From: MystPhile <mystphile@aol.com>
Date: 21 Dec 1998 02:16:52 GMT
Subject: NEW:  "Scully's Christmases" (1/1)

"Scully's Christmases"
by MystPhile (Mystphile@aol.com)

Summary: An introspective Scully thinks about four different Christmases.  None
have been joyful.

Classification:  SA
Rating: PG
Archive: Anywhere; just let me know
Spoiler:  Everything up to Ghosts That Tried to Steal Christmas
Feedback:  Welcome


I.  Post-Christmas, l993, after Beyond the Sea

"Ah, the Sisters of Mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can't go on.
Then they brought me their comfort and later they brought me their song
Oh, I hope you run into them, you who've been traveling so long."
---Leonard Cohen, "The Sisters of Mercy"

I feel...overwhelmed.  Ahab's death, those strange...hallucinations I kept
having.  How could I, a person who believes in facts, evidence, proof--how
could I let myself...entertain such visions?  I guess it just shows how upset I
was, that my mind would conjure up something so irrational, that it could act
so unlike itself.

But then I wonder--if these strange *visions* I had were so absurd, why was
Boggs right about so many of the details?  He was on Death Row, out of contact
with the world and his accomplice--if that's what he was--yet his details were
accurate.  How could he manage that?

Maybe I was easy to read, upset and nakedly emotional.  I *wanted* to believe
when it came to Ahab--anything to keep him "alive"--and maybe like any good
fortune teller, Boggs picked up the cues.  But the case--I can't think of a
rational explanation for his describing the scenes so vividly.

I had visions; Boggs had visions.  Who knows what was true?  I don't.  I just
know that I've lost my father and I never got a chance to have the honest
conversation I wanted--I needed--to have with him about my decisions, my life.

Always, I wanted to please Ahab, be his favorite. Joining the Bureau removed me
from favor, like a courtier who'd been banished to the dungeon.  And it galls
me, after all those tense years, to never have the chance to talk it out with
him.

No, that's not true.  There were a hundred chances to bring this conflict into
the open and explain to him how right the FBI seemed for me. So what was the
problem?  He was old-fashioned, protective, thought there'd be too much danger
for his little girl?  Or was it that I was still too much his "little girl" to
sit down with him and insist on explaining why I'd made my decision?

Damn it!  Maybe he was right.  If I didn't have the balls to explain to my own
father, who loves me, why I became an Agent, I may be too girlish and timid to
be an Agent after all.  Maybe that's why Mulder is lying there with a
near-fatal wound.  With a more competent partner, he might be out ghost hunting
today, not lying in a hospital bed.

What have I done?  Nothing much that's right, that's for sure. I was too
chickenshit to have it out with Ahab and now it's too late.  I let myself be
influenced by a serial killer-psychopath and danced to his manipulations like a
puppet.  I rushed back to work, just hours after Ahab's death, determined to
bury my sorrows instead of facing them.  So I obstructed the case, got roped in
by a killer, and was so unreliable and distracted--and goddamned incompetent--I
nearly got my partner killed.  Way to go, Dana.  Have you ever thought of using
the brains God gave you?  

Maybe I should just hang it up.  I'm a failure as a daughter, as a person, as
an Agent, as a partner.  Could I possibly be any worse?  What's the point of
all this?

The only redeeming aspect of this whole sad mess is Mulder.  He doesn't blame
me, oddly enough, but seems to think, after a brief and uncharacteristic
embrace of skepticism, that he should have taken Boggs more seriously.  I guess
Boggs' telling us where to find the teenagers without bargaining himself out of
the gas chamber finally convinced Mulder.  So he, guilt-prone creature that he
is, blames himself for not being open to extreme possibilities, even when
they're presented by a psychopath.

Of course, now that he's done a 180, he can't understand why suddenly I'm
having doubts.  Good thing I didn't tell him about *all* by visions.  I don't
know whether he'd check me into a padded cell or turn me into his personal
X-File.

