Title: Successful Spies Apparently Don't Have Baby Sisters
Author: aka "Jake"
Rating: G
Classification: Pre-XF
Spoilers: None 

Summary: Christmas Eve, 1972

Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter, 
FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement 
intended. Fun, yes. Profit, no.

Authors Notes: This story was written in response to Haven's 
155 Words "Dear Santa" challenge, although it's actually 501 
words. Oops. 

Successful Spies Apparently Don't Have Baby Sisters
By aka "Jake" 

MULDER RESIDENCE
CHRISTMAS EVE, 1972

"Fox, help me. Pleeeeease?" The Pest's voice grated like 
fingernails on a chalkboard. Couldn't she see he was in the 
middle of something important?

"I'm busy, butt-munch." He hunkered beneath the Christmas 
stockings and carefully taped a length of his mom's sewing 
thread across the chimney flue.

"Wha'cha doin'?"

"Gathering evidence."

"What evidence?"

"Sam..." It was 7:30. He didn't have time to answer a bunch of 
silly questions. "Don't bother me."

"But I need help!"

Pretend she isn't there, he said to himself. Maybe she'll go 
away.

"Fox? Fox, please? FOX!" she shouted directly into his ear.

He glared at her. "*Help* *with* *what*?"

She held out a tablet of yellow lined paper and a fat pencil. 
"A letter to Santa."

"You know how to write." For chrissake, she was in the second 
grade.

"I can't spell all the words."

"So sound 'em out." He began to sprinkle a thin layer of wood 
ash in front of the hearth, intending to capture Santa's fresh 
footprints as the Jolly Old Elf stepped from the fireplace to 
the Christmas tree. 

"Fox, pleeeeease?"

"Forget it, Sam. Santa's not bringing you anything anyway."

She looked stricken. "Why not?"

"Because you haven't been good."

"I have so!"

"Oh yeah? Who broke my telescope?"

Her eyes filled with tears. "I said I was sorry, Fox," she 
reminded him, her voice quavering. 

It was true; she had apologized -- several times. She even 
offered to give him her favorite doll, hoping to make up for 
it. "Okay, I'll help you," he conceded, "but only with the 
words you reeeally don't know. Do the rest yourself."

Satisfied, she climbed into their father's favorite chair, 
tucked her legs under her and began to write. He returned his 
attention to his espionage, ignoring the scritch-scratch of her 
pencil and the snuffle of her runny nose.

Several minutes passed while he inspected his camera -- a Kodak 
instamatic he'd bought with his own allowance. He double-
checked the film cartridge, which was loaded and set to take 
the roll's first picture. A brand new flashbulb was securely 
attached to the top of the camera. All was going according to 
plan. He just needed to figure out a way to trigger the shutter 
with some sort of trip cord--    

"How do you spell telescope?" Sam asked.

Guilt heated his face. She was writing to Santa on his behalf. 
Why did she have to pick right now to be nice?

He rose from the floor to stand in front of her, abandoning his 
annual quest to catch St. Nick in the act. The opportunity 
would present itself again anyway -- it always did. He wiped 
his ash-covered hands on his pants. "Shove over."

She slid to one side of the chair, grinning up at him. He gave 
her braid a yank before settling next to her. It was a tight 
fit, but she looked pleased as punch -- not at all like a pest. 

He reached for her letter. "Sooo...what are we looking at 
here?" 

THE END