The Simplest Explanation
by Blueswirl
cleojones3@yahoo.com
9/8/03

Archive:  Gossamer yes, anyone else please drop me a line 
first.
Rating: PG 
Spoilers: S7, post-"Goldberg Variation," pre-"Closure"*
Keywords: E-Muse Writer's Block Beat the Heat Challenge

Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully 
belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods. and Fox Inc. I'm just 
borrowing and mean no harm.

Summary: A few words on luck, chance, fate and Santa Claus.

* For the purposes of this story, I'm loosely following The X-
Files Timeline as archived here: 
http://www.themareks.com/xf/1999.shtml. This timeline 
has "Goldberg Variation" occurring before "Millennium"; they 
place "GV" in early December, but as that date can't be exactly 
confirmed, I'm assuming "GV" occurred in mid-November.


*  *  *

"Luck is believing you're lucky." - Tennessee Williams

*  *  * 


The last few mornings she's been up before the sun, into her 
running clothes and out the door before the first pink rays 
crest the eastern horizon. The streets still mostly silent, only 
the most determined of commuters behind the wheel at this 
hour. She usually passes the neighborhood paperboy on her 
third or fourth block. Today, either she's extra-early or he's 
running behind, because she's hit the seventh before she sees 
him, shadowed against the morning mist.  He salutes her 
speed with a plastic wrapped bundle just before he hurls it into 
the air. It tumbles end over end and then slides across the 
dew-covered lawn to land perfectly balanced at the edge of the 
porch. She gives him a grin that says nice work and then she's 
around the corner and gone. 

She finishes her run, hits the shower, and just minutes later is 
dressed and out the door. The energy she's been feeling lately 
is seemingly boundless. Part of it, she suspects, is just the 
change of seasons.  Summer hasn't ever been her favorite time 
of year. She's too fair to enjoy the beach, and muggy, humid 
air always steals her breath away, makes her feel like 
choking. Scully likes the fall, the crispness of the wind and the 
falling of the leaves, and likes winter even more.  It hasn't 
snowed yet this year, not quite, but the promise is there. She 
can feel its bite on her cheeks, and she tugs at her scarf as she 
heads for her car.  

It's not just the weather that has her feeling this way, even 
though to chalk it up to that is the simplest explanation, and 
one that doesn't make her feel flushed and a little bit giddy. 
The real reason, the one she hates to admit to, has more than 
a little something to do with her partner. She's been trying to 
tell herself it's just relief that she's feeling, a heady rush of 
release from all the stress she'd felt in Africa, the fear and 
terror that threatened to overwhelm her. The nameless dread 
at the thought that she would be unable to save him, that he 
would be lost to her forever. And while she knows all that's 
true, they've been back for weeks and weeks, and he's been as 
strong and healthy and sound as ever. 

So it's more than a change of seasons, and more than mere 
relief, but somehow she can't think beyond that. She doesn't 
want to think too hard about what's had her smiling so much 
lately, why she finds herself so often on the verge of laughter. 
Last week, in Chicago, there were moments where she almost 
felt unprofessional, she was enjoying herself so much. She's 
afraid to examine her feelings too closely, for fear that they 
won't hold up under such scrutiny, but will merely pop the 
way soap bubbles do when they touch your hand.  

Today's run was particularly long and satisfying, and so when 
she stops at the cafe before work it's for no reason, really, 
beyond the fact that she's in the mood for a treat.  She gets a 
cup of regular for Mulder and a decaf for herself, and then 
splurges on a couple of muffins that the clerk behind the 
counter tucks carefully into a bag. 

When she gets to the office, he's already there, the door to the 
hallway propped open just a crack which she's thankful for, 
juggling coffee and muffins and keys. "You're in early," she 
says as she enters. He's wearing his glasses, studying some 
papers strewn across his desk, and her heart skips an 
unexpected beat.

"The same could be said for you," he replies, and right away 
she hears it, knows that something's on his mind. It wouldn't 
be apparent to the casual observer, but she's had years to 
study this particular subject. By this time she's earned an 
advanced degree in Mulder observation. It's in his voice, and 
in the hunch of his shoulders as he sits behind his desk. 

