Title: The Emasculation of Fox Mulder Author: Alelou Feedback: Alelou123@aol.com (remember the 123, please!) Distribution: Gossamer, Ephemeral, and anywhere else with headers attached Disclaimer: All these characters except Frohike's sister are the property of Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox (and they can have her too, since she's a close relative). Category: MSR schmoop with a light patina of angst Rating: PG Spoilers: Nothing after Season 8. Suppose technically this is AU since I'm officially ignoring Season 9. Summary: Mulder copes with fatherhood, unemployment, post-death trauma, the weight of his mother's engagement ring, and destiny. Scully copes with Mulder. Notes: I owe a debt of gratitude to David Duchovny for this story -- he made a comment about his character's "emasculation" that got me started on it many months ago. Also to Jennifer, who stalked me into finishing it just recently. Loving cyber waves to my homies -- Jamie, Rachel, Marie, and The Artist Previously Known as Mystphile. You know, I wasn't all that good at holding onto my gun, which may explain why I have trouble with those little adhesive tabs that are supposed to hold the plastic diapers on my son. Do you know how unforgiving those things are? Stick them in the wrong place and there's no going back. Pull them off by accident and you're throwing a perfectly dry diaper in the garbage. You can't even drape it over your shoulder to catch the inevitable drool and spit-up, because it slides off faster than a loose gun on a speeding train. Anyway, this is what I'm reduced to these days. I diaper, I feed, I burp, I make high-pitched girly noises at my son while he goes "gah-gah-gah" back at me, and I sneak onto Internet porn sites while he naps. Thank God for all those naps. Scully drags herself off to work complaining the whole time (so what else is new) and tries to avoid torturing me with intriguing little details of remarkable cases they're probably allowing to die for lack of imagination. When I get tired of porn I scour the Internet for weird news stories and the latest paranoid conspiracy theories posted on my favorite paranoid conspiracy newsgroups and forward them to my sweetheart at the FBI. So far she has tactfully avoided writing me back, "How 'bout those dishes, buddy?" or "Don't you think you should get a job?" or "So are you going to shack up in my apartment forever or what?" I really ought to just marry her and be done with it. End of story. Happy ending, even. Somehow I just haven't gotten around to it. You know, for all those years I fantasized about finding my sister and reuniting my family, I don't think I ever really considered what it would mean if I found her and she needed to be taken care of by someone other than a trained medical professional -- or in other words, by me. Tenderly nurturing dependent beings of any kind isn't something I'm well suited to after a lifetime of single-minded obsession. Scully doesn't seem to realize how completely bizarre this transition in our lives is. Maybe that's because all that time I thought she was invested in finding the truth she was really only taking care of me, the big baby. Or maybe she has that two-sided female brain thing going, simultaneously able to coo and babble sweetly while thinking about new ways to bring bad guys and mutants to justice. Despite my reputation for brilliance, I'm quite convinced that I have a plain old single-track male brain, and one that has been much put upon. So far William's built-in extra loud hunger alarm has saved me from forgetting to feed him, thank God, but when he's quiet I tend to get involved in something and forget to change his diaper until it's turned into an X-File itself. Once in awhile Scully comes home early and discovers him in one of these states and she just looks at me as if I'm from another planet. Who knows, maybe I am. Part year resident, anyway. I so suck at this. xxx If Doggett asks me "How's Muldah?" one more time, I'm going to take out my gun and shoot him. "He's fine," I say, as always. It's not any of his damned business if the love of my life is sinking into post-partum depression when he didn't even have the damned baby. Mulder has no idea how jealous I am of the fact that HE gets to stay home and watch our darling boy goo and gurgle and grow and make funny sounds and point at things in wonder and delight. And it just makes it worse that I know he's not exactly hanging on every coo and gurgle. If he were, surely he'd notice that substance extruding out of the Huggies? It's not that he doesn't love William. He's definitely intent on keeping him safe. When I (gently) bring up the idea of getting a babysitter in to give him a break, he reminds me of my baby nurse and how dangerous it is to trust anybody. Then how about some time with grandma, I suggest. "And just who hired the baby nurse?" he rejoins. Of course, he and Mom aren't exactly allies at the moment. She can't stop herself from letting clipped little comments slip out