By Spock
spockdaggoo@yahoo.co.uk
 

Rating: MSR, linguistic MT, X, H
Author's note: Written for the Mulder's Refuge Golden Gurney fic
contest, Christmas theme, 2003. Edited in various places. PS. It still
looks like Christmas in Finland.
Spoilers: None
Summary: A normal day at the office turns into a veritable nightmare
for Mulder and Scully, or does it?
Disclaimer: The characters appearing in this fic belong to Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions and FOX.
Archive: Ephemeral, Gossamer
Feedback: always appreciated at spockdaggoo@yahoo.co.uk
 
 
 
 

Fox Mulder's apt.
Alexandria
1 a.m. 13 December
 

"Please, Scully..."

Scully smiled and nodded at him in agreement.

"You are right, Mulder," she breathed.

"You are right..."
 
 

***********
 

December 13th
7 a.m. 13 December
 

He opened his tired eyes at the harsh sound of the alarm clock. What a
weird dream. Had Scully actually been compliant?

He got up, muttering. Scully was going to chew him a new one. She
would continue where she had left off the previous afternoon. He
shuffled to the shower and did the rest of his morning rituals,
unexcited about the day ahead.

Once dressed, he grabbed his keys, left his apartment and took the
lift downstairs. As the elevator doors slid open, the draft from
outside accentuated the coldness he felt inside. Yet, it also reminded
him of the electric bill. He fished out his keys and opened his mail
locker, grabbing the bills with one swift move. He closed the locker
and exited the building.

It really was chilly out, the mention of snow before Christmas, and he
briefly let himself imagine being with Scully, frolicking in the white
powdery substance together. However, the wonderful image of them
tumbling in a snowdrift was soon replaced by the image of the two of
them fighting over paperwork. In half an hour the fight would in all
likelihood continue. He sighed and reached his car in a few strides.
There was no other choice.

Twenty-nine minutes later he drove into the FBI Parking garage and
parked next to Scully's Peugeot. If they lived together, they'd be
able to share a car, he found himself thinking. He turned off the
engine of his Ford and hoped that he could turn off his
self-flagellation just as easily.

He took the stairs down to the basement and found the door to their
office slightly ajar. The smell of coffee and the sound of Scully
firing away on her computer reached him. He listened for potential
growls and angry hisses, yet, surprisingly, there were none. He took
two deep calming breaths and entered, greeting her as
non-provocatively as he could.

"Morning, Scully."

She noted his arrival with a nod of her head. Well, she hadn't
launched into a debate yet, he thought, somewhat relieved, and took
off his coat and walked to his desk, the mail in his grasp.

As he passed her desk, he noticed her shoulders were drooping. Her
hunched posture made her look really tired. His melancholy and
self-deprecation were immediately replaced by overwhelming concern but
he didn't approach her. Too afraid he'd impose on her private sphere,
he remained next to his desk, at a safe distance in case he was at
fault.

"Scully?"

She sighed, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. He bit his
lip. What was wrong with her, he pondered anxiously. She was pinching
the bridge of her beautiful nose. He waited, trying to fend off the
nagging suspicion that, somehow, he was to blame. He cast a glance at
the files on her desk. The pile was moderately high. Had she been here
all night, working on them? No, she wore another outfit.

"Along the piles of paperwork here I've been planning Christmas dinner
with mom," Scully finally began, and he shifted uneasily on his feet.
So, he was only partially to blame. The main culprit was The Scully
Christmas Feast. He walked around to his chair and plopped down
tiredly.

"Since my mother discovered the Internet, she just keeps on throwing
all these ridiculous duties into my inbox."

"Oh, the ol' Yule Tide Prep Fest, eh?" he offered and began to flick
through his mail. Fighting the suspicion that Scully was about to
begin blaming him for the introduction of email into Mrs. Scully's
life, he concentrated on the envelopes in his hand. There were bills
and a few letters. One was deep-colored, perhaps red. He'd save that
for last.

He opened a plain white envelope. The letter immediately grabbed his
interest. The concern expressed in the few short paragraphs seemed
genuine. A woman needed help. Their services were needed, and pretty
fast too, by the phrasing of the letter. As he looked up from the
letter, to give Scully the exciting news, he found her toting a file.

"Skinner wants our report on the mall mutant case, ASAP, Muld..."

He waved away her words, swirled around to get up. Paperwork had to
wait. The woman who had sent the letter surely could not. Besides, the
mall mutant case had held no mystery. It was an open and shut case.

