiles. "Okay," Max finally said. "Partners." "Partners," Bridgit nodded. Her smile shrank and her head turned, like she expected a blow. She looked at Max out of the corner of her eye. "Friends? Even if I do say stupid shit from time to time?" Max waved her off. "I say stupid shit _all_ the time. Why should the rest of the world have all the fun?" Bridgit laughed, her relief evident. Max held out her little finger. "Friends." Bridgit touched it with her own pinkie. "Excellent." <> * * * * * "THE ROAD NOT TAKEN 6: TYPHOON" (13/15) by deejay <> Scully saved the document to hard disc and floppy, went to the pull-down menu, and clicked on 'Print'. She checked her watch (*Three minutes to spare,* she noted with satisfaction.) and looked up from her finished report. Mulder was squinting at the screen as he laboriously typed, the letters reflected in the wire-rim glasses he'd taken to wearing when he worked at the computer. "Didn't they offer typing classes where you went to high school," she asked dryly. Mulder never took his eyes off the screen. "Sure they did," he smiled. "It was a great place to meet girls." Scully threw a raised eyebrow at him. "Which explains why you're typing with two fingers, at approximately twenty words a minute." "Some of the great writers of history were hunt-and-peck." Mulder said placidly. "Name three." She leaned back in her chair with her arms folded. Mulder clicked on a typo and wiped it out with a touch of the 'Delete' button. He was damned if he was going to backspace it away during this conversation. "Stephen King. Admitted as much in an interview." "That's one." He thought a moment. "Morley Safer." Her eyes became hooded. "The guy from '60 Minutes?'" "He did a piece on the Orient Express years ago. They showed him typing copy in his cabin. Two fingers, on a Royal typewriter. I joined the school newspaper the next day." "I hope you were better with deadlines back then," Scully commented. "I _always_ meet my deadlines." Before Scully could hoot, he added, "And then I wave at them as they go by." Scully rolled her eyes. "Okay, I'll give that one to you. One more." Mulder stopped typing, pondered a little bit more, then said, "Chaucer." Now _both_ of Scully's eyebrows were reaching for the sky. "Chaucer?" He Smirked at the screen as he began to type again. "Why do you think it took so long to write 'The Canterbury Tales'? He got all those stories in a long weekend. It just took years to pound 'em all out." His partner was about to make an acerbic comment when Mulder's watch alarm went off. He looked chagrined as he turned it off. "Time," Scully said, a ghost of a smile on her face. Mulder seemed inordinately interested in his watch. "Well, are you finished?" Scully pointed at the humming laser printer. "What do you think's happening over there? Are _you_ finished?" He sat back in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach. "Define 'finished'." "'Finished' means _my_ expense report was done before noon." She stood, straightening her jacket as she did. "_Your_ expense report, on the other hand, is still in the conceptual stage?" "Good fiction takes time?" "?which means _you're_ buying lunch. Let's go." "I hear there's a great special at the cafeteria," Mulder said hopefully, gnawing at his lip for a moment. Scully would not be denied. "K Street Deli. Grilled Reuben, coleslaw and fries, bottomless glasses of iced tea, and a dill pickle the size of a zeppelin. I've been dieting three days for this. Come on, get your coat. The line at the counter's probably out the door as it is." Mulder sighed, saved what he'd accomplished, and closed the file. "Don't they feed you on the shuttle?" "Aren't you the one who said airports installed food courts so people could have a chance of experiencing actual _food_ while traveling? Besides, the flight's not long enough for anything but beverage cart service. A Diet Coke and a bag of pretzels only goes so far." "That's for sure." He opened the bottom drawer of his desk. "Well, before we go, I'd like to get _this_ done first." He was smiling as he pulled out a shopping bag, gaily decorated with holly and ivy. Scully brightened for the first time in two weeks. They hadn't discussed exchanging presents today, and Scully hoped to surprise Mulder at lunch. For once, she was pleased he'd beaten her to the punch. She pulled a flat square box out of her briefcase and presented it to him. A card was taped to the red-and-gold wrapping paper. "You go first." Mulder grinned exuberantly as he took the package from her. "Well, I guess it's not 'The Complete Shakespeare.'" "It could be on CD ROM," she pointed out, giving him a taste of his own Smirk. Mulder just chuckled as he tore open the package. The head of a demonic clown cackled at him from the top of a hurtling ice cream truck. Mulder's grin doubled in strength as he turned the jewel case over in his