TITLE: Faith and Little Green Men 
AUTHOR: aRcaDIaNFall$ 
FEEDBACK: arcadianfalls@yahoo.com.au 
RATING: PG 
SPOILERS: Orison. 
CLASSIFICATION: SRA 
DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer and Xemplary are fine, anywhere else please
check with me first. 
SUMMARY: Yes, it's *another* post-Orison. Following on from the last
scene. Mulder offers Scully a chance to talk and she throws him a few
questions that find him searching deep in his soul. 
AUTHORS NOTE: Warning - this has some pretty deep religious discussions
so any obssessive athiests not planning on conversion in the near
future might want to steer clear. 
  

Faith and Little Green Men 
by aRcaDIaNFall$ 
  

"You mean, if it was God?" 

"I mean, what if it wasn't?" She stared at me, her eyes dull with guilt
and confusion. 

I couldn't answer that one. I felt a tugging at my heart as she dropped
her head with a sigh, gazing at her fingernails. I reached out to lay
my hand over hers as she wrung them but she flinched, letting out a
small gasp which fell into a sob. 

"Sorry," she mumbled, turning her head away. 

"Don't be." I stood, allowing her some space. I understood. 

She stood shakily, drawing up the rug and pulling it around her
shoulders like as shawl, like earlier. 

"Cold?" I asked quietly. 

She shook her head slightly as she headed toward the bureau. "No." 

I bit my lip, wondering where all these stupid comments were coming
from. Scully was dumping piles of clothes on the bed. Big piles. I
wondered how long she was planning to stay away. Whether she was
planning on coming back here. I knew that her heart was stained with
guilt just as badly as her floor was stained with Pfaster's blood. It
would be a long time until the emotional stains began to fade. 

My eyes wandered over the mess of broken glass and shattered objects on
the floor, trying not to shudder at the scattering of drops of blood
from Scully's nosebleed and multitude of small cuts surrounded by
bigger bruises. She'd told her story only once, waiting until the PD
had turned up to save having to repeat herself. Practical, even when
shaken this badly. Unemotional, even as she recounted being flung
across the room. That same clinical detatchment that served her so well
in autopsies. She didn't wince once as the EMT disinfected and bandaged
her wounds. She hadn't needed stitches. 

"Mulder?" 

I looked up to meet her steady but unhappy gaze. Her eyes said it all -
'I'm lost. I'm scared. But I'm ploughing on.' 

"Yeah?" 

"My overnight bag is in the closet. Could you get it for me?" 

A spasm of pain crossed my face. "Sure." 
I approached slowly, carefully treading around the glass shards,
expecting to see some gaping hole reeking of horror and evil. But it
was normal. Her rows of shoes were a little out of order, one of her
trenchcoats had slipped from its hanger and fallen in a huddle. I hung
it for her carefully, finding the overnight bag and then taking
enormous relief in slamming the closet door shut.  
She stuffed her clothes into the bag. I could see the frustrated, tired
frown that fleetingly appeared as the fabric of a sweater caught in the
zipper. "God..." she muttered, her shoulders slumping in defeat. 

I stepped forward, gently taking the bag from her and easing the
sweater out of the zipper, closing it fully.  
"You go get changed." I gave her a gentle push.  

She looked down at her crumpled pajamas, her face registering an
expression of surprise, as if she'd forgotten she was wearing them.  
She nodded slowly and turned. I watched as she foraged through the
drawers, producing a black turtleneck. She then turned to the closet -
not *the* closet, but the wardrobe I knew she kept all her suits in.
For several long minutes she stared at the selection - black, charcoal
black, black pinstripe, more black. 
She sighed, reaching out to finger the fabric of one coat. Then she
closed the closet drawer gently. 
"Not today," she said softly, so quietly that I barely caught it. It
wasn't directed at me. 

She went back to the drawers, digging purposefully through and
producing a pair of black jeans. I wondered if she had any coloured
clothing left at all. I couldn't remember having seen even a navy or
deep green in months. She dug into a different drawer and grabbed a
handful of black silk. Then, to my surprise, she dumped the whole pile
on her bed and, facing away from me, stripped off her pajama shirt. 
I was surprised, to say the least. I understood, of course, that she
didn't want to go in her bathroom - the number of candles in there had
been reminiscent of a sacrificial altar. Candles put there and lit by
Pfaster. A bath drawn by evil incarnate. And the rest of her apartment
was crawling with cops. I could understand that she didn't want to
leave the privacy of her bedroom. But the fact that she hadn't ordered
me out - hadn't even asked me to leave - spoke volumes about her
current state. And about our relationship. Maybe. I didn't want to
think about that right then. 

I turned away, feeling it was the most tactful thing to do, the only
thing to do, but not without catching a glimpse of her bare back. Her
otherwise flawless skin was married by a dozen ugly dark bruises, some
only small, the size of a fingerprint, but one or two larger ones. I
knew they would be very, very painful later on. 

