From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 25 Nov 2002 15:06:35 -0000
Subject: What Child Is This? by mountainphile
Source: direct

Reply To: mountainphile@yahoo.com


TITLE:  What Child Is This? (1 of 1)
AUTHOR:  mountainphile
RATING:  PG
CATEGORY:  MSR, a Christmas story
FEEDBACK:  mountainphile@yahoo.com
URL:  http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile
SPOILERS:  Post "The Truth," which surprises even me.
DISTRIBUTION:  It's an honor to be archived.  Please let me
know where, so I can visit.

DESCRIPTION:  These days, after what Scully's seen and now
knows of the future, she's not sure what constitutes a bona
fide act of God... but isn't this the season for miracles?

DISCLAIMER:  With joy and humility I'm only borrowing these
very special characters for a jaunt.  Chris Carter, 1013
Productions, and I don't know who else still retain all
ownership and rights.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:  I love the thrill of inspiration when it
comes on sneaky feet to inform me that another tale of
Scully and Mulder needs telling!  My deepest thanks to
Blackwood, Forte, Diana Battis, and Audrey Roget for
discerning beta, gratitude to Mish and Sybil for the blazing
green lights, and to Diana Battis for the lovely dustjacket.
Oh... and a Christmas truffle to the Muse for giving me the
idea in the first place.


What Child Is This?
by mountainphile

************

The evening shift comes to an end in Community Hospital's
small ER on Christmas Eve.  Outside, temperatures plummet as
anticipation soars.

A parade of holiday-related injuries has come this night for
treatment -- scrapes, gashes, contusions, and broken bones
caused by the flurry of preparation and merriment.  Indoors,
warm disinfected halls are graced by garlands of fake
evergreen, twinkling multicolored string lights, and satiny
ornaments in colors of green, red, silver, and gold.
Christmas music keens softly over the PA system, casting a
soothing blanket over cries of pain and the incessant
clatter and bustle of medical personnel.

A dangerous season of the year in more ways than the
obvious.  How quickly turns the worm of unspeakable,
irrevocable choice, the wounding of consummate separation.

It begins as a bubble, an aching tumor, deeply rooted.  A
searing hitch in Scully's heart, growing larger, more
tangible as the afternoon progresses into evening and the
musical repertoire repeats its poignant loop hour after
hour...

Silent Night.  It Came Upon A Midnight Clear.  Come All Ye
Faithful.  O Little Town Of Bethlehem.  Away In A Manger.
What Child Is This...

What Child Is --

Oh God.

Familiar carols that are the buttress of family and faith,
of hope... the blessedness of newborn babes and mother-love
that transcends any scheme of the Enemy to deter an ultimate
plan for the world's salvation.

Scully can relate.  Strains of holiday tunes played havoc
with her concentration all afternoon and into the evening
while she stitched knees, set bones, snipped thread,
administered shots.  The bubble expanded with the passing
hours, with each child's hurt she treated and every damnable
song she hears.  Memories of last year's Christmas waver
painfully to the surface of her consciousness, aching with
regret and the loss of their own special miracle.

The miracle she shared with Mulder --

No tears, not yet.  Not until she can wend her way homeward
this frigid night, when she can melt into his embrace in the
shadows of their own tiny, obscure apartment to draw his
comfort and release the terrible hold she keeps on her
heart.  For now she plumbs the wellsprings of former
training and reinforces an iron will of self-control, always
her trademark.

The life of one beloved male for another in a trade-off
necessary for the protection and survival of both.  This
irony of exchange from last December to this one sickens
them both, but she owns the guilt.  She has no immediate
family now, only Mulder, the man she's called partner for so
many years, the male who has become both husband and co-
refugee since spring, when life as they knew it splintered
apart like a million fragments of adobe in the blinding
desert sun.

Denial has kept her from selecting a holiday gift even for
him.

What twist of fate, what plan of God brings them here to
Grand Junction, Colorado, of all places?  Centralized on the
westward landscape, Mulder feels it's remote enough for
flight in any direction with relative ease while they
postulate their next move.  A modest city of confluence near
the eastern border of Utah, it has a small-town flavor and
sits framed by rivers, mountains, and a plethora of unique
wilderness formations.  For the past three months they've
woven themselves like furtive nits deep into its fabric.