"You have to read this!"

He got up and gave her the letter. To his relief she began reading it
immediately. Excitement surged through him and he grabbed his coat,
then realizing he needed to book a flight, journeying back to his
desk.

"My pillowcase tried to strangle me?"

Scully stared at the letter. He didn't like the way her comment rang
of her usual attitude of doubt. Her incredulity towards the legitimate
concerns of Mrs. Lumber had him vexed.

"What? You don't find that the least bit interesting?"

He couldn't believe it. Here was this super case, and she ignored it
just like that? It was so like her. He brought the receiver to his
ear. Time was a-wasting.

"Mulder, I know that you hate paperwork, and I do too, but that
doesn't mean we have to investigate the rampant bed sheets of
one...Mrs. Lumber, in Seattle, when she's obviously another one of
those people misguided by Jerry Springer. Why do you insist on
believing everything? How many letters like this have you received
this week? When will you sit down and do this paperwork with me
instead of chasing halfway across the country for vampires, whatnots
and...and beastly bed sheets with... we still have these audit reports
to..."

"Are you finished?"

He didn't have the time nor energy for this now. He punched the
extension number. Mrs. Lumber was to be saved.

"And it's a pillowcase case, not bed sheet," he explained, bringing
the receiver to his ear. Why was she so reluctant to save a life? She
was a doctor after all.

"No, Mulder, I am not finished!"

Mulder watched Scully get up and stalk over to him, snatch the
receiver from his hand and slamming it back onto the phone. The gall
of her!

"How many more like this one are there in that pile?"

She hissed venom at him, pointed at his mail, toting Mrs Lumber's
letter in her other hand, fuming.

He hadn't received that many cases in the mail or in his inbox. It had
been kind of slow. He cast a glance at the dark envelope on his desk.
It stood out alarmingly. Scully looked at it. He bit his lip in
frustration. What would she do? Open his mail?

"I'll bet you ten bucks that that letter came from another crackpot,"
Scully intoned, letting Mrs. Lumber's letter swirl to the floor and
stalking back to her desk.

A challenge hung in the air.

Mulder'd had enough of her arrogant treatment for one day. He stalked
over to the other side of his desk, took the dark letter in his hands
and ripped it open demonstratively. Scully leaned back in her chair
and folded her arms, waiting. Oh, she was going to lose this bet! It
was probably an early Christmas card, from some distant cousin, is
all.

He cleared his throat and extricated the stationary within.

He unfolded it, huffing at her for good measure.

The paper within was striped, white and blue. At first he was going to
read the message out loud, but the unfamiliar words in glittery gold
threw him off. He read the short phrase silently, unable to understand
any of it.

"What?" Scully hissed and he watched her lips make a tight, demanding
line. He looked down at the text again, concentrating. After a few
moments of frantically trying to make sense of the note, he shook his
head. Scully got up; her interest peaked.

"Toiveesi toteutukoon."

Mulder read the words out loud, very slowly, stumbling over the weird
combination of consonants of the second word, but the phrase made no
sense. It didn't sound like anything he had heard.

"Toiveesh totuwhat?" Scully asked, demanding to see the note, her hand
out-stretched.

"It's signed with a -J." Mulder read.

"What do you think it means?" Scully asked and snatched the letter,
eyeing it curiously.

"Je ne sais pas," he answered truthfully. He didn't know.

"Mulder?"

"Je crois que c'est une blague, c'est tout."

Mulder tossed the envelope still in his hand on the table and was
perplexed to see Scully look at him like he had sprouted antlers or
was ready to give birth to the Christ Child. Her usual look of doubt
was not as frightening as her present face.

"Scoolly?"

"Mulder..." Scully gasped, let go of the blue and white note, backed
to her chair and sat down with a loud thud.

"Scoolly? Que'est-ce qui ce passe?"

He was beginning to worry now. Scully looked awfully pale. He walked
over to her, but she seemed afraid of him, raising her hand in a
protective gesture.

"Je vais contacter le docteur...," he said and returned to his desk
and picked up the receiver again.

"Ah, oui, allo?"

He stopped in mid-thought, and then it seemed to grasp him, as if it
had been lingering in the back of his mind all the time.

"Mon dieu!"
 
 

Ten minutes later in the very same office
 

"Mon dieu!" he exclaimed for what was the umpteenth time as he
continued his anxious pacing. Scully was vexed, unable to speak. Well,
she would not be able to sooth his agitation, nothing could!

