By Polly
polly122456@yahoo.com
 

Classification: Kid Fic, Scully POV, MSR, AU
Rating:  PG-13
Spoilers:  Everything through Season 8; in this
story, Season 9 never happened
Disclaimer: "The X-Files" and its characters belong
to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and FOX.  No
copyright infringement is intended
Thanks: To Peg's Girl for beta and insight; other
notes at the end
Archive:  If you want it, it's yours
Feedback:  Always welcome and greatly appreciated
Summary: Do you believe in miracles?

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 23, 2004

"C'mon, Mommy! You're gonna miss the singing!"

The squeals of laughter coming from the other room
told me the singing wasn't all I might be missing so
I willed the microwave to pop faster. "I'll be right
there," I called back, wiping down the countertop and
turning on the dishwasher while I waited.

The popping finally slowed and I snagged the bag from
the oven, trying to get it open as quickly as
possible without letting the steam scorch my
fingertips.  I coaxed one corner loose, added the
bag's contents to the already half-filled bowl, and
headed down the hallway.

Will's high-pitched shriek nearly sent the glass bowl
flying out of my hands.

"Hey, what's going on in here?" I asked sternly as I
stood in the doorway of the family room.

The two suspected rabble-rousers were immediately as
quiet as church mice. They sat side by side on the
worn leather sofa, stocking feet resting on the edge
of the coffee table, rally caps turned backward, two
angelic faces staring up at me with matching lopsided
grins. They even answered in perfect unison:
"Nothing."

"I'll bet." I sat the bowl of popcorn on the table
and smiled at Mulder and his pint-sized carbon copy.
The World Series was about to begin and my three-
year-old was bubbling over with youthful enthusiasm.
My forty-three-year-old was only slightly less
exuberant.

"Sit down, Mommy." Will patted the empty space next
to him on the sofa, while Mulder picked up Will's
baseball mitt and fiddled with the wrist adjustment.

I took my seat as Mulder slid the glove onto Will's
left hand. He beamed with fatherly pride as Will
punched his fist into the pocket of the mitt a few
times before holding it up to his face to inhale the
aroma of the well-treated leather.

Lately Will insisted on wearing his mitt when we
watched baseball on television, wanting to be
prepared in case a foul ball came hurtling out of the
set. It didn't surprise me that Mulder hadn't
explained to Will that the glove wasn't necessary; it
was only surprising that Mulder wasn't wearing one
too.

They were as alike as two peas in a pod. Will had
inherited a few of my physical traits -- my blue eyes
and slight nose, auburn highlights in his chestnut
hair -- but the rest was pure Mulder. He had Mulder's
full lips and long fingers. They had the same build,
the same walk. Will even argued like Mulder -- hands
on hips, shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows. There
was no mistaking the fact that William was his
father's son.

And like his father, he loved baseball.

"Oh my God."

Mulder startled me out of my musings. "What's wrong?"
I asked.

He held out his hand, showing me the popcorn kernels
in his palm. "First the Red Sox defy all odds to make
it to the World Series and now you're serving us
buttered popcorn," he said. "That's like two signs of
the apocalypse in the same week. I'm wondering if I
should start building that fallout shelter."

I acknowledged his sarcasm with a wry smile as he
shoved the corn into his mouth and rubbed his
stomach, a satisfied "Mmmm" escaping his lips.
 
"I'm still not sure I understand why you're so giddy
about the Red Sox being in the World Series," I said
as Will wriggled into my lap. "They did slay your
beloved Yankees."

Mulder grabbed another handful of popcorn. "I am a
Yankee fan, Scully. But first and foremost, I'm a
baseball fan. And as a fan of the game, I have to
appreciate the magnitude of what the Red Sox did. I'm
just sorry they had to do it against the Yankees."

"They had to win four games to get to the World
Series and they did," I said innocently. "I still
don't see why everyone, including you, is making such
a big deal out of it."

Mulder shook his head at my apparent inability to
grasp the obvious. "It's a big deal because they did
something that most people, except for their most
die-hard fans maybe, thought was impossible," he
replied, pausing to wash down his popcorn with a sip
of iced tea. "Think about it, Scully. They were three
games down, humiliated by the Yankees in that third
game, within three outs of being eliminated, and yet
somehow, against all odds, they fought their way back
and won four straight. What they did was miraculous,
something that no other team has been able to do in a
hundred years. They made history. And we were here to
see it, weren't we, Will?"

Mulder held up his hand for a high five and Will
obliged with great enthusiasm.

"And do you know how they were able to do that?"
Mulder asked with the timbre of an evangelist
addressing his faithful.