So, we're both wounded in our own ways. I'm glad we still have each other and
the job.  And I'm relieved that it finally dawned on me that Ahab always loved,
believed in, and supported me.  The conversation I always meant to have with
him--he knew, I now realize that.  I was so damned lucky to have his
unconditional loyalty.

It's time to visit Mulder.  Poor guy.  There he was, in danger of dying, and
there was not a word from his family.  I wonder what *his* family problems are.
 Maybe someday, when I get to know him better, I'll find out.

What a pair we are--Mulder's family ignores his near death, and I--I escape to
my work rather than connect with my family.  I *know* I should stay with Mom
and support her.  I just can't.  I'm too sad, and I need to stay busy.  But I
know she's there for me always.  And I hope she knows the same goes for me--I
just need a long tether.

II.  Post-Christmas, 1994.  After the abduction and return.

"Yes, you who must leave everything that you cannot control,
It begins with your family and later comes round to your soul.
I've been where you're hanging; I think I can see how you're pinned.
When you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you've sinned."
---Leonard Cohen

Christmas, what's it supposed to mean?  Family, love, togetherness, church. 
What's it mean to me?  This year I would have to say "misery."

It's the anniversary of Ahab's death.  Strike one.  How hard it is to be
without the mainstay of our family, the sturdy mast that supported our varied,
colorful sails.  Going through the motions without him is so awkward, so
painful.

Strike two is a mixed blessing and curse.  Yes, I'm glad to be alive, to put it
mildly.  I've gained strength rapidly since my return, and I'm grateful.  The
negative is the way my family hangs onto me, clinging like barnacles.  I'm
back; I'm here; it's bad enough that Ahab's gone.  I'm not.  But I am
constantly being petted and prodded--everyone wants to know my innermost
feelings.

Wouldn't it surprise them to know how few feelings I have about this whole
experience, or at least how few I'm willing to acknowledge?  Melissa knows, I
think, and I'm glad she cares, I really am.  But she gets too damned close. 
We're not all as touchy-feely as she is.

Why *would* I want to relive--and share with them all-- the feelings of being
helpless, used, and abused?  It's all too scary to *want* to remember, so why
do they keep at me?  I know they mean well.  I'm glad to be alive and with
them.  But they are smothering me.

Strike three.  Midnight Mass.  Big scene.  "Come on, Honey," Mom says.  "It'll
do you good and we'll all be together."  Can't do it.  Sorry.  I can't feel
belief in the old rituals anymore, haven't for years.  Although maybe in the
past I was willing to be a bit more hypocritical in going along with the
family.

My God!  (I didn't mean that personally). Is it because Ahab's dead that I'm
now refusing to "go along to get along"?  Or is it simply that, having
recovered from near death, I'm getting stronger about asserting the terms on
which I wish to live my life?  I've seen how life can be cut short, so maybe
I'm just feeling feisty about doing things my way.

But, no matter how I rationalize it, I feel like an outcast; I really don't fit
in anymore.  I don't feel like an obedient daughter, either in my family or the
church.  In a way, they're both props.  Comforting props, and sometimes
necessary.  But right now, I need to recover a sense of myself.  It's natural
for someone who's been helpless for a while.  Isn't it?

Strike three.  I'm out.  I'm outta there.  I'm sitting at home, *my* home, not
my mother's home, on Christmas night.  I'm alone, relaxed.  I don't feel
anyone's concern pressing in on me.  I can do what I want.

So why do I feel so guilty?  Bad daughter, bad sister, bad person.  Pagan.
Maybe I need a drink.

III.  1997--Post-Emily

"They lay down beside me; I made my confession to them.
They touched both my eyes and I touched the dew on their hem.
If your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn,
They'll bind you with love that is graceful and green as a stem."
--Leonard Cohen

I am so damned glad to be back from San Diego.  Perhaps that's the only thing
that brings me joy--my escape.  Otherwise, things look pretty bleak. Merry
friggin' Christmas.  For a traditionally happy time of the year, my Christmases
seem to be awfully screwed.

