Title: PIN-UP QUEEN 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: G Classification: S Archive: Please ask permission. Spoilers: Prior to "Millennium" Summary: Searching for signs of the season, both past and present. Feedback: Jingle my bells at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com Author's notes at the end ***************************** PIN-UP QUEEN By Jean Robinson It was the first thing I saw when Scully came downstairs to my office this morning. Technically it's her office, too, but she does have a very nice one of her own on the third floor, with a window, a coat closet and her own filing cabinets. Depending on our caseload, she generally dumps her stuff up there and comes down to spend the bulk of the day with me here in the dim, dusty confines of the basement. But for once, our December had been light and easy, affording Scully the opportunity to take full advantage of her own comfortable chair, her own neat desk and her own unadulterated, unchewed supply of pencils. She'd been catching up on her reading, working on an article, going over past lab results. It was a question about the months-old Brown Mountain fungus case that brought her down today, and I spied it the instant she stepped over the threshold, saying, "Mulder. . . " as she flipped pages of the report, eyes down to the papers in front of her. My partner is not one for jewelry, for three reasons. The first is simple practicality necessitated by her career choice; any professional will tell you that medicine is no place for those who favor dangly earrings, long beads, chunky rings, and jangling bracelets. They get in your way. They're a contamination risk. Frightened, flailing patients have a nasty habit of ripping them off your body, sometimes ripping holes in you as they do so. Although Scully's patients aren't about to cause her serious bodily harm in such a fashion, there is always the chance that she could accidentally lose a ring or bracelet inside some cadaver as she pokes around. Plus, the very nature of the X-Files decrees that she be ready to stick her hand in goo and goosh about at any given moment, cadaver or not. Second is simple practicality due to our Bureau dress code regulations. The powers above frown on ostentatious, vulgar baubles, unless they are necessary for undercover operations. We are supposed to be unobtrusive, professional government representatives, a credit to our country. Granted, I pushed the envelope on the dress code from Day 1 with my selection of neckwear, each tie more garish and dizzying to the eye than the next. And within the last year or so, Scully's joined me in the trenches of my quiet clothing war. Some of her ensembles have been a whole lot more form-fitting than ever before, not to mention daringly low-cut. I've heard the words "snug" and "cleavage" whispered in her wake on more than one occasion. Personally, I think Scully's decided that she's been the good little agent for long enough. After the mental and physical wringer this job has put her through for the last seven years, she's ready to defy authority. I think she's =dying= for someone to call her on this, and I =know= I want to be in the room when she flash-freezes the first person dumb enough to tell her to her face that her blouse is too revealing. I only hope it's Kersh who makes that mistake. It won't be Skinner, because I think he'd like to be in the front row of the bleachers for that little performance, too. The third reason is that fancy, showy jewelry simply isn't her style. Scully's hallmark is the understatement. Dark suits. Simple casual clothes. Low-maintenance hairstyle. Muted makeup. Even at the few formal functions we'd attended she kept her appearance classy, elegant and uncluttered by fuss, frill, feathers or froth. She wears her cross and small stud earrings, usually pearls. No other decorations need apply. Quite frankly, she doesn't =need= more. Even that enormous diamond she flashed during our time in the Falls at Arcadia didn't enhance her natural beauty. But at Christmas, she wears the pins. There is never any set date; as well-organized as she is, I'm pretty sure Scully doesn't have "start wearing holiday pins" written in her day planner on December 10 of every year or anything as obsessive as that. But sometime around the second week of December, they appear on her lapel, one after another. She has four of them. They are all small; none larger than two inches in length. I think of them in terms of where she might have gotten them. The stylized gold Christmas tree has individual boughs sweeping outward with little green and red stones to decorate and edge them. A clear stone sits on top as the crowning ornament. It looks old, probably something Missy or Bill had given her for a present as a child. I'm no gemologist, but those aren't real emeralds and rubies and the top stone certainly isn't a diamond. The pin itself