Title: SILENT NIGHT
Author: CallRachel
Classification: V, mild A
Rating: PG for adult situations
Keywords: MSR, Holiday Angst
Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder, Dana 
Scully, Walter Skinner and Maggie Scully belong 
to 20th Century Fox,1013 Productions, and Chris 
Carter.
Summary: Musings of an insomniac on Christmas Eve. 
Written for the IMTP VS10 holiday special.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

SILENT NIGHT

By CallRachel (callrachel2000@yahoo.com)


It was snowing.

Insomnia had been a boon companion since his early 
youth, and he knew the geography of his nighttime 
apartment almost better than he knew it in the light. 
The metallic ticking that sounded like water dripping 
was a heating duct. If he pressed his ear to the wall 
behind his bed, he could just hear Mrs. Chavez's 
radio, tuned softly to '40's dance music. And always, 
faint and far, he could hear the traffic, the muted 
hum punctuated with occasional horns and occasional 
metallic booms when the horns didn't work and fender 
met fender. 

But tonight the night sounds of traffic were muffled, 
and he leaned his forehead against the cool glass, 
watching the white motes of fat, feathery snow drift 
down under the streetlight, tracking with a fingertip 
the twin trails of a single car's track through the 
white world. Hegal Place was asleep, all but for Fox 
Mulder.

Insomniacs cope; he knew the drill: get out of bed, 
don't toss and turn, take a pill, distract yourself 
with a book or some not-too-interesting television 
show, set up a bedtime routine.  Don't look at the 
clock. 

Don't watch the years ticking down. 

It was easier when he was alone. Scully's presence in 
his bed made it hard to get up when he couldn't 
sleep. The television often woke her, even with the 
sound turned almost off, and she took it personally 
when she woke to find him on the couch, having 
finally drifted off to the lullaby of some 
infomercial. And of course, there was comfort in 
holding her warm weight in his arms, cradling her 
head on his shoulder. But still, the trickle of her 
breath against his skin was like a fall of sand 
through an hourglass, one moment gone, another, and 
another...

He closed his eyes briefly, crushing that thought 
down into the bad-thoughts-box and finally slamming 
the lid on the tag ends and corners that kept trying 
to emerge. He wondered sometimes what would happen 
when the box was too full, but that wondering 
itself would have to be squashed inside, and so he 
skittered away from the thought, instead. 

Distraction, distraction...

The cat was back. 

He smiled as he watched it trotting purposefully into 
the lane, rising to the top of a whitecapped trash 
can as if by levitation. There it sat, daintily 
washing its face, paying particular attention to its 
ragged ears. He'd seen it first a year or so 
ago, a brash young Turk of a cat then, striking fear 
into the black hearts of rat-gangs for blocks 
around. He'd heard, and once even witnessed, battles 
for territory; that time, he'd crept down to the 
alley with milk and a can of tuna, and stood 
by just out of flight range while the battered cat 
had inhaled his victory meal. That scuffle and others 
had made the cat cautious, and where he had once been 
sleek and bold, now he was lean, muscular, watchful. 
But still master of the alley, Mulder was glad to 
see. He touched a fingertip to the glass as if he 
could stroke the round head, and the cat looked 
suddenly up at him for a long, breathless moment 
before it vanished silently among the cans.

Suddenly anxious for no reason he could fathom, 
Mulder turned back into the room. A Christmas tree, 
aggressively artificial, stood on the coffee table, 
four presents under it. He ticked them off in his 
mind: single-malt scotch for Skinner, a knitted 
blanket for Maggie Scully, pearl earrings for Scully, 
and something he thought was probably a sweater for 
him. Nice presents. In - he peered at his watch in 
the darkness - in six hours, at nine, they would open 
half these gifts, then get in the car and take 
Maggie's gift to Baltimore. Skinner's would wait 
until they were back in the office, a day or 
two later. A day or two wouldn't matter. The scotch 
would be that much older, that's all. He stared at 
the packages, telling them over and over: liquor, 
blanket, earrings, sweater, liquor, blanket, 
earrings-

Nobody needed these things. He hated giving liquor to 
people; Maggie had enough blankets to warm the 
neighborhood, and Scully rarely wore jewelry. He 
himself had ten sweaters, assuming that's what his 
gift was. 

Like gold, frankincense and myrrh - what they'd 
needed was food, shelter, a midwife, and nobody had 
offered any of that. 

Abruptly, he turned to the kitchen, poured a bowl of 
milk and opened a can of salmon, pulled on a pair of 
sweats from the laundry hamper, and put the food in a 
box with a towel from the bottom of the bathroom 
cupboard. 

The snowflakes touched his back and shoulders like 
wet feathers, and he hurried to the mouth of the 
alley, setting the food out and putting the box back 
in the lee of a boarded-up doorway, out of the wind. 
Then he backed away, crouched in the snow, and 
waited. 

He was wet through, drops turning to ice in his hair, 
and shivering when the cat emerged. It walked 
majestically, as if it owned the alley, and Mulder, 
too, and Mulder wasn't at all sure it was mistaken. 
Keeping a careful eye on him, it approached the 
food, sniffed, crouched cautiously and began to eat, 
forgetting, after a few seconds, that it was master 
of the universe, and ravenously devouring the milk 
and fish. Mulder stayed stock-still, not even wiping 
the water that ran down his face, the warm and the 
cold, as he saw the lean belly swell.  This close, he 
could see that the sleek coat had lost its luster, 
that there was a patch of stiff fur on the back that 
spoke of blood matting a wound. 

The food gone, the cat sat for a long moment, licking 
its chops and staring with wide yellow eyes at 
Mulder. 

He stared back, still unmoving, as the cat once again 
washed its face. When it was done, it rose, 
stretched, and turned toward him, squeezing its eyes 
shut briefly before it vanished into the shadows. 

Mulder hoped it would find the box a safe place to 
sleep.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered, and thought, as he 
collected the empty bowl, that he heard the soft 
rumble of a purr.

* * *
End