"Mulder's Birthday"
by Juliettt@aol.com (Friday, October 13, 1995)

Hokay, somebody (don't remember who, right now -- sorry!) issued a 
challenge for fanfic writers to write stories in honor of Fox Mulder's 
birthday.  Here's my contribution.  Yeah, it's kind of sappy at points, 
but there's really no romance to speak  of (some UST, though, I think).  
And nothing X-filey, really.  It's a contemplative piece and is kind of a 
stretch for me in that it is written mostly from Mulder's point of view (I 
tend to write Scully better, IMHO).

As always, the characters of Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and Margaret 
Scully belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, FOX 
Broadcasting, and to Gillian Anderson, David Duchovny, and Sheila 
Larken, respectively.  I am using them without permission but with the 
utmost respect and affection.

The three shows mentioned (though not by name <grin>) belong to 
FOX as well.  The quote is from St. Paul's first letter to the Corinthians, 
13:10.

Oh, and before you get *really* lost, there are a couple of references in
this story to a couple of stories I haven't posted yet.  One is a 
Christmas story.  The other is my sequel to "Anasazi" which is almost
ready to post (it's looong).  Hence the fact that in this story Melissa
is mentioned as having been alive in September (sorry, but I had my
own solution to the boxcar question).

Now that everyone is totally confused. . . .

***************************
"Mulder's Birthday"
by Juliettt@aol.com
***************************


	Fox Mulder glanced at his watch and sighed.  Almost time.  
Any minute now his partner would be giving him the look that said it 
was time to go home.

	But he didn't want to go home.

	After all, who wanted to spend a birthday alone?

	This was his birthday.  His thirty-fourth birthday, to be precise, 
and he had no plans.  None.  Zippo.  And, for the first time since he 
was a little boy, that hurt.

	<Come *on*, Mulder -- you're a grown man, for pete's sake.  
Snap out of it.  This is just another day like any other day.  So what 
if you're a year older?  What does that mean, exactly?  You aren't 
really a whole *year* older -- just another day.  So the rest of the 
world marks these days like they really matter.  So what?  It's not 
all that great, really -- it just means that you're a day closer to retiring.

A day closer to the day they tell you you have to quit working, quit 
the X-Files, quit looking for Sam.  No, you'll never quit looking for Sam.  
But quitting. . . .>

	Scully. . . .

	He quickly pushed *that* thought out of his head and went on.

	<Another birthday.  Another year of wasted time spent 
searching and striving and risking everything for the Truth only to 
have it snatched away or hidden at every turn.  Another year of 
almost getting killed -- how many times?  What a year.>

	He reconsidered.  No, that wasn't really fair.  This year 
had brought him closer to Scully -- and this year had brought her 
back to him.  Last time during his birthday she had still been missing.

	He hadn't felt much like celebrating last year.

	The year before that they had only been paired a short time, 
not long enough for him to feel comfortable even bringing up the date, 
much less doing anything about it.

	After all, it was just another day.

	He glanced over at her.  Wondered if he could find a way to 
suggest they go out to dinner or something without sounding too -- 
needy.  He thought of his empty apartment and sighed.  There 
probably wasn't even anything good on television.  Of course, Friday 
night did have some good programming on FOX, and there were 
those two sort-of-science-fiction programs back-to-back that he 
always watched.  The first one was about this guy who seemed to 
be followed everywhere he went by incredible strokes of good and 
bad fortune.   Unfortunately, the writers for the show concentrated on 
the character's search for his missing brother instead of on the *really* 
interesting premise, which was why so much strange luck attended 
him.  Mulder thought for a moment.  *That* would be an X-file worth 
investigating.  He wondered if the character had been born on Friday 
the 13th, as he had.  <Might explain a lot.>  And today was Friday, as 
well.  His eyes drifted to his partner again and he wondered just what 
she would say about such a case and about his hypothesis.  Well, 
actually, he *knew* what she would probably say about his
hypothesis, as well as just how she would look as she said it.  He 
wondered whether or not she had ever even watched the show.  He 
knew she watched the one that followed it, of course; he had 
introduced her to it more than a year ago and they were both loyal 
viewers.  The show dealt with paranormal and other unexplained 
phenomena, and seemed right up their alley.  She regularly set her 
VCR to tape that one and the next show, about a group of immortals 
who roamed the world helping and often beheading one another, 
because they were so often called out at the last minute that it was 
impossible to be certain they would be home to watch.

	With a start he realized that every one of the three shows he 
regularly watched dealt with paranormal activity.  That he had never 
recognized this common thread before bespoke more fully his 
obsession.  