Will and I shook our heads.

"Because they never lost faith that they could do
it," Mulder said. "And faith is how you make
miracles."

Mulder playfully tickled Will's tummy, sending our
son into a full-fledged giggle fit. As Will squirmed
on my lap, Mulder glanced up at me and smiled. "And I
definitely have a much greater appreciation for
miracles than I used to," he added.

I reached out and touched Mulder's cheek, his weekend
stubble rough against my fingertips. "That goes
double for me," I whispered, reminded of how grateful
I was to be sitting here with *both* of my miracle
men.

Mulder leaned forward, intent on planting a kiss on
my ready and waiting lips, but Will used the
opportunity to scramble into his father's lap. I
shrugged and Mulder rolled his eyes with the resigned
sigh of a man who'd become accustomed to amorous
interludes being at the very least postponed by an
inquisitive and energetic three-year-old. Mulder had
even begun to jokingly refer to our son as "William
Interruptus."

"Anyway," Mulder continued as he situated Will in his
lap, "this year, even a Yankee fan has to tip his cap
to the Red Sox."

"You know, that's one thing I've never understood
about you, Mulder," I said after a sip of my own tea.
"You're a native son of New England and you root for
the Yankees instead of the Red Sox. Isn't that
sacrilege or something?"

Mulder chuckled. "Well, I haven't always been a
Yankee fan. I was a Red Sox fan once."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you *defected* to the
Yankees? Isn't that worse than sacrilege?"

He laughed again. "I was a Red Sox fan when I was a
kid. My father made sure of that. He loved baseball
and he worshiped the Red Sox. Took me to my first
game when I was only a little older than Will."

William fidgeted a bit at the sound of his name, and
Mulder squeezed his knee to settle him down.

"I'll never forget that game," Mulder continued. "Do
you remember that movie where Billy Crystal talks
about his father taking him to Yankee Stadium for the
first time?"

I nodded, though I couldn't recall the film.

"It was just like that the first time my father took
me to Fenway Park." Mulder's eyes softened to a mossy
green and I was mesmerized by the dreamy quality in
his voice as he spoke. "It was summer 1967. I
remember how tight he held my hand as we walked
through the stadium. We came out of the tunnel and
the first thing I saw was the Green Monster in left
field. I remember how blue the sky was, the smell of
the freshly mowed grass, the sounds of batting
practice. We sat on the first base side right behind
the dugout. He taught me how to keep score and he
bought me three hot dogs. Lonborg pitched a three-hit
shutout and Yastrzemski hit a home run. It was one of
the best days of my life."

Mulder rested his chin on top of Will's head and
enveloped our son in a gentle bear hug. "We used to
go to six or seven games a year," he continued, his
eyes fixed on the TV screen. "Then we stopped."

"Why?"

Stupid, stupid, stupid! I knew perfectly well 'why,'
but the word came out before I could stop it. "I'm
sorry," I mouthed silently.

Mulder put a hand on my knee and nodded his
forgiveness before turning his attention back to the
television. "Look, Will." He pointed at the set where
the players were beginning to assemble along the
baselines. "It's almost time."

Will squealed with delight and shifted his weight,
allowing me to snuggle closer to Mulder. I listened
as the public address announcer started introducing
the St. Louis players, but I couldn't contain my
curiosity. "So with all that Red Sox history steeped
in your veins, why did you become a Yankees fan?"

Mulder put his arm around me and sighed. "To hurt my
father."

I looked up into his eyes and he nodded slightly.
"When my parents separated and my father moved out, I
felt like I'd been completely abandoned. First
Samantha, then Dad. All I wanted to do was hurt him,
and the best way I knew how was by becoming a Yankee
fan."

He paused for a moment and looked down at Will. "All
sons rebel against their fathers; it's only natural.
But I think that was the cruelest thing I could have
done to him. I don't think he ever forgave me for
that."

Will joined in as the Boston fans cheered the
introduction of the Red Sox players and Mulder
smiled.  "I guess that's why it's important for me to
share this with Will. It's the least I can do for my
father. He never got to see the Red Sox win a world
championship, but maybe his grandson will."

"Do you really think the Red Sox are finally going to
win this year?" I asked.

Mulder pulled off his cap, tossed it on the coffee
table, and scratched his head. "I believe the
Cardinals are a pretty good team, but I think this
year they're facing a buzz saw," he said. "Call it
fate, call it destiny. I think this year, without a
doubt, the curse *is* reversed."