hands. "'Twisted Metal 2,'" he said, his voice almost reverent. "The salesperson at CompUSA insists this version's better than the original." Her tone was dry, but her smile was genuine as she sat on the edge of his desk. "I thought a man with your driving habits ought to have the game." "So I can keep my skills polished?" "So you can work them out in a virtual environment. It'll save the taxpayers the cost of all those crumpled rent-a-cars. Are you going to open the card?" "One thing at a time," Mulder admonished her. "Don't tell me you _never_ opened a present without reading the card first." "Not in front of the person who gave it to me," she returned, unmoved by his argument. Mulder laughed quietly as he tore open the beige envelope. The card was had a Monet print on the front a snow scene, with a crow sitting on the fence of a farmhouse. Mulder opened the card to read the inscription; two pieces of hard rectangular paper fell into his lap. When he picked them up and saw what they were, his grin went beyond boyish. "Knicks-Wizards tickets?" Scully smiled, pleased at how much he was pleased. "I tried to get tickets for the Bulls, but those games apparently sell out approximately two minutes after they go on sale." Mulder picked up the other ticket, examining them both like they were made of platinum. Scully nodded at them. "They're up a little high, but I've been assured they're center court." Mulder opened his mouth to speak, then grabbed the card with his other hand and read the inscription, written in Scully's always-perfect penmanship: *I can't count the times you've puzzled me, angered me, infuriated me, made me feel like the world is a place that's yet to be defined. But without this partnership, my life would be a drive across Nebraska never changing, ever boring. Thank you For your support, for your friendship, and for teaching me that Chinese take-out is one of the four basic food groups. Merry Christmas! Scully.* Mulder bit his lip as he smiled. *I may have to install a fireplace in the apartment, so I have a mantle to display this.* "Thank _you_," he said, looking up at her with great warmth. Scully just smiled back at him; she didn't need to say anything else. He pushed the bag forward. "Your turn." Scully pulled it towards her and looked inside it. She frowned. "_Three_ presents?" "The rectangular box is for Max," he explained. Her left eyebrow took the express elevator. "Really?" "I think she'll like it," he said, smiling shyly. "It's a subject we both enjoy." Scully took note of the shape of the box. "You're not sharing your video collection with her, are you?" "Not the part _you're_ thinking of," Mulder chided her. "It's a tape of Game 6 of the '75 World Series. SportsChannel played it during the strike." "If the Red Sox are in it, I know she'll love it." She touched the wrapped videotape with her fingertips. "I'm really glad you two like each other." Mulder leaned back and stretched. "Hey, she's the kid brother I never had." Scully started to give him the Fish Eye, but he quickly added, "And she cares for you. That goes a long way with me." Her expression softened, her smile touched with gratitude. He nodded at the bag. "Go on. Open _your_ stuff." She looked at him a moment more before she put her hand in the bag, pulled the bright red envelope off the biggest gift, and opened it as slowly as she could. Mulder looked amused at the display, but did not comment. As Scully expected, it was a Far Side Christmas card; he made sure to give her one on Christmas and birthdays. The cartoon strip was one of her secret vices, and Mulder knew what she thought about the state of the Comics page since Gary Larsen retired. She beamed at the familiar image and opened the card. Mulder 's handwriting was not nearly as neat as hers was; she considered it a major victory she even knew how to decipher it: *At heart, I'm lazy as hell. I only work hard on things I like to do. But you make me work more, think more, and go that extra mile. You said you've become a better agent working with me. That goes both ways. I owe you for that, and for so much more. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. No one deserves it more than you do. Cheers! Mulder.* "I come out of this office with red eyes," she said huskily, "and people are going to talk." "They're _already_ talking," Mulder said, feigning unconcern. "You just have to look at it from a philosophical standpoint." She snorted. "And your philosophy is?" "'Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.'" Even though she knew he took "the Never Ending Rumor" more seriously than he let on, Scully couldn't help but giggle. She reached into the bag again and pulled out the biggest package. It was light but bulky, and poorly wrapped to boot. The thought of Mulder wrapping Christmas presents rocked her with silent mirth. *Maybe he could get the Gunmen to help next year,* she thought as she opened the package carefully. *If I videotape it, I could market it as 'The Four Stooges Do Christmas'?