The warmth of a roaring fire, the crystal glint of icicles, the play of gaily flashing lights on glass and greenery -- such were the sights of a festive season. What spoiled it all were the biting blast of wind-blown spray from the firehoses and the shriek of sirens as more police and fire equipment arrived on the scene. He knew from the way her lacquered nails tapped out a staccato "Jingle Bells" in 3/4 time on the hood of the Sheriff's car that she would issue a pronouncement eventually. Sure enough, she did.

"Mulder, this is the first time one of your motel selections has had the decency to burn down *before* we checked in."

Scully watched as the motel's now superfluous neon sign flickered in the whipping monsoon of the firehoses. The lower loop of the B flared, then faded, while the A died in a shower of sparks. The formerly luminous "Big Stay" proclaimed itself, appropriately but too late, Scully thought, as "Pig St y."

The screen door of the main street bar banged open, and a bushy-faced, potbellied giant weaved forward into the road to view the inferno, whisky glass in hand. "T'ye, me Pet!" he roared, knocking back the contents of the glass in a single gulp. The singular act of defiance caught the attention of the Sheriff, who broke away from the fire command group and trotted over to gently but firmly steer the inebriated hulk back into the bar. Noticing the two strangers leaning against his car, the Sheriff headed their way.

"Folks, you don't have to stay out here. Ed has plenty of space inside the bar, and you won't get soaking wet." His comments were casual, unpressured, friendly.

Mulder shrugged. They'd passed 'soggy' half an hour ago. He fished out his badge and handed it to the Sheriff. "This is my partner, Agent Scully," Mulder added, tipping his head in Scully's direction. She gave the Sheriff a pained nod and a half-hearted wave of her hand. Sheriff Sel handed back Mulder's badge, a thousand questions on his face.

The fire was at last partially under control, thanks to the assistance of two more fire companies from neighboring counties. Mulder watched as reserve hose was unrolled and snaked around for additional coverage at the back of the motel.

"Sheriff, is there another motel nearby? There appear to be no rooms at this inn."

Sel tipped his hat back. "Things must be pretty bad in Washington if the government has you staying in places fit for neither man nor beast. Pardon my French, but what moron got you reservations here?"

Never taking her eyes from the fire scene, Scully pointed wordlessly at Mulder.

"The Inquisitive Souls' 1978 Motel-Hotel Guide recommended it," Mulder muttered. "Clean rooms and tales of hauntings in the Old Country," he added by way of justification.

Sel nodded sagely. "Ah, well, in 1978 it was a nice homey place. Ham -- the owner, Hamilton Big -- he was born and bred in Wales. Came here with his new bride, a tiny Japanese woman named Petunia. He called her his 'Little Flower.' An unlikely match you'd think, looking at them, but they were really in love. She passed away in '79, complications from a bad bout of pneumonia. Poor Ham never got over losing her. He just let the place go after that."

The Sheriff gazed at the fire for a while.

"Before you ask, yes, that was Ham a few moments ago, raising a glass in Petunia's memory. And no, he didn't set the fire. The wiring was bad and the insulation was shot to hell. Going on twenty years and no maintenance to speak of, well, time takes its toll. It was only a matter of time before the place fell down or went up in flames."

The Sheriff shook his head sadly. "Agents, you're way out in the country. This late at night, frankly, it just isn't safe to drive these roads in weather like this, especially with snow on the way." As if to prove his point, scattered flakes were visible, dancing in the beams of the fire truck headlights. "We've got room at our house. I'd be pleased if you'd stay overnight with us. Now don't say no, I'll never hear the end of it otherwise."

Before Scully could refuse, Sel loped off to the bar's entrance and bellowed a name. After a second try to make himself heard over the din, a plain-faced woman came to the door, traded a few words with Sel, then untied her apron and flung it back into the murky depths of the bar. Waves of hearty laughter swept her through the screen door and into Sel's arms. They walked over, hand in hand, to the Agents.

"Agents, this is my wife, Margret Telle. Gret, this is Agent Mulder and that's Agent Scully. Believe it or not, they had reservations at The Big Stay."