She knows him in this mood, knows enough to tread carefully. 
"I brought coffee," she says, "and some muffins, if you want 
some."

"Muffins? Mmmmm." He closes the folder he was studying and 
leans back in his chair, offering up a vague, half-hearted 
smile. "And what possessed you, Ms. Yogurt-and-Salads, to 
bring this kind of contraband into the office?"

Now she'll die before admitting that she spent the better part 
of the drive over debating the relative merits of pumpkin 
versus cranberry. She shrugs, crossing the room to hand him 
his coffee cup along with the bag. "Everything's okay in 
moderation, Mulder."

"Oooooh, really?" He peers up at her over the top of his glasses. 
"Everything, Scully? I like the sound of that."

He's too busy digging in the bag to notice the flush that washes 
across her cheeks. She's sure of that. 

"Hmmmm," is all she says, setting her coffee on the desk beside 
his,  before going to hang up her coat. 

"So what are you working on?" she asks, a few moments later, 
after she's all settled in, coffee in hand.

"Nothing, really." He takes off his glasses and puts them down 
on the desk.  "I put together a file on Weems, just so we'd have 
it on record, although at the end of the day I'm not sure that 
it's really an X-File."

"Why not? You said yourself that maybe his luck *was* the X-
File."

"Shallow men believe in luck, Scully. Strong men believe in 
cause and effect."

There's a little sarcasm in his voice, and she looks at him 
curiously. "And where'd you get those bons mots?"

"Ralph Waldo Emerson, if memory serves." He pops a big piece 
of muffin in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before he 
continues. "I mean, ultimately luck is just based on an 
interpretation of past events. Something happens and then 
you can say, 'Hey, that was a lucky break' or 'Whoa, that was 
some tough luck.' But if you really subscribe to the fact that 
everything happens for a reason, if every effect is the result of 
some previous cause, then there's no such thing as luck."

"So what, Mulder? You're saying now that Henry Weems 
wasn't lucky?"

"I don't know, Scully." He picks up the folder, stands and walks 
to the file cabinet. "Things definitely seemed to chain-react in 
his favor. That good enough for you?"

She decides to throw some words out like a fishing reel, see if 
there's anything to catch. "Is something wrong, Mulder?"

He gives her a look that she can't quite read, and then he's 
rifling through the drawer, looking for just the right place to 
tuck away the Weems file. "Nothing's wrong. Just doing a 
little thinking about luck, I guess." Finished, he slams the file 
drawer shut and turns back to face her. "Weems was just an 
ordinary guy, until an event happened -- that plane crash -- 
that seemingly changed his luck from ordinary to great. So, 
theoretically, if that's the case, then the reverse might hold 
true."

"Mulder --"

"Ordinary guy, an event happens... changes his luck from 
ordinary to shit. Makes a certain amount of sense, doesn't it, 
Scully?"

She doesn't have to ask who he's talking about. She knew 
before the words even left his mouth. An ordinary boy, his 
sister gets abducted...

"If you want to look at it that way," she says, gently. "But we 
both know it's more complicated than that."

"Is it?" he wonders. "Maybe it's not. Maybe it's just that simple. 
And, just like with Weems, everyone who gets involved in his 
life becomes an integral part of his luck. It's just not much fun 
when it's all bad."

He's moving towards self-pity now, an emotion she won't 
tolerate in herself and won't allow him to wallow in, either. 
"Oh, come on," she says. "Are you saying that there's no such 
thing as free will? We weren't deliberately pulled into Weems's 
life, into his luck. All the choices we made when we were in 
Chicago -- even *going* to Chicago, for that matter -- those 
were choices we made. They had nothing to do with Weems or 
his luck."

"Didn't they? We found out about Weems because there were 
Bureau agents out there watching Cutrona's building. It's all 
just falling dominoes, cause leading to effect again and again." 
His eyes darken. "It sort of makes you wonder whether 
anything we do actually has any effect at all."