* The wrapping wasn't even close to perfect, but the oversized black T-shirt inside the wrapping was folded quite neatly. "I'M SORRY, DID I BREAK YOUR CONCENTRATION?" was written on the back in white silk-screened letters. The logo for 'Pulp Fiction' was on the front, just about where a breast pocket might have been sewn. "Your favorite film," she commented, trying not to sound too sarcastic. "Not my _favorite_ film," he corrected her. "My favorite film is my favorite Christmas film." She cocked her head. "And that is?" He looked at her like the answer was obvious. "_Lethal Weapon_." Scully closed her eyes and shook her head. "Boy, it's fun working with kids." "Come on, W.C.," he laughed, nodding at the bag. "Open your other present." Scully draped the shirt over her left shoulder and pulled the smaller package out of the bag. This one was in a different paper, obviously professionally wrapped. Inside was a white unmarked gift box, and it had decent weight. She gasped when she opened it and moved the white tissue paper aside. The cranberry glass candleholder wasn't very ornate, but the simple etching on the side showed great care. She took even greater care taking it out of the box. Even though it was wrapped in cellophane, she caught a faint scent of vanilla from the candle inside it. Mulder focused on her expression, holding his breath. *Did I call it? Does she _really_ like it?* "I thought it might look good on your dining table," he said off-handedly. "Mulder, this is beautiful," she said softly, holding it up to eye level. "Where did you get it?" "Store in one of the malls in Alexandria," he told her, letting the breath out quietly. "Pearl Gram Something-or-other." Scully had a flash-quick Roger Rabbit Moment. "Pearl Grant Richman? How do _you_ know about that store?" "A little research, and a little skullduggery." He looked excessively pleased with himself. "I ran into Holly from Information Systems in the cafeteria last week. I told her I was having problems finding a gift for my cousin in Nantucket. She suggested the store." She gave him a low-level Fish Eye. "'Ran into her?'" He bobbed his head sheepishly. "Well, maybe it could be called a 'calculated near-miss.'" He shrugged. "Hey, she sat with me for lunch. That's a start." She shook her head again. *There are days when I don't have to wonder what he was like in high school.* "Better be careful you don't get a high heel in the head." "I'm a lot more charming than Skinner," he purred. "If you insist," she deadpanned. He put out his lower lip in an act of hurt. She reached down and took his hand, squeezing it gently. "Thank you," she said, her voice just as gentle. He squeezed back and smiled. "Merry Christmas, Scully." She was about to answer him when she ducked her head and looked away. "What," he asked, concerned. "I'm sorry," she rasped, putting down the candleholder to wipe away a tear. "I promised myself I wasn't going to do this." Mulder wanted to hug her, so he got up and did it. She returned the embrace loosely, sniffling against his chest. "You're reacting naturally. You said you've never been away from home for Christmas, even when you were at Maryland and the rest of the family was in California." She nodded, then shook her head. "You know what's funny," she said into his MFA tie. "_You_ still could have gone." Her tone clearly said it wasn't funny at all. "I think your mom was just being a good hostess by telling me the invitation was still open." Her partner shook his head. "I wasn't going to go, anyway. No matter what I think of their behavior, getting in a fistfight with your brothers is not my idea of a holly jolly Christmas." Scully laughed once, and very softly. "That _would_ tend to put a damper on things." He kissed her forehead, let her go, and went back to his desk. His suit jacket was draped over his chair. "Besides, I do passive-aggressive pretty well myself. I've already told her I support you. If I do this, too, maybe it'll put the point across a little more." Scully picked up her presents and put them back in the bag, including the wrapping paper. "So you didn't tell her you weren't coming because of me?" "Not straight out, though I know she got the subtext. I told her some old friends from out of town were visiting me, and we were going to do Christmas together." He put on the gray jacket, not bothering to button it. "It's _technically_ true. Glenn and Claudia Thompson _are_ in town, spending the holidays at her parents' house in Williamsburg. I've seen Glenn once in three years, and I haven't seen Claudia since their wedding. We're meeting for drinks and general merriment Christmas Night." She went over to the coat rack and got her trenchcoat. "Mulder, if I find out you spent Christmas Day in front of the