He spoke French!

"Merde!"

"Mulder, we...we...we will get to the bottom of this, I p-p-promise."
Scully seemed to have lost her grip on reality too. She stuttered. Oh
brother, perhaps something was wrong with her too? If she was having a
great deal of problems believing what was going on, how could she
possibly help? She was at a loss here! She was a skeptic! And he was
alone on this!

"Merde!"

"Mulder, can you think in English?"

He nodded. Yes, he could, but he couldn't speak it! His lips and
tongue refused him that luxury. What about Spanish? Could he speak
Spanish? He knew some Spanish. He concentrated and tried his damnedest
to order a beer, but the words wouldn't come. He tried all other small
phrases he knew in a set of languages, but his tongue refused to
budge.

"Alors, Scoolly!" he bellowed and continued pacing the floor.

"Mulder can you write English?"

Of course! He rushed to his desk, filled with hope, found a pencil and
scribbled on one of the envelopes. He read the words forming there and
knew his doom was sealed. He felt Scully's impatient hover behind him
and turned to hand her the envelope.

"Je m'appelle Mulder et j'habite en Alexandrie," Scully read in her
shaky high-school French.

"Ma vie est terminée," he said and found his chair, a familiar friend
in a time of dire need, and sunk into its comforting embrace.

"Your life isn't over, Mulder, you are still breathing. We have to get
to the bottom of this. There has got to be a rational explanation.
Trust me."

He nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was just perfect.
Just so damned perfect!

He chuckled mirthlessly at his misfortune. Why chase around the
country for cases, when one is one oneself!

"C'est typical, n'est pas? C'est vraiment typical..."

"Or..."

He looked up at Scully. She was not a happy camper.

"If this your idea of a joke, Mulder?! I swear to God if it is, I'll
wring your neck...I'll..." Scully was toting her fist in his face.
That was a new move. He got up.

"C'est vrais, Scoolly. Je ne parle pas francais, je suis affecté!
C'est un blague!"
 
He looked around his office for clues. His wandering eyes landed on
the dark patch on his desk and then to the striped stationary lying on
the floor by Scully's chair.

The weird letter with the weird words on it.

He jumped away from his chair and retrieved the letter and read it
silently. When he tried to say them out loud, the words would not be
pronounced of course.

"Alors, les mots sont pas en francais," he stated and sat down at
Scully's computer, determined to solve this most anxious predicament
as soon as was his might.

Scully moved to read the note.

"Non!"

He managed to stop her in time.

"Nous ne voulons pas que tu as la même maladie comme moi, non?"

Scully shrugged back at the stream of foreign words. She could not
believe this and neither could he, but having read that weird note had
made him speak French. There was no other explanation. Scully should
not read it aloud.

"Lise-pas ce lettre, Scoolly," he warned her again. She stepped away
from the desk.

He tried the web, typing in the letters to find a possible
translation. But the words refused to appear on the screen. He tried
the linguistics database as well, typing away on the keyboard,
frantically, to no avail.

"Scoolly, il faut que tu écrits les mots," he explained.

Scully took the note and looked at the weird words. She leant over his
shoulder. Silently, she typed in the words on the computer. He noticed
her hands were shaking. After a few moments she had the translation.
He could read it too.

"It's 'May your wish be granted', in Finnish," Scully read.

"En Finois..." he breathed, the wheels of his brain beginning to
churn.

"Yes."

"Scoolly, qui nous savons en Finlande?"

It took her a while to figure his sentence out.

"No one. We don't know anyone from Finland."

"Que est-ce que tu connais de Finlande, Scoolly?"

"I know that our cell phones are Finnish. That they invented the
sauna."

"Le sauna? Vraiment?"

"Ah oui."

He stared up at Scully, aghast.

"Oops. Sorry, Mulder."

Scully chuckled nervously, but soon found her composure.

He took a few calming breaths. She was O.K. Thank God.

"And then there's Santa, Mulder."

"Père Noel?"

"Yes."

"Père Noel...."

He let her write the word into the linguistic database and she asked
for the Finnish word for Santa Claus.

"Scoolly..." he mumbled.

"Yeah?"

He pointed at the screen and said "Père Noel."

"Joulupukki," Scully read in what had to be very poor Finnish.

"C'est le 'J', Scoolly! Le lettre est du père Noel!"