Scully sits there, silently. There's nothing for her to say at this 
moment that won't come out sounding like a platitude. And 
this kind of talk is uncharacteristic of him, enough so that she 
knows that he's yet to get to the root of the matter.

After a moment, Mulder barks out a short laugh and collapses 
into his desk chair. "Sorry to be so maudlin, Scully," he says. "I 
woke up this morning to a call from my mother. She wants 
me to come out and spend Thanksgiving weekend with her. I 
just... I just don't know if I'm up for that this year."

She knows instantly why. Thanksgiving this year falls on the 
25th, which makes Saturday the 27th, the anniversary of 
Samantha's disappearance. 

For the past few days, Scully's been toying with the idea of 
inviting Mulder to her mother's for Thanksgiving, mulling 
the appropriateness of such an invitation, wondering how it 
might be perceived. Now she's angry with herself and a little 
ashamed for not having gone ahead and asked him, because 
now she knows she can't, knows that now there's no way for 
him to graciously accept.

"I'm sorry," is what she says.

The corner of his mouth crooks up in a rueful grin. "Nothing to 
be sorry about. It's just another link in the chain of events."

And it's then that the phone rings. 

Mulder picks it up, listens for a long moment, and then thanks 
the caller before returning the receiver to its cradle. "We've 
got a fax coming in," he says. "From Minnesota."

"Another one?" 

"Apparently so," he says, leaping out of his chair just as the fax 
machine rings with an incoming tone. 

Scully stays where she is, her mind flashing back five days, to 
a hospital in Minnesota, where a small six-year-old boy, frail 
even for his age, was hooked up to so many tubes and wires 
she could barely see his body beneath them. Lucas Shanks has 
never been to school, he's never played outside with the kids 
on his block, he's never had any friends his own age, unless 
you count his normal and healthy younger brother. Lucas has 
been seriously ill all his life, congenital defects keeping him in 
the hospital more often than out. 

His life, Scully knows, might have gone unnoticed by anyone 
other than his family and his doctors. It might have, but no 
longer.

As Mulder waits for the fax, Scully reaches over and grabs a 
file off the corner of his desk that's marked on the outside in 
red.  Inside, there is a photo, clipped to a pile of paperwork. 
The girl in the photo smiles at her in a way that can only be 
called flirty. Maybe even coy, and she's only twelve years old. 
Long blonde hair, big blue eyes, with a strong gaze that speaks 
of both intelligence and confidence.  

This girl, Jessica Masterson, has been missing from her Boston 
suburb for eleven days. She disappeared from the playground 
at recess, after chasing a stray ball behind the backstop. One 
minute she was there, the next second she was gone. None of 
her other classmates, or any of the teachers on the 
playground, saw a thing. Kidnapping is always a Bureau 
matter, but not necessarily an X-File. 

Mixed in with the photos and information on Jessica are a 
handful of drawings, crayon sketches on cheap dimestore 
paper. They are all the same, depicting a stick-like figure with 
yellow crayon hair and girlish features, arms akimbo as she 
floats through the air. In each of the sketches, the girl appears 
to be flying high above mountains, against the horizon, as 
though spinning directly into space.  

Each of the drawings is labeled in a childish scrawl, letters 
spelling "Jessica M" connected to the flying figure by a single, 
jagged arrow. Drawings made by Lucas Shanks.

It was Lucas's father who made the initial connection, after 
having seen a piece on Jessica's disappearance on CNN. He'd 
called the local police, who called the FBI, and the information 
landed, as it somehow always did, down in the basement. 

When they learned of the first drawing, they flew to 
Minnesota to try and talk with Lucas, but either he was too ill 
to understand their questions, or simply unable to answer 
them. According to his mother and his doctors, his silence 
wasn't unusual. Most days, they were told, if it wasn't for his 
drawings, they'd have no idea what he was thinking. Mulder 
had grown impatient unusually quickly, and it had been left 
to Scully to sit with the boy, to try and draw him out. Just 
looking at him lying there had made her heart hurt, had 
made her think of the way Emily had looked, at the end, so 
helpless and vulnerable and tired. 