TV, eating peanut butter sandwiches and playing Playstation?" "First, I won't spend _all_ day playing Playstation." Beat. "There's a bowl game or two I want to watch." He ignored the wilting look she threw at him over his shoulder as he came over to retrieve his own trenchcoat. "And as for the festive board, I've got a reservation for the one-o'clock sitting at the Parkwood in Arlington. All-you-can-eat buffet with turkey and all the trimmings, $15.95." Scully pursed her lips. "Maybe I'd better call them. Warn them about the oncoming locust swarm?" "It's in their ad 'All you can eat.'" He made a helpless gesture, Smirking all the while. "It's a legal contract. Don't let anyone tell you different." "Be sure to mention that to the paramedics on the way to the hospital." He slipped into his trenchcoat. "Don't forget your presents." She stepped over to the desk, picked up the bag, and nodded at the tickets and the video game. "What about yours?" Mulder held the door for her. "They can stay. I've got to come back and churn out more fiction." <> * * * * * "THE ROAD NOT TAKEN 6: TYPHOON" (14/15) by deejay <> The fire hadn't burned down, but it was starting to abate by the time Billy came back into the den with an armful of logs. He put his burden in the carrier by the fireplace, pulled the screen back, and tossed three logs on top of the glowing remains. The wood was quite dry, so it only took a little work to get the flames roaring again. Karen Scully watched her brother-in-law from the other side of the room. Her eldest son Daniel and youngest son Pete sat on either side of her; they were too engrossed in "How The Grinch Stole Christmas" to care about what their uncle was doing. Tara Scully watched Billy prod the burning logs with a poker. She always watched whatever Billy did, usually with the rapt expression Navy wives were supposed to master. Karen thought Tara looked a little too much like Nancy Reagan at these times. "I know you guys live in California now," Karen cracked. "But your blood _can't_ have thinned out _that_ much yet." Billy smiled into the fire. "A good ship's captain has to be cold-blooded." Karen tried not to roll her eyes. "I didn't know Mom's den doubled as a dry steam room." Billy replaced the screen and stood up. He still stared at the flames. "We always have a fire on Christmas Eve," he said, as if that settled everything. "Looks great, babe," Tara said approvingly. Karen smiled thinly but said nothing. She threw a glance at the doorway. Her middle son Steven wasn't back from the bathroom yet. Billy turned and grinned at his wife. "Thanks, hon." His gaze flicked over to Karen. She wasn't her usual bubbly self. He knew why, but he kept to the Rules of Engagement. *Or No Engagement, in this case.* "Where's Charlie?" Karen watched the Grinch stuff the Christmas tree up the chimney. "Putting Caroline down." The Scully Raised Eyebrow had been inherited across the board. "Really?" Karen fixed him with a steady gaze not quite a glare, but within shouting distance of one. "He _likes_ to do it, Billy. Ever since he came back from the Med, he's tried to do it as much as he can." If Billy's smile wasn't condescending, it sure did a good imitation. "I'll have to get some pointers from him, so I can help Tara when _our_ son comes along." "You'll be great, Billy," Tara said from the reclining chair. She held out a hand to him. "I know you will." Again, Karen refrained from comment. Although they were usually a little stiff, she liked her in-laws. She'd been an only child, so being part of a big family was a joy to her. *Except when they start being asinine. Like this Christmas. _Help_ Tara. Oh, you're gonna be a _great_ dad?* Billy squeezed his wife's hand. "I don't know about you," he said to the room at large, "But building a fire is thirsty work. Can I get anything for anyone while I'm up?" "I'll take a cup of cheer," Tara said immediately. "A _weak_ cup," she added quietly. "Aye aye." He turned back to Karen. "How about you, sis-in-law?" Karen had moved her attention back to the television. "No, thank you, Billy." Her two boys either hadn't heard him or didn't care. "That guy's taking all the presents," Daniel informed the room, an aghast expression on his face. "He _is_, isn't he," Karen said, feigning great disbelief. "Better lock th' doors t'night," Pete said levelly, his head against his mom 's side. The adults all laughed, and Karen gave her son a big squeeze. There were always two containers of eggnog in the Scully house on Christmas Strong and Weak. Both were pre-mixed and kept in separate, well-marked, easy-to-monitor containers. The Weak was your typical eggnog, doctored with cinnamon and vanilla extract. The Strong also known as Seaman's Eggnog was four parts eggnog and one part Jim Beam. "Goes down like an enemy warship," Billy had heard his father say one Christmas Eve. Billy got his first glass of