"Han, you don't expect me to swallow that one, do you?" Gret shook her finger at her husband. "Here you are, spinning me a fairy tale, and these poor people are wet clean through!"

Mulder's mouth was hanging open slightly. Scully was having trouble fighting down an incipient giggle.

"Wait...you're -- " Scully blinked several times, "Han Sel and Gret Telle?"

Gret misinterpreted the Agents' expressions as ones of half-frozen fatigue. "Han, I'm gonna take these folks home before they catch their death. Would you tell Ed that he can waitress for me for the rest of the evening? That crowd's had so much to drink they'll never notice Ed's chicken legs."

Mulder surrendered their rental car's keys to Gret, who rolled down the driver's side window for a goodbye peck on the cheek from Sel.

"Drive safely, Gret. Another two hours and then I'll come on home."

Sel looked into the back seat, and nodded to the Agents. He brushed aside their thanks.

"You're quite welcome. Don't wait up, just get some rest and we'll sort things out tomorrow. And by the way," Sheriff Han Sel added, "Welcome to Rapture, Tennessee."

---

OK, now Mulder had proof positive -- driving in DC did *not* prepare you for the labyrinthine backroads of the Tennessee hill country. Gret took the gently accumulating sleet and the winding road in stride, navigating through the wooded darkness without hesitation. Upon reflection, Mulder decided that letting Gret drive had indeed been the manly thing to do, since dwellings were few and far between out here and -- 

"There's no way you would have stopped to ask for directions." Scully smiled, amused by his shocked realization that she'd divined his thoughts.

"There'd be no need to stop, Scully," Mulder shot back. "I'd just follow those breadcrumbs out there." He pointed out the window on her side and grinned as she turned to look.

The sleet-turned-snow had glazed the ground white and icy, and at the next turn the car fishtailed just a little in an easy and careless way. The trees closed in on either side, framing the driveway, and then they were through, churning the snow up to the rambling farmhouse.

The front door led directly into a family room with an old stone hearth. Scully could only sigh at the sight of a huge Blue Spruce Christmas tree betinselled and laden with blown glass ornaments and ribbon bows. A gray tabby eyed them disinterestedly from the back of an upholstered armchair. Gret swept in with their luggage and hustled them through the house and along an open breezeway which connected to an outer building that served as the farmhouse's "guest room." A storage shed or bunkhouse in its former life, within it was cozy in dimensions and warm with spirit. The temperature was definitely chilly, and Gret pointed at a pile of blankets on a cedar chest under the window before turning her attention to a wood-burning stove in the corner.

"We've got one of those hot-on-demand water heaters for the bath," she explained while arranging the wood within the stove. "But it gets mighty cold out here in the winter months and without this little beauty your breath would be fluffy and an inch deep in here tomorrow morning."

Gret could not help but notice the reluctance of her guests to come close to warm themselves before the burning logs crackling and popping within the stove.

"Seen enough roaring fires for one night, yes? Well, not to worry -- this stove was properly installed and is regularly checked by my brother. He's the Fire Marshal here in Rapture," she added proudly as she headed into the bathroom.

"Do tell," Scully called out encouragingly, shivering her way deeper into a brown wool blanket.

"Oh, you met him this evening, then." Gret's voice echoed from the confines of the bathroom.

Scully traded confused glances with Mulder. "Pardon?"

"My brother, "Dew" Telle. Actually, his first name is Duane, but he works the hoses so much that his glasses have always this fine mist on them -- " Gret said, as she emerged from the bathroom, arms full of towels.

Agent Mulder was sitting on the end of the bed, his hand clasped over the mouth of a blanket-covered and decidedly noisy Agent Scully. Mulder noticed Gret standing in the bathroom doorway.

"Oh. She -- she -- she really hates it when her hair is wet," Mulder stammered.

He took his hand from over Scully's mouth and made an exaggerated show of towel-drying her hair with the blanket. A now unmuffled Scully emerged from the folds of the blanket, slapping Mulder's hands away and self-consciously trying to rake her hair into presentable shape. Her smile was a bit embarrassed and more than a little guilty.