The ding of the fax machine breaks into her reverie and so 
she's ready when Mulder comes rushing over, bearing a single 
sheet of paper. "Look," he says, and the excitement in his voice 
is palpable. "It's more of the same. He's trying to tell us 
something, I know he is."

The drawing is indeed the same: the girlish figure, the 
mountains, the horizon. No new details; were it not for a few 
slight changes caused by the shakiness of the hand, it could 
easily be a copy of any of the previous drawings. "I don't know, 
Mulder," she says, shaking her head. "He may not be trying to 
tell us anything. This is a boy who's receiving very little 
external stimulation. He made a drawing that garnered him 
a lot of attention -- who's to say he's not just reproducing that 
over and over because he likes the attention he's receiving?"

Mulder gives her a look that's heavy with both anger and 
disappointment. It doesn't faze her in the least; this look is part 
of his arsenal, part of his repertoire. "How can you say that? 
He's receiving a message! This is textbook -- there are X-Files 
going back years about this kind of psychic link. Think about 
Kevin and Ruby Morris!"

"Mulder!" She can't keep the exasperation out of her voice. 
"Kevin and Ruby Morris were siblings. Any... *connection* 
between them was undoubtedly as a result of that familial 
bond. There's not a single tie between Lucas Shanks and 
Jessica Masterson."

"But there *is*," he insists, waving the paper in her face. 
"Here's your proof, right there! Lucas can *see* her, Scully. I 
don't know how or why, but he can see her. I'm telling you, he 
knows where she is."

Scully closes her eyes against the onslaught, rubs her temples 
with her fingers. She doesn't mind arguing with Mulder. It's a 
part of their dynamic, as comfortable and familiar as the 
sheets on her bed. Sometimes she even relishes a good debate, 
but there are moments, like this one, when the peaceful 
tranquility of her morning run has dissipated and all she can 
feel is him working her last nerve. 

"And where is that?" she asks. "Above the clouds? Somewhere 
in outer space?  It's a child's drawing, Mulder. That figure 
might just as well be under water."

The minute the words are out of her mouth she regrets them. 
She sees the stricken look on his face and wants to take them 
back, ashamed of losing her cool so easily. 

"Listen," she says, choosing her words carefully now. "I do 
believe that Jessica was abducted. I just don't think it was by 
aliens."

She's surprised when he nods, leaning past her across the desk 
to pick up the phone. "I think you're right, Scully," he says. "I 
think you're absolutely right."

*  *  *

Flying isn't something she'll ever completely get used to, but 
coming into Logan Airport almost makes it worthwhile. The 
Massachusetts shoreline, with its jagged imperfections, is 
simply breathtaking. From the window she can see water 
splashing against the tiny islands scattered along the coast in 
random patterns. The ocean is rough today, and none of the 
boats are out in it; they stand at attention in seemingly 
endless rows against the dock. The plane doesn't fly low 
enough for her to be able to read any of their names.

They're off the plane and into a rental car with breathtaking 
speed, Mulder driving almost recklessly. Scully's glad that 
there's no ice on the roads today. 

The scenery whizzes by outside so quickly she can barely 
register anything beyond simple colors. The red of old brick 
buildings. The brown branches of naked trees. The dazzling 
blue of the winter sky. She closes her eyes and dizziness fades. 

Why, Scully wonders, is it always the little girls who go 
missing? Even as she thinks the words, she knows they aren't 
entirely true, but for some reason it seems that way. The cases 
they work, and even the ones they don't, the ones she reads 
about in the paper or hears about on the television. It always 
seems to be the same, another little girl lost. So few of them 
found. 

She opens her eyes again, keeping them firmly on the road 
ahead, watching the dashed white lines as they disappear 
beneath the car. From time to time she glances over at 
Mulder, who clenches the steering wheel, and drives. 