that have the unmistakable subtext: Why haven't you made an honest woman out of my daughter? I wonder that myself, occasionally. And then, other times, I remember that I'm just amazed and grateful that he's here and apparently resigned to the idea of being part of a family. Anyway, William is not a particularly well-kept baby. Depending on when you arrive at our apartment, you will find gummed up teething biscuit crumbs in his hair, difficult-to-identify substances in his plump little folds, and a wide array of colorful stains on his clothing. Now that I've stopped breastfeeding, the aroma of sour formula seems to cling to him, mixed in with the sweeter baby smells. However, he is as pudgy and good- natured as a mother could wish. This is certainly not a failure-to-thrive situation, so Mulder must be interacting with him more than I might assume from his current energy level with dishes, socks, newspapers, groceries, his apartment, his fish, his finances, or sex. So I'm not really too worried about William. It's Muldah I'm not so sure about. xxx "Uh, I'm kind of tired tonight." Scully is nibbling on my ear as I sit at the computer and even though I know I'm supposed to be the ever-ready super stud per my (now quite ancient) FBI reputation, I'm having a hard time resisting the urge to just bat her away. I've noticed that Scully becomes more amorous when she's afraid I'm about to sink into a pit of despair or disappear. When I'm that rare combination of contented and settled, she happily lets my libido set the course. Or doesn't let it set the course, as the case may be. (It may shock some to hear this, but even the unflappable Dana Scully has dark stretches when she'd rather sleep and eat chocolate than have mind-blowing sex with me.) "Okay," she says quietly, and walks off to do something noisy in the kitchen. Oh great. Now she's hurt as well as worried that I'm about to sink into a pit of despair or disappear. I should get up and go jump her bones just to avoid the inevitable stretch of tension, but somehow I just don't have the energy. Maybe she's right. Maybe I am in a pit of despair. Or maybe I am about to disappear. The latter is not really an option, I remind myself. Who'd take care of the kid? If I'd stayed dead, Scully probably could have stayed home and lived handsomely on the insurance and the estate for years if she wanted. Coming back from the dead has really screwed up our finances, however, despite the fact that she never really cashed in on anything I left her in the first place. If probate is a nasty process, consider what you have to do to get back out through it the other way. Thanks to Mom and Dad, my net worth is obscenely large at this point, but it's all in escrow. I expect the attorneys to feed off it for at least another year or two. Technically, we'd probably be best off if she took me to court for child support, so the judge could order my estate to pay it. For now, we just go month to month and I use the allowance the lawyers give me for take-out food bills and COBRA payments and the monthly maintenance fees on the apartment, which she didn't have the energy to get rid of, I guess. I know how that feels. This isn't quite despair either, however. At least, I don't think so. First of all, after all I've been through, the sheer absence of physical pain is something to celebrate. Hurrah, I'm not being tortured. Isn't life great? Second, I got the girl. The girl may be pissed off and banging dishes around in the kitchen right now, but she's mine. Third, I have a lovely son, and isn't that an unexpected bonus? Granted, it's a bonus that requires a lot of time and attention and interrupted sleep, but whatever. He's a miracle and you don't look miracles in the mouth, unless of course Miracle Boy has yet again popped something in there that doesn't belong. I get up with the half-formed instinct to go make desultory conversation with Scully in the kitchen, which is about as close as we ever get to "making up." I think we've both learned over the years to hate and fear our real fights and therefore almost never have any. There's always the risk one of us will run off and think seriously about shooting himself or perhaps sleep with the first mentally disturbed guy with a tattoo she can find. Or simply remain heartbreakingly aloof for the next four years. Of course, I do realize that this is not healthy and real fights would be better in the long run, but try telling that to the part of my brain that panics at the mere thought of losing Scully. Abandoning me is not as easy an option for her anymore either, I remind myself. Instead of heading for Scully I veer off and go to check on William, my handy-dandy relationship-with- Scully insurance policy. He's sleeping soundly, the little fingers on his tiny hands spread in a way that turns me into complete mush. When I finally rediscover my spine and straighten up she's at the door, peering in. I smile and gesture into the crib, whispering, "Hands." She takes a peek and nods. She