Seaman's Eggnog on his first Christmas home from the Academy. Margaret Scully was sitting at the kitchen table when Billy came in from the den. The stereo in the living room was on loud enough so you could just barely hear Nat King Cole croon 'The Christmas Song.' She had a glass of red wine in front of her. Her expression was neither happy nor sad. "No eggnog," he asked, striving to sound light. She gave him an unconvincing smile. "I think it's a little too powerful this year." "Really?" Billy frowned. He always tried to do things as well as his father. "I can make you a glass of your own?" "That's all right, Billy," she assured him, picking up her wine. "This is fine." Billy nodded, though he was disappointed he couldn't do that small task for his mother. Christmas had been quieter since his father died, despite Billy' s best efforts to keep the traditions going. This Christmas was the toughest, even tougher than the first Christmas without Melissa, and he was not pleased about it. Charlie had been all right, and the kids were terrific, now that they all knew about Christmas. But Mother was obviously depressed, and Karen had been barely polite with him. Any other time, he would have called her on it, but Charlie had given him a heads-up and a request: "Don't make waves." They hadn't fought, exactly, but the conversation that followed was remarkably tense. "Who's in command down there, Charlie," Billy had asked sharply at one point. "Just don't get into a surface battle with her while we're at Mom's," Charlie had asked him, ignoring Billy's barb. "I've asked Karen to hold fire, too. You two want to butt heads about Dana, fine. But do it after the holiday. For the kid's sake, and for Mom's. Okay? Please?" Billy's mouth was in a tight line as he pulled both of the eggnog bottles out of the refrigerator and poured two glasses Strong for himself, Weak for Tara. He didn't like family battles. It was one of the reasons why he loved Tara. Except for their seeming inability to make a grandchild, their marriage had been strife-free. He felt she'd done right by telling him what Mom had told her, even if it was said in confidence. Dana's behavior could not be allowed. It was as simple as that. Billy had made a decision, one that he thought Charles had made, too, and one he didn't feel he had to defend, to his sister-in-law or anyone else. And by God, he was going to stick to that decision, no matter what she felt about the matter. He remembered his father's advice, given a long time ago during one of those great conversations they had about being in the Navy. *"A commander has to make difficult decisions, son. Some of them can hurt feelings. Some can lose friends. Some can even cost lives. But _whatever_ decision you make, never look back and say, "What if?" Because it's already happened. "What if?" doesn't matter worth a damn."* He put the eggnog away and picked up the glasses. When he turned back, he saw his mother looking at the phone on the wall. His mouth tightened even further. "If she wants to call, she'll call," he said, attempting to sound gentle. Margaret didn't look at him. "I know. She said she'd call on Christmas." *Christmas _Night_. After you've gone.* "Then that's when she'll call." Billy wanted to comfort her, but like so many times before, he just didn't know how. "She made her own choice, Mother. If she wanted to be here, she'd be here." *Instead, she's with? God, I don't even want to _think_ about it?* His mother's tone started to harden. "She didn't want there to be any battles." "Like I said," Billy said, resolute. "That was up to her. She knows she has a decision to make." Then he added, "It's for her own good." Margaret got up slowly and turned to her eldest son. If he hadn't been standing next to the counter, he would have backed up. His mother kept her voice low, but her eyes were pure fury. "Is that why you told her she couldn 't be part of this family if she? continued the way she is? Because it was for her own good?" "Mother?" She stopped him before he started. "Billy, I love you very much. I know you thought you had the family's best interest at heart. But I am _still_ _your_ _mother_," she said, deadly quiet. "I am _still_ the head of this family. And if?" She paused, then sighed. "If a decision like that _has_ to be made? then _I_ will make it. It will not be made _for_ me, without even asking me a question. Is that understood?" "Mother?" *Don't whine, damn it?