*  *  *

It's pandemonium on the shoreline, Coast Guard and EMTs, 
policemen and agents milling around like a colony of very 
determined ants, each individual focused a specific task at 
hand. Scully follows Mulder as he weaves his way through the 
melee, conscious of the way the wind is searing her through 
her heavy coat, suitjacket and sweater as though she's 
wearing nothing at all. Now, standing here on the coast, the 
images in Lucas's drawings are crystal clear. She can see how 
through a child's eyes the way the rocky shoreline disappears 
beneath the water's edge calls to mind mountains against the 
sky.

Scully's more than a few steps behind Mulder by the time he 
stops to flip his badge open for a cop standing at the perimeter 
of the real activity.  

"... FBI," she hears him saying as she draws closer. "This is my 
partner, Agent Scully. They've found the body?"

The cop nods gravely. He's probably not as old as his 
weatherbeaten face makes him look. "Yeah," he says. "It's her 
all right." Scully can see the pain in his eyes. Nobody likes to 
lose one of their own, especially not one so young. 

Mulder nods in response and then turns to catch her eye 
before leading the way towards the gurney bearing its 
achingly small cargo. A few short steps and they're there, 
Mulder asking for permission to unzip the body bag.  

"Go ahead," the EMT replies. "Poor girl's frozen solid."

"Any estimate on time of death?" Scully asks.

The EMT shrugs. "Can't be entirely sure. Cold as that water is, 
could be as little as three or four hours ago; could be days."  He 
shook his head. "Thing is, we're not even sure yet she drowned. 
It's possible she was dead before she hit the water. We won't 
know for sure till she's examined."

"Scully! Look at this."

Scully turns her attention to Mulder, leans over the gurney 
beside him. Jessica's face is so pale and still it looks like 
marble.  There is a bluish cast around her lips and nose, and a 
long red scratch running from her forehead down along one 
cheek, but otherwise she is devoid of color, bleached white like 
bone. Scully blinks and then she realizes what it is Mulder is 
showing her, what he wants her to see, what she missed in 
that first second of looking into the bag.

Jessica's hair is missing. 

There's no evidence of any of the blonde hair that curled 
around her face so beautifully in the photograph. Even her 
eyebrows are gone, leaving her forehead blank and smooth 
over her closed eyes.  

"Mulder..." she gasps. 

"I know," he says. 

She slips off her glove and feels the wind slap her hand 
immediately.  Ignoring it, she runs the tip of one finger gently 
along the place where Jessica's hairline should be, and then 
along that empty ridge above her eyes. "I've never seen 
anything like this," she tells him. "There's not even a trace of 
hair there, nothing that would indicate its removal."

Mulder's eyes are a whirling hazel kaleidoscope of hunches and 
theories. "I want you to do this autopsy, Scully. I'm going to 
talk to her family."

*  *  *

By the time he returns from talking with the Mastersons, 
Scully has already finished the autopsy. When he walks into 
the bay, he looks more exhausted than she feels, which is 
really saying something. There is nothing easy about 
performing an autopsy on a frozen young girl, but talking to 
distraught parents is always, always worse.

"What've you got, Scully?" he asks, leaning against the 
counter along the wall. Since entering the building, he hasn't 
even bothered to unbutton his coat. 

"Well," she says, picking up her notes, "Jessica definitely did 
not drown. There's no sign of water ingestion, no evidence of 
cadeveric spasm, no signs of anoxia present. Her lungs are not 
distended, and there wasn't any fluid in the stomach, so she 
was dead before she was put in the water."

She glances up and meets his eyes. They're hollow, and dark. 
She swallows, and keeps her gaze linked with his. 

"There's no evidence of cardiac arrest, no drugs or trace 
elements found in her bloodstream. No signs of any physical 
violence or abuse, beyond the visible scratch on the side of her 
face." She shrugs, putting her report back down on the table. "I 
can't say for sure what killed this girl, Mulder. Based on the 
condition of her lungs, my best guess is respiratory failure due 
to hypothermia. Her pupils are dilated, and there's acute 
muscle rigidity, although that could also be a result of having 
been submerged in the water for so long. Hypothermia is 
difficult to prove in an autopsy, especially given these 
conditions, but I don't see how it can be a result of anything 
else."