follows me back out to the sofa. "What's the matter, Mulder?" she asks. "What do you mean?" I ask, automatically. A little flash of annoyance crosses her face and is quickly schooled away. "You seem a little at loose ends," she says delicately. "You know, maybe I'm just not in the mood." "In my experience, if you're not in the mood, you're deathly ill." "Well, I'm not deathly ill." I realize this may ring a little hollow after what I kept from her last year. I watch her face darken and see that she's had the same thought. "I'm not," I insist. "Then I think you're depressed," she says. Oh, that. "Well, no doubt. Sometimes I just have to work through a spell, Scully. You know that." "Maybe you should consider taking advantage of today's pharmacology to help you on your way, Mulder. Maybe you should consider seeing a psychiatrist." The very word makes me shudder internally. "I don't need any more beings of any kind prodding around inside my head." Especially one who could have me committed just for relating the humdrum details of my life. She sighs. She looks worn. Maybe she could use some help, for that matter. It would be classic Scully to project onto me her own depression. Women's hormones are notorious for leaving them high and dry after childbirth, vulnerable to depression and even psychosis. I want to ask her if perhaps she needs help, but realize I am hardly in a position to ask, having dismissed her suggestion so quickly myself. And what if that question opens the floodgates, I think. What if she admits that this thing isn't going well, or that she's disappointed in this kid's bum of a father. I couldn't bear that. So, in a sort of clumsy panic, I rush in with the one major thing I know I have failed to do (not counting the dishes). "Scully, do you want to get married?" It's not really a proposal. More of an opinion poll. Though if she wants to run with it, that's okay with me. She's obviously taken aback. "Married?" She looks at me with confusion and concern. "Do you?" I pause a second, which is probably not a good idea tactically speaking, but I can't help it, not really having thought this out yet. Except that of course I have known the answer to this for so long it doesn't really require much thinking. "Yeah." "Is it possible you're just trying to change the subject here?" she asks. "I think I could find other ways to do that," I say defensively. What's the deal with me, I can see her thinking. "Well?" I ask. "Yeah, I'd like to get married," she says, somewhat heavily. "Good," I say. We stare at each other uncertainly. xxx Mulder leans in and kisses me belatedly, as if it's just occurred to him that a proposal, if that's what that was, really ought to be accompanied by a kiss. So I'm kissing him and thinking -- what the hell? Whatever it is, it feels all wrong. I try to tell myself, look, this is Mulder. He doesn't do things the normal way. And who's to say how these things are supposed to feel? The point is he finally wants to marry you. He pulls back and we look at each other again. "Why now, Mulder?" I ask. "I would think you'd be asking what took me so long," he says. "Okay, what took you so long?" His smile in response is tight and thin. Perhaps Mom's little campaign is finally getting to him. She thinks all will be well with the world if she can just introduce her daughter and grandchild with the conventionally required husband component included, but I know better. A trapped Mulder is a scary prospect. I wouldn't put it past him to gnaw off his own leg to get loose. "Look, Mulder," I tell him. "I decided a long time ago that the only thing I cared about was that you were alive. It would be a bonus if you knew who I was. It would be heaven if we were together. So I don't mind getting married, if you really want to, but it's more than I require." He looks stunned, which is not unusual when I express anything close to my feelings for him. His face reminds me of that time so long ago when I told him I wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but him. He bows his head and fiddles with something on the coffee table for a moment. "I'm glad our love surpasses such mundane boundaries, Scully," he mumbles, "But I also think I could really use your excellent health benefits." I know that's a poor attempt at a joke to defuse the sudden appearance of (gasp!) feelings, but he has a point there. Those COBRA payments are awful, and when they run out, who in his right mind would ever be willing to insure Mulder? "That's very practical of you." He takes that as criticism, though it wasn't meant that way. "I know I should have put more effort into doing this properly," he says. "I'm sorry. I know you deserve better." I scowl. Not for the first time, I reflect that I'm not a big fan of apologetic Mulder. I much prefer cocky headstrong Mulder. Which brings me back to my original concern. "Since health insurance is an issue here, maybe you'd be willing to go for a check-up?" I say. "You really do appear to be quite depressed. I'm worried