Title: MELTING DREAMS Author: Jean Robinson (jeanrobinson@yahoo.com) Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television Network. No infringement is intended. Rating: PG-13 Classification: S, H Archive: Please ask permission. Spoilers: Tiny ones for "Arcadia" and "Bad Blood" Summary: Birthday challenge fic, to include food preparation, spooning, a birthday, the opening paragraph, and the word "melting" in the title. Feedback: Send to: jeanrobinson@yahoo.com Author's notes and recipe at the end ***************************************** MELTING DREAMS By Jean Robinson In sunlight the trees were crystal and glitter, as if they'd sprouted from a fairy tale. Now, in the moonlight, the branches were painted a luminescent blue. Laurel Springs would have been the most beautiful place she'd ever seen, if not for all the dead people. The entire population of the lovely suburban neighborhood lay sprawled in the playground that formed the cornerstone of the 60-house development. Men, women and children, once vibrant with the energy of life, now silent and cold with the finality of death. Such a horrendous tragedy always spawned rumor upon rumor, like a weed growing out of control to throttle the flowering plants in a garden. The four facts everyone agreed upon were that the homeowner's association had been throwing an ice carnival to celebrate the first birthday of the neighborhood, that every single resident from 87-year-old Mrs. Carmichael to six-month-old Devon Abrams had been in attendance, and all had been drinking hot cider punch at noon and dead before anyone felt the need to make a momentary pilgrimage to their homes to relieve themselves of the seasonal beverage. Bewildered and confused, the town's police department had reluctantly called in the heavy artillery from Washington. Theories flew fast and loose. Local law enforcement vacillated between a suicide pact and a random hit by an unknown mob. The tall agent, trenchcoat flapping, trolled the streets of surrounding developments inquiring about lights in the sky or unusual aircraft sightings. His small, quietly intense partner directed that the apple cider, which was forming a scrim of ice in the deepening evening chill, cinnamon stirring sticks and now-stale donuts be removed and tested for pathogens. There weren't many, though, that would kill with such terrifying speed while at the same time leaving a corresponding lack of symptoms. Although the bodies were found in a variety of unusual positions, all were peaceful, as if their owners had simply nodded off through boredom at the festivities and then frozen to death. Children slumped over their sleds or hung draped around the snow-crusted playground equipment. Adults lay on and around the picnic tables, useless sentries guarding the Sterno tins that had still been merrily burning under the huge cider cauldrons when the first searchers chanced upon the gruesome party. The female agent shivered. The temperature had dropped dramatically with the setting of the sun. But her body would have generated the same tremulous reaction had the season been that of Independence Day instead of Thanksgiving. All those families. All those children. Dressed in their neon-bright snowsuits, they almost looked like catalog advertisements. Except these small innocents and their parents would need neither GoreTex nor Thinsulate nor any other miracle microfibers ever again. "Hey." She jumped at the soft voice behind her; her attention had been keenly focused on the nearest group of adults slouched over the half-finished snow sculpture of a horse. Wrapped in the solitary fog of concentration, her reddened and numb ears had not registered his crunching approach through the crusty snow. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." "It's all right." She turned to face him, huddling a little more snugly into her coat, face pinched and cold. "Did you learn anything?" "Nothing except that the residents of Maple Grove weren't that thrilled when this place was built." "What do you mean?" She'd thought it a long shot to question the next little development over, but their past investigative experiences had taught them that such communities often held secrets. Now she rarely questioned him when he announced his intention to pursue an odd lead. She trusted his intuition to turn up clues where none might be thought to exist. The dark-haired man shrugged, looking over her head in the direction of the Maple Grove houses, whose lights could be seen twinkling like miniature diamonds here and there through the frosty trees edging the playground. "Just a feeling. The minute I mentioned the words 'Laurel Springs' they all got the same look on their face. As if they were mentally saying, 'Oh, THOSE people.' I tried to follow up with one or two of the more talkative ones, but all I got was the usual runaround of complaints." "What kind of complaints?" "The construction noise when the place was built. The loss of the woods and wetlands that used to be here. The