"And the hair loss? What do you make of that?"

She frowns, her forehead crinkling in the way that it always 
does when she's annoyed or perplexed. Lately she's noticed 
that she can see two faint creases over the bridge of her nose in 
the mirror, even when she's totally relaxed. "I haven't been 
able to figure that out," she confesses. "She was still pre-
adolescent, so I wouldn't have expected to find much, but 
there's not any evidence that this girl ever had hair 
anywhere on her body. Close examination confirms what I'd 
suspected, that there are no signs of any of the traditional 
forms of hair removal. There's no rational or scientific 
explanation for it -- she has no history of any disease or 
treatments that could explain it, either. Did her parents give 
you any insight?"

Mulder shakes his head, running a hand through his already 
tousled hair. "They didn't have anything to say that isn't 
already in the files. Her mother wasn't in any condition to 
talk, and her father just corroborated the statements they'd 
already given." He hesitates, for just a moment. "Do you think 
--"

"No," she says, firmly, deliberately. "No, I don't. There's no 
evidence of anything paranormal here, Mulder. No unusual 
markings, no implants, no evidence of tests being performed --
"

"But the hair, Scully! How can you explain that? You yourself 
admit that there's no reasonable explanation -- "

"That I can find *at this time*. That doesn't mean that a 
logical explanation doesn't exist."

Their eyes lock across the room, rendering any further words 
unnecessary.

It's Mulder who ends the staring contest, exhaling his breath 
on a sigh.  "We should probably have another conversation 
with the teachers on the playground, and the students who 
were there."

"And Lucas," she says, thinking about the sick boy in 
Minnesota. "We should     go out there and talk --"

"He's dead, Scully," Mulder says softly. "He died early this 
morning. I got the call on the way over here."

Her heart sinks, and her eyes slide shut.  

*  *  *

Further conversations in Boston lead them nowhere, and talks 
with Lucas's parents on the phone don't help either. His father 
sends them the rest of his drawings, but they provide no 
further leads, and it soon becomes clear that they've reached a 
dead end. No further information has surfaced about Jessica's 
kidnapper, either, which unfortunately isn't uncommon. 
Scully doesn't allow herself to think about how many open 
child abduction cases there are. It hurts too much to think 
about. 

They've been back in D.C. for two days, poring over all of the 
files, looking for any possible explanations for Jessica's 
mysterious condition. Scully's back hurts, and her eyes are 
tired. She takes off her glasses, closes her eyes, and rubs the 
bridge of her nose. "There's nothing in here, Mulder. We've 
been over these files with a fine tooth comb."

"Somebody did this to her, Scully." There's weariness in his 
voice, and more than a touch of irritation.

"Yes," she says. "Somebody did. But I don't think we're going to 
find the answers here."

"Then where?" he asks, raising his eyes to hers as though he 
might find them there.

She only sighs in response, feeling the same frustration. The 
X-Files have a higher case solve rate average than the rest of 
the Bureau, but that doesn't make the unsolved ones any 
easier to bear. 

"They buried her today," he says, finally. 

"I wish we'd been able to give them more," she says. She starts 
to rifle through the files again, almost aimlessly, just to have 
something to do with her hands. 

"They're able to lay her to rest. That's something, at least." 

She looks up at him then, but his eyes are hidden in a file. 

*  *  *

Thanksgiving passes in the usual jumble of family and 
friends, food and football, the kids screaming in the yard, 
Scully helping her mother in the kitchen. It still doesn't snow, 
but the air is crisp and smells like cinnamon and pine, wood 
smoke and winter. 

She doesn't speak to Mulder for four days, although she thinks 
about him, much more than once.  

*  *  *

It's late Sunday night when her cell phone rings, so late it's 
almost early. It doesn't matter. After seven years, she rarely 
turns it off anymore. 

She reaches over and picks it up. "Hello." 