Gret made indulgent understanding noises as she gave them each a towel. "I should have given you these first thing. Well, you two get changed into dry clothes and I'll bring you some soup and tea. Having a full tummy will warm you right up." With a final motherly smile, Gret hurried off to fix their snack.

They sat side by side on the end of the bed, the towels on their laps, counting the knots in the hardwood flooring as Gret left.

The door closed solidly behind her. The wind rattled the tree branches outside.

"Han Sel," Scully whispered softly.

"Gret Telle," Mulder murmured.

Their gazes met.

"'Dew' Telle."

They'd said it in straight-faced unison, but after three seconds Scully was lost. She burst out laughing, only to have Mulder try once again to stifle her outburst by clamping his hand over her mouth. She shoved him off the bed, whereupon Mulder got even by sweeping her feet forward and pulling her down beside him.

"This is your best one yet, Mulder," Scully managed through her tears.

"Oh, really, Dr. Scully? Pray tell -- "

Scully collapsed in another fit of giggles. Mulder put on his best innocent face.

"What? What did I say?"

Scully's towel smacked him square in the face.

"OK, *Mister* Smartass, just for that, *I* get the bathroom first." Scully extricated herself from the blanket, then grabbed back her towel. She retrieved her bag from beside the door and headed into the bathroom, then paused thoughtfully.

"You know, Mulder, not to sound ungrateful, but I'm underwhelmed by the accommodations. It's clean and warm, true, but it's only a little guest room out behind a farmhouse. Look at it: yellowed pine with mismatched furniture, dyed army blankets, and patched throwcovers. I suppose I'm surprised at how modest it is, given that Gret comes from money and all."

"When did you find that out, Scully? I didn't hear Gret mention -- "

"She didn't have to, Mulder." Scully's eyes held an impish twinkle. "Surely you've heard of Gret's father, the high-tech magnate.... Wynn Telle?"

She ducked into the bathroom and slammed the door a second before Mulder's towel hit the other side. Mulder pounded on the door and liberally seasoned his shouting with faux outrage for that special personal touch.

"Scully! Come out here right now! You'll pay for that, woman!" Laughter erupted anew from inside.

Mulder leaned against the door and smiled. Listening to the peals of Scully's delighted laughter made him feel warmer than the wood stove could ever manage. Welcome indeed to Rapture.

---

By the time Mulder emerged from the bathroom Gret had come and gone again. Scully was enthroned on one of the cavernous loungers, her legs crossed Indian-style. Judging from the blissful look on Scully's face, whatever had been in the empty bowl she cradled in her hand had been very, very tasty. She licked the film of broth off her spoon, then eyed his full soup bowl covetously.

"You gonna to eat all that, Mulder?"

He sat down opposite her, noticing that his 'throne' had at least one rebellious spring in the seat. As Mulder started in on his soup, Scully assuaged her remaining hunger with another slice of bread and butter, then turned her attention back to the case file she had open on her lap. On the last page her fingertips sought another bread slice, only to have her nail tips skitter over an empty ceramic plate. Scully looked at the plate, then at her partner.

Mulder, caught full-mouthed and red-handed, offered a round-eyed abject apology. He passed her a small mug of freshly poured tea as a consolation prize.

She sipped at the tea, her eyes closed.

"Any new conclusions?"

Scully shook her head. "No sudden insights, no." She snuggled back in the chair and flipped the pages over one by one back to the beginning. "John Waitsfield, 47, 6' 3", Caucasian, brown hair, green eyes. Single at the moment. One of the Internet nouveau riche, he made his fortune building a distribution network infrastructure for Internet sales. Type A personality, driven, a perfectionist."

Mulder nodded and helped himself to some tea.

Scully turned several pages forward. "Apparently he was diagnosed three months ago with a rare neural degeneration disorder." She frowned, skimming the next two pages then returning to the medical report. "His neurologist suggested additional testing and consultations with specialists, but Waitsfield refused, citing his belief that only an immediate search for a cure would save him. There's an analyst's report here somewhere...'Waitsfield rejects any result short of perfection. He prefers to believe his medical condition is fatal so that the obligatory search for a cure attains the status of a quest for perfection. Waitsfield is not interested in half-measures or alterations of his lifestyle to accommodate a progressive disease. Moreover, he feels 'entitled' to a cure or complete remediation by virtue of his business accomplishments and has no compunction about using his influence or financial assets to achieve his goals.'" The words painted a stark and ugly picture in her mind.