Scully didn't believe. She rolled her eyes at him, chuffed and rolled
her eyes again. But the note had been signed -J! Was she blind? It all
pointed to it being Santa, now didn't it?
 
 

Two minutes later in the very same office
 

"Mulder, no way are you going to convince me that note was sent to you
by Santa Claus. I don't believe in Santa, Mulder, and you are too old
to do that too! Besides, you never wished for this to happen did you?
You didn't wake up one day and wish you could speak French did you?
You didn't then go out and mail a letter did you, to the North Pole?
Please tell me you didn't!"

"Non..."

"Thank God!"

Scully sank onto the edge of his desk.

"J'ai jamais écrit une lettre au Père Noel. Tu oublies que j'ai eu une
famille pas très sentimenté."

Scully looked at him sadly and nodded. He had wanted to write to Santa
like everyone else did, because all his life he had felt mistreated
and neglected. He had wanted so much more love than he had ever
received. No one had ever listened to him, not heard what he had to
say.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it the way it came out. But there has to be
another explanation. There HAS to be!"

He watched her get up and begin pacing the room, searching her mind.
He was at a loss himself, muted by strange forces, his suspect the
legendary figure of Santa Claus, the old man with white beard who
spread joy! He couldn't just call Finnish police and have Santa
brought in for questioning, could he? He was disillusioned at the
thought.

"Mulder, I bet your friend Chuck Burkes would want to see that letter.
He must have a rational, scientific explanation for your dilemma."

Yes, of course! Chuck!

"Oui, tu as raison. Venons!"
 

Chuck Burkes' Laboratory
FBI Hoover Building
2 minutes later
 
 

"This is unbelievable!" a very enthusiastic Chuck Burkes gasped once
he had heard Scully explain what had occurred.

"Do you realize what this means?" he went on, barely able to contain
himself, almost falling off his stool. Mulder was chewing nails by the
door.

"Can you help him, Chuck?"

Mulder shifted from one foot to the other, nervously. Chuck removed
his eyewear and put on his protective goggles and latex gloves and
studied the document intensely.

"And this note has you speaking the language of Luurve?"

Mulder smiled dryly and looked pleadingly at Scully. Was this really
necessary? Then again, his humiliation was a little price to pay to
regain sanity.

They waited while Chuck fired up the blow-up projector.

"Chuck what do you make of it?" Scully asked as she looked at the
magnified version of the note.

"I must study the ink and the paper more closely to be able to say
anything definite."

"Will it be safe?"

"I have always wanted to woo my neighbor's twenty-five year Au Pair
girl from Lyon," Chuck chuckled. Mulder failed to see the humor.

"Besides, if what you say is true, Mulder read the words aloud, so I
should not be in any danger of infection if I don't read the note out
loud, although, I really wouldn't mind being abl..."

"Chuck, j'avais une journée très très mal..." Mulder cried over the
hum of the projector. Time was trickling by. Chuck made big eyes and
stifled a laugh. Seeing Mulder's death glare, the goggle-clad elf
finally hurried to task and turned off the projector, removing the
note from the glass surface.

"And these will shield me from anything." Chuck mumbled as he snapped
his latex-adorned digits and began turning the note in his hand
underneath the microscope.

The second hand of clock on the wall muddled on very slowly. Mulder
heard the seconds echo in his infected brain.

"Well, the paper seems to be normal Finnish stationary, slightly
thicker than our own, more fibers," Chuck finally said after having
looked at the things for some time. Scully and Mulder exchanged
hopeful looks.

Mulder wet his lips, and Scully walked over to him and took his hand.

"It's going to be okay," she said soothingly. Mulder hoped to god she
was right. This was a big, big mess.

They waited in silence while Chuck tested the ink and samples of the
stationary. Finally he turned to them.

"I can't find any anomalies, Mulder. There is nothing wrong with the
ink or the paper. In fact, there's nothing unusual whatsoever. And,
unfortunately no finger prints other than your own. No sign of any
added chemicals, no miniscule computer chips, nothing. It's paper and
I can give you the details of which paper factory in Finland it came
from - if you want me to."

Mulder watched Chuck place the letter onto the space next to his
microscope and remove his protective gloves and weird goggles.

"Je vais parler français pendant ma vie?" Mulder asked hoarsely.
Scully pressed his hand.

"Mulder. I don't know if I can help you there. I think this goes
beyond science. I think perhaps there is no scientific explanation.
This is magic. Pure and simple!"

Chuck's eyes glazed over in a kind of longing and he looked at the
letter and heaved a sigh.

