Title: FLAMINGO FAITHFUL
Author: Jean Robinson of behalf of Jill Selby
Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property 
of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television 
Network. Furby is the property of Tiger Electronics, a 
division of Hasbro, Inc. and Beanie Babies are the 
property of Ty. No infringement is intended. 
Rating: PG
Classification: S
Archive: Please ask permission.
Spoilers: Through "First Person Shooter."
Summary: Hopelessly devoted to you. <g>
Feedback: I live at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com.
Author's notes at the end 
*****************************

FLAMINGO FAITHFUL (1/2)
by Jean Robinson,
on behalf of Jill Selby


I contemplated all the productive and pleasurable ways I 
could have chosen to pass the time on a snowy night on 
the leap day of February.

Updating my photo albums. Christmas of 1998, the few 
pictures I'd snapped after arriving four hours late to my 
mother's following my hallucinatory holiday eve with 
Mulder, still languished in my dresser drawer. I even had 
the perfect caption for a particularly charming shot of my 
brother: "Bill Goes Ballistic." The photograph was taken 
five seconds after he realized Matty's new Furby already 
had an extensive and colorfully subversive vocabulary 
programmed into it courtesy of the Lone Gunmen, who'd 
answered my eleventh hour plea and scrounged the gift 
for me from sources unknown. I wasn't exactly thrilled to 
have the little gray hairball cheerily chirp, "Agent Scully 
is hot!" in front of my assembled loved ones. But the 
shock on Bill's face when Matty repeated the phrase 
throughout the day was worth the embarrassment, so I 
forgave my three overenthusiastic elves.

Acknowledging my birthday gifts. Granted, a year's 
supply of Super Blue-Green Algae All-Purpose Cleanser 
had not topped my wish list, but again, I couldn't fault 
the Lone Gunmen their earnest devotion. Sending them a 
thank-you note was the polite thing to do, even if I knew 
perfectly well that Langly, the most recent and final 
spokesman for the now-defunct Super Blue-Green Algae 
Company, had inherited its debts along with a 
warehouse full of cleaning products composed of 
ingredients that the FDA had classified as potentially 
toxic. 

Secretly disposing of my birthday gifts. Specifically, one 
gift: a year's supply of Super Blue-Green Algae All-
Purpose Cleanser.

Cleaning my gun. My recent cyberadventure in California 
to de-res a virtual vixen masquerading as a game 
goddess had left me with a renewed and vaguely 
disturbing fascination with weaponry.

Collapsing in bed. Not the most exciting choice, of 
course, but warm flannel sheets, a mug of hot cocoa and 
a good book had a certain allure on a chilly winter 
evening.

Instead of partaking of any of those gainful pastimes, I 
was sitting in yet another drab-colored Bureau-issue 
Ford Taurus on my way to interview a husband and wife 
who insisted their garden was haunted.

Why, you ask, were they so certain?

Because their prized collection of garden gnomes kept 
disappearing and reappearing.

That's what Mulder told me when I asked. When I 
pointed out that it was winter, meaning that snow could 
be obscuring the garden and whatever gnomes resided 
there, Mulder merely shrugged.

"A case is a case, Scully. Aren't you the least bit 
curious?"

"I'm curious as to why anyone would have even one 
garden gnome, let alone an entire collection of them. And 
I'm extremely curious as to why Skinner approved this. 
This sounds more like a simple neighborhood prank than 
an X-File. I might add that it's the kind of neighborhood 
prank that I would approve of, if I were the neighbors in 
question."

He raised his eyebrows and glanced sideways at me. 
"Maybe for the neighbors in The Falls at Arcadia, Scully."

All right, he had a point. The spooky residents of that 
planned community =had= taken the concept of 
neighborhood beautification to a new and unpleasant 
level. But if faced with a lawn full of goofy ceramic trolls, 
I would still sympathize with the neighbors, although I 
wasn't totally opposed to tasteless outdoor accessories.