"This profile of Waitsfield, is it yours?" Scully tapped the topmost sheet.

"No, but I'd say it's dead-on. Waitsfield is a compulsive SOB who's determined to be 'right' and who has an comical sense of 'droit du seigneur' when it comes to screwing over everyone else."

A thought pulled Scully up short. "He's not the UNSUB, Mulder. Why was a profile done on Waitsfield?"

"Ah, Scully, that's a good question. Keep going."

Half a dozen choice retorts came to mind, but Scully thought better of them. "It says here that a month ago Waitsfield checked into the Mount Solace Sanitarium in Rapture, Tennessee. He procured the name of the sanitarium from the friend of a friend of a friend, who described it as a place where wholly miraculous cures for fatal ailments could be purchased. After a two-week stay, Waitsfield left and hightailed it to DC where he demanded an investigation into the Mount Solace facility because, and I quote from his statement, 'they are covering up medical advances and withholding them from people who can pay.'"

"So, Scully, why should the FBI care about a hypochondriac high-tech millionaire whose tender sensibilities were hurt when someone wouldn't trot out the miracle cure he deserved?"

Scully gestured expansively. "Mulder, I have no idea. Assuming Waitsfield's testimony were absolutely credible we'd be talking about medical malpractice and fraud. Given his profile -- "

Mulder nodded. "Yes, his profile. Waitsfield made his money when he sold his Internet sales business -- lock, stock, and T3 connection -- to another company...a company primarily known for operating system software and preemptive strike acquisitions...a company whose name begins with "M" and in which the Justice Department has taken a keen interest."

Scully stared at him, the direction of Mulder's explanation becoming clear. "So he sold his company to Bill Gates and now the Justice Department wants him to testify against Microsoft. And they asked the Bureau to do a profile on Waitsfield...to judge his reliability as a witness? I still don't see -- "

" -- what it all has to do with the X-Files? It doesn't."

She'd have thrown the mug at him if the tea wasn't so soothing.

Mulder continued, unaware of his narrow escape. "Waitsfield was so incensed by Mount Solace's refusal to fork over a cure that he decided to get some proof against the sanitarium. He managed to find someone there who, for a considerable sum, photocopied the admission and discharge list for Mount Solace during the time of his stay."

Mulder's briefcase was still parked next to the side of his lounger, and he fished out several sheets of fax paper stapled at the top corner and handed the curling mess across to Scully.

"You'll see the preliminary diagnosis next to the patient's name for each admission, and their condition at the time of discharge." Mulder paused, not wanting to spell out the implications. "Mount Solace functions primarily as a hospice, Scully. They label themselves as a 'sanitarium' to comfort the patients and relatives. Mount Solace does not officially offer anything except a more comfortable environment in which to...die. But their terminal patients on these lists *aren't* dying."

Scully perused the lists. Cancer, myolytic degeneracy, atrophisms and biochemical deficiencies, renal failure, tissue rejection, but -- she flipped forward to the releases -- only two deaths out of 127 patients. She gasped at four highlighted lines on the admissions list. The four lines were identical, save for the patients' names.

<< Diagnosis: Naso-pharyngeal cancer, advanced, inoperable. >>

All four patients had subsequently been released, with the notation

<< Stable, possible remission. >>

The papers rustled like dry leaves in her trembling hands, and her voice cracked when she tried to speak.

"And you think that...those patients now have chips...like mine?"

His eyes met hers reluctantly.

"I don't know what to think, Scully. It could be an indication of Consortium involvement...or another Jeremiah Smith could be at work. One thing I *do* know is that the original patient list has disappeared from Waitsfield's file in DC. Waiting until after Christmas would have given whoever is responsible for this time enough for a coverup."

