As always: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and "The X-Files" are property of Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Television/Fox Broadcasting. All characters used without permission and no (I repeat, NO) infringement is intended.

An X-Files Xmas
by Cody Nelson
aka CodyN@aol.com
12/10/94

It was 3:15 on Christmas morning, and Fox Mulder was not feeling
particularly merry. He had awakened from one of those tangled, sweaty
dreams consisting of mostly mood and image that left a vague unease,
difficult to dispel with no source to define it. He prowled around his apartment restlessly, finally grabbing a tape at random from the pile in
front of the TV and sliding it into the VCR. He didn't want to risk channel-surfing into yet another Christmas movie.
Mulder continued to pace back and forth in front of his couch. It was
bad enough waking up at 3:00 AM; but Christmas day in particular was one
day he had hoped to sleep through, as much as possible. He was well past
the age at which one excitedly wishes Christmas to begin before the dawn.
These days, the holidays were only a lonely reminder of a family whose
happy Christmases ended more than twenty years ago.
He'd seen this tape at least thirty times. Comfortably long on
explosions and short on dialog, it was soothing to his raw nerves but not particularly absorbing. He walked over to his desk and switched on his computer, then started the program to sign onto his online service. He
could read a couple of bulletin boards, anyway, and see what other lonely
souls were thinking about this Christmas night. While he waited for the
modem to dial the number, he went into the kitchen to light the fire under
the kettle.
"Welcome," he heard the voice from his computer announce.
"You've got mail!"
Mulder shook his head, smiling. He'd just checked his email not three
hours ago. Who, besides him, would be spending the wee hours of Christmas morning online?
Back in the living room, he pulled his desk chair around and sat in it backwards, and clicked on the Mail icon. There were, in fact, two
messages -- both titled "Merry Christmas." Probably the same message, he thought, that someone accidentally sent twice. He clicked to read the first message.
It was from "Golgo 13." Mulder grinned. Frohicke. He read,
<If you are sitting at home reading this on Christmas day, instead of
spending the day with your beautiful and brilliant partner Agent Scully,
you are truly a pathetic man.>
<But if you *are* that pathetic, give me a call. We can go out and be
pathetic together.>
Mulder hit the reply button and typed, <I would never spend Christmas
day with anyone who was pathetic enough to be sending email at 3:00 AM on Christmas morning.>
<Merry Christmas yourself :-)>
He sent the reply and went on to the next message, thinking, my online
bill is going to be sky-high this month --
And froze. The sender's screen name was "SPAMANTHA." Who the hell knew
the nickname he tormented his little sister with all those years ago? And
who the hell would torment him by sending him a message using that name now?
<Hi Foxy Loxy,> (and who knew the name Samantha had called him in retaliation?) <Please don't worry about me. I'm fine. I miss you.>
He pushed himself away from the computer and stood up, fists clenched.
It was a joke, it had to be. A horrible and cruel joke. Someone had found
out those childhood nicknames and made up that screen name just to give
him a jolt on Christmas morning. Someone with way too much time on his
hands. Frohicke? Another of the Lone Gunmen? Whoever it was, he'd kill
them. This was the very last thing he needed, at 3:30 on Christmas
morning, to be reminded of the sister who had disappeared right out of
their home over twenty years ago. The sister he could never forget, whose presence clouded every Christmas, every holiday, every day of his life
with guilt and grief. And love. He stared at the message, ashamed of how
badly he wanted it to really be from her.
He whirled away from the computer, eyes pressed shut against bitter
tears. He stalked around the room, kicked the couch, swore, strode back
over to the computer to stare at the message again.
The tea kettle's whistle split the air, making him jump. He swore again,
then laughed hollowly. You're being a jerk, he told himself. It's just
a stupid joke.
He went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of instant coffee,
which he brought back to the computer. He sat down in front of the screen again, and clicked the Reply button. He typed THIS IS NOT FUNNY in loud capitals and hit Send.
<User does not exist,> the message came back. Well, that figured.
The joker had created this screen name just to masquerade as his sister,
and had then deleted the name as soon as the message had been sent.
In a way, it was reassuring. "SPAMANTHA" would not be back.
He signed off. "Goodbye," the computer said to him. "Goodbye to you
too," he muttered. "Now shut up." Well, that's what you get for signing
onto online services at 3:30 in the morning.
His stomach ached from the adrenalin pumping. It was hopeless to try
to sleep; he couldn't even stand still. He needed to work off the physical energy. Hurriedly, he added a sweat shirt and running shoes to the tee
shirt and sweat pants he already had on, then grabbed his keys and went outside, leaving the desk light on and the tape running in the VCR.
The night was clear and bitterly cold. All around him, the neighborhood slept, holiday lights twinkling cheerily. He began to run down the
sidewalk, continuing around the block, searching for that groove that would
let his mind go away while his body fell into the rhythm of running. But
the groove eluded him. His sleep-deprived muscles ached and refused to cooperate; the frigid air chilled his lungs and made it hard to breathe.
And the colorfully decorated houses in his quiet neighborhood seemed to mock him with their promise of happy families tucked cozily inside.
Still he forced himself to continue running, until exhaustion threatened
to make him tumble into the street. Wearily, he climbed the stairs back to
his apartment. A nice, hot bath would soothe his aches and get the chill out
of his lungs...but it seemed too overwhelming an effort. He wrapped himself
up in a blanket, coughed a few times, and fell back to sleep on the couch.
The ringing of the telephone dragged him from a dead sleep. He struggled
to unwrap himself from the blanket and knocked a pile of papers and
magazines off the coffee table in an effort to find the phone.
"Merry Christmas," he muttered into the receiver, still half-entangled
in his blanket.
"Mulder. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
"Scully. Hi. It's okay. What time is it?"
"It's after ten. I thought... Well, we've been up for hours, here.
You know how it is with kids and Christmas."
He could hear the shrieks of children in the background. Scully's
nieces and nephews were apparently trying to play with all their new toys
at once. "Yeah, I remember how it is." (The Christmas he'd been ten, he
and Samantha had gotten up at 4:30 to raid their stockings and try to
guess what was in all those boxes under the tree while their parents
still slept... With much loud "shushing" they'd tried to contain their excitement, but soon they were throwing their stockings' contents at each
other and laughing and chasing each other around the living room -- Until
the tree came down with a crash, and Mulder's angry parents declared that
from now on, anyone out of his or her room before 6:00 AM on Christmas
would forfeit all presents for the year... That rule remained in force
