Title: How to Fly
Author: Oracle
Classification: VRA
Rated: PG
Key Words: Mulder/Scully romance, alt-u, salliesafe
Spoilers: Nope
Disclaimer: The reindeer belong to Santa Claus. The rest
belongs to 10:13.
Archive: Gossamer, please. Email me before archiving
elsewhere. I don't see why I'd refuse.
Summary: "Sometimes I wonder how we get out of bed every
morning. How we keep holding onto life, even when it looks
like we aren't going to make it. And how we keep fighting.
How we never give up."

Comments: Merry Christmas everyone!

By the way, for some reason I see this happening during
one of the early seasons, but I guess it's up to you.

-------

She's looking for Christmas in a grocery store. They're
out of canned plum pudding, but there's a mince pie at the
counter. As she buys it, with a couple of tea-light candles,
an old man flips the 'open' sign to 'closed' and gives her
a Merry Christmas smile.

Waiting at the counter, Scully can hear the car radio blaring.
It sounds like hard rock, maybe AC/DC, and mixes incongruously
with the store's tinny carols. Mulder must have picked the one
station too 'alternative' for the holiday season.

He doesn't care about Christmas, she thinks. She's resentful
for a moment, but then the thought snaps like an icicle. She
knows she's being unfair. It isn't that Mulder doesn't care.
He's trying not to care.

After a politically correct "Happy holidays" to the woman
behind the counter, Scully walks out into the chilled evening
air. It must be ten degrees below, and she tucks her bare
hands against her elbows as she hurries to the car. She stows
the pie on the backseat, then brushes the snow off her boots
and climbs in beside Mulder.

"No champagne?" he asks, starting up the rental. The engine
hiccups a few times before it hums.

"That wouldn't exactly be professional behaviour,
*Agent* Mulder. I'm going to finish that report tonight."

"Who said anything about us being professionals,
*Agent* Scully?" he asks, poker-faced.

She smirks and stares out the window, at the black-branched
woods and drifting snow. A fairytale scene. They're driving
in a winter wonderland. What they need, she thinks, are some
sleighbells for the Taurus.

"Mind if I join you at your Christmas soiree?" Mulder asks,
startling her.

"Sh-sure," she says, uncertainly.

He winces. He tries to hide it with a cough.

"Hey, it's okay," he says, after a moment. "They've got a
sci-fi marathon on tonight. I was planning to watch it,
anyway."

"Mulder," she says quietly. She puts a hand on his shoulder.
When he gives her a skittish glance, she stops touching him
and folds her hands in her lap.

Daring move, Dana, she thinks to herself. Maybe one day you'll
be brave enough to touch his knee. And by the time you're
eighty, who knows, you might have worked your way to his
mouth. Something to look forward to.

"I'd like you to join me," she tells him. "I just thought
you wouldn't be interested."

"Oh. Okay." He flashes her a half-smile. "Do you mind if I
switch on the radio?"

"Only if we're listening to Bing."

He fiddles with the needle, finding mostly static this far
out of civilisation. Finally there's a flicker of sound,
and then a man's smooth voice is crooning through the
speakers. Elvis Presley, with Blue Christmas.

"And when those blue snowflakes start falling...that's
when those blue memories start calling..."

She settles for it with a shrug. At least it's something
they can both enjoy, although she's afraid Mulder will
start on one of his 'Elvis lives!' stories. The last
"sighting" involved a rhinestone-studded Elvis walking on
water near Pier 39. Ridiculous, but she has to admit, it
was an amusing story.

Mulder remains silent. He's sunk into one of his Heathcliff
moods and she thinks it's best not to disturb him. The
radio switches to Jingle Bell Rock. She clicks it off.

They sit in a strained silence. What a way to spend
Christmas Eve.

---

Half an hour later, the engine makes a put-put-put
noise, coughs like a chain smoker, and falls silent.

Mulder takes a deep, shaky breath, and turns the key. The
car rattles, growls and groans, but doesn't start. He
turns the key again. Silence. It's so quiet, she thinks
she can hear snowflakes drifting onto the roof. He turns
the key again. The car hisses like a snake.

He jerks out the key and pounds a palm against the steering
wheel, cursing under his breath. He doesn't look at her.

She counts to ten, silently, before she speaks.

"It's okay," she says, in a cool, measured tone. "There
won't be any reception, but we can walk to the next
town. It must be about thirty minutes from here. We've
got gear."

He shakes his head. "I don't think we should risk it,
Scully. Look, I'll try calling someone. If that doesn't
work, maybe we should stay in the car. Wait for someone
to drive by."