Mulder was right, of course. Scully acknowledged that with an gentle tilt of her head. He'd arrived at her apartment this morning -- wait, yesterday morning now -- with two plane tickets to Huntsville, Alabama, only to grab a Tennessee roadmap at the Enterprise rental counter in Huntsville and peel out of the rental car lot heading north. Mulder had finally surrendered the case file to her at a rest stop just past Cookeville and they'd continued the trip in moody and resentful silence.

"So, your story about Space Camp trainees seeing the ghosts of dead astronauts was a crock? I'm disappointed, Mulder. You had me going with that one."

Some of his "Gloomy Gus" demeanor evaporated. "Actually, that's a long-standing hoax. I've met the guy behind it -- he explained that it's his way of reminding the campers of the lives sacrificed in the name of space exploration. A few mirrors, a little smoke, and some well-aimed laser lights, and presto! -- haunting holograms."

Mulder's grin faded a bit. "Would it help if I said that I'm sorry?"

Scully drained the last of her tea, and held out her mug for a refill.

"Gret wants us to stay. She says it would really 'make' Christmas for her, having guests with whom to share the holiday."

Scully pointed at the chest of drawers across the room. Next to her recharging laptop was an additional gift from Gret: a diminutive Christmas tree decorated with wrapped peppermints and chocolate kisses. Scully caught Mulder eyeing the candy.

"Sit, Mulder." He was already halfway out of his seat, and sank back guiltily at her command. "You may not eat the tree."

"You haven't forgiven me." Mulder could sound utterly pathetic when he tried.

"Mulder, if I hadn't forgiven you I wouldn't be willing to share these." Scully closed the case file folder, and tossed it on the bed. On her lap was a plastic-wrapped plate of gingerbread cookies. She lifted a corner of the plastic and breathed in the heady sweet smell.

"Please, Scully. Please, please, please. Just three -- okay, just two. Please. I'll be good, I promise!"

It was hard not to laugh, having Mulder on his knees in front of her chair, trying to grab the plate from her hands while repeating his begging litany. She kept the plate out of his reach, holding it by the edges high over her head. When he finally sat back on his heels, Scully lowered the plate to her lap, slapped his hands away reprovingly and, in a thoroughly regal manner, bestowed three gingerbread cookies upon her trusty partner.

Mulder's mouth was full of gingerbread man when Scully spoke.

"I trust you won't hog the bed tonight."

He choked on the mouthful of cookie. He managed to sputter "Wha'?" without spitting gingerbread everywhere.

Scully blinked several times. "Mulder, it's reassuring to know that chivalry isn't dead, but it could damn well freeze to death camping on the floor tonight. Or maybe you don't want to sleep with me, is that it?"

Mulder was flabbergasted yet adorable, like a stoned guppy. He made short work of the remaining cookies, then tended to the wood stove and finished up in the bathroom in record time, waving Scully in for her turn. When Scully opened the bathroom door, she found the room lights dimmed and Mulder in his PJs sitting on the left side of the bed.

Scully could have sworn Mulder was bouncing, ever so slightly.

The surprise came when they both lay down -- and rolled 'downhill' into each other in the middle of the bed.

"Umm," Mulder said, brushing Scully's hair out of his face, "I think this is one of those 'deep valley' beds Garrison Keillor was always talking about on 'Prairie Home Companion'."

"I rather liked that show," Scully mumbled into Mulder-flannel. She shifted just a little so that her cheekbone wouldn't bear the brand of his breast pocket button. "It was all about family."

"You should spend Christmas with *your* family," Mulder sighed, and Scully could feel and hear the rumble of his words. She tilted her head up, just enough to see his eyes. Scully placed a tiny kiss on her finger, and brushed it upon his lips.

"Mulder, I *am* with my family for Christmas."

The tension left his body, and his arms drew her closer. The soft hiss of the burning wood and the flickering light of the flames lulled them, so much that their voices were drowsy with sleep.

"I wonder if it's snowing sleeping bags out there, Scully."

She snuggled her head into his chest.

"Well, if you've been a good boy, Mulder, maybe Santa will bring you one."

"And if I've been a bad boy?"

Her sigh was laced with a giggle.

"Then, Mulder, maybe he'll bring you *two*."

And if he does, Scully thought as she fell asleep, there will be one more reason this town is called Rapture.