"That reminds me, Mulder," I said as Boston's
starting lineup was introduced. "In all our years on
the X-Files chasing down flukemen, mothmen, blue sea
monsters, liver eating mutants, and Mexican goat
suckers, investigating haunted houses, alien
shapeshifters, and every conspiracy theory known to
man, how is it that we never once looked into this
supposed 'Curse of the Bambino'?"

Mulder put his arm around me again and squeezed my
shoulder. "Elementary, my dear Scully. Because that's
one X-File I didn't want solved."

I laughed. "I guess you really are a Yankees fan."

"That's right," he replied. "Just like my chip off
the old block here." He bounced Will up and down on
his knee. "Who's your favorite player, Will? Derek
Jeter, right?"

"No, Johnny Damon!"

Mulder grabbed his chest in mock distress. "Ooh,
Will, you wound me, son."

Will just giggled.

"You said it yourself, Mulder," I interjected. "Every
son rebels against his father sooner or later. It's
only natural."

"Yeah, but I wasn't expecting the rebellion to start
quite this soon." Mulder shook his head. "I guess
that's poetic justice. My father is probably having a
pretty good laugh over this right about now."

"I think that your father would be very proud that
you're passing down the love of baseball to your
son," I said. "No matter what team he decides to
follow."

"Shhh!" Will held one finger sternly at his lips and
motioned for us to stand. "It's the singing," he
whispered.

He pulled off his cap and held it over his heart as
Mulder had taught him to do, and the three of us
stood there solemnly as Steven Tyler belted out the
first few bars of "The Star Spangled Banner."

We were on our best patriotic behavior until Mulder
decided to provide air guitar accompaniment. When the
song concluded, the stadium erupted and Will and I
applauded enthusiastically as Mulder took his bows
and moonwalked to the kitchen to refill our iced tea
glasses.

A few minutes later we were piled on the comfortable
old sofa, Will sandwiched between Mulder and me, and
the game was underway. By the end of the first
inning, Boston was ahead four to nothing.

"Well, it looks like your 'team of destiny' is off to
a good start," I observed.

"With the Red Sox, it ain't over till it's over,"
Mulder replied. "If Will's going to forsake the
Yankees to be a Sox fan, he might as well learn that
right now. In fact, no matter how tonight's game
turns out, it probably wouldn't hurt for you two to
light a candle at church tomorrow."

"Are you saying you believe in divine intervention?"

Mulder shrugged. "I'm saying that even though I don't
think the Cardinals have a prayer, no pun intended, I
don't think it would hurt to say one for the Red
Sox."

St. Louis scored a run in the top of the second and
during the commercial break that followed Will
crawled into Mulder's lap and rested his head against
his father's collarbone. He sat quietly for a moment,
pulled off his mitt, tilted his head back, and looked
up at Mulder. "How come you don't never go to mass
with us, Daddy?" he asked.

Mulder glanced at me, his eyes pleading for rescue.

I shook my head slowly and smiled. "Your son asked
you a question, Mulder."

"Grandma makes pancakes after," Will offered as
incentive.

"She does?" Mulder stared at me disapprovingly.
"Mommy neglected to mention that."

"I didn't think I should have to bribe you into going
to church," I replied.

Mulder chewed his bottom lip and scratched his chin.
"Well, I guess I am a little overdue saying thanks
for a couple of things," Mulder said. "Whatdya say I
go to mass with you and Mommy tomorrow? I'll even say
a few Hail Mulders for the Red Sox, in honor of you
and Grandpa."

"Yay!" Will clapped his approval.

"You going to church of your own free will," I
teased. "Better get to work on that fallout shelter,
Mulder. The third sign of the apocalypse has just
arrived."

Will was usually good for three innings or so and
tonight's game was no exception. By the top of the
fourth, the score was seven to two in favor of the
Red Sox and Will was sound asleep, never stirring
when Mulder carried him off to bed. He and Mulder
would talk about the game in the morning, and by the
end of the discussion, Will would somehow believe
he'd stayed awake for the whole thing.

When Mulder returned from Will's bedroom, the score
was seven to five.

"How'd that happen?" Mulder asked.

"It seems the road to Destiny has a few detour
signs." I gave Mulder a brief rundown of the
Cardinals' three-run rally and added, "I guess you
were right. It ain't over till it's over."

Mulder switched off the lights and the room was
bathed in the soft blue glow from the TV set.  He
returned to the couch, kicked off his shoes, and
swung his legs up onto the sofa cushions, his head
falling gently into my lap and his feet hanging off
the other end. He grinned up at me before folding his
arms across his chest and turning his eyes toward the
game.

"Comfy?" I asked with a pinch of sarcasm.

He sighed happily. "Very."