I spent most of my childhood in base housing, all of it 
regulated to a certain standard of similarity. But one year 
we'd lived in a regular development, where the Navy 
could not dictate the length of your lawn or the size of 
your shrubs. Across the street was Mrs. Gurwitz, an 
elderly widow who adorned her yard with seventeen 
plastic lawn flamingoes and punctiliously replaced each 
one damaged or faded by the elements.

Mrs. Gurwitz's flamingoes did not seem tacky or ugly to 
me, being of an age where pink was not just my favorite 
color, but the only color I could foresee ever needing in 
my life. A pink house with a pink fence, pink rooms with 
pink furniture, pink china and pink sheets and towels 
were utopia to me in terms of home decor. I was Martha 
Stewart's worst nightmare.

I loved those fake birds and recall making several blunt 
comments about the flamingo-less state of our yard.

My mother laughed. Bill sneered. Melissa simply shook 
her head and Charles declared that pink was for girls. 
My father was away; by the time he returned Mrs. 
Gurwitz had died and her house had been sold. He never 
heard the story of my quest to landscape our patch of 
suburbia with a rose-hued flock. 

When Mrs. Gurwitz's nephew came to empty the house 
and tossed all the pretty pink birds in the big dumpster I 
tried to rescue one. Charles, too young to appreciate the 
grim fate of tattletales, let the details of my salvage 
operation slip to my mother. She confiscated the plastic 
statue from where I'd hidden it under the porch and 
scolded me for digging in the trash. I ran to my room and 
cried for an hour, plotting elaborate schemes of revenge 
against my little brother, none of which I carried out.

Three months later I abandoned pink in favor of blue, 
but I never forgot how Mrs. Gurwitz doted on her long-
legged Florida fowl.

Mr. and Mrs. Michaelson were eerily reminiscent of my 
childhood neighbor.

The interior of their modest ranch house was early 1970 
kitsch, from the velvet portrait of Jesus over the 
television set to the plastic-covered furniture, which 
crackled loudly and snagged my nylons when I sat down. 
If at six I had been the decorating diva's bad dream, 
these two senior citizens would have sent her to an early 
grave.

But the genuine concern and love between them was 
obvious. They huddled together on the plastic-encased 
loveseat; any closer and Amelia Michaelson would have 
been in her husband's lap.

She cried when describing how all thirty-eight gnomes 
had vanished between the time they'd left for church on 
Sunday and returned after a post-service brunch.

Her husband gave her a tissue and got her a glass of 
water.

His voice wavered as he recounted how every single 
gnome was back in place by Monday morning.

His wife squeezed his hand and rubbed his back.

Little touches, soft sounds of sympathy and agreement, 
tiny nods and gestures of support accompanied the 
entire recitation, no matter which one was speaking.

Mulder, bless his paranormal heart, listened to them 
pour out their sorrows with a touching amount of 
empathy, nodding and murmuring soothing platitudes 
right along with them.

Suddenly I felt very small.

I hadn't known Mrs. Gurwitz at all. She wore a pilled 
brown sweater and black rubber boots no matter what 
the weather. Her wispy gray hair always looked greasy 
and when she walked by you on the street she smelled of 
sickly sweet hand lotion and old cigarettes. I liked her 
flamingoes well enough, but she was just a scary old lady 
who made me uneasy for reasons I couldn't articulate. At 
six, I could be excused for not having compassion for 
those who were different.

But at thirty-six?

Yet my older, male partner was able to identify with the 
emotional intensity of this couple's problem, silly though 
the problem appeared. All I my attention was focused on 
slowing my perpetual slither off the vinyl-coated cushion. 
That and pondering how neatly Mulder had deflected my 
earlier query regarding whether we even had permission 
to be on this fact-finding tour, a clear indication that we 
did not have any such authority after all. Skinner was 
going to have yet another opportunity to berate us for 
wasting Bureau funds.

Looking at the Michaelsons' desolate faces as they told 
us about the desecration of their favorite piece, a white-
whiskered fellow named Skimble, I felt more than small. 

This childless couple's main joy in life revolved around 
homely but harmless garden ornaments. They only 
wanted a friendly authoritative ear to listen to their 
troubles. And I was fussing about what my boss would 
say.