	<Oh, great.  Even when we're not working we're working,> 
he realized.  He sighed again and repented that he had drawn Scully 
into the insane world of the X-files.  <She coulda been a 
contendah. . . .>  He grinned.

	Of course, he knew she thought the actor who played the 
lead immortal was "kinda cute."  Especially in the opening sequence 
when he had his shirt off.  And he suspected she also found the 
male lead in the show on the paranormal attractive.  He couldn't 
really see it, although you did have to like the guy's taste in ties -- 
and partners.  The female lead was lovely.  He and Scully had 
watched the show together and had tried to hide their interest from 
one another, but he had noticed, and inwardly cheered.  She 
evidently liked tall, dark, intense men. . . .

	"Mulder."

	He jumped a little, realizing he had been staring at her the 
whole time.  "Uh -- yeah?"

	"Time to go."  His face fell and he nodded, then opened his 
mouth to speak.  Then closed it again.  "What?"

	"I -- uh -- oh, nothing."

	<Come on, say it!> she willed him.

	"Just -- umm. . . ."  He stopped himself.  <Friday night, you 
dolt.  She's probably got a date or something.>

	Yeah, right.  Scully on a date.  When he kept her so busy 
she never had a chance even to *meet* guys.  When she couldn't 
ever really relax during a night out because he might call her.  With a 
grimace he remembered the last date she'd had that he had known 
about.  He had called her from Atlantic City about the Jersey Devil and 
she had dropped everything, including the guy she'd been with, 
come to his aid, and then decided not to see the guy again.  
Suddenly he had a thought.

	Maybe she hadn't been the one to make that decision.  
Maybe the man had determined not to get involved with a woman 
who might pick up and leave at a moment's notice.  Not supportive, 
perhaps, but understandable.  Of course, he would never do that.  
Not with the right woman.  He glanced at Scully again. It would be 
worth it.

	So he'd messed up what had looked to be, from her 
appearance, a very nice evening, possibly ruined a relationship she 
could have had with a *normal* man, a man who didn't wear a gun 
even to the bathroom, who would likely bring her flowers instead of 
implants and autopsies and abductions (oh, my).  Whose most 
severe injuries on a daily basis would include hangnails and the 
occasional papercut rather than gunshot wounds and near-death-
by-alien-blood-viruses. 

	He had no idea how often she had dated since that evening.

	<Get a life, Mulder.  She's a -- a lovely woman.  Just 
because *you* don't have a life. . . .>

	"Mulder?"

	He'd been staring again.  Great.

	<You've been monopolizing her -- especially since her 
sister's death. . . .>  "It's nothing."  He smiled a little, a forced 
smile.  "Forget it."

	Scully frowned as he ducked his head back into his file.  
*What* a stubborn man.  She shut down her notebook computer, 
gathered up her things, and walked over to where he sat, hunched 
over a folder.

	"Mulder."

	"Hmmm?"  He didn't look up but she could tell he was only 
faking his engrossment in the case.  She reached down, pulled the 
file from his loose fingers, and dropped it on the desk.

	"It's after six.  Let's go."

	He stared down at the desktop.  He should really just tell 
her to go -- it was still light outside, so he didn't feel he had to walk 
her to her car <and if you *ever* let her know that's what you've been 
doing she'll probably pull her gun on you and this time she might not 
aim for the shoulder!>.  He could, though.  Then get into his own, 
drive around the block, and come back in to the office.  She'd never 
know.

	"Mulder."  He looked up.  She was regarding him with a 
mixture of concern, humor, and exasperation.  "Let's *go*."  He 
nodded and got up.  As he was retrieving his coat from the rack she 
stepped out of the office to wait in the hallway.  "And don't think 
you're going to pull a fast one on me.  This time, you *are* leaving."  

	He stared at her.  She was giving him a little, knowing smile 
that told him she knew all of his little tricks.  He smiled back in self-
deprecation and locked the door.

	"Okay.  Let's go."

	They rode up in the elevator in silence and he walked her to 
her car.  When he turned to go she stopped him.  "Get in."

	He turned and stared at her.  "Huh?"

	"Get in."  He opened his mouth to protest but she stared him 
down and he obeyed.

	"So where are we going?" he asked once they were on the 
road.

	She handled the car smoothly and once again he gave 
thanks that his partner was a good driver.  It really came in handy on 
long trips, because he felt safe enough to sleep in the car.  Safe with 
her driving.  Safe with *her*.  Safe. . . .

	"Well, *first* we're going to your place.  Then we're going to 
dinner," she informed him.  His eyebrows lifted and she smiled but 
said no more.

	He stared out the window for a long, silent moment.  Then, 
"how did you know?" he asked softly.