about you." "You want a trained mechanic to check under the hood before you buy the car?" I refuse to be pushed off topic. "And maybe we need to explore some childcare options," I say. "Maybe, Mulder, you're depressed because you're stuck at home all day playing Mommy and that's not really how you planned to spend your life." "That's a very sexist assumption." "It's a big switch, FBI Agent to Mr. Mom. I'm not sure I'd be too comfortable with it, myself." "I think you'd be happy as a pig in mud," he says. I shrug. God knows it sounds pretty good every morning as I close the door and walk away from them. "If we're married, and the estate finally clears, you'll have enough money to stay home for awhile, Scully." "What about you?" I ask, noticing his ominous use of "you." Besides, he and I have already discussed this. It pays for at least one of us to have access to the resources of the FBI, and God knows he's not going to get it, at least not until the earth reaches up and swallows Alvin Kersh back into the slime pit he climbed out of. "I could look for a job," he says, but he sounds doubtful. I'm getting more and more alarmed here. "I can't escape the suspicion that this is this some bullshit like you're dying but not telling me." "No, nothing like that," he says. "Then what?" He frowns and twists his shirt in his hands. "What if they take me again?" Oh. xxx Back in my days of bachelor bliss I used to enjoy lying in bed listening to the thunderstorms that often roll in after a particularly brutal day of heat and humidity. (That's when I wasn't oblivious because I was lying there obsessing about Samantha or the conspiracy or whether Scully would ever, ever love me.) Nowadays I tend to wake to the flashes of light in a sweat of terror, convinced they've come back for me. "Mulder?" Scully sits up in bed, squinting at me where I'm standing and staring out the window, reassuring myself that all this sound and fury is just an act of nature. "Just watching the storm," I assure her. "Go back to sleep." I don't want her to know how hard my heart is pounding. I think I surprised both of us earlier when I admitted my fear of another abduction. I hadn't really taken that thought out and looked at it before. Unfortunately, although I suppose I might have hoped that putting it into words would make it seem more manageable and more unlikely, that's not how it feels. It didn't help that she took me seriously. But then these days she doesn't downplay any threat easily. "William?" "I'll check on him," I say, and shuffle over to his little alcove. Note to self: when estate clears, get a bigger place. He is lying in the officially sanctioned anti-crib-death sideways position, his fist jammed into his mouth, completely oblivious of the crashing thunder. Reflexively, I put a hand down to check for warmth and breathing. Yep. Still alive. Are all parents as obsessive about this as we are? Not that we don't have extra cause, I think. "He's fine," I whisper back to her. I sometimes wonder how Scully avoided finally going stark raving mad after the terror of this child's birth. When Reyes said we needed to get her to a hospital, she probably had the same fear, because Scully had actually sailed through the delivery and only needed a few stitches where William's big head had demanded an episiotomy that Reyes was in no position to provide. What the hell was Doggett thinking, sending them down there, I still wonder. Perhaps he remembered a town that had still existed in his childhood, populated by salt of the earth humans instead of marauding alien replacements in SUVs? If he weren't such salt of the earth himself I could cheerfully choke him to death for that particular tactical move. So anyway, you'd think if Scully could survive what she went through there -- not to mention the long catalog of her other horrors -- without waking up screaming every night, I could get through the odd thunderstorm without trembling and cold sweats. But I can't. I can't even get up the nerve to jog around the block by myself. It occurred to me a few sleepless nights ago that I'd finally gotten that peg leg I used to think about, only it was in my head, invisible to the rest of the world. So the world is thinking, hey, you're a big healthy guy, you even survived being dead -- what the hell's your problem now? Scully at least seems to understand that I have developed a bad case of Peg Leg Head, though she has stopped nagging me to get help. That's one thing I've always liked about her: she makes her case, and if you're too stupid to do what she says, she just moves on. She doesn't even get huffy. Well, assuming no other women are involved, anyway. I crawl in next to her and she wraps her arms around me. "You're safe, Mulder," she mumbles gently. "Go to sleep." I know she's simply instinctively comforting me, and God knows I want and need it, but I can't help thinking: Scully, don't promise what you can't deliver. xxx I don't tell anybody that Mulder asked me to marry him. Hell, I'm not