isn't real gold, not even 10 carat gold plate. But it is pretty and delicate and unusual. The red poinsettia blossom looks newer, more expensive. It too is costume jewelry, but of a different caliber. It looks like something you'd find in one of the better department stores, such as Lord & Taylor. It's some kind of ceramic and the separate flower petals are all subtly etched to give the impression of real veins. It looks fabulous against her black suits. I thought maybe her mother had given it to her. The green holly leaf has a single tiny ruby set near one edge to mimic a berry. Again, newer, more expensive jewelry. Gorgeous green color fired onto gold metal in some process only Scully probably understands. I suspect this came her way via Jack Willis, because that holly berry is the real McCoy. I knew exactly where the fourth pin had come from and how much it cost, because I'd given it to her. Our Christmas presents to each other were usually of the goofy joke variety – Star Wars action figures, the game "Operation," back issues of Sports Illustrated's swimsuit edition, a toy doctor's kit from Fisher-Price. But the year she got sick I saw this in the store and bought it. I'd just come from visiting her in the hospital the day before she was going to be released. I could barely accept that she was alive. Mr. "I Want To Believe" was in shock that Scully was on her way home to finish recuperating instead of on her way to the morgue to be readied for burial. Some part of me half expected the Smoking Man to sneak up behind me and growl out, "It's only temporary, Mr. Mulder. She's still going to die," in a voice that echoed of the graveyard and empty promises. On my way back to my car I passed a small jewelry store. In all my visits to Scully at Trinity, I'd never noticed this particular shop before. Everything was just starting to crank up for Christmas, despite the fact that everyone at the Hoover building had pumpkins and bowls of Halloween candy adorning their desktops and the pint- sized ghosts in bedsheets had yet to knock on doors. The jewelry store's window display had fluffy fake snow heaped around the black velvet stands, which exhibited a glittering array of sparkly, costly treasures to their best advantage. As Scully would have said, "Must be fate, Mulder." It was an angel pin in profile. The wings and the gown were mother-of-pearl, which shimmered and glowed and shifted colors in a blaze of opalescent glory. The angel was blowing a long, slim gold horn; you could almost hear the music heralding the joys of the coming holiday season. Its halo was a circle of ten tiny diamonds. The whole thing was outlined and trimmed in 24 carat gold. It looked gorgeous against the black velvet. It would have looked gorgeous lying on a potato sack. I went in and bought it without another thought. I didn't even know how much it cost until my American Express card bill arrived. I gave it to her the night before she left to fly to San Diego, before she went home for the evening to finish packing. Her eyebrows went up as she examined the expensive wrapping paper and the neat, shiny little bow. There's nothing that screams, "JEWELRY ALERT!" quite so much as a Christmas gift wrapped by a boutique jewelry store. "Mulder, what. . . " she trailed off, confused. Whatever was in there, she knew it was neither a successor to the Apollo keychain nor a Microbiologist Barbie doll. This was something serious. And considering she'd told me earlier that her gift to me had not arrived yet, I could see her worrying that perhaps the complete video collection of "Debbie Does Dallas" would be now be inappropriate in the face of my unexpectedly dignified purchase. "Just open it, Scully. It's not a ring." She froze for a moment, making me wonder if that was exactly what she'd been thinking – or maybe even hoping. Then she went for the kill and ripped off the glossy green and red paper in a thoroughly un-Scullylike shredding mania. Well, nothing screams, "JEWELRY ALERT!" quite so much as a Christmas gift wrapped by a boutique jewelry store unless it's the black velvet boxes said stores tuck your trinkets into. She hesitated briefly again, then slowly pried open the hinged lid. I watched her. Her mouth dropped open. She touched the pin with one reverent finger, brushing a fingertip over the gleaming mother-of-pearl body, tracing her way out to the end of the gold horn. "Mulder. . . it's beautiful." She finally looked up at me, and her eyes were simply shining. There was no other word for it. She was still fifteen pounds too thin, the dark shadows under her eyes were still far too noticeable, and she still had to stop and catch her breath after climbing a flight of stairs. But in that moment, she was utterly radiant. Her voice caught. "You. . . you shouldn't have. I don't know what to say. It's lovely." She was blushing, her cheeks tinted a perfectly charming shade of