I was ashamed of myself.

Buried somewhere in the stilted, formal minutes of a 
Senate Subcommittee hearing was a pompous statement 
from a person who claimed she'd left behind a career in 
medicine to join the FBI to uphold the laws, punish the 
guilty and protect the innocent.

Where had that person gone? When had she abandoned 
me?

Had I ever really been her at all?

Forget about waiting for the beginning of Lent to embark 
on a forty-day sojourn of atonement and self-sacrifice. I 
needed to pull myself out of this cycle right now, starting 
with a more rigorous approach to the "case" before me.

My first instinct, after noting the lack of lawn 
embellishments on the surrounding properties when we'd 
arrived, was that the neighbors were indeed playing mind 
games with the Michaelsons in the hope of terrorizing 
them into removing the gnome display permanently. 
>From the questions Mulder had omitted so far – namely 
anything remotely related to UFOs, poltergeists and 
witchcraft – I suspected he felt the same. It was going to 
be a matter for the police after all; we'd have to stop in at 
the local precinct and make a rather strong suggestion 
that they drop their own prejudices and keep a closer eye 
on the neighborhood.

The Michaelsons' saga of gnome-bashing trickled to a 
halt and Mulder wound up his questions. They looked at 
us with damp, grateful eyes when I assured them we'd 
talk to the police about it.

They knew, I thought. The Michaelsons knew there was 
nothing more paranormal going on than a hostile set of 
homeowners who didn't appreciate what they chose to 
plant in their patch of dirt in lieu of daffodils, tulips and 
petunias. The couple was desperate enough to try 
anything to ease the situation, even calling in a semi-
false report of ghosts to the FBI.

I felt marginally better as we left the house, anticipating 
the mean satisfaction of making the local police squirm 
as thoroughly and shamefully as I had just done. The 
feeling lasted approximately seven seconds, the time it 
took me to notice two things.

First, the weather had worsened. The snowstorm could 
now be more accurately classified as a blizzard; over two 
inches of snow had fallen since we'd arrived, making the 
front walk almost as slick as Mrs. Michaelson's couch. 

Second, there was a car parked behind ours, and the 
person stepping out of it was Assistant Director Skinner.

Assistant Director "Your Ass is Grass, Agent Mulder" 
Skinner, from the expression on his face.

Mulder opened his mouth to explain. Skinner cut him 
off.

"I don't want to hear it. Agent Scully, come with me. I 
want to speak to you alone. Agent Mulder, I'll see you in 
my office tomorrow."

Mulder and I exchanged a glance. He shrugged slightly, 
and urged, "Go on. I'll have a word with the police and 
see you in the morning."

All of his earlier energy seemed to evaporate in the harsh 
face of reality. Combine that with the melting snowflakes 
on his hair, and Mulder looked less like a top-notch 
investigator and more like a little boy who had stayed out 
sledding beyond his curfew with every second.

Abandoning him to ride with Skinner to carry out a 
discussion about my partner in his absence felt like the 
height of betrayal. "Mulder, I. . ."

"Some time this century, Agent Scully," came a caustic 
voice from the sidewalk.

Mulder gave me a small shove toward Skinner. "Go. It'll 
be all right. Don't worry."

Translation: I trust you'll pull my sorry hide out of the 
fire again, and even if you can't, I've survived worse than 
a minor ass-roasting.

If I'd known at the beginning just how many times I 
would be summoned to haul my smoldering partner a 
safe distance from the flames, I would have asked for a 
set of asbestos oven mitts instead of a desk.

I slid into the passenger seat of Skinner's car as Mulder 
drove away in front of us.

"Agent Scully, what the hell is he doing?" Skinner 
demanded, shifting into gear and pulling out.

"Sir?" There were a dozen different points in the 
Michaelson case to cause Skinner legitimate grief, but as 
I wasn't sure where he planned to strike first, I hedged.

"Is he having a breakdown? Is this a delayed reaction to 
his mother's death, or the resolution of his sister's 
whereabouts? I need to know."

"I'm not certain what you mean, sir." I was running out 
of verbal maneuvering room.