sure he really did. I figure if he really meant it, he'll bring it up at some point again. And frankly, except for the insurance and my mother, I don't see that it makes much difference. We have a routine already. Assuming Mulder isn't going through a particular bad spell of sleepless nights, on Saturday mornings I get to sleep in while he takes William's first feeding. When I finally shuffle out to the living room, I usually find them both asleep on the sofa. Then we laze around for most of the morning, eating and reading the paper and playing with William, before the reality that we have to get groceries and dry cleaning and all the other errands of life taken care of sinks in and we get moving. So I'm surprised this Saturday when I wake up and find that Mulder is not sleeping, though William is dozing in the portable crib. Mulder is already in sweats and bouncing on his toes. "Going running?" I ask, surprised but pleased by this sign of energy. "Actually, I thought I'd go clean out the apartment and take care of a few things," he says. "Oh," I say, surprised. "Want some help?" "No, I have it all worked out. You know, the guys." Pleased as I am to have a Mulder who's actually functioning, I feel a tinge of worry. God only knows what he'll get up to now. "When will you be home?" He smiles and kisses me. "Soon." Mmm. Good. xxx At the last minute I take pity on Frohike and give him the box of videotapes. His wistful look changes to complete delight and I know I made the right decision. "You're a great guy, Mulder," he says. Byers looks away discreetly, probably to hide his disapproval. Langly peers in and makes his usual snap judgment. "That stuff sucks," he says. "You've got no taste, Langly," Frohike says. "Mulder is a freaking connoisseur." Mulder is a freaking loser, I feel like telling him, but manage to avoid it. There are worse things than a nice hygienic night with a celluloid dream girl, or two, or twenty. Most of the Alexandria life I cared about has already migrated to Georgetown and crammed itself into Scully's once spacious and comfortable apartment. The guys have just helped me stow what was left of my stuff in a small local storage locker. The only things we're still lugging back to Scully's now are an empty aquarium set-up (the last fish gave up the ghost weeks ago) and that ugly Buddha. (I thought I had successfully hidden it under the aquarium, but Scully told me a while ago that she wants it because she associates it with finally getting laid. Go figure.) Oh yeah, and there's the ring in my pocket. It was my mother's engagement ring, and my father's mother's before that. It probably would fall off Scully's thumb it's so big, so I'd have to take it to a jeweler to be resized anyway. Not sure this is what I want to do, however. It's not really an ugly ring, I tell myself. That antique art deco setting might be just the thing Scully likes. Or maybe we could pick out a new setting. But there's also something disturbing about the idea of giving this stone to Scully. She's embraced my family traditions with almost reckless abandon, even suggesting that she named William after my father while appearing to have forgotten her own. But I can't help feeling that giving her this ring might be like passing along the family curse. I mean, what came of my parents' marriage? And my paternal grandmother died young, which is how Dad came to have the ring so early in life. It's not exactly a great tradition of wedded bliss. Frohike is more than willing to hunt for a parking spot while I go into a jeweler's and get a price for the old ring. How about an exchange, I ask the fellow behind the counter. The jeweler puts on the loupe and frowns as he examines the ring. "Not a terribly valuable stone," he says. "The setting is antique, however -- there's a market for those among some collectors." He offers me credit for an amount just a bit smaller than I had expected. "Let me see that loupe," Frohike says, having come in. The jeweler looks disgusted but hands it over. Frohike whistles as he looks at the stone. "You don't want to give this one away, Mulder," he says. "You know much about diamonds, sir?" the jeweler asks condescendingly. "Here's the thing, Mulder," Frohike says. "Most diamonds are sold for far more than they're worth thanks to the magic of marketing and the monopoly control of the DeBeers family. You try to sell them again and you get nothing because you were ripped off in the first place. But there are some stones that truly are remarkable gems, and this is one of them. Don't sell it," he says again. "I'm not sure I really want to hang onto this particular family jewel," I tell him. "My manager might be able to offer you a better price," the jeweler suggests smoothly. "Don't sell it," Frohike insists. "I don't want to give her this one." "I mean it." "But this is for Scully," I explain. "I know just what to do," Frohike says. "Perhaps we could offer you a new setting...." the jeweler suggests. "You just tried to rip me off," I remind