Mulder found a temporary niche at the local state college
where computer access proves invaluable.  Teaching beginning
psychology to first-year students, he wears a goatee and
trim mustache in an effort to blend into this homespun
calico of campus life.  Suave, Scully insisted when she
caught him pondering it too closely in the mirror, doubt
clouding his features at the preponderance of gray hairs
that became evident during its growth.

Someone provides credibility for their aliases and the
necessary funds and paperwork.  Skinner?  Kersh?  Doggett?
Mulder's brooding bespeaks his inner pain and the careful,
patient manner in which he communicates to their unnamed
sources.  She trusts his internal radar implicitly.

She sought employment with Community Hospital, her rewritten
credentials a boon to the humble facility.  Competitive
battle wages between this young challenger and the large,
sprawling Saint Regina across town.  The Catholic first-born
insists on monopoly, while smaller Community requires only a
modicum of respect and the chance to prove itself.  In this
tug-of-war the more traumatic and newsworthy injuries are
funneled over to better-equipped Saint Regina, an
arrangement that's equitable to the ER's newest physician.

Dr. Elena McHale, wife of George McHale.  Said quickly,
Elena sounds much like her true first name and Scully finds
that fact strangely comforting during this stage of their
exile.  When she questioned the wisdom of Mulder's name
choice, so close to his oldest alias, he was silent for a
long moment before reaching out to caress her cheek with the
soft pad of his thumb.  "A tribute to old times," he
murmured, looking into her eyes, yet seeing beyond, past her
physical self.  And she had no argument when she detected
the ragged edge of emotion in his voice.

She works three to eleven, when most accidents seem to
occur.  Being new on the floor gives her little room in
which to bargain for a better slot.  Bottom of the totem
pole, yet in practice, elevated by the value they place on
her remarkable level of expertise and a strong sympathetic
bond with both patients and nursing staff.  Since Mulder's
classes don't always shadow her hours, most evenings they
reconnect for little more than strategizing, conversation,
and the healing crush of skin against skin.

Her hair is jaw-length and fuss-free, testing its own
forgotten curl.  Far easier to stuff into hat or hood at a
moment's notice, less hair to dye on the run.  She chose
this time to go lighter instead of brunette, much to
Mulder's approval, a paler, honeyed version of her Laura
Petrie charade.  The days when they went undercover, posing
as that saccharine married couple seems eons ago.

Now they're bound together by necessity and life choice.

In eerie reversal their jobs have become the front for their
very existence -- subject to change with the revolution of
seasons, a secret warning, or sensitive to the dictates of
common paranoia.  They operate on an alternate frequency,
have a harsher agenda to consider than the rest of humanity
who celebrate the current holiday.

Solitary for a moment in the small compartment called a
doctor's lounge, she pulls her coat from the rack and
prepares to leave the hospital.  Better that Mulder isn't
alone for too long this night of all nights, when nostalgia
surfaces and lost dreams run rampant.  She hopes he hasn't
lifted a finger to decorate; they agreed to forego gifts,
though she regrets her Scrooge-like attitude in the face of
the universal merriment around them.

Once again the tape of Christmas music begins its loop,
seeping into the airwaves of the ER, mocking her plight.
'What child is this, who, laid to rest on Mary's lap is
sleeping...?'  Last year this very song brought such comfort
to her bruised spirit as she endured the long separation
from Mulder.  And now --

No.  Please, not yet.  She presses her eyelids with cool
fingers, salvaging control, when a sound in the doorway
makes her start and drop the hand.

"Doctor McHale?  You busy?"

One of the late-night nurses peers inside with a sheepish
smile.  Forced into a slant, she's nearly diagonal in her
white tunic top, as though held by an unseen force from
outside in the hallway.

"I'm still here."

"Could you help me out for just a minute before you go?  I
hate to impose on you, but --" She staggers, her grip
compromised for a moment.  Ducking out of sight, she
recovers and then reappears, face pink.

"Not a problem," says Scully, hiding a stoic blink while
replacing her coat on its hook.  "How can I help?"

"You see, a lady just came in with a bad scalp cut from a
fender bender and she's pretty shook up.  Needs her husband
to stay with her while she's gettin' stitched.  And they
didn't want just any old stranger out in the waiting area
watching their little guy, so..."

"You got the job," supplies Scully in weak sympathy, second-
guessing the request that looms.