Scully let go of Mulder's hand and walked silently towards the door.

Mulder thought about the words in the note,

'May your wish be granted'

What wish? What had he wished for? He searched his mind. He had felt
the onset of his usual Christmas funk the previous night. He had
reflected on his relationship to Scully, on how dealing with her doubt
tortured him. He had wished for Scully to agree with him. That she
would-?

He turned and watched Scully and Chuck shrug. Mulder saw her concerned
and compassionate smile.

"Scoolly ?"

He approached her warily.

"Mulder?"

How would he express this to her? His theory of what was going on was
a little far-fetched, but so was his dilemma. He ached to finally
confess to his need for her. His throat was dry and he didn't know
where to begin. Yet, he had to, somehow. He had wished for her
compassion. Shakily he began.

"Peut-etre mon abilite de parler français est..."

Scully smiled up at him as he approached her,

"Yes?"

"...est..."

No. He closed his mouth and turned away. He couldn't go there, he
wouldn't. Scully would laugh in his face, like she always did. She'd
mock him and leave him for good. She'd roll her eyes, fend off his
idea and scorn his theory.

"...est simplement un hex." he offered in a mumble, in her direction,
feeling another onslaught of misery wash over his soul. Things between
them would never change.
 
Chuck heaved a sigh a few feet away. They turned to look at him.

"Mulder, why the unhappy face? Don't you realize you are speaking a
language no woman can resist? Be happy, enjoy your new skill, lord
knows I would."

Mulder gauged Scully's reaction to Chuck's words. Her eyebrow was
raised, but that was all. Chuck stood up from his seat and smiled
broadly at them before leaving the lab. Mulder bit his lip. Before
Chuck entered the elevator out in the hall they could hear him sing
the refrain to Edith Piaff's 'La vie en rose'.

Mulder missed the hum of the blow-up projector. It would have tuned
out the awkward silence, now inhabiting the lab.

"Mulder, this is madness."

Scully moved to leave.

"Ne me quitte pas!" Mulder cried hoarsely, wanting to grab her arm,
yet stopping himself in the last minute. Scully couldn't leave. He
needed her to solve this problem with him. He needed her science
badly. He needed her expertise!

She turned to him. Her face showed no emotion.

"If it's a curse, Mulder, maybe it will wear off," she offered in a
dry voice.

Who would play this cruel trick on him? Who? Scully moved to leave
again.

"Je vais chercher les FBI-archives," he grasped at straws.

"What good will that do? Chris Car..Kris Kringle isn't on there."

Was she giving up on him? He could not have that. Never! This was a
case she could not turn her back on. Right?

"Scoolly!"

In five minutes they had journeyed down to the basement again. He
followed in her step. She ignored him. Maybe she was struggling to
accept reality? Maybe her rational side was waging war with her
concern for him? Was she pondering possible cures, she was after all a
medical doctor? He hoped as much.

"Mulder, we should speak to Skinner about this." Still she wouldn't
look at him, but at least there was some resolve in her voice.

"You should speak to Skinner about what?"

They were startled by the towering figure of Skinner stepping out of
the shadows outside their office, a grim look on his face as he
checked the time on his watch.

"Agents?"

"Merde..." Mulder groaned. Was he going to have to go through this
again? Chuck's antics had been quite enough. A couple of agents on
their way to storage passed them. Scully opened the office door.

"Sir, might I suggest we take this inside?"

Mulder felt relief. He knew how the bullpen would react and they'd
have even more ammo on him than ever before. He would be the laughing
stock and freak of nature they had always known him to be.

"So, would someone please tell me what's going on here? Where is your
field report on the mall case?" Skinner sounded inconvenienced and
angry, his piercing stare punctuating his impatience.

"Scoolly?" Mulder pleaded. "Mulder, what's wrong with your voice? You
sound like you have the flu."

"Je souhaite..." he said darkly.

"Mulder? Scully? Agents, what's going on? And make some sense!"

"Scoolly, est-ce que tu peux expliquer à Skinnèr le problème?"

"Scully ?"

"Sir..."

"Merde..."

"Could someone in this room tell me why Mulder is speaking French?"
Skinner waited for an answer, staring both of them down.

"Mulder?" Scully raised her eyebrow and sighed in defeat. Mulder
nodded, resigning to his fate.

"Je peux pas parler anglais."

There. He said it.

"What?!" Skinner stifled a laugh, yet his mirth died as he saw
Scully's no-nonsense expression.