him, wishing I had an FBI badge to flash at him. He shuts up and moves away. "New setting, but not here," Frohike says. "They don't do their own work here anyway. I know a place." "Can they do exorcisms while they're at it?" I ask. "Maybe," Frohike says. "I wouldn't put it past her, anyway." xxx He wasn't kidding. I'm reminded of Melissa Scully as we Tibetan-chime our way into a tiny place jammed with prisms, bells, dream catchers, incense, fountains, and lots of other New Age crap. "You sure this isn't actually a head shop?" I ask Frohike. "The woman who runs this place is an incredibly gifted jeweler," he says. "And I'm not just saying that because she's my sister." Oh jeez. I give him all my porn tapes and this is how he rewards me? "Frohike, I don't think..." "You must be Mulder," a woman says, coming out from a back room. She's more attractive than her brother, although she's got the same rather squat shape and she looks a few years older. Her hair is streaked with silver and hangs to what would be her waist if her politically correct Peruvian earth mother dress had one. "Mulder, this is my sister, Demelza," Frohike says formally. "Demelza?" "Don't ask," Demelza says. "Melvin tells me you have a very special diamond. I don't get to work with those very often." "Yeah, well, it's kind of hard to tell you even do jewelry," I say, gesturing at all the funky merchandise. "Oh, I don't like to advertise that part of the business. Word of mouth only. Keeps me from getting too busy. Keeps the armed assaults down too. May I see the stone?" I reluctantly pull it out and hand it over. She takes it back to her counter and pulls out a loupe, looking at it carefully. "What do you think?" Frohike asks. "Very clear, blue tone, completely flawless - a beautiful stone," she says. "I'm not a huge fan of diamonds, personally, but this one is remarkable. But Melvin tells me you think it has bad karma." "Let's just say I don't associate it with peace, happiness and long life." "If I told you this stone is worth over $20,000, would you still think it's bad news?" Good God, that much? But then there's the inescapable reality of my parent's marriage. "Yeah, I think so." She sighs. "Then you'd better sell it, give half of the proceeds to the poor, and buy a different one." "For Christ's sake!" Frohike says. "Can't you just give it some sort of feng shui treatment or something?" Demelza shrugs. "He thinks it's bad -- that's what matters," she says. "And who knows, maybe it is." "At least show Scully first," Frohike says. "Maybe she'd love it." "Scully is determined to love everything from the Mulder family, no matter how bad it is," I tell him. Just look at me. "Look. How about you bring her here," Demelza says. "I'll show her a tray of rings, and we'll put yours on it. If she chooses it, you'll know it's just the way things are supposed to be." I'm not sure I like that idea. Escaping destiny is more what I had in mind. xxx When Mulder comes home he looks tense, even more than you would expect from trying to lug an aquarium, a Buddha and a bag of Thai food up two flights of stairs. "Well, I'm all yours," he says. "No more 42 Hegel Place to run to if you kick me out." "I'm not planning to kick you out." "That's what they all say." I hand William over. When in his contented post- feeding, already-burped stupor he's the ideal tranquilizer for Mulder. "Sit down with the kid," I say. "I'll get dinner." "Slaved over it all day?" he asks ironically, as I lift the Thai food bag out of its nest in the dried out aquarium gravel. "Well, it did take me awhile to excavate the dishes we're going to eat on out of the bottom layer of the sink," I tell him. "A woman's work is never done," he smirks, completely unrepentent. I bring out the dishes and set them on our favorite eating spot, the coffee table. Mulder stows William in the portable crib and when no squawk of protest arises I say a silent prayer of thanks for the rare opportunity for both of us to sit together and eat our noodles in peace. "You were gone a long time," I say. "Did you know Melvin Frohike has a sister named Demelza?" "I didn't even know he had a sister." "She does jewelry. I'd like you to come look at her stuff tomorrow." I pause in the middle of a mouthful and look askance. As Mulder must know, I'm not exactly a jewelry maven. "We need a ring," he says. I raise my eyebrows at him. He smiles uncomfortably. So he actually means it. I think: This would be a much nicer moment if he didn't look so anxious. xxx Scully doesn't have much to say as we make our way to the tucked away street in Adams Morgan where Demelza has her shop. Now that I think of it, the neighborhood is a bit upscale for her kind of place, so maybe the jewelry actually does make her some income. Maggie is home with William and this is the first time we're both away from him, so that could be why Scully is so quiet. Or it could be her reaction to my tense silence, I suppose. I'm still trying to decide whether I want her to pick my ring. Part