Title: Faith, Hope, and Charity
Author: Mary Parker
Rating: PG, I suppose
Spoilers: post-"The Truth"
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine.  Chris Carter's, Fox's,
1013's.  No profit for me.
Summary: After the cuddling, Scully thinks about the life that
is her lot.

Maybe there's hope. Since he said it, I can 
almost believe, as if his voicing it redeems 
my thought. It's easy to find in the shadows on 
his face tucked close to mine, the flutter of 
his lashes as he dreams. His head is heavy in 
my arms like the weight of our son was. Maybe 
there's hope in his apparent forgiveness, his 
consecration of my unforgiveable sin. After 
slipping out of so many inescapable situations, 
I wondered if he could understand the choice I 
made; he seems more at peace than I am, but the 
greater part of his repose might be exhaustion.

We are both lost in our failures tonight. He 
dreams of imminent destruction and I lie awake 
and contemplate my inability to succeed at the 
long-cherished task of motherhood. Two children 
lost to the machinery of conspiracy, and I am 
not broken so much as discarded, like a 
crumpled tissue. They used me for their 
purposes and I went willingly, seeking the 
selfish joy of seeing flesh-of-my-flesh 
breathing in a cradle next to the bed, a 
manifestation of my dream of a normal life. 
Did I love them? Tenderly, consumingly, but in 
the end I regarded them as evidence. Science by 
long reflex triumped over maternal instincts, 
and I wonder that a heart of flesh could endure 
such objectivity.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I am guilty 
of the basest treason: I betrayed my children 
for love of their father. No, not my husband, 
and not entirely their father, but the man who 
would have raised them with me, who would have 
been a parent to them. My daughter was created 
in a laboratory, away from my knowledge, and I 
could not save her from the fate they chose for 
her. For what then am I a doctor? I do not save 
lives; I analyze deaths that criminals may be 
caught and mysteries unraveled. 

My son was created in a way I do not fully 
understand. I thought he was a miracle, blessed 
fruit of a barren womb, but I could not protect 
him from his creators. It felt like treachery. 
He was their child, product of a twisted 
science rather than a union of love, but I did 
not have the strength to consider what he was. 
I insisted that my prayers had been answered. 
I cared for him, loved him for his sake and 
his father's, and tried to be content, but how 
can you be at peace when your child isn't human? 

But then a true miracle came in the form of a 
despicable, manipulative man, and my child was 
healed. And then I gave him away. No matter that 
I brought the joys I expected to find in my 
family to another barren couple and guaranteed 
the safety of my son to the best of my ability. 
There are not enough "Hail Marys" to absolve me: 
I failed my children, blood-of-my-blood. I 
failed my hopes.

Hope. Always it comes back to that. There have 
been times when love and faith were in question, 
but always the poster on the wall of our office 
reminded us of hope: "I want to believe." Such 
unceasing optimism in the face of our despair.

I stroke Mulder's hair. My heart still catches 
at the familiar silky texture under my fingers, 
the moist puffs of his breath on my exposed 
throat. I soak him in, parched as the desert 
around us and beginning to blossom the longer 
I'm near him. I know when he awakes we'll kiss, 
caress, make love, trying to compensate for 
ten years mostly empty of physical reminders of 
the love that I abandoned my dreams for. 

We have bought enough time for a little leisure, 
I think. And then to the post office, for the 
passports and money Skinner promised to send, 
and reassurances from John and Monica that 
they'll care for Gibson until we return. Perhaps 
I'll end up with a son after all, no stranger 
than the one I bore. And then away for a while. 
Go, everyone urged me when we managed to find a 
phone and call. Go and sort things out. You 
deserve a vacation. The only problem is that 
we've been on the run so long I'm not sure 
we'll know what to do with free time. Least of 
all together. We're not very practiced at 
couples' things yet, or lovers' things.

Back to the beginning. I can feel Mulder's hand 
on my bare back where the fabric of my shirt has 
pulled up; his fingers graze my tattoo. Come 
full circle to find the truth. It's been years 
since I considered that prophecy, but here we 
are, in a way. The Syndicate dismantled, the 
conspiracy revealed, the truth exposed, but as 
nebulous as it ever was, and the two of us as 
powerless and naive as we were on our first 
case, in a motel room in Oregon on a rainy night 
like this one. 

Mulder mumbles in his sleep and I catch my name 
and a vague plea for forgiveness. I want to wake 
him and tell him I'm sorry too, but I let him 
sleep. Being in each other's arms is more of a 
semblance of peace than either of us have had 
for a long time. Close as we are, intimacy 
escapes us at times; I still need to frame my 
words to him. I am not sure what to say, or how 
long I will have to say it before the scent of 
his skin next to mine becomes an irresistible 
aphrodesiac. My hands would stray over him now if 
I did not know his need for rest, and my own.

Faith, hope, and charity, and the greatest of 
these, for us, has yet to be seen. This time, 
we begin with hope, and pray it will serve us 
as well as faith has.