"I appreciate your loyalty to him, Scully, but this has 
gone beyond the realm of reasonable. I've sent five cases 
down to Agent Mulder in the last week alone, and he's 
done nothing on any of them. Instead, I find the two of 
you wandering around Prince Georges County chasing 
after shadows."

"Garden gnomes."

"What?"

"We were not chasing shadows, sir. The case involved 
garden gnomes that seemed to be disappearing and 
reappearing at will."

Skinner took his gaze off the snowy road and stared at 
me for almost a full minute. A muscle in his cheek ticced, 
indicating he was hovering between  towering rage and 
vast amusement.

"And were they?"

"Vanishing and returning at will? I don't think so, sir. 
Agent Mulder and I feel that their neighbors are 
conspiring in some sort of campaign of harassment."

Skinner set his sights on the road again. "Scully, why 
hasn't he done anything on these other cases?"

"I don't know. I wasn't aware of any such assignments." 
Mulder hadn't concealed important information from me 
in a long time. That he was apparently now up to his old 
tricks was disconcerting, to say the least. I floundered for 
a defense but couldn't come up with one. "What did the 
cases involve?"

Skinner was silent for a long moment. The fact that I was 
uninformed about the assignments was obviously news 
to him. When he finally answered, his voice sounded 
strangely subdued. "Another missing child. A report of 
self-immolation. An alleged suicide of a prominent 
engineer in a microchip company. Two reports of 
unexplained lights in the sky."

Nothing we hadn't dealt with before. Nothing that set off 
any immediate danger signals for me.

But something about them must have tripped a hazard 
warning in Skinner, because he clammed up after 
imparting the bare facts.

Bad enough Mulder was harboring secrets. I wasn't 
about to permit Skinner to travel that path, too. Not 
anymore.

"Sir?" I asked.

"What, Scully?"

"What else is significant about the cases Agent Mulder is 
allegedly ignoring?"

His hands tightened on the wheel and for a second I 
didn't think he'd come across with the information, but 
he did. "The missing child case came from San Francisco. 
The self-immolation occurred in Sacramento. The 
engineer was from the Silicon Valley, and the lights were 
reported in San Bernardino."

Oh.

We'd been to California five times already since the 
beginning of January. 

That idealistic agent who once braved the contempt of a 
Senate Subcommittee had taken a more extended 
sabbatical than I realized, if I hadn't noticed the males in 
my life reverting to behavior more suitable to a tribe of 
overprotective cavemen.

True, I no longer rejoiced at the prospect of earning 
frequent flyer miles to the Golden State, especially at this 
time of year. But it floored me that Mulder would go so 
far as to turn down not one case, but five, simply to 
spare my feelings, when he'd been riding the emotional 
roller coaster without a safety harness himself for the 
last few weeks. Here I'd been eyeing =him= for signs of a 
collapse, and turns out I was the one they were all 
worried about.

Even Skinner. There were no further questions about 
Mulder's irrational and unorthodox choice of 
investigations; that he had acted out of concern for me 
was apparently enough for our Assistant Director.

Talk about feeling small again. I didn't know what to say. 
Somehow, "Thanks, but I don't need your pity" ranked 
right up there with, "Really, I'm fine." I should have been 
angry; I should have been furious that the two of them 
were in cahoots to coddle me about a wound now more 
than two years old.

A wound that still ached, but no longer bled.

The rage was simmering, but at a low ebb. Maybe the 
Michaelsons' tender influence had rubbed off on me, 
transforming what was usually open hostility into weary 
exasperation.

Mulder never told me exactly what transpired the night 
he made peace with his sister. Now I wondered if perhaps 
there was something he =didn't= see that was driving 
him to such insulating lengths on my behalf. Something 
he'd hoped to find along with Samantha, but hadn't.

Something I'd never fully tried to seek out myself.

Whatever it was, Skinner was currently following 
Mulder's lead on blind faith alone, ignoring all Bureau 
procedure and protocol for the situation.

Wonders never cease.

Devotion came in all shapes and sizes.