I opened my mouth to scold him, but my heart wasn't
in it. As we watched the game in silence, I combed my
fingers through Mulder's hair -- nearly as soft and
silky as his son's -- and scraped my nails gently
along his scalp. Every so often he seemed to purr
like a contented cat perched on a sun-drenched
windowsill.

This was what I loved most about our lives now --
quiet evenings at home, our son tucked in his bed
safe and sound, an opportunity to experience the same
ordinary moments that millions of other people take
for granted every day. After everything Mulder and I
had endured, together and separately, I believed we
deserved these moments. We earned them, *more* than
earned them.

The Cardinals tied the game in the sixth inning,
assisted by some sloppy fielding by the Red Sox, and
Mulder chuckled. "Did you see that, Scully?"

"See what?"

He sat up and pointed at the TV. "There. That shadow
on the pitcher's mound. I think The Babe has
awakened."

I rubbed my thighs, restoring circulation. "Still
time to file a 302 with Skinner, open an X-File on
that curse," I said.

"Nah." He shook his head. "Actually, I'm kind of
hoping the Red Sox will finally put this curse thing
to rest."

"You are?"

His eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a wicked
smile. "Yeah. Then next year when the Yankees wipe
the floor with them they won't be able to fall back
on that old lame curse excuse."

I kissed his cheek. "You're all heart."

We took the seventh inning stretch literally. I went
to check on Will while Mulder took a bathroom break.
When I returned to the family room he had freshened
our iced teas and was sitting on the couch, his feet
propped on the coffee table.

I sat close beside him, my hand on his knee as I
tucked my legs up under me. He fought back a yawn,
stretched his arms straight out, and nonchalantly
slipped one around my shoulder, a move he probably
perfected in high school.

Mulder pulled me closer and brushed my hair away from
my eyes. I tilted my head back and he pressed his
lips to mine, softly, slowly. I tried to deepen the
kiss but he pulled back.

"Any chance of Will waking up anytime soon?" he
whispered.

"Don't think so," I replied, barely able to
concentrate as he caught my earlobe between his
teeth. "With all the excitement, he seems to be down
for the count."

"Mupf," was the only sound I could make out as
Mulder's mouth was otherwise occupied. I closed my
eyes, lost in the sensation; and the next thing I
knew I was on my back, stretched out full length on
the sofa, Mulder's lips pressed against my jaw. I
hoped he hadn't perfected *that* move in high school,
and the thought made me chuckle.

Mulder's face appeared in front of mine. "Not exactly
the reaction I was going for," he said.

"Sorry," I apologized. "What *were* you going for,
exactly?"

His fingers moved to the front of my shirt, loosening
the buttons one by one. "The Red Sox have inspired
me," he said. "I thought maybe we could start working
on another little miracle of our own."

"You don't think we've used up our quota?"

"There's only one way to find out." The last button
was freed and Mulder pushed the fabric aside. He
placed a soft kiss over my heart before turning his
attention to more "sensitive" areas.

While I tangled one hand in his hair, I reached out
blindly with the other, catching the waistband of his
jeans with my fingers. I was attempting the one-
handed button fly release move I'd perfected in med
school when I remembered the cheering I heard in the
background *wasn't* for us.

I was almost afraid to ask, but knew I had to. "Don't
you want to see the rest of the game?"

"What game?"

We both smiled and quickly began to divest ourselves
of only as much clothing as necessary -- a skill we'd
jointly perfected with a curious youngster in the
house.

"Before we go any further, Mulder," I said as I
wriggled my jeans over my hips, "I think it only fair
to tell you that the chances of us making another
miracle tonight are slim to none."

"Oh, ye of little faith."

"Faith has nothing to do with it," I continued. "It's
science. Conceiving at this time of the month would
be medically impossible."

He adjusted his boxers. "They told us conceiving at
all was medically impossible, yet upstairs lies the
proof that sometimes science is wrong. God works in
mysterious ways, Scully."

"I know that," I replied. "I guess I didn't know that
*you* knew that."

"Hey, even with my limited church-going experience, I
know that," Mulder said. "Speaking of which, can we
get busy here? Otherwise, I'm gonna have nothing to
talk about at confession tomorrow."

"Ah, I knew you had ulterior motives."

"Always." He waggled his eyebrows seductively and
kissed the tip of my nose. "Do you believe in
miracles, Scully?" he whispered.

I laughed. "Remember the day we met?" I asked. "That
was the first time you questioned my belief in
'unexplained phenomenon.' It's twelve years later and
everything, yet nothing, has changed."

"You're avoiding the question, Dr. Scully," he said.
"Do you believe in miracles?"