This was supposed to be a good one.  I'm cancer-free---hurrah! Now that sounds
like a gift, right?  But then what happens?  God, let me count the disasters. 
I'm happy for Bill and Tara.  I know they've wanted a baby for a long time. 
But to witness and envy their happiness when I'd recently found out I was
sterile--not a nice scene.  And of course, I'm just Catholic enough to feel
guilty for my un-wholehearted response to their joy.  Shit.  I *am* happy for
them.  But also sad for me.  So sue me.

But that's *nothing*!  (I feel like Dustin Hoffman in Wag the Dog).  But
really, when I think of Emily, that sweet, beautiful, doomed little girl, my
petty jealousy falls by the wayside.  And is replaced by a powerful, maddening
wrath.

I've often had trouble expressing my feelings, sometimes even identifying them.
 But not now.  I'd like to take hostages, shoot out kneecaps.  No punishment
would be adequate for these nameless evildoers who steal ova for their
experiments.  They should have their balls cut off.  Slowly.  Sawed off. 
Really slowly.

Lying beside Emily.  That's when the dammed up feelings broke through.  Ever
since the cancer remission, I've made a conscious effort to be more expressive,
particularly with Mulder, the closest person in my life.  Of course, he never
seems to be catching when I'm pitching, or vice-versa, but I've been trying. 
And I thought things were going well, relatively, until I discovered that he
knew what'd happened to my ova but for some reason neglected to tell me.

He says he wanted to protect me.  Shit.  Shades of Ahab.  God save me from
protective males who think they know what's good for me.  So, given Mulder's
protectiveness and general secretiveness, how open can we be with each other? 
Kind of ironic, really, when I'd told the social worker I was ready to open up
to relationships.  And I was.  I have been trying with Mulder, just not getting
too far.

I was definitely ready to give Emily whatever she needed, if she'd lived.  I
know that she wasn't really my daughter, biology aside.  I just wanted to offer
her my love.  Is it so bad to want love in your life?  I would have been
willing to give her 15 years, 5 years, 5 months, any amount of time God chose
to let her stay with me.

God.  Do I believe?  It's hard, really hard.  I thought my faith was making a
comeback after the remission.  But what kind of God lets such unspeakable acts
happen, to the youngest, least defenseless of his creatures?  But I'd like to
believe now so I can envision Emily in a happier world, surrounded by love. 
Much better for her than being sick and tortured and experimented upon during
her life.

Oh, hell.  That sounds almost like a description of my own life.  I've been
sick, God, yes.   According to Penny and my dreams, I was also tortured and
experimented on.

Would I be better off dead, like Emily?

NO.  If I'm meant to die, it'll happen.  I can't be in total control of whether
I live or die.  The cancer taught me that.  But I *can* control how I live.  I
want--I need--a life with more feeling, more love.

I do love Mulder, but I'm not sure if it's a more-than-friends kind of love. 
And I don't think he loves me in a romantic way--he's so obsessed with the
strange and bizarre.  Sure, he loves me, but does he *love* me?

Love.  I need it.  Having opened my heart to Emily, I can't just let it slam
shut.  I want it to stay open.  I want to invite someone in.  My life has got
to change--I feel so sterile, so dry.  Like that dream I had a few days ago. 
Everything was sandy, barren, and I was alone.  I don't want that.  God help
me.  If you exist.

IV.  1998, post-Ghosts Who Tried to Steal Christmas

"When I left they were sleeping; I hope you run into them soon.
Don't turn on the light; you can read their address by the moon.
And it won't make me jealous if I learn that they've sweetened 
   your night.
We weren't lovers like that, and besides, it would still be all right."
---Leonard Cohen

Well, *that* was a strange adventure--or something.  What the hell was that all
about?

This reminds me of the Christmas Ahab died--I'm hallucinating again, and this
time, I'm not alone.  Once again, I have no real explanation, except that the
visions may have been filling some psychological need.

I think it was about us.  I've wanted to believe and now I *do* believe--there
IS an "us."  Mulder has told me he loved me, and while I had my doubts at the
time, I don't think the drugs were that strong.  Strong enough to lower
inhibitions, so that's probably the only way he'd ever tell me.