The car jerked suddenly, yanking me from my reverie. 
Skinner swore as the vehicle skidded again. All the 
indicators on the instrument panel flashed, bathing the 
interior of the car in an angry splash of red and amber 
light. Fortunately, there was little traffic and Skinner was 
able to guide us partially onto the soft shoulder before 
the engine quit.

He turned off the key and punched the button for the 
hazard lights.

My travels with Mulder had included more than our fair 
share of motoring mishaps; as a result the two of us had 
become quite adept at impromptu roadside repairs. "Pop 
the hood," I said now to Skinner, unbuckling my seatbelt 
and reaching for the door handle. "I'll take a look and see 
what's happening."

As my hand closed around the smooth plastic handle, 
something traveling far too fast for the weather 
conditions crashed into us from behind. The impact 
slammed me headfirst into the windshield and my world 
exploded in a blinding white flash.

End part 1 of 2
________________________

FLAMINGO FAITHFUL (2/2)
By Jean Robinson,
On behalf of Jill Selby
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


A pussy willow brushed across my arm.

It trailed from my fingers up to my elbow, a feather-light, 
teasing tickle that disturbed the fine hairs on my arm 
and made me twitch in reaction.

I moved my hand to flick away the offending caress. It 
withdrew at the same time a voice asked, "Scully?" in a 
cautiously hopeful tone I recognized immediately.

Blinking hurt. Breathing hurt. I felt as though I'd been 
run over by a Mack truck.

Then it all came back to me in one tidal wave of memory.

No wonder I hurt so abominably. I had been run over by 
a Mack truck.

Near enough, anyway. If it had been an eighteen-wheeler 
I might not have survived to tell the tale, but the exact 
make and model year of the car that had rear-ended us 
made little difference to my pounding head.

"Mulder?" The lights in the room were dimmed, which 
was a relief. Still, I was frightened to find I couldn't focus 
properly. Four Mulders hovered next to me where there 
should have been one, their edges shifting and blending 
in a nauseating smear of color as the real version moved.

"Welcome back." I could hear the smile in his voice along 
with the naked relief. If I'd been able to see normally, I 
knew I'd be viewing a substantial amount of beard 
stubble, a soiled white shirt and a rumpled suit. He 
swallowed audibly and went on. "How do you feel?"

"My head's been better. Is Skinner all right?"

"He's got whiplash, but other than that he's fine. He still 
had his seatbelt on when you were hit."

"Good. What about the other driver?"

"Cuts and bruises, nothing more. She's being charged 
with reckless operation of a motor vehicle, speeding, and 
driving with a suspended license. Her insurance 
company's not going to be happy."

"I'll bet. How long have I. . ."

"Been here?" he finished. "Two days. I always knew you 
were hard-headed, Scully, you didn't have to go to such 
lengths to prove it. You broke the windshield but not 
your skull. Severe concussion. A couple dozen stitches 
around your scalp. You also cracked a rib when you hit 
the dashboard."

Well, that explained all my aches and pains above and 
below. "How long have you been here?" I asked softly.

He took my hand. "Skinner called me from the hospital 
after the ambulance brought the two of you in. I was at 
the police station discussing the Michaelsons."

"In other words, you haven't been home in two days and 
the nurses are ready to throw you out on your ass 
because you've been making a pest of yourself."

"Well. . . yes," he confessed sheepishly.

"Mulder," I sighed, "you don't have to babysit me. I'm an 
adult."

"You were unconscious, Scully. The doctors were talking 
about hemorrhages and hematomas and other multi-
syllable words involving your brain. I wasn't going to 
leave you unless you woke up and told me to get out 
yourself."

He was trying to brush it off as a joke, but the slight 
tremor in his voice betrayed how badly shaken he'd been. 
If it had been me in his position, I would have done the 
same thing. It was a minor miracle I hadn't been killed.

The pussy willow danced delicately over the back of my 
hand again. I looked down and saw a blob of violent pink 
that didn't correspond to any known form of vegetation, 
no matter what exotic hothouse hybrids the gift shop 
stocked. "Mulder, what is that thing?"