"Yeah, I got the job... but I still have all their paperwork
to finish up with and -- I hate to say it, but this little
fella's definitely got a mind of his own, and the rest of
the floor's too busy to..."

The woman's harried demeanor overcomes any reluctance Scully
feels.  This small hospital is known for its caring
generosity, staff included, so the least she can do is
pretend to share in the selflessness of holiday spirit.

"Hand him over.  I'll run herd on him for you."

"Oh, doctor -- you are a lifesaver!"

The nurse bends out of sight, fussing, and steers a toddler
into the small room toward Scully before disappearing back
down the hall.  Zipped into a pint-sized parka, he resembles
a tiny flush-cheeked Eskimo.  His arms bob and swing
comically, thick blue sausages capped by red mittens.  He
walks with a stiff-legged trundling gait, like a little
gingerbread man in leggings and matching blue hood.

Sighing and putting on a smile for the child's benefit,
Scully leans forward and extends a hand toward him.  "Hi,
there, sweetie.  Stay with me for a few minutes, okay?"

He stands and regards her, deliberating, eyes bright as a
canary's.  Chubby red cheeks glow with exertion and he
breathes openmouthed in heavy chuffs.

"No wonder you're so antsy," she murmurs understandingly,
estimating his age to be about eighteen months.  "It's warm
in here and you must be burning up in all those clothes.
Here, let me --"

With slight hesitation she crouches to untie the cords
beneath his damp chin and unzip the quilted chrysalis that
smothers him.  And as she's done countless times in the
previous year, her fingers gather speed and fall into a
familiar rhythm born of instinct and adeptness gained from
personal experience.

Yes, she was a mother once.  *Is* a mother.  Which tense is
appropriate now -- and which is mere presumption?

Heat radiates in waves from the toddler's sturdy sweater-
clad body, enveloping her with the sweet scent of babyhood.
Without guile he stands waiting, trusting her adult
stranger's hands to bring about the relief he needs.  So
long a victim of predation and ongoing conspiracy, such
natural naivete catches Scully unprepared.  The hard crust
of her resolve begins to slowly melt like snowflakes in warm
water as she loosens the constricting garments that swaddle
him.

Why this child, tonight?  Why isn't some other person
available to watch him?

All things happen for a reason, or so she's been taught to
believe, she reflects, easing off his thick mittens.  Too
many times, while working with Mulder, her faith has been
challenged, her worldview weighed and found grossly out of
sync.  These days, after what she's seen and now knows of
the future, she's not sure what constitutes a bona fide act
of God.  Providence may prove to be nothing more than the
capital of Rhode Island.

Add Cynicism and Doubt to her long list of sins, after
Abandonment and Betrayal.

The toddler squirms under her hands now, pulling at his hood
with determined, clammy fingers.  "Want off," he explains,
lower lip pushed into a winsome bow.  It's a full lip,
squared at the bottom edge, the upper softly chiseled.  As
he alternates from a sweet smile to a pout and back again,
tender creases dimple at the corners of his mouth with an
expressive similarity that brings her up short.

Far too uncanny, this resemblance.  She stares at him, chest
tight, breath shallow.

In a dizzying rush she thinks that she knows this mouth.  Or
one very much like it.

What child...?

God help her, it's almost a year later, but she swears she's
felt it rooting at her breast, has stared at it in love and
wonder for hours on end as it suckled and slept.  The adult
version of this mouth still nuzzles her body most nights,
seeking something far more satisfying than mother's milk.

Heart pounding and forehead creased, she cradles the small
face between her hands, reading it like the most fragile of
evidence in the short time she has remaining.  Brownish
eyes, sprinkled with flecks of gold and green dust, ringed
by gossamer lashes.  Nose still rounded and babyish, but a
trifle long for his young face, which shows the faint
evolution to boyish maturity.  Her thumbs trace cheek and
brow, the furrowed arch too much a reflection of what her
own must look like this very moment.

No. Impossible.

At her pause, he picks with impatience at the confining
hood, then pats the back of Scully's hand.  "Take *off*," he
repeats sincerely, gazing into her eyes as though she were
the child and he the adult.  "'Kay?"

"Okay, sweetheart, okay..."