of me believes that if Scully chooses some other ring, it will somehow increase our chances of escaping fate's notice and being allowed to share something like a normal life together. If she chooses the Mulder ring, that just suggests all the more the inevitability of some future tangle with alien colonizers, government baddies, William-nappers, divorce court, dreaded chip complications, or some other horror. On the other hand, there's a part of me that will be disappointed if she doesn't choose the Mulder ring. Embrace all the trauma that is the Mulder family, Scully! Prove that you are worthy of suffering and heartache! Take all of me -- all the bad luck, all the dysfunction! Sort of like the princess and the pea -- only if the princess feels the pea, she's screwed. Demelza asked us to come early in the evening, so I knock on the front door, which says CLOSED. When she lets us in, I'm a little surprised to find she's dressed elegantly in a black suit dress with a striking gold necklace and earrings. "You dress differently to sell jewelry?" I ask. "I dress differently when I'm going to the opera," she says. "Let me show you the rings and you can see what you think." She gestures Scully back to where she has laid a couple of trays on the counter. "These are beautiful," Scully says. "You made all of them?" "Most of them," she says. "I also sell the work of other local artisans, and there are some antique pieces in there too. We can adjust any of these to your size as needed, of course." My ring has been nestled in among a group of older rings, on the more traditional tray of diamond rings. The other tray features rings made with other gems and pearls, as well as a few rings that are just gold and silver and other metals, all beautifully and originally formed. Demelza chats comfortably while Scully looks. "Did you know that the tradition of the diamond engagement ring was the result of a sophisticated advertising campaign to create a market for diamonds?" she asks. "The ad agency even came up with the rule of thumb that a man should spend the equivalent of a month's salary. Though nowadays I think they like to claim you should spend two month's salary." "I had heard that, actually," Scully murmurs. "I can't complain, mind you," said Demelza. "As a direct beneficiary of the marketing mystique. But if you don't want to feel bound by a construct of 20th century marketing, you might consider rings that are not just diamonds." "Mmm," Scully says, absorbed. She picks up a simple ring, but puts it down without trying it on. "Which do you like, Scully?" I ask, sensing that she's not really engaged. She looks up. "You know, I don't really need a ring, Mulder," she says. "Why don't we just put it into COBRA?" Demelza's eyes widen. Either she had assumed we were rolling in money or she's never had a woman turn down an engagement ring before. "None of these rings would endanger my COBRA payments, Scully," I reassure her. "I already checked that out." "How about just a wedding band, then?" she asks. She looks apologetically at Demelza. "I'm not really into jewelry," she explains. "I want to give you an engagement ring," I insist, surprising myself. I am, after all, the guy who gave her a key chain for her birthday not all that long ago. Demelza gives me a sharp look and says, "I'm going to go take care of a little business in the back room. You two take your time here." As soon as she leaves, Scully mutters, "Mulder, I don't need a ring. We're far beyond the point of being engaged in that kind of way, and we've got so many other more important things to worry about. Let's go home." Her look is imploring. I sigh. Time to confess. "Actually, I already had a ring for you, Scully. But then I wasn't sure I should give it to you, because it was my mother's and my grandmother's and frankly it's not exactly a heartwarming family tradition we have going there. But the great thing is that it turns out that old ring is worth enough that you can have any ring you want here. So we can make a fresh start." She looks me in the eye and decides that I mean what I say, then turns to the trays with a more serious air. She lifts one and then another. The third ring she picks up is mine, and I hold my breath. She puts it back down and tries another. Then she comes back to mine and examines it carefully. "Was it this one?" she asks in a low voice. Bingo. I nod. "Didn't you love your mother, Mulder?" "Yes, of course I did," I say, surprised to find myself suddenly choking back emotion. "We can't escape who we are," Scully says. "Or where we came from." "Or where we're going?" I ask. "I want this one," she says. Or where we're going. THE END Feedback me, positive or negative: Alelou123@aol.com While this is not an official retirement notice or anything, I did want to take this opportunity to say thanks for reading, thanks especially to those who have sent feedback, thanks to those who've posted their own wonderful stories, and thanks for being so much fun. I've had a ball. Peace!