* "_Is_ _that_ _understood_, William?" Whenever she called him 'William', Billy felt about two feet tall. His eyes dropped to the parquet floor. "Yes, ma'am." Margaret stared at Billy. She had never hit her children, agreeing with her husband that a firm word did more than a quick slap. When her children did something wrong, they knew it, and their parents' disappointment was more than enough reprimand. She always wanted to hug her children after disciplining them, but soon learned that this was counter-productive to the exercise. She felt no urge to hug her child now. "So _there_ you are," Karen's voice floated in from the living room. "And what do you think _you're_ doing, young man?" "I'm just _looking,_ Mom," Steven's raspy voice answered. Margaret and Billy came out of the kitchen. Karen was kneeling in front of the Christmas tree with Stephen. Wrapped presents of all shapes and sizes were clustered around it. There would be more presents tomorrow, and that made Margaret Scully smile. Christmas was better when Santa Claus was involved in the equation. "Better be careful," Billy said solemnly. "You don't want Santa to find out you're peeking at your presents." "He's left the North Pole already," Stephen informed him, in that tone children get that says, *Don't you know _anything_?* "He could have a satellite uplink in his sled," Billy pointed out. "He's a high-tech guy." "And even if he doesn't," Margaret added, "he can still _see_ you." *Billy's being cute, but Santa's better if he has some magic.* Stephen looked unsure about these two divergent concepts. Since he didn't understand either of them, he changed the subject. "Mom, I found presents from Aunt Dana!" Billy felt his mother stiffen beside her. Dana had dropped them off the day she left for Boston, along with a present for Margaret from Mulder and a hastily scribbled note. She had been at the store when Dana came by, and found the presents in a bag on the porch. Margaret cried harder reading that note than she did when her daughter informed her of her revised holiday plans, and of Bill's attempt at Tough Love. "Well, of course," Karen told her son. "You don't think she'd forget to give you guys presents, do you?" "No? But? how come she's not here? We got presents for _her_." An awkward silence would have dropped on the room if Billy hadn't spoken his mind. "Your Aunt Dana's very sick." Karen's head whipped around. "Jesus, Billy," she hissed, forgetting her rule about swearing in front of her children. Margaret held her tongue, but the look she gave her son was withering. "Oh," said Stephen. He turned to his mother. "Can we bring her chicken soup? You give that to me when _I'm_ sick." Karen Scully hugged her son hard. "You are so great, Stevie." Stephen couldn 't understand why Mom was crying, why Grandma left the room so fast, and why Uncle Billy had that weird look on his face. *Mom's hugging me, though, so I guess it's all right.* <> * * * * * "THE ROAD NOT TAKEN 6: TYPHOON" (15/15) by deejay <> The night air was clean and crisp as the crowd bubbled out of Sanders Theatre. They were a true cross-section of Boston: Men and women, young and old, rich and poor, student and professional, Brahmin and Boomer. They were children and parents and grandparents, strangers and lovers and friends, gathered together to call out the words that signaled Christmas in Boston, and anywhere else the Revels were held: "WELCOME, YULE!" The Coven's seats were in the next-to-last row of the balcony, so they were some of the last people to make their way out of the Harvard landmark. Rose and her children were in the lead, Scully & Max bringing up the rear. The group was like everyone else who had attended the Christmas tradition smiling, laughing, a spring in their step, a tune in their heads. Scully knew Max could make her smile, but when she got on her shuttle flight earlier in the day, she still felt low enough to believe laughing would not be an option on this trip. She had been proven wrong in spectacular fashion first at a rowdy Christmas Eve dinner with the Coven and Neesie's new husband Chris, then with the Revels. Celtic music rang in her ears as she stepped into the chill. "That was _far_ too much fun," she enthused, buttoning her coat. "Wasn't it just?" The marble steps tended to be slick in the cold, so it looked perfectly natural for Max to take Scully's arm. "I've gone every year since I was three. Turned these guys on to it as soon as I could." "_I_ knew about it before," Neesie admonished her friend. "They do it in New York City." "They do it in DC, too," Scully added. "Every year at Lisner Auditorium." "Did you ever _go_," Max asked them, using the tone she saved for a perp who 'd made a mistake during an interrogation. "No," Neesie said after a moment, adding quickly, "But I heard about it." Scully ducked her head, mildly chagrined. "I've always _wanted_ to go, but I either had other plans or was too busy with work to get tickets." "You snooze, you lose," Max said sagely. "We take turns standing on line the morning the tickets go on sale. It's the only way you can get seats for Christmas Eve." "'Take turns,'" K.C. whooped, blowing on her ungloved hands. "That's a laugh! I've done it three years in a row!" Rose kept her eye on her kids as the group walked toward Harvard Garage. "Serves you right for