The hood falls back and reddish wisps erupt from the child's
sweaty head.  Thicker than she would have imagined and laced
with soft chestnut, it curls around his ears and mats
against his damp neck.  Either he's yet to experience a
first grownup haircut, or hasn't had one for a long time.
So like hers, this arch of brow and the point of his small
chin.  "Like a Scully," her mother had pronounced upon
viewing her newest grandchild for the first time.  "Dana,
your father would be so tickled to see..."

"What's your name?  Can you say it for me?"

He plays coy, pleased by the attention, a happy tease.  When
he smiles into her face the outer corners of his eyes
crinkle endearingly and she sees more than a stranger's
face.

Hands shaking, she fluffs the hair from his neck and leans
closer to breathe in his essence.  In the animal kingdom
mothers do this, detecting their young long after weaning
and separation, so why not she?  She inhales, her eyes
filling with tears at the blessed familiarity and intimate
contact, her nose pressed to his damp skin.

Oh, Jesus, can it be?  The smell of young child, of baby, as
fresh to her as yesterday when he cuddled like a soft cocoon
in her arms.  Taking long, slow breaths in order to absorb
and identify each molecule of scent, she inches toward the
back of his neck, under the hair at the nape of his neck.

One secret identifying mark remains, the hidden strawberry
birthmark that only a mother or daily caregiver would have
knowledge of.  But these "port wine stains" are commonplace
in little children and can either fade or expand, too, over
time... and in light of her previous determination to hide
her baby's very existence for his own safety, does she want
to hazard knowing the truth?  At best, she dallies in
wishful speculation, with no positive DNA proof to stand on.
Yet...

He gurgles a laugh and her heart leaps at the sound.

"Bend your head, baby," she murmurs, and the tiny boy
complies, seemingly transfixed by the touch of her fingers
and the trembling intensity in her voice.

Underneath his hair she spies it: a big angel's kiss on his
scalp, high above the hollow at the base of the skull.

Coincidence... or the gracious hand of providence?

Falling to her knees, she lifts him into a hug, emotion
surging as she embraces his small, warm body, silky reddish
hair fanning over her mouth.  The tears come and she closes
her eyes, pressing his head to her cheek and shoulder,
rocking him.  "William," she gasps.  "Oh, sweetie pie, is it
really you?  If only Mulder could see --"

Frozen in time on the cool linoleum, she clutches him in her
arms for long precious moments.  Time enough to weep, to
kiss and stroke him, to whisper fervent words of love and
regret.  Her soul aches for confirmation even while
rejoicing in his unsubstantiated bloodline, knowing that the
odds defy reason.  But it was Mulder himself who once
entreated her to never give up on a miracle, no matter how
bizarre and impossible the likelihood.

And isn't this the season for miracles?

Footsteps approach from down the hall and she tries to stand
and compose herself, to quickly gain some semblance of
recovery.  Giving her eyes a few last, careful swipes before
placing the child back on his tiny feet, she's reminded that
subterfuge and ruse -- especially now -- characterize the
way she must live in order to survive.

A man with thinning brown hair and unbuttoned coat appears
at the door, his expression dissolving from apprehension
into relief when he sees the child with Scully.  The father,
by his reaction and body language, as he claps a gentle hand
on the small head.

"Hey, there you are!  Nurse down the hall said I'd find you
corralled in here with a lady doctor."

Forcing a tight smile and averting her face, Scully says, "I
hope you don't mind that I undid his coat and hat... he was
roasting..."

"Dang!"  The man looks uncomfortable with the information.
Hospitals, she knows, can be notorious for spotting errant
cases of abuse and neglect, something even good parents fall
prey to on occasion and under trying circumstances.  "Thank
you, Ma'am.  I -- I plumb forgot about that in all the
commotion before.  See, we pulled off the interstate for a
coffee stop and another car went and rammed us from behind.
That's how my wife cut her head... on the visor.  And here
we are."

"No harm done.  It can happen to anyone."

Relieved, he tousles the child's unruly locks.  "Good news,
cowpoke, your Ma's gonna be A-okay."

"'Kay," he echoes, grinning up.

"Traveling for the holiday?"

"Yes, Ma'am, down from Wyoming.  Grandma and Grandpa
insisted we come to their house this year for his first
Christmas, so we couldn't rightly refuse."

Chest tight at this casual disclosure, Scully gathers up the
two red mittens and hands them to the man.  "You say it's
his first?"