increase in traffic. The noise the kids make." She turned back to rake her gaze over the place that had so blithely switched identities from playground to killing ground. "So they think the Laurel Springs people are somehow different?" "There's definite friction between the two groups. And a definite undercurrent of uneasiness, yes." "Enough to kill for?" "I think it's likely." His partner shivered again. Suddenly his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her back gently into the generous warmth of his body. He crossed his arms over hers in front of her, the edges of his unbuttoned coat coming around to envelope her with additional insulation. "You're freezing. Come on, let's go back to the motel. We're not going to get any more information tonight." She wanted to argue, to plead that they couldn't just leave these people without knowing more, but he was right on both counts. She was freezing, and standing here staring at the dead was not going to inspire anything other than frostbite. But she was loathe to move and spoil his furnace-like effect, so she postponed the inevitable with a question sure to ignite his limitless curiosity. "How could they be so different from the people in Maple Grove?" "I was thinking about that as I walked back here. Look at the bodies. Laurel Springs residents are, to a person, attractive, healthy individuals. Even with all these clothes, it's easy to see no one is obese; no one's even slightly overweight. No one has an obvious disability. Mrs. Carmichael isn't even wearing glasses. I think once you've started autopsies, you won't find any dental work, either." "What are you saying? That these people are perfect physical specimens? There's no such thing." He hesitated for a beat before imparting his theory, knowing how firmly she believed in the grounding faith of her science. But the longer he looked at the deceased, the more certain he felt that science had no place amid the residents of Laurel Springs. "I think maybe they're gods. Real gods." Scully burst out laughing. She dropped the page she was holding and covered her mouth, trying to rein in the giggles without any success. Mulder looked over at her with an expression of amusement tinged with faint hurt. "You lose," he commented. "I know. I'm sorry, Mulder." She took a deep breath and finally regained control. "But gods? Oh, come on." "That bad, huh?" "I think you'd better not quit your day job." She waved at the pile of manuscript, trying to find a way to phrase her criticism that would cure him of this most recent desire to validate his work in some small way by writing fiction without wounding his ego too badly. "It's. . . it's a little much. The entire thing. Gods aside, the premise isn't too terrible, but the writing. . ." she trailed off. "You're telling me I have a great future with Harlequin Romances, aren't you?" "I'm afraid so." "Cheesecake." "I beg your pardon?" Mulder smiled wickedly. "You lost, remember? Read through the whole thing without laughing or fix me whatever I want to eat. And I want cheesecake. Now." Scully glanced at the bedside clock. "Mulder, it's after eleven." "So? I'm in the mood for something sweet. Unless you want it spread around the Bureau that Dana Scully welshes on bets. . ." "All right, all right. Let me see what I have." She scrambled out of the bed and pulled on her robe. "I want cheesecake with real cream cheese, Scully!" he called after her. "None of that light cream cheese! And real graham cracker crust!" ________________________ Two hours and a hurried trip to the nearest 7-Eleven for a box of graham crackers later, they lay comfortably in bed, surrounded by plates, forks, more than half a cheesecake and scattered brown crumbs of crust. Scully leaned back against Mulder's chest and surveyed the damage. "I hope you like sleeping in itchy sheets. I'm too tired to change them now. As it is we're never going to get up in the morning." He lazily trailed his fingers up and down her bare arms. "Who said anything about sleep, Scully?" "Mulder, even your fictional characters were on their way back to the motel to get some rest." "Ah, but don't forget you never actually read chapter two, did you?" End Happy Birthday to Shari and Dasha! Author's notes: This recipe was given to my mother by her childhood neighbor, so it's over 50 years old. This is the only cheesecake I will eat. ;-) Mr. Girardi's Cheesecake Crust 1 and ¼ cups of graham crackers ¼ cup granulated sugar ¼ cup melted shortening Combine all three, blend well. Put in 9-inch spring-form cake tin. Pack crumbs on sides up to ½ inch from top, then on bottom of pan. Let stand 10-15 minutes in fridge. Filling 1 pound cream cheese (real ;-) ½ cup granulated sugar 3 medium eggs ¾ teaspoon vanilla Mix in mixer. Pour batter over graham cracker shell. Bake 20 minutes at 375. Let stand for 15 minutes. Topping 1 pint sour cream ¼ cup granulated sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla Combine, pour over filling. Bake at 475 for 10 minutes. Enjoy!