getting the short straw every time. Harry, don't run! Stay close, please!" "Yes, Mom," her eldest son groaned. "Did you think last year's show was better, Max," Chris asked over his shoulder. Max considered. "Well, the cast was better this year. Last year was the original show, though, so that kind of gave it a historical push." "I keep promising myself I'll try out," Chris said. "But the time commitment is a bitch." "You can _try out_ for this," Scully asked, surprised. "Oh yeah," Max nodded. "The only difference between the Revels and regular Community Theater is the public radio broadcast." "I couldn't do it," Rose declared. "I'd take one look at that crowd and melt into the stage." "Rose," K.C. cried, "your choir just did 'The Messiah' three days ago, and there wasn't an empty pew in the church!" "That's different," Rose insisted. "_That_ wasn't Sanders Theatre, and I was hiding behind the rest of the alto section. There's no place to hide on that little stage. The audience is practically on top of you." The cars were parked on a side street within half a block of each other, the Boston equivalent of a Christmas miracle. After a long round of hugs and kisses, Scully & Max followed K.C. to her Volkswagen while Rose piled her kids into Neesie's Volvo station wagon. "You can tell we're getting old," Max cracked. "We've got to break up the car pool into two groups." The convertible top of K.C.'s Cabriolet had been patched twice with duct tape, but the makeshift repairs didn't stop the drafty conditions that prevailed thruought the winter. Scully & Max piled in the back while K.C. got behind the wheel and started the engine, bringing the radio to unfortunate life: "Grandma got run over by a?" The three women screamed as one. "NO!" K.C.'s hand shot over to the radio and switched off the offending noise. "Serves me right for having Christmas songs on when we parked." "It's better than the Barking Dogs," Scully said firmly. "That's like saying Michael Bolton's better than Neil Diamond," K.C. said derisively. "We're just lucky we're not riding with Rose," Max laughed. "Her kids love _both_ those songs!" "They'd have an alibi if Mulder was in the car," Scully said, snuggling close to Max to ward off the chill of the car. "It's his favorite Christmas song. "Maybe you don't want to meet this guy after all, K.C.." Max took Scully's hand with both of hers and rubbed it to get it warm. K.C. revved the engine in an effort to get the heater going. "Much as I love Danny and Harry, I still say cats are better than kids. Cats don't outgrow clothes. Cats don't crack up your car. Cats won't turn on you when they become teenagers. And cats?" "Always want to snuggle with you, no matter _how_ bad you look," Max chimed in. She'd heard this rap before. "Meanwhile, your apartment smells like a litter box, and your furniture looks like the Tasmanian Devil's been snacking on it." "A small price to pay," K.C. maintained. She put the Volkswagen in gear and moved off. "You're gearing up to be one of those weird old neighborhood ladies, K.C.," Max kidded her. "Lives in this beat-up house with eighteen cats. The grass hasn't been mowed in who knows when, and there's two years worth of newspapers stacked up in the living room." "Better be the Globe. I'll need something to line the litter box." The staff photographer for the Boston Herald American drowned out further debate by turning the radio back on and pushing a cassette into the tape deck, filling the car with the techno beat of Republika. Max' street was only a few minutes' drive from the Harvard campus. K.C. pulled up in front of it and turned back to her passengers. "Okay, when should I expect you?" "Mom says we should get there about eleven," Max told her. "Figure on us knocking on the door about? ten thirty?" "Works for me." Max and K.C. exchanged a hug and a kiss. K.C. took Scully's hand as Max got out of the car. "I'm really happy you're here, Dana." Scully smiled and nodded. "I am, too." The former BU women's basketball player's eyes shone in the Cabriolet's interior lights. "Anything I can do, even if you just need another ear, you call. Yes?" The FBI agent bit her lower lip. *These women haven't known me more than two months, and they're treating me like a long-lost relative. I'd forgotten what it was like to have more than Mulder as a friend.