"Well... the first for us."  He bends, re-zipping his son's
winter coat with a shaky exhale.  "This little fella's our
miracle boy.  Came at a time when adoption looked to be a
dead end for my wife and me, so this'll be a real special
Christmas for the whole family.  Here ya go."  Reaching into
his pocket, the man pulls out a fuzzy brown baseball mitt
and hands it to his son.  "Bet you missed that."

The child gives a chuckle and hugs the toy to his chest.
Something Mulder would have chosen, Scully thinks, eyes
watering at his glee when the hidden bell inside it jingles.
Such innocence and trust.

"Well, uh, I guess we best be going."  He takes his son's
hat from Scully's hand and looks at her as though he needs
permission to leave with the boy.  "Already runnin' hours
behind schedule as it is, and don't want the folks to
worry."

"Yes, please drive carefully.  And get that coffee."

"Sure will," he glances at her nametag, "Doctor McHale.  I'm
truly much obliged to you, Ma'am, for watchin' my boy when I
couldn't do it myself.  Merry Christmas."

"May Kissmis," parrots the child.  He approaches Scully,
waving the stuffed mitt in his fist.  Then he raises his arm
high toward her, staring, insistent.

"Whoa... just a minute, Tex.  Grandma sent that to you.  You
sure you wanna give it away before we get there to thank
her?"

The boy nods, hazel eyes intent, lips pinched into a
stubborn pucker.

"No.  Please," Scully demurs, embarrassed.  "I couldn't --
he may not understand."

The boy looks from Scully to his father, then back at her.
That same sincere expression, almost adult in its intensity.
Once more his arm lifts and he pokes the little baseball
mitt toward her with a grunt of insistence.

"All right, then, go on -- spread the cheer."  The man
watches and smiles as his child pushes the toy into Scully's
hand.  "Looks like you got an early Christmas present
there," he jokes.  "When he gets it in his head to do
something, there's no holdin' this cowboy back."  He cocks
his head, considering.  "Sure must've taken a liking to you,
though.  Usually he holds back from strangers."

"He's a smart child to do so."

The man colors, pleased.  "Yeah, he sure is.  Okay, son...
how 'bout giving the nice doctor some sugar before we go?"

Sugar... Scully knows exactly what he means by the
expression.  A kiss, a hug, a childish bit of loving.

"I'd love some sugar," she murmurs, not certain which to
expect.  "Merry Christmas, sweetheart.  And thank *you*."

As the child toddles closer, Scully crouches to his level
once again.  Closing her eyes, she feels small arms encircle
her neck.  This is sufficient, more gift than she could ever
imagine receiving on the cold cusp of a holiday-in-exile
following such personal sacrifice.  More than enough...
until the next moment, when she feels his wet baby mouth
against her ear, hears the soft whisper that only she can
detect, meant for her alone --

"May Kissmis, Mama."

When they are gone she weeps afresh, plush mitt clutched in
the trembling hand, which covers her eyes.  Until tonight
all adoption records had been sealed.  Yet the names and
address of this family are right down the hall at the
nurse's station, hospital record.

They would be able to monitor him now, this child.  Protect
him, if it should ever come to that in the uncertain months
and years ahead.

Undeniable proof?  Scully looks at her hand, at the several
silky strands of red, which still cling to her damp fingers.
Tokens of promise.  A final gift.

She knows what must be done.  As soon as her heart quiets
and the flush leaves her face, she'll slip through the back
entrance and go home to Mulder.  With little forethought
she'll take him into her arms and whisper through another
rain of tears what has taken place this night.  She has no
doubt he'll stare into her face as he listens, his own eyes
crinkling, overflowing.  His lower lip pushing outward, a
carbon copy of this child's, curved into a slow grimace of
pain, joy, and comprehension.

All things happen for a reason.  Like Mary in the biblical
account, Scully will ponder this night in the secret
chambers of her heart.  The few silken hairs will be
fiercely guarded and treasured until the time when they can
somehow, in a secure facility, undergo proper DNA analysis.
Reflecting on the Magi's journey, she's adamant in her
belief that she and Mulder were led by supernatural means to
this place, to discover their own blessed miracle.

And the fuzzy brown baseball mitt clutched tightly in her
hand -- as well as the story of its tiny owner -- *these*
will be her Christmas gifts to Mulder.

************
The End