for two more years, until Samantha's disappearance rendered it
unnecessary for all time...)
"Well, I just wanted to wish you Merry Christmas, and tell you that
you're still welcome here for dinner, if you change your mind." There were shouts of "Merry Christmas, Fox" in the background, and Scully, with her
hand over the mouthpiece insisted, "It's 'Mulder,' Mom. He doesn't like
to be called 'Fox.'" Mulder chuckled to himself. "And Mom and Melissa say
Merry Christmas too." Now there were masculine shouts among the cacophony.
"And my brothers, too," Scully added. "They say get your butt over here so
they can meet you."
"Sounds like you've got a pretty full house already," Mulder commented.
But was there just the slightest note of forced cheer in the voices he was hearing? Suddenly he realized -- it was their first Christmas since Scully's father had died. Mulder's stomach twisted. He knew all too well the pain of trying to create a normal family holiday with one important member conspicuously absent. Perhaps they were hoping to distract themselves from their family's missing member with a few unfamiliar faces. He remembered
the parade of distant cousins, friends, and co-workers that had inhabited
his family's holidays in the years after Samantha's disappearance, before
his parents had given up celebrating altogether. If he did go to the
Scullys' for dinner, would he be seated in Captain Scully's place? Mulder shook himself. The Scullys were different. Captain Scully had died, he
hadn't just vanished like a puff of smoke to haunt their lives forever.
And Margaret Scully was a strong woman; so was the rest of her family.
Their tragedy would bring them together, not tear them apart. He was just
being maudlin, and it was time he stopped it. But he wouldn't inflict his rotten mood on them, either.
"Say Merry Christmas to all of them for me. And thanks for calling."
"Are you sure you're going to be all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about me." His words echoed the message
from his "sister," and sent a chill running through him. Well, this
Christmas was obviously going to be a total disaster. There was nothing
to do but grit his teeth and get through it.
"All right. Remember, though, if you change your mind..."
"I will, Scully. Bye."
A shower and a sandwich had him feeling marginally better. But he
couldn't get that email message out of his mind. Who would do such a thing
to him? It had to be someone who knew him well enough to be able to dig up
the information about the nicknames from some old friend or schoolmate.
And someone who knew his screen name -- he tried to remain as anonymous
as possible in his online activities and only a few close friends knew the
real name that attached to his screen persona. But no one who knew him that well would be cruel enough to play such a trick on him. Would they?
The Lone Gunmen were certainly capable of devising such a joke, but he
couldn't picture them actually playing it. Could it be someone at the
Bureau? Mr. X or Cancer Man or someone like that playing mind games with
him? Trying to gaslight him into quitting the X-Files? He didn't want to
think about it. Sighing, he picked up the phone and dialed Frohicke's
number. But all he got was an answering machine. "Hi, Frohicke. I guess
you're not so pathetic after all. Merry Christmas. I'll talk to you later."
Well, that certainly didn't help matters. Now he was even more pathetic
than Frohicke. Mulder put another tape in the VCR and turned on his
computer again.
"Welcome. You've got mail." Mulder hesitating before clicking the
Mail icon. Don't be silly, he told himself. It's probably Frohicke.
But it wasn't. It was "SPAMANTHA" again.
<Foxy, call Mom. She needs you.>
Mulder nearly put his fist through the computer screen. Damn it, the
joker had gone way too far this time. His hands were shaking so hard he
could barely type his reply.
WHO ARE YOU? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?
Once again, the error message. <User does not exist...>
How was the joker doing it? Screen names, once deleted, could not be
reused for six months. He should not have been able to send the second
message using that same name. Someone was hacking right into the online service's applications to do this to him. Someone was going to an awful
lot of trouble to make Mulder's Christmas miserable. Angrily, he signed
off. It was his own damned fault for not being able to stay offline for twenty-four hours at a time, even on Christmas. He just wouldn't sign on
again. He'd find something else to do. Go to a movie, go for a walk.
Call someone.
Call his mother.
Why had the joker told him to call his mother? This was getting much
too weird. He hadn't talked to his mother in...three years? Not since
right after she'd moved to Santa Monica. The time difference made it
awkward while he was working, and they'd given up on holidays a long
time ago. Their correspondence had shrunk to an occasional vacation
postcard.
Well, why not? This Christmas could hardly get any worse. He had to
dig for his address book to find the number. He sweated nervously while
he counted the rings.
"Hello?" She didn't sound like she expected any calls.
"Hi Mom. It's me..." he began inanely.
"Fox! Dear, I mean Mulder..."
He laughed shortly. "That's okay, Mom. You can call me Fox.
I just... Merry Christmas, I guess. I hope it's not too early."
"No. Oh no, it's fine... It... Merry Christmas." She also laughed
nervously. "So. How are you? I mean, do you have any plans for the day?"
"I'm fine. I don't... My partner invited me to her place for dinner."
(He didn't have to tell her that he wasn't going to go.) "How about you?"
"Oh, I'm having dinner with friends later too. I got your card.
Thank you. You probably haven't gotten mine yet. I was a little late this year."
"That's okay." The silence stretched out to an uncomfortable length.
"How's your father?" The words rushed out in a tumble.
"He's fine. They're spending Christmas in the Bahamas this year. I got
a card a couple of weeks ago."
The laugh was slightly bitter this time. "How nice." Then her voice
softened. "It's nice to hear from you...Fox. I miss you. I always think
about you and... Well, I think about family at this time of year. Since
your father and I... Well, you're the only family I have left."
"I'm sorry I don't call more often. Hey, you should get a computer.
We could send each other email."
She laughed. "Maybe I will." Another pause, this one not quite so uncomfortable. "Well, I suppose you've got to get ready for your dinner."
"I suppose so. Merry Christmas, Mom."
"Merry Christmas, dear."
He sniffled a bit as he hung up the phone. Well, that wasn't so bad.
Now he needed another shower, he'd been so nervous. And why not? It wasn't
like he had anything better to do.
So he took another shower, then sat down to watch the end of his tape.
He was feeling much better, but he was still bored. He stared at the
computer, debating with himself. He still hadn't read his bulletin
boards. He could just ignore the mail, if there was any. Just half an
hour, he promised himself, then he'd get dressed and kick himself outside.
"Welcome. You've got mail."
Damn. Damn. Not again. He took a deep breath. All right, whoever it
was, he just wouldn't let it bother him. He clicked the Mail icon and held
his breath. This had to be the first time in his life he'd ever dreaded
reading his email.
"SPAMANTHA." The message was titled "Get a life."
<Get off the computer and go have dinner with your friends. Love, Sammie.>
He sat and stared at the screen. "Samantha," he whispered. "I wish it
were really you."