I fingered the gold cross at the hollow of my throat.
"My faith promises miracles," I answered. "But you
show me that they're possible. You make me believe
they can happen."

"They *can* happen," he said. "We *make* them happen.
We're a team of destiny too. You believe that, don't
you?"

I smiled up at him. "I *want* to believe," I
whispered. "Show me how."

And he did.

It was nearly 2 a.m. when I reluctantly slipped out
of Mulder's arms and beckoned him to follow me up to
bed. He touched the remote and the infomercial
pitchman that had been silently hawking rotisseries
for the past half-hour faded to black.

We stopped to check on Will, his Sponge Bob
nightlight providing just enough illumination. He was
curled on his side, his baseball mitt clutched
against his chest like a favorite teddy bear. I
flashed Mulder a disapproving look for letting him
take it to bed and tried to ease it from his grasp.

"He's fine, Scully," Mulder whispered. "Leave it."

I pulled up the blanket Will had kicked off, kissed
him on the forehead, and joined Mulder in the
doorway. As we stood and watched our son sleeping,
Mulder's hand gently slid around mine. He squeezed my
fingers and headed off toward our bedroom. I lingered
a few more moments, pushed the door nearly closed,
and followed Mulder down the hallway.

When I reached the bedroom, Mulder had already
slipped out of his jeans and was standing at the end
of the bed pulling on his pajama bottoms.

"You know, you're going to have to get up early in
the morning and check the internet to find out all
the details of the game," I said to Mulder as I
removed my shirt and bra. "If you're not convincing
with the post-game discussion, Will won't believe he
stayed up for the whole thing and he'll be very
disappointed."

Mulder moved toward the bathroom as I unbuttoned my
jeans and pulled on one of his old gray tee shirts.
As I reached down to take off my socks, I said, "I
wonder who won, anyway."

Mulder stopped at the bathroom door and leaned
against the frame. "Boston scored two in the bottom
of the seventh to take a nine to seven lead," he
said. "Manny Ramirez made two errors in the top of
the eighth and the Cards came back to tie it again at
nine all. Then in the bottom of the eighth, Bellhorn
hit a two-run homer off the right field foul pole,
and the Red Sox won eleven to nine."

I stood up straight and put my hands on my hips. "You
got all that with the TV on mute while you were
making love to me?"

Mulder shrugged. "Hey, you never said turn the TV off
and I can't help it if I'm good at multitasking." He
disappeared into the bathroom before adding,
"Besides, I didn't hear any complaints."

Well, as much as I hated to admit it, I couldn't
argue with him there.

Mulder was already in bed when I finished in the
bathroom and as I slid in beside him he switched off
the lamp on the nightstand and spooned up behind me.
I turned my head to kiss him goodnight, and to my
surprise he placed his hand on my belly, spreading
his fingers wide as if he were palming a basketball.

"So what do you think, Scully?" he asked softly. "Do
you think we made another miracle tonight?"

I placed my hand over his and rested my head against
his shoulder. "It's a little too early to tell, I'm
afraid," I replied. "But you know as well as I do
that you can't always hit one over the fence in your
first at-bat. If we struck out this time, then we'll
just have to keep trying."

"Fair enough." He kissed my cheek and slid his arms
around me. "And if it'll help," he added, "I'm not
opposed to a little extra batting practice."

I smiled. "You're a real team player, Mulder."

I closed my eyes until his breath tickled my ear.
"You know, Scully, Ted Williams once said that
baseball is the only field of endeavor where a man
can succeed three times out of ten and be considered
a good performer."

"Fishing for compliments or worried about your
average?" I asked.

"What?"

I laughed and patted his arm. "Go to sleep, Mulder,"
I said. "Church tomorrow ... I mean this morning,
remember? Candle lighting, prayers for the Red Sox,
Hail Mulders ..."

"And pancakes," he muttered. "Don't forget the
pancakes."

Mulder's breaths soon became deep and even, his chest
rising and falling steadily against my back. I yawned
and closed my eyes again, but before I fell asleep I
rested my hand where Mulder's had been only a moment
before.

For an instant I thought I felt a slight flutter,
probably my imagination. Or indigestion -- I cursed
myself for succumbing to the temptation of buttered
popcorn. And yet ...

*Do you believe in miracles, Scully?*

You bet I do. If the Red Sox can do it, so can we.

THE END

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Note:  I started this story the night of the first
game of the 2004 World Series, never dreaming that
the Red Sox would wrap things up before I did. Real
life responsibilities slowed me down, but I went
ahead and finished it anyway, even though the Series
is now long over. Congratulations to the Red Sox and
all their fans and thanks for all the thrills during
the post-season.