"What do you mean, you can't speak English?" Skinner demanded, his
voice slightly falsetto.

"We...Mulder believes..." Scully bit her lip "that he is under some
kind of spell. He can only speak French."

"A spell?"

"Je crois que Père Noel m'a donné une cadeau..."

"Père Noel? What, Santa? A present? What? Scully make some sense!"

"Apparently, Santa sent him a letter which put him under a spell to
speak French, the purpose of which we have yet to determine..."

"A letter? From Santa? Santa doesn't exist, agents." Skinner explained
and removed his glasses to pinch his nose.

Mulder shuffled to his chair and sat down. He was tired of speaking.
Tired of thinking about this mess. And Skinner looked perplexed, still
pinching the bridge of his nose, which meant that he could not help
them either.

"Lovely. What will happen if you destroy the letter?" the A.D. offered
after a minute of staring at them.

Scully's eyes shone at the A.D.'s suggestion and Mulder practically
flew out of the office. The letter was still in Chuck's lab. He ran up
the stairs and into Chuck's lab, where he found Chuck reading the
letter out loud.

"Tapahtukoon toiveesi. J"

"Chuck, que-est-ce que tu fais!!??"

He ran over to him and snatched the paper out of Chuck's hand.

"Mulder, it's no use. It doesn't work on me. You lucky bastard, you."
Chuck left his office with slumped shoulders, no longer singing the
love hymn from before. Mulder could not believe Chuck's behavior. How
could anyone want this fate?

"What's wrong with Chuck?" Scully asked as she entered the lab with
Skinner in tow a few minutes later.

"Rien." Mulder answered, setting fire to the letter with a Buhnsen
burner, despite his fear of fire. This involuntary French was the
bigger evil here and if he could be rid of it through fire, he would
not think twice about it.

He was beginning to think he could assort to even bigger measures than
fire to get rid of his foreign tongue.

The letter in its dark casing burned happily in Chuck's wash-up sink.
Mulder felt a sense of gratification seeing the offending bit of
Finnish paper evaporating into smoke. He waited until there were only
black scraps of nothing left before he burst out,

"Finallement!"

Scully and Skinner sighed vehemently, and Mulder wanted to be engulfed
by the earth. He sunk down in Chuck's chair, rubbing his eyes. Someone
finish him now!

"So, that was a bust," he heard Skinner state. He opened his eyes and
saw his superior remove his glasses and begin pinching the bridge of
his nose. He closed his eyes from the sight. The spell hadn't lifted.
He would speak frog for the rest of his life. Scully stepped over the
linoleum and hugged him, and he felt more miserable than ever,

"Scoolly, j'ai perdu mon abilité de parler anglais permanent," he
whispered in defeat.

"We will find a way, Mulder," she said soothingly, running her hand up
and down his back.

"Comment?"

"I don't know how. We just have to figure this out together, OK,
partner? Come on."

"Yes, Scully, get him home. He looks like he might need a day or two
off."

"Le reste de ma vie, oui..." Mulder muttered.

"Mulder, come on."

He let Scully walk him to her car. What a day. He should remember to
thank Santa next time he saw him at the Mall. At least one wish was
granted. They drove home in the same car, albeit a French one.
 

"C'est le treizième Décembre aujourd hui, Scoolly. Encore deux
semaines avant Noel. Deux semaines! Ecoute Père Noel, après, j'ai ton
derrière!!!"

"Mulder, that can't be good for karma. It's Christmas soon and you are
vowing to have Santa's...derrière? We will figure this out. Don't you
worry, O.K.? I have another idea."

"Tu vas où?"

"The Lone Gunmen, Mulder, we have tried everything else, haven't we,
we might as well go for broke."

"Merde! Les elves de Père Noel..."
 

The LGM's lair
20 minutes later
 

"Oh. My. God. This is better than spotting Elvis on the Grassy Knoll!"
Langley chuffed out in his nasal whine.

"J'ai dis que c'est un plan horrible, Scoolly."

Mulder glared at Scully. The LGM were having a field day with his
predicament. He had known they would have a right laugh about this.
Was there a more pansy language than French?

"And you torched the letter, Mulder? How could you? We could have had
proof of the existence of Santa. Concrete proof!"  Frohike cried out
at the cruel fate of evidence lost, and Byers worried his lip.

"He needs our help, guys, he didn't come here to talk sensationalism.
I am sorry, Mulder," Byers said and offered Mulder a seat.