Or maybe not. I have a hard time separating his partner loyalty from the idea
of a personal love.  But I have to keep in mind what he told me in his hallway
last summer.  That sounded like a personal, and sincere, declaration.  And if
actions speak louder than words, he's certainly proved over and over that he'll
risk anything for me.

Tonight showed me that whatever *really* happened--no matter what wild thoughts
are planted in our heads, whether by so-called ghosts, or pushers like Modell,
or our own fearful psyches--our trust will always win out in the end.  We each
thought the other had shot us, the ultimate betrayal, but it took only an
instant for us to realize that our minds were playing tricks on us.

God, how many times have I tried to tell Mulder that seeing is *not* believing?
 Tonight we saw people who looked like us but weren't, people with holes big
enough to see through their bodies, disappearing corpses, ladders, electricity,
and fires, self-locking doors----WOW.  Pretty cool, if it were a gothic film. 
And the blood, gushing from both of us.  We looked like slugs trailing bloody
slime in our wake.  I thought we were ready to die.  But it all disappeared the
second we stepped outside.  So how can Mulder keep insisting that just because
he *sees* something, that's proof that it's real?  If that were true, we'd be
dead. 

I'm wondering what those--people, figments of our imagination?--told Mulder. 
The pseudo-Mulder who was shooting at me kept raving about loneliness.  And the
stubby little man vision--he said Mulder was desperate to keep me with him.  Is
Mulder that lonely?  Or was that my imagination wishing he were, so I could
feel that he needs me?

I do believe he's lonely, now that I remember the whole night.  Christmas Eve,
calling me that late, to stake out a haunted house.  That's ridiculous, even
for him. But maybe that's how a guy like Mulder woos!  Apparently, he really
wanted me to go with him.  Correction--maybe he simply wanted me to *be* with
him and, for all his intelligence and wit, doesn't quite know how to ask.  He
could certainly save us both some trauma by inviting me out to a movie.

Was there any truth to what those--things--told me?  Was that just my fear of
involvement speaking to me--telling me that I'm just sticking with Mulder for
the pleasure of proving him wrong?  I truly don't think so.  Just recently I
was sorry he didn't find what he was looking for in Area 51.  And I've never
taken pleasure in proving him wrong--maybe showing that I'm right, but that's
different.  And it's my *job* to test our theories.

I guess the biggest fear those--whatever--brought up was directly from my
heart: fear that intimacy is really a disguise for co-dependency.  That's why I
believe we were hallucinating--Mulder has a dread of being alone but can't
admit it, and I don't want to surrender control. Why wouldn't we conjure up
"ghosts" to bring up what seem to be the biggest issues in our relationship? 
The issues we try so hard to bury?

You know, I still love my job, or at least my partnership with Mulder, as much
as I did six years ago, the day Ahab died.  But I'm a lot stronger now, a lot
more assertive.  I've been in the crucible and emerged a different person.  No
longer timid and girlish.  I'm strong enough to stand up to a protective
Mulder, as I should have done with my protective father.  Now I see that
protectiveness runs both ways, and I've saved Mulder's ass a dozen times.

So much has happened in six years--some great, rewarding things, some events so
horrifying I still have nightmares.  I've lost faith in some things, notably
the government of my country.  I've seen unspeakable evils happen to good
people.  But I've gained trust.  Mulder, for all his quirks--and he is
maddening most of the time--is a man of honor and integrity.  I believe in his
essential goodness, and I think I can love him without submerging myself and
losing track of who I am. Rather than being co-dependent, we can--we do--make
each other stronger.

I hope he loves me too.  We need to take our time and open up a bit, the way we
did when we both confessed we were afraid tonight.  Maybe eventually we'll be
able to admit more of our feelings.  We're weird, Mulder and me.  People who
face ghosts more readily than our own feelings. And we seem to be equally
terrified by both prospects. With time, maybe the walls will come tumbling
down.

So, it's Christmas.  I tried to get some sleep but I couldn't.  This Christmas,
for a change, I want to be with the man I possibly, maybe, perhaps, love. 
Surely I'm entitled to one happy Christmas.  Here's the fourth floor.  I'll go
knock on his door and see what happens.

END