	"You're not the only one who's observant," she said with 
another smile.  "I saw it on -- the file."  <The one in the mountain.  
The one with Samantha's name stuck over yours. . . .>  "Besides," 
she concluded hastily, "I -- kind of -- looked it up after it became 
obvious we'd be working together *permanently*."  The way she
emphasized the word "permanently" sent a curl of pleasure through
his body and mind.  She paused.  "I'm really sorry I missed it last 
year."

	He gazed at her.  "Me, too," he said simply.  She flashed 
him a grateful look and they drove on in silence.

	When they reached his apartment he opened the door and 
they went in.  "So," he asked, watching her, "why are we here?"

	"We," she replied, "are here to get you an overnight bag."  
His eyebrows shot up into his hairline.  "Mom wants us to come 
out there for dinner," she confessed, "and she's invited us to stay 
the night."

	He nodded slowly.  Margaret, he knew, was still taking 
Melissa's death very badly.  They had only recently begun to 
reconcile, and now she had lost her eldest daughter.  He had 
been so afraid she would blame Dana, but evidently he had 
misjudged her.  "Okay," he said.  "Feed the fish while I pack, 
wouldja?"  He disappeared into the bedroom and she heard him 
rummaging in his drawers and closet for clothes.  She fed the fish.

	Incongruous, she had thought at first, that a man with as 
much restless energy as Mulder kept fish.  But then, too, it made 
a certain kind of sense.

	Fish needed care, but not too much care.  He could leave 
them for a few days now and then and they would survive, especially
now that she came to feed them on those rare occasions she did 
not accompany him.  This was good -- she had a feeling he could 
not have taken the death of a dog or a cat.  A dog.  Mulder definitely 
did not have the temperament for a cat.

	Then, too, the fish needed him.  And it was nice to be 
needed, even for something as simple as food and fresh water.

	She watched the fish nibble greedily at the food flakes 
floating at the top of the water and thought some more.

	Some fish, like sharks, had to swim constantly or they 
would drown.

	Just like Mulder.

	She heard his steps as he reentered the living room, a 
small bag in hand and a smile on his face.  He hadn't smiled 
much lately, since New Mexico.

	"Ready?" he asked.  She brushed fish flakes off her hands
and nodded.  

	"Ready."

*****

	"So what about *your* stuff?" 

	She smiled without taking her eyes off the road.  "Already 
in the trunk.  I packed last night."

	<And my present?> he thought but did not ask.  This -- her
inviting him to spend his birthday with her -- was present enough, 
really. . . . Then again, knowing Margaret, there had been very
little "asking" involved.

	<What if he'd had plans?> she asked herself.  <You never 
even bothered to think about that, did you, Scully?  You just 
assumed he wouldn't.  Or maybe you just figured he'd want to 
spend his birthday with you.>

	<Then again, he *was* about to try to pull that trick of
pretending to leave and sneaking back into the office.  Honestly.  
Like he really thinks you won't see through it -- just like he thinks
you don't know he's been walking you to your car ever since
Melissa . . . for the past few weeks.>

	<And why do you always think of yourself as "Scully" 
when you're with him?>

*****

	Margaret Scully greeted them with her customary 
enthusiasm, although Mulder could see the dark circles and the 
new fine lines around her eyes.  He really loved Scully's mom.  
She helped to fill that hole in his heart that had been so much a 
part of him for so long that he scarcely even felt it until it began to 
be filled.  He loved his own mother, of course, but he had always felt 
distanced from her by Sam's disappearance.  How could she look at 
him and not see what they had lost?

	Dinner was excellent, as always.  He even found himself 
enjoying the fresh vegetables.  Everything always tasted better here, 
in the Scully kitchen, that even now in the midst of Margaret's grief 
was filled with so much love.

	Afterwards they retreated to the living room.  Maggie asked 
him to build a fire, and he did.  Somehow fires didn't seem to bother 
him very much here.  They were -- contained -- in a way that they 
weren't for him even in other fireplaces.  Once again the word that had 
been running through his mind all evening made its presence known 
in his consciousness.

	*Safe*.

	Being here with Scully and her mother made him rethink the 
meaning of birthdays.  A birthday was not really a day on which to 
celebrate living another year -- although given their recent history that 
wasn't a bad idea.  It was a day on which friends and family gathered 
to celebrate your existence.  It was a way of their giving thanks that 
they had had you for the previous year, and of expressing their joy that 
they would have you for the year to come.

	He didn't think he'd ever had friends who celebrated his 
existence before.  Or who made him feel like celebrating as well.

	He realized that the two Scully women were watching him 
and he looked up and smiled.  Margaret held out a package to him.

	"It's from . . ." she swallowed something and tried again.  
"From Melissa, and from me."

