From: polly122456@yahoo.com   
      
   *NO ARCHIVE*   
      
   Title:  Believing in Miracles   
   Author: 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   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)