(Locked in a room in some secret government building, she'd managed to
get to an unattended computer terminal while most of her watchers were away
for Christmas...) No.

(Aboard the alien craft, she finally learned how to use the alien
computers to access Earth's online service's computer networks...) No.

(From beyond the grave, she watched her broken family suffer, and finally reached out a protoplasmic finger to flip a few thousand tiny magnetic
switches in her brother's computer, sending him messages of hope...)

No, no, no. It wasn't Samantha, it couldn't possibly be Samantha...
But whoever it was, that last piece of advice hadn't turned out so badly.

Scully answered the door, her cheeks flushed and her hair disheveled.
Behind her, in the living room, assorted children shrieked with laughter
and darted around the furniture. Scully smiled broadly. "Mulder! I'm glad
you decided to come. Come in. Watch out for the toys..." (as he nearly
stepped on a bright yellow plastic bulldozer). "You're just in time for
dinner, we'll be sitting down to eat in a few minutes."
Margaret Scully rushed over to give him an embarrassingly fierce hug. Scully's sister Melissa called out a greeting, then disappeared back into
the kitchen. Scully's brothers called out names and welcomes, then turned
back to the football game on the television. "Get your noses out of that
TV, we'll be eating soon," Scully's mother scolded. The brothers laughed. Children giggled around his legs. Whatever strain he had noticed this
morning, if it had truly been there, was gone now. Mulder smiled happily.
"So Mulder, what made you decide to come?" Scully asked, as she led him
to an empty place on the couch.
"You wouldn't believe me, Scully. Let's just say... My computer told
me to."
She gave him a quizzical smile. "Okay. Whatever you say. I'm just glad
you're here. Merry Christmas, Mulder."
"Me too. Merry Christmas, Scully." And Merry Christmas, Samantha,
wherever you are.

Fine

**************************And seasons greetings to all my fellow X-Philes... ---
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