She tries counting to ten again but stops at eight,
frustration rising in her throat. Her hands clench. She
can't stop herself.

"I just...I wish you would listen to me," she says,
through gritted teeth. "I mean, for once, Mulder. Just
once. I told you we shouldn't do this. I was happy to
stay in Roanoke but you insisted we drive back. I told
you the car was a wreck but you said it would be fine, it
would have to do. I told you we should stop at the last
town but you wanted to keep driving. I mean...are you
even listening to me?"

"I wanted to get you back in time for breakfast at your
mom's," he snaps. "Jesus, Scully." He climbs out of the
car and pulls out his cell phone, slamming the door.

She swallows. Oh.

A minute later, he gets back in, damp and shivering,
snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes.

"Mulder, I'm -"

"It's okay," he says. "You're right, there's no
reception." He bites his lip. "And you're right about
walking, too," he admits, grudgingly. "There's no point
staying here. We'd be waiting all night. Who's out on
Christmas Eve, in weather like this?"

"We are."

He smiles humourlessly.

-------

They've been trudging through the snow for ten minutes,
wrapped in six thick layers each but still shivering, when
Scully realises she's forgotten the pie. She drops her bag
and puts her face in her hands, groaning.

Mulder's immediately at her side. "Scully, you okay?"

She nods, tight-lipped. "I'm fine. I just remembered
the pie."

He glances in the direction of the car. "If you want,
I can go back for it -"

"Mulder, it's not worth it."

"I'm serious, Scully. I'll do it."

"Mulder -" she shakes her head at him in disbelief, and
suddenly she's trying not to laugh. If she starts laughing
now, ankle-deep in snow, cold and stranded on Christmas Eve,
she won't be able to stop.

"Scully, I know it's important to you."

"It's just a pie, Mulder." She covers her mouth with a
hand, the giggles almost breaking loose. "Please, let's
keep going."

"Scully -"

She chokes on a laugh. "Mulder, I have a confession to
make. I don't like mince pie."

"You...you don't?" His shock only increases her amusement.
"But then why did you...?"

"Why did I buy it?" she says, chuckling now. She spreads
her arms, a gesture of surrender, as she laughs at herself.
"I honestly don't know. I walked into that store to buy
something festive, and the pie was all they had."

It isn't funny when she puts it like that, but she's still
laughing. Mulder's mouth twists in a grin and suddenly
he's laughing too. They stand together in the snow,
laughing so hard that they double over, tears rolling
down their faces. She has to clutch his arms for support,
and then he's holding her, and they're still laughing.

Finally, he wipes his eyes and looks down at her. "You
know, Scully...I hate mince pie too. I absolutely can't
stand it. My mom made it one year and the smell made
me sick."

"So then why did you want to join me?" she asks, raising
her eyebrows.

There's a pause. He brushes some snow from her hair.

"Because I wanted to," he replies. He avoids her gaze.
"Why do I need a reason?"

Scully blinks the ice out of her eyes and stares at
him. His woollen hat, pulled over his hair, doesn't suit
him. It makes his nose seem clumsy, his eyes small. But
it doesn't matter. He could be bald, tattooed, disfigured
like Mr. Rochester, moustached, plastic-surgeried or
pierced, and she would still find him beautiful.

He traces her lips with his thumb. Her body, chilled to
the bone, has never felt so warm. When he meets her eyes,
her throat tightens and her fingertips tingle. What a
way to spend Christmas Eve.

"We'd better keep going," she whispers.

--------

There's only one room at the inn, or in this case, the
Motel 6. Mulder kicks off his boots, pulls off his mitten
and hat, and sprawls on the bed.

"You can take the first shower."

Scully starts peeling off her layers. "How generous of you."

He groans, burying his face in the pillow. "It isn't
generosity, Scully. I can't move."

She rolls her eyes and walks into the bathroom. The shower
turns out to be a lukewarm trickle, with scummy walls. It
takes her twenty minutes to wash her hair with the chemical
-scented shampoo. By the time she emerges, scowling, Mulder's
stripped down to his T-shirt and boxers. He's lounging on
the bed now, drinking something from the mini-bar and
watching a movie that looks suspiciously like 'It's a
Wonderful Life'.

"What took you so long?" he asks, changing the channel.
She balls up her towel and throws it at him, hard. He
catches it with a grin. "No hot water?"

"See for yourself," she mutters, climbing under the covers
and holding her hand out for the remote.