* "Yes. Thank you." Each gave the other a kiss on the cheek. "See you tomorrow." "Wouldn't miss it," K.C. enthused. She looked out the open back door as Scully climbed out of the car. "Later, Max!" "Drive friendly, sweetheart," Max called out. Scully closed the door and K.C. sped off towards Mass Ave. Scully waved at the receding taillights. "She's great." "Always has been," Max agreed. "Does she always come to Christmas dinner?" "Ever since junior year," Max informed her. "Mom kind of adopted her." Scully lowered her arm. "Am I being adopted, Max," she asked quietly. Max' mind was fast on its feet. "No chance," she said lightly. "You have to _sleep_ your way to the top in _this_ town, sister!" Away went Scully's melancholy. Every time it had tried to encroach on the evening, it had been slapped away, and Max was usually the one wielding the backhand. Scully took Max' hand. "Ooooh," she chortled. "Lucky me!" They grinned at each other, and then Max pulled Scully into the middle of the road. "Come on. Let's look at it again." "If you insist," Scully said amiably, allowing herself be led across the street. She wanted to see it again, too, but was glad Max said it. They moved between parked cars, climbed over small snowdrifts, and stepped onto the sidewalk. Max turned to face her building first, looking up with a smile. "Ohhhhh yeah," she sighed. Scully stood shoulder to shoulder with her lover. "Isn't that pretty?" The tree stood on a table just below one of Max' living room windows. It was only about three feet tall, which was why it needed a table to be visible, but Max had loaded it with small white Christmas lights and strands of gold stars. It gleamed out at the night from the darkened apartment, a vision of holiday spirit. "That is sohhhhhhhhhh cool," Max whispered. She put her arm around Scully's waist. Scully returned the gesture without hesitation. "Is that where you always put your tree?" "I guess," Max said, shrugging. "I've never had a tree in that apartment." Scully's head turned in a flash. "_Never_?" "Nope." Max shook her head. "Why not?" *She goes to the Revels every year, but never had a tree in her own apartment?* "Well, for one thing, I didn't have any ornaments. The only ones Richard and I had were his. Then after we divorced? Well, I just never had a reason to get any for myself." She turned into Scully's grasp, got up on tiptoe, and kissed Scully on the nose. "Until now." Scully gave her a gentle buss on the forehead. "I'm glad I could give that back to you," she said, putting her head on Max' shoulder. They were hugging now, Max' gloved hand running through Scully's hair. "Are you okay, Scully? I mean, really?" Scully's hands ran down Max' back. "I won't deny I don't miss my family, Max. I won't deny I'm sad they've? been the way they have." She raised her head to look at her lover. "But I'm not sorry I'm here. Seeing the girls again, being with you?" She still hadn't put on her gloves, so she could feel how cold Max' skin was as she stroked her cheek. "I've had so many good things, and I haven't even been here a day. It's like, every time I'm with you?" She looked around, like she was searching for the proper words. "I have another life. One that's warm, and safe, and full of love. It? It reminds me what I've been missing in my life." Max closed her eyes as Scully kissed her nose. "Until now." Max kissed Scully's hand and pressed it to her cheek. "I'm glad I could give that to _you_." They stared and smiled until Max looked up at the window again. "You think the tree's too bare?" "_Bare_?" Scully scofed. "Max, you've got about two hundred lights on a three-foot tree! If you lived near the airport, you'd get a 747 through the window!" "Yeah, but there's no _ornaments_, you know? Shit, I was lucky to get _white_ lights! The only other lights I saw were _amber_!" She stuck out her tongue like she'd tasted something terrible. "After Christmas Sales," Scully said promptly. "Ornaments for half-price. We sleep in, go in the afternoon after the initial carnage has run its course. Works every time." Max grinned up at Scully, loving the energy coming from her. "That's what you do, huh?" "I used to decorate my dorm room, lights and everything. Drove my roommate crazy. I had to throw out the old cardboard box I kept my ornaments in. The duct tape wouldn't hold it together any more. They're all in this big purple Tupperware thing about the size of K.C.'s car. If I ever have to move, I'll need a fork lift to get it out of the building." "You have a _big_ tree, right?" "Six-foot Doug fir. I keep it up until February." Max put her hands together, as if in prayer. "Teach me the ways of after-Christmas ornament shopping, Obi-Wan Canoli!" Scully laughed with delight, but she stopped when she saw Max' expression. It had gone from joy to concern to near-horror in about three seconds flat. "What's wrong?" Max stepped away and took Scully's chin in her hand. "Put your head back," she said, pushing it back for her. "Why? What's wrong?" "You can't feel it? You _must_ be cold." She was searching through her pockets. "Damn, I don't have any Kleenex. C'mon, let's get you inside." She took Scully by the hand and led her over the snowbank. "Max," Scully said, totally confused. "What is going on?" "Girl, you've got a nosebleed." <> Dana Scully will return in? "THE ROAD NOT TAKEN 7: TSUNAMI." Be there. Aloha. Questions, comments, flames and fan mail to drjohn@wizvax.net.