"Pas de problèm, Jean," Mulder sighed in defeat, patting Byers on the
shoulder. Byers stifled another grin and turned around, whispering,
"He called me Jean!" Mulder wanted to evaporate and he grimaced at
Scully for putting him through this.

"We could study his throat. He might have a language conversion
implant." Frohike offered and flipped down his light and searched for
a suitable throat examining tool.

"Scully, are you sure it's really Mulder? Maybe he is the French twin
we never knew about?" Langley suggested, searching the Internet for
similar cases.

"Je suis Mulder! Et je n'ai pas une implantation dans ma gorge!!"
Mulder cried at the ridiculous suggestions flung back and forth.

"Let's try another approach, Mulder," Byers began and dug in a set of
drawers. Mulder waited with baited breath. The suit-clad elf
extricated a pad with cardboard pages.

"What's that?" Scully asked and inched closer.

"It's a set of pictures used when coaching people with speech
impairments to speak. We experimented with a chimp once..."

"Jean..."

"Er... There are many images here and he should try to pronounce them
in English. We will begin with easy ones."

Mulder sat down at the desk and Byers took the seat opposite and began
showing him pictures. First one was a girl. He braced himself, taking
a deep breath.

"Fille."

"Try to say 'girl', " Byers spoke softly and patiently.

Mulder knew it wouldn't work. Even if he could handhold his tongue and
form the word, the word would come out in French. He looked pleadingly
at Scully.

"It won't work, Byers," she said and everyone in the room exchanged
worried looks.

"Hey, Mulder, it isn't that bad. Think of it this way, you can impress
Chantal now," Frohike blurted out.

"Who's Chantal?" Scully looked from one Gunman to the next.

"Er..." Frohike was muted by Mulder's warning glare.

"Did I say Chantal? I meant Pascal, the new French guy who shoots
hoops with Mulder at the Y. Tall fellow."

Mulder wanted to sink through the floor. Was this going to be his
fate? Was he going to speak frog for the rest of his life? He might as
well move to Canada. Imagine living there, among the Canucks! Merde!

"But, Mulder, if Santa gave you this ability, maybe the spell will be
broken at Christmas?"

Mulder nodded at the possibility. Byers was right. Maybe he would
return to normal after Christmas. He smiled up at Scully. Did she
think so too?

She didn't share in the enthusiasm and his heart fell.

"What about work?"

Scully's exasperated question wasn't a surprise. He wouldn't be able
to do any paperwork. She'd have to do everything, because he was
bloody useless like this. On the other hand, wasn't she relieved now
that she wouldn't have to listen to him go and on? No more pillowcase
cases and mall mutants, no more conspiracy theories for her to debunk,
unless she brushed up her French of course and joined this circus.

Scully and The Lone Gunmen stood in a silent circle around him.

This was shaping up to be the worst Christmas ever.

"Come on, Mulder, I'll drive you home," Scully breathed and motioned
for them to leave.

"Call us if there's anything you need, cheese steaks, beer, bad
company. We all know a little French..." Frohike said, patting Mulder
on the back.

"Don't worry, he won't leave my sight," Scully said quietly.

The Lone Gunmen exchanged surprised looks.

"Oui, j'a un babysit," Mulder muttered and hung his head.
 
 

Fox Mulder's apartment
Alexandria
Twenty minutes later
 

Mulder unlocked the door and Scully followed him inside the apartment.

"Let me take your coat."

He handed her his coat and shuffled to his couch. He heard her put the
kettle on in the kitchen.

"Scully, qu'est-ce tu crois de cette situation?" he asked once she
entered the living room.

"Tu veux partit, non?"

He had to ask. She was looking at the door, ready to get out. Why was
she still here? Why hadn't she run for the hills the second he had
opened his gob and French words had poured out? Did she really accept
and believe what was going on?

"Mulder, you are my partner. And right now you need some backing,
O.K.?"

She took a hold of his foot and lifted it enough to get the shoe off.
She repeated the action with his left foot. She was pampering him, and
he hadn't even been injured.

"Lie down, Mulder. You need to rest. Maybe when you wake up this would
all turn out to have been a bad dream," she said, running her fingers
through his hair, massaging his scalp ever so softly.

"C'est pas une rêve, Scully. C'est vrais. J'ai jamais parler français.
C'est la vérité."

Scully sat down next to him and took his hand. He couldn't remember
the last time she had touched him this much in one day.

"Mulder, I am sorry..."