When he leaves the room she flicks back to the movie he was
watching before, to see if she was right. She was. And although
she's seen it maybe fifty times, it's been a few years and
she finds herself enthralled. She doesn't notice Mulder walk
out of the bathroom and climb into bed beside her. She doesn't
even notice when he switches off the bedside lamp.

But she jumps when he turns to her and asks, "Do you
know what this reminds me of?"

She keeps her eyes on the TV screen. "What?"

"Our first case together."

"How come?" she asks absently, still trying to listen to
the movie.

He reaches over, snatches the remote, and sets the volume to
'mute'. She glares at him but he just grins and hides it
beneath his pillow, leaning back against the headboard.

"Okay, fine," she says. "Tell me why this reminds you of our
first case."

"Well, for starters...the way we were laughing back there."

Scully can't resist the warmth in his voice. She smiles. "I
think I've only laughed like that twice in my life. I guess I'm
not feeling myself tonight."

"How so?"

She shrugs. "I've never liked spending Christmas Eve away from
home. When I was a little girl, my family spent a winter with
some friends in Colorado. I was afraid Santa wouldn't be able
to find me." She can't believe she's telling him this. "I know
it's silly, but it's a feeling I've never been able to shake."

Mulder nods. "I feel the same way."

"Really?" she asks, taken aback.

"I'm not the Grinch, Scully," he responds, a smile in his
voice. "Hey...there's something I've always wanted to ask you.
When did you stop believing in Santa?"

"When I was seven, almost eight."

"How come?"

"I realised reindeer couldn't fly. That it was physically
impossible. I looked for an explanation, but I soon realised
there were only two possible answers. Magic dust or magical
reindeer. I wasn't satisfied with either. Finally, my parents
caved and told me the truth. So of course I was devastated."
She clears her throat. "What about you?"

"Who says I've stopped believing?"

"Mulder, seriously."

"Seriously? I think there are more than two possible
explanations for flying reindeer."

She chuckles. "What? Alien reindeer? Reindeer with
hovercrafts on their hooves?"

"I don't know if you can handle my explanation, *Agent* Scully."

"Bring it on, *Agent* Mulder."

She leans closer and finds herself tucked against him, his
arm around her shoulders. She's too tired to stiffen, to
pull away, to be awkward. At least, that's what she tells
herself as her muscles loosen and she practically melts
into him. He presses a kiss to her forehead.

"It all started," he says, "when I began having my own doubts
about old Saint Nick. I was nine at the time, so Samantha would
have been five. We were threading popcorn on Christmas Eve, when
I told her I didn't know how the reindeer could fly."

"What did she say?"

"For a while, she was just...silent. I was expecting her to tell
me they were magical reindeer or something, or to burst into
tears, but she just sat there, calmly threading the popcorn."
She feels him smile against the top of her head. "Finally she
turned to me, very calmly, and explained that the reindeer
could fly because we all knew that they could. We believed in
Santa's flying reindeer. Our belief was what kept them in the sky."

"Mulder, I hate to say this, but I don't think that's any more
viable than magic dust or magical reindeer."

"It doesn't matter, Scully. I told you it was another
explanation, not that it was *the* explanation. And anyway,
that's beside the point."

"So what's the point?"

"The point is that...that's how we can do things we never
thought possible," he whispers, excited. "In a way, it's
what keeps me going. If I stop believing, the reindeer might
fall out of the sky. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"Not really," she whispers back, giggling. He kisses her ear,
her neck, her jaw. She sobers. "I never want you to stop
believing," she tells him. "And in a sense, I do know what
you're saying. Sometimes I wonder how we get out of bed every
morning. How we keep holding onto life, even when it looks
like we aren't going to make it. And how we keep fighting.
How we never give up."

"It's because we believe, Scully. We believe we can do it."

"Well, Mulder, I think you've taught me how to fly," she
murmurs, and twists to face him.

She traces his jaw, his mouth, with her fingers, before she
kisses him. And kisses him. His lips on hers, his tongue in
her mouth, and she feels like they're floating off the bed.

They'll never stop believing. This is how they fly. When the
airport is snowed in, when there's no way to get home, this
is how they take to the sky. They soar over the towns, the
roads, the woods, without ever leaving the ground.

She pulls away for a moment, to catch her breath, and
whispers, "I never want to come back down."

-------
end.
-------

"My priest says
you ain't savin' no souls
My father says
you ain't makin' any money
My doctor says
you just took it to the limit
and here I stand
with this sword in my hand

You can say it one more time
What you don't like
Let me hear it one more time then
have a seat while I
take to the sky"

-- Tori Amos, Take to the Sky

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