rose. I smiled. "You like it?" "I love it, Mulder." She smiled back, a full-blown, no- holds-barred, I'm-honestly-happy smile, and it was worth my entire salary and my pension plan to see it. If I'd known what was about to happen in the next week, I would have bought out the complete stock of that jewelry store for her. Not that it would have helped, of course. "Add it to the collection, then. Happy holidays, Scully." "Thank you. You too." She paused for a beat. "How would you feel if we didn't do gifts next year? Do we really need to?" For a horrifying second, I was insulted and hurt beyond coherent thought. Fortunately my rationality kicked in to translate Scullyspeak into English before my mouth ran away with me. In other words, what could top this, and I know you care about me; you don't have to prove it with expensive ornaments or little gag goodies. "I'm okay with that, Scully. It'll take the pressure off me trying to be good for the next twelve months." She laughed and hugged me good-bye and went off to California. To a family gathering focused on children she'd never have. To an unknown daughter, found and lost within days. To a custody battle that ultimately was moot and meaningless but still bruisingly painful. Scully's joyous holiday season that year, commencing with the miracle of her survival, culminated with the sorrow of a funeral. And so we passed into 1998. When December rolled around, I waited and watched. Scully dusted off her winter wardrobe, most of which consisted of black, black and more black. The pins did not appear. None of them. Not the Christmas tree, not the poinsettia blossom, not the holly leaf. Not the angel. I knew she was celebrating the holidays; I'd received my customary Christmas card from her and I'd seen the ones she sent to Kimberly and to A.D. Kersh's assistant. She talked about buying gifts for her brothers, her mother, her friend Ellen and Ellen's boy, her godson. But no Christmas pins. Apparently that was her single and silent gesture to mourn and mark the anniversary of Emily's death. Typically Scully to choose a method of grief which would attract the least amount of attention and the fewest number of prying, personal questions. I left it alone, although I had been dying to see how the mother-of-pearl angel would look snuggled against black wool, perched on my partner's left lapel over her heart. In retrospect, I'm very glad I did leave it, because that was the year I insisted she investigate a haunted house with me on Christmas Eve. There's nothing like a dual hallucination about being gutshot by your own partner on the holiest night of the year to put things in their proper perspective. When she showed up at my doorstep later that morning, unsettled but wanting to talk, I was glad. I was even happier when we both confessed to breaking our previous no-gifts vow. It didn't matter that we'd each reverted back to prank presents, either. The laugh I got from her when she opened that tube of what appeared to be three pairs of fancy designer underwear and were really panties with luminous alien heads on them was more musical than a whole concert of Christmas carols performed by the Vienna Boys' Choir. I'd bought the gift in a moment of desperation when I finally realized the pins were definitely not coming out of storage this year, in the hope that it could coax last year's mega-watt smile out of retirement, even if at only half its former brilliance. It almost worked. And another year went by, a year which included more than our fair share of heartache. I almost lost Scully's trust forever and I almost lost myself forever. To be honest, what happened between us prior to the debacle at El Rico Air Force Base hurt more than any amount of impromptu brain surgery. But I managed to make it up to her; for some reason I've been blessed with the most loyal, steadfast and forgiving partner in the history of the Bureau. I'm sure that's not what Blevins intended when he sent her down to me in the first place, but it happened. When I turned the calendar to December this year, it was time to wait and watch again. For two weeks, I chewed my fingernails along with my sunflower seeds. I made paperclip chains and tossed pencils at the ceiling. I practiced my free-throws using the trash can and multiple wads of perfectly good paper. Today, December 13, Scully came down with a question about giant mushrooms and there it was, snuggled against black wool, on her left lapel over her heart. The angel. My angel. Both of them. Merry Christmas, Scully. End Author's notes: A little pre-"Millennium" holiday fic. :-) The jewelry depicted in the story is based on pieces I own, with the exception of Mulder's gift to Scully. That little beauty is all his. And now hers. Happy holidays to all, especially my tolerant beta-readers Jill and Shari. Jingle my feedback bells at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com.