"Can't you see it?"

"Not clearly, no."

He dangled it in front of my face, inches from my eyes, 
and the edges of the object coalesced into an identifiable 
form.

A Beanie Baby.

A flamingo Beanie Baby.

I took it from him, nestling the cuddly, plush toy in my 
cupped palm. "Mulder, what on earth. . .?"

"Skinner said you were talking when the paramedics 
brought you in. You've been mumbling on and off since 
then. Most of it didn't make any sense, but at one point 
you kept repeating something about flamingoes. Your 
mother didn't have a clue why you might be saying that, 
but I figured I'd give it a shot. His name is Pinky, 
according to the tag. Did I get it right?"

My throat closed up as I stroked the soft, curving beak of 
the bright little bird with my thumb. "Yeah," I managed. 
"You got it right."

"Good." He sounded relieved; only then did I realize he'd 
been worried that flamingoes held some deep-seated, 
distressing significance for me and that he'd made a 
dreadful error by using one to coax me back to the land 
of the living. "That thing's retired, Scully. The Gunmen 
had to comb the Internet for a whole day before they 
found a local ten-year-old willing to part with hers for the 
princely sum of twenty dollars."

One more thing to add to my thank-you note to the 
endearing trio of social misfits. My debts to them were 
piling up faster than the snow had the other night.

"It's darling, Mulder. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Your mom went home about an hour 
ago. I should call her and tell her you're awake." He 
started to rise but I dropped the Beanie Baby on the 
blanket and grabbed his hand.

"Wait."

He sat back down. "What, Scully?"

"Skinner wanted to know why we were roaming around 
Prince Georges County looking for garden gnomes when 
we should have been back in California investigating the 
cases he'd given us."

He tensed, the sensation transmitted to me through our 
linked fingers as a thrumming vibration.

"Mulder, please don't do that. After all this time, after all 
we've been through together, please don't feel that you 
still have to protect me."

"We both have upsetting memories of California. Maybe I 
was protecting me." 

"Then why didn't you tell me about the assignments in 
the first place?"

Got you big time, Mulder.

He squeezed my hand, a silent apology of sorts. "Are you 
angry?"

"No. I should be, especially since you somehow 
brainwashed Skinner into agreeing that your actions 
were acceptable, but I'm not. I know why you did it. But 
it's not necessary, and I don't want you to do it again. All 
right?"

"All right."

I retrieved Pinky and waved it. "Swear on the flamingo."

He wrapped his hand around mine, squishing the bean 
bag toy between our fists. "I swear I won't mollycoddle 
my partner again," he intoned solemnly.

"Only you could make an oath sound like a sexual 
perversion, Mulder."

Tugging my hand, he pulled me slowly until I was sitting 
upright and moved to perch next to me. "I could make it 
do more than just sound like one, Scully," he quipped 
suggestively.

My poor abused head wasn't yet ready for even such a 
minor change in altitude. I listed sideways and Mulder 
steadied me before I toppled right over the edge of the 
bed. His arms slid around my back to support me; I 
leaned gratefully into his chest, comforted by the brush 
of cotton and silk against my cheek, the solid sound of 
his heartbeat thudding in my ear.

Mulder leaned down and pressed his lips to the back of 
my neck, just south of my hairline and north of the 
implant scar. "Oops," he murmured, sounding distinctly 
unrepentant, "I guess I just broke my oath. That didn't 
take long."

"Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"Break it again."

End


Author's notes: Happy anniversary to Jill. I took it upon 
myself to write her Improv from January 2000 as a gift to 
her. Yes, it just shows I'll do anything for more "Paper 
Saints," even research Beanie Babies and Furbys on the 
Internet. The elements Jill received to use in this story 
were: Skinner's car breaking down in a snowstorm; a 
Furby that spouted obscene or idiotic remarks at 
inappropriate times; Langly as the spokesperson for 
Super Blue-Green Algae; a disappearing and reappearing 
garden gnome; and Mulder kissing Scully on the nape.

If you'd like to feedback me, I'm at 
jeanrobinson@yahoo.com.