"Hey, Scully, whatcha doin'?" His voice is bright and cheerful, 
if slightly distorted by wind. She can hear music playing 
faintly in the background.

"Mulder? Where are you?"

"I'm on the interstate," he says. "On my way to see the 
Gunmen. Apparently Frohike's got a little surprise for me."

"Ah," she says, putting the book she's been reading down beside 
her on the bed. "I can only imagine."

"How was your holiday, Scully?"

"Good. Busy, hectic. Yours?"

"Fine. It was fine." 

"And your mother?"

"She's doing OK. A little tired, lately, but I guess that's par for 
the course."

Without thinking, she speaks the words that are in her heart. 
"I'm sorry, Mulder. I know how hard it must be."

He pauses before answering, and when he does, she can hear 
the warmth in his tone. "Thanks," he says. "It's OK. I was glad 
to be able to be there." 

There's silence on the line then, and she sits and listens as he 
drives. He'll break it when he's ready.

"You know, I've been thinking, Scully."

"About what?"

"Oh, you know, the Big Questions. Life, death, the mysteries of 
the cosmos. More specifically, luck, chance, fate, 
coincidence... free will... cause and effect. You name it, I've 
been thinking about it."

"And?"

"And really, when you stop to think about it, it doesn't really 
make a difference whether you assume that the role you play 
in events is completely determined by your own choosing, or 
whether it's pre-determined by something else."

"It doesn't?"

"Think about Weems's little contraptions, Scully. His little 
Rube Goldbergian games. They only work if each little piece 
plays its part. If any of those pieces get stuck, or break, then 
the whole mechanism ceases to function. Everything stops."

"So what, Mulder, you're saying it doesn't matter what action 
you take, whether you have control over that action or not, so 
long as you act?"

"Maybe... Think about Lucas Shanks. We'll never know what 
possessed him to make those drawings, why his father 
happened to be watching the news at that particular moment, 
or what motivated him to call the police."

"Well, maybe that's where luck comes into play," she says. "I 
mean, that's what you'd call a lucky break, isn't it?"

"Could be," he says. "I mean, there's no way of knowing, is 
there? We'll never be able to have the distance or perspective 
to know whether everything that happens in this life, on this 
planet, is really interconnected or not. When a butterfly flaps 
its wings in China, and something happens as a result of that, 
did the butterfly choose to flap at that particular moment? Or 
was that, too, determined by something else entirely?"

"Okay," she says. "I follow you. So what's the point?" 

"I dunno, Scully. But I think at the very least it means that 
we've all got to play our role, whatever that may seem to be at 
the time. Bitching about it won't do any good." He laughs, and 
the sound feels warm inside her belly. "It's late. I think I'm just 
rambling, now. I'll see you tomorrow."

"'Night, Mulder," she says, and hangs up the phone. She puts 
the book on the nightstand and turns out the light, a smile on 
her face as she closes her eyes.

*  *  *

Back in the basement on the next morning, she almost skips 
down the stairs.  She's happy to be back, although she'll never 
say it aloud. 

Mulder's sitting at his desk, as usual, but this time there's a 
small wire cage in the center, a little metal wheel in the 
middle of it. The door to the cage is ajar, its presumed 
occupant currently being held in Mulder's hand. 

"Hey," she says by way of greeting. "What've you got there?"

"It's my gift, from Frohike," Mulder says, balancing the little 
mouse in the palm of his hand. "Apparently he's a former 
prisoner-of-war who's been liberated."

"I see," she says, coming to stand beside him, leaning over his 
shoulder to take a closer look. The mouse is chocolate brown, 
with white spots behind his ears, and a black and white tail. 
She has to admit, he's kind of cute. "So, Mulder, have you 
decided what you're going to name your new friend?"

He nods, decisively. "Santa Claus."

She arches an eyebrow at him, shrugging off her coat. "Santa 
Claus?"

"Why not? It's very seasonally appropriate. And I can always 
call him St. Nick for short."