He turned to gauge her eyes. They were downcast and she was worrying
her lips.

"Scoolly?"

"... for the way I acted in the office yesterday and this morning. I
didn't mean to be so..."

Where did this come from? He shifted to face her. Scully searched the
room with her wandering gaze. He felt her tiny warm hands envelop his
left hand, a gesture that was very unusual, since he hadn't been
injured physically.

Of course. It was sympathy. She felt sorry for him.

He waited silently for her forced apology to continue.

"...I was horrible and seeing you like this, it breaks my heart,
yet.."

"Oui?"

Now he was intrigued.

"I don't mind it actually..."

"Scoolly?"

"Maybe it's what Chuck said, that...that...no, it is what YOU said,
what you have said all the time I've known you."

"Qu'est-ce que tu vas me dire, Scoolly?"

"I should listen to you more, Mulder. I, I should really listen. I
seldom do, you know...I..."

"O.K."

"You speak English!!"

Scully hugged him with joy. He pushed her away gently, shaking his
head.

"Non, Scoolly. 'O.K.' est aussi français."

"Damned..."

"Scoolly?"

She fingered the hem of her skirt.

"I've put this off long enough, Mulder."

"Scoolly, dis-moi. Que pense-tu?"

He had to know what she was thinking. She was shifting restlessly on
the edge of the couch, unable to look him straight in the eye.

"I love your voice," she blurted out.

"Comment?"

He wasn't hearing right.

"Love it," Scully stated, her voice even and her eyes now fixed on
his.

"Ma, ma v-voie?" he stuttered.

"Yes."

He was stunned. This came out of the blue. She never wanted to hear
him. Why would she say she loved his voice? This didn't make any
sense. This was Scully trying to cheer him up.

"I guess today it just became clear to me," she managed hoarsely.

Of course. Chuck was right. Every woman loved a French guy. It wasn't
that she loved his voice. It was this awful French drawl!

"C'est le français, n'est-ce p...?"

"No, it's not the French!"

She got up and started pacing the floor in front of him. Oh, great,
again they were arguing.

"Scoolly, pardon?

"It's Christmas soon and Mom is organizing this huge dinner for the
whole family and I am tired, so tired of babysitting Bill's kids. Of
watching them and seeing them so happy. I just can't stand it anymore.
And you, you are sitting here in this apartment, watching television
and eating popcorn, without a turkey dinner, no presents, and yet,
still, I'd like to be here with you, or, or have you come join us.
But, but all we do is argue, argue, argue, argue...I can't do it
anymore, Moulder - erm, I mean Mulder - I am so tired of it!"

Scully looked surprised at the stream of words that had just escaped
her lips.

"Scoolly?"

"Oh, Mulder..."

She fell to her knees, clutching his legs.

"What are we going to do?" she managed in frustration.

"Aime-moi," he whispered, tears stinging somewhere behind his eyes.

"Aime-moi," he repeated softly, finding it somehow easier to say in a
foreign tongue. "Moi, je t'aime toi aussi," he went on, her
disillusion giving him courage to confess.

Scully looked up. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the recognition
in her eyes. She understood the phrase. He could see the glint of
peacefulness and hope igniting an azure fire in her pooled eyes. She
wasn't running away, or contradicting him.

"Yes...," she breathed and crawled up into his embrace.

"Yes."

Their hug overwhelmed him, and he treasured the feeling. It made him
forget the evils of the day, the unfamiliar words that his tongue had
formed. A sense of peace settled inside his heart, until another
thought came to him.

"Embrasse-moi," he hurried to implore. If she was going to sit in his
lap he might as well go for broke. He had dreamt about this for so
many years.

Their lips grew closer.

They could hear a soft jingle outside his window.

"What was that?" Scully gasped.

"Du neige?" he offered, stroking her hair away from her face.

"Embrasse-moi", he repeated breathlessly.

"Yes," she gasped and pressed her parted lips to his.

The instant her tongue touched his, he felt a tingling sensation,
traveling from their joined mouths to his lungs. They pulled apart,
both at awe, gasping for air.

"Mulder..."

"Yes, Scully ..."
 
 
 

North of the Arctic Circle
Finnish territory
 
 

He hummed and leant back in his comfy chair, opening the next letter,
reading the wish within.

"Dear Santa, my mom needs a new pillowcase."

"Toteutukoon toiveesi," he intoned, snapped his finger and hummed.
 
 
 

Finnish ;)