	He took the package gingerly.  It was small and light.  He 
opened it.  A small white jewelry box gave way to a delicate crystal on 
a long silver chain.  He glanced up at Margaret, surprised.

	"I -- don't believe in all that New Age stuff," she admitted.  "But 
this was Melissa's -- I know you two became close last Christmas and 
then this September.  And -- I think she would have liked you to have it."

	He nodded and held the crystal in his cupped palm.  He 
recognized it as the one she had dangled over Scully's inert body while 
her sister was in the coma, the one she had used to make some 
observations about Dana that at the time had seemed off-the-wall but
which he now knew had been right on target.

	<Just because something is pure and good doesn't mean it's 
silly and trite.>

	His eyes filled.  It meant so much to him -- this link with the 
Scully family.  

	"Thank you," he whispered.  "I know -- it's hard to . . . to give up 
something that meant a lot to her, and I . . . just, thank you."  She 
nodded through her tears and hugged him.

	He rocked back on his heels and looked at Scully.  She was 
holding a medium-sized package in her hands.  After a moment's 
hesitation she held it out to him and he took it, almost gasping at its 
weight.  He looked at her quizzically but she only smiled and shrugged 
a little.

	Slowly, carefully, he stripped off the paper, trying to imagine 
what this could be.  From the look on her face it was something 
important to her, but he couldn't think what.

	The box was sturdy and taped shut.  He drew his Swiss Army 
knife out of his pocket to cut the strapping tape and returned her grin, 
remembering the previous Christmas.  She knew he now carried the 
knife nearly everywhere.  What she *didn't* know was that he carried the 
quarter, too.

	He lifted the lid of the box to reveal a mass of white tissue 
paper.  Carefully pawing it aside his fingers touched something 
smooth and hard and cold.  He pulled it out and gasped.

	It was a lead crystal sculpture.  The smooth curves and 
angles caught the light and the piece shone like a living thing.

	There was a flat, swirling surface faintly tinged with blue that 
had evidently been introduced during the melting process, for the color 
was the merest hint.  It flowed up in freeform curls to a small, clear 
star.  The bottom of the sky -- for that is what it was -- flowed up 
thicker and clear in front of the pale blue background to form two 
hands, obviously belonging to two different people, fingers stretched 
up toward the star.  They were children's hands.

	He looked at it for a long moment, then looked at her.

	Here was the affirmation from her for which, he now realized, 
he had been waiting.  Tangible evidence that the search was *theirs* 
now, that they *were* a team, that she was in this thing -- whatever it 
was -- for the duration.

	<. . .it became obvious we'd be working together 
*permanently*.>

	That he was no longer alone.

	"Thanks, Dana," he whispered softly.

	"You're welcome, Fox," she whispered back.  "Happy 
birthday."

	He started a little at her use of his first name, which she 
knew he hated, then relaxed.  It was another gift of sorts, to herself 
and to him, and he accepted it in the spirit in which it was given.  
Perhaps -- perhaps she would help him to heal that wound, too, as 
she had helped to heal so many others.

	Margaret Scully vanished to the kitchen to light the candles 
on the cake.  She smiled, wondering whether a wish *she* made as 
he blew them out would come true. . . .

*****

	That night as he lay in bed Mulder turned the crystal 
sculpture over and over in his hands.  He glanced at the smaller 
crystal on the bedside table.
	
	Two sisters, two gifts.  Each so unique.  Melissa's so 
characteristic of her, dainty and slightly whimsical.  With a touch of 
fancy.

	Dana's, solid and sound.  Elegant and full of meaning.  An 
indication of just how much she had changed -- *they* had changed 
-- since that first meeting in the basement what seemed like a lifetime 
ago.

	He placed it carefully on the bedside table and picked up the 
box in which he had carried it up the stairs.  His fingers brushed 
something stiffer than tissue paper.  Frowning, he reached in, then 
drew out a folded piece of paper.  He had missed it earlier.  From its 
placement at the bottom of the box he now guessed she had meant 
him to miss it then.

	He opened it and read.

**
	A wise man once said, "When I was a child I spoke as a 
	child.  I thought as a child.  I reasoned as a child.  Now 
	I have become a man and I have put away childish things."

	To be childish is to cling to those things that make a child
	immature -- that keep him from growing.  To be
	*childlike* is to cling to those things that prepare a child
	for maturity: imagination, faith, trust, hope.

	We have seen the Truth, Mulder.  And together we will
	find the answers.

	Don't ever give up on hope.

				DS
						                      	**


	He turned his head to the window.  The curtains were open 
and he could see the stars and planets.

	He wondered if Samantha was on one of them.



*END*

Dedicated to Chris Carter, whose birthday is also today.  Happy 
birthday, Sir.