"Or Father Christmas, if you want to get really creative." This 
almost makes him laugh, she can see it in the crinkle of his 
eyes, but he holds it back, regarding her almost gravely. 

"Hmmmm," he says. "I think I like the idea of referring to a 
mouse as Father."

Now she's the one who laughs. "Honestly, Mulder. I don't know 
what Frohike was thinking, giving you a mouse. You can 
barely take care of your fish."

"Well," he says, "I think mice are pretty self-sufficient. You can 
put some food in there and they're pretty good for quite a few 
days."

Scully shakes her head. "We'll see about that."

"Look, Scully, check this out." 

It's then that she notices that the disarray on the desk is less 
random than usual. She realizes that Mulder has created a 
makeshift obstacle course out of office supplies, having placed 
various pens, pencils, an empty coffee mug, two books, a 
magazine, a stack of files and a box of paper clips into service. 
This, she thinks, is my partner. Mercurial, complicated, and 
more than a little bit ridiculous. She can't help but admit 
that, for her, the combination holds a certain allure.

She leans over the desk and watches as Mulder places the 
mouse at the end of the course, and then reaches to grab a 
handful of sunflower seeds from a bag resting atop the 
bookshelf. 

"Sunflower seeds, Mulder?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to be predictable. Besides, this is a very 
special mouse. Just watch."

Seeds at the ready, Mulder waves one beneath the mouse's 
tiny nose and then  crouches at the other end of the desk, a 
proud if slightly manic grin on his face. "OK, Nick, let's move!"  

The mouse starts on his journey, ably picking his way across 
and around the series of obstacles in his way. Midway through 
the course, he rises up on his haunches, sniffs, and then 
diverts his path to make tracks across the desk, until he's 
crouched on the edge right where she's standing.

"Whoops," Mulder says, reaching over to scoop up the mouse 
and put him back in place. "I think he got a little distracted. 
Hold on a minute."

Three more times Mulder places the mouse at the start of the 
course, and three more times the mouse, clearly with ideas of 
his own, makes a beeline straight towards Scully. The 
disappointment on Mulder's face is palpable. She has to fight to 
keep from giggling. "What did you have for breakfast today, 
Scully?"

"The same thing I have almost every morning, Mulder," she 
smiles. "Yogurt, with bee pollen."

He wrinkles his nose in disgust. "I think I liked you better 
when you were sneaking muffins." 

"Looks like your little experiment's been affected by the 
addition of a variable," she says, pointing at herself. "See what 
I mean about your theory of cause and effect? The addition of 
a single element can have a major impact on the entire 
scenario."

Pouting, he picks up the mouse and cradles him in his palm 
once more. "Nobody likes a science geek, Scully."

The petulant look on his face makes her laugh out loud. "Don't 
get mad just
because the mouse likes me better." She laughs again, and this 
time it's
contagious, because he chuckles as well.

Through the small windows above Mulder's desk, Scully 
notices that finally, at long last, snow has begun to fall. Even 
from here she can tell that the flakes are too big and dry, too 
feathery to stick, but it's a beginning. Winter is finally here. 


"Put the mouse away, Mulder," she says, watching the mouse 
fumble in her partner's hand, its nose busy, its small paws 
playing on his wide, soft fingers. A brave little mouse, not 
afraid of the height or of her or of him.  He watches her 
watching it, and smiles.

Her heart is light with joy, and she revels in the 
weightlessness. It's the change of seasons, she thinks. That's 
the simplest explanation.

She returns the smile, and moves her eyes to his. "We've got 
work to do."

END


Note: the inclusion of Santa Claus the mouse is courtesy of an 
additional challenge thrown my way by the ladies of the Me 
Talk Pretty chat room. Hee!

Thanks to Bonetree for amazing beta, and for coming up with 
this challenge idea in the first place; Lisa for last looks and 
confidence-building; Mo Bocks for the lovely feedback and 
being a fantastic swap buddy; and Anjou and Fran for the 
special, much-enjoyed treats. 

Thanks for reading. Feedback always appreciated at 
cleojones3@yahoo.com.