"Mulder?" I turned back to see her, fully dressed, hands neatly and
mechanically folding her pajamas. "I guess these are evidence." Her
voice was shaky as she spoke. 
She held them out to me and I took the pile. The fabric was soft, still
warm from being against her skin. I liked it better than the silk
pajamas I knew she usually wore. Those were cold, somehow indifferent.
These were gentler, more comfortable. More... daggy. Like an old
scraggly teddy bear or something similarly homey. But something told me
Scully wouldn't ever be comfortable wearing them again. 

I watched as she pulled on sockettes and black boots, zipping them up.
Only when she had finished did I ask "Ready to go?" 

She nodded, picking up the overnight bag. I made a gesture to take it
but she shook her head. "I can carry it." 

As she brushed past me toward the door I saw the Bible where she'd left
it on the bed. I didn't know whether she'd left it behind intentionally
or otherwise, but something inside me spurred me to pick it up.
"Scully?" 

She turned back to face me, looking as if she were trying to muster up
the energy to sound interested. "Yeah?" 

"You might want to take this." 

I held it out and she stared at it for a long moment before nodding,
taking it. I took the overnight bag from her and she didn't protest,
but rather hugged the Bible against her like a child hugs a favourite
stuffed toy for security. She'd picked the rug up again, wrapping
herself in it like a child hiding in the folds of her mother's dress.
She hadn't brushed her hair and it was mussed. All I could think was
how young she was. Fear and anger and self-doubt had reduced her to her
inner being - little Dana Scully whose Sunday School teacher had been
murdered when she was thirteen. 

On the way out of the apartment I handled the pajamas bundle to the
detective in charge, also giving him my celphone number. I tried
putting my arm around Scully's shoulders as we exited the apartment but
she was keeping her distance from me. I wished she wasn't. 
It was just before six thirty but already the sun was bright and the
day was warm. I paused, letting the sunlight soak my upturned face for
a few brief seconds before climbing into the car. It was the only
sunlight I'd be getting for a while, I knew. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------- 

"I'll be fine on the couch, Mulder." 

I wished she wouldn't argue. "The couch is mine, Scully." I tried to be
humorous. "You're not going to kick me out, are you? " 

She nodded reluctantly, following me into my bedroom as I dumped her
overnight bag on the bed. She was still clutching the bible in her arms
and she laid it down on the bedside table carefully, reluctantly.  

There was an awkward silence between the two of us. It was breakfast
time, but the idea of offering her scrambled eggs and toast seemed
absolutely absurd.  

"Want some coffee?" I offered. 

She shook her head, perching on the edge of the bed, cautious of
keeping her balance. 

"Want to tell me about it?" 

She shook her head again. "Not really." She paused. "Not yet, anyhow." 

I'd wanted to take her to her mom's. She'd asked if she could stay with
me, citing logical reasons about the drive to her mom's been too long
and needing to be near work and in contact and so on. I'd been
surprised, but grateful that she'd had so much faith in my ability to
comfort and protect her. But I'd also been scared. I knew Scully was
going through a big faith crisis and that her mom was far better
equipped to deal with it than I was. Religion had been the taboo
subject between Scully and I since the beginning, and cases which
boiled down to religion often created tension between us. It wasn't the
sort of belief-skepticism partnership we usually enjoyed - somehow when
the roles reversed it was more difficult. Scully was more vulnerable,
more easily offended. It was hard when she was sensitive about things,
because I had no idea where to tread. I didn't want to offend her, God
knows, but I had to ask the questions. I had to question her beliefs
the way she questioned mine, because going into something with our eyes
closed was stupid. 

"I murdered him." 
I looked at her, startled, as she spoke. Her eyes were cast down,
studying her nails once again. 
"I tell myself that it's fair. That he would have killed me. But I
can't lie to myself, Mulder. I murdered a man today. It wasn't justice.
It was vengeance." 

I waited for more but it seemed she was done speaking. "Scully," I said
gently, "You were tormented by this man. You know what he did to all
those women, what he almost did to you. Twice, he almost got you. This
is the death sentence he deserved." 

"He was unarmed," she said hollowly. "He was secured. But I... I wasn't
scared, Mulder. I wasn't scared for my life or for yours. I was angry.
I was angry enough to murder a man." She paused. "What if it wasn't
just Pfaster. What if it's not just him I'm capable of killing?" 

I winced. I didn't want to witness Dana Scully struggling with whether
she was a cold-blooded killer. "Scully, I know how much you value human
life. That you valued even Pfaster's life enough to save him from the
chair. And-" 

"But I didn't value his life this time, did I?" she broke in. Her voice
was growing hoarse. "What's changed over the past five years? That I
can just shoot a man?" 

"He wasn't just any man," I answered quietly. "Scully, you can't let
this weigh on your conscience." 

"I can't stop it, Mulder. I can't just push the guilt away, pretend to
myself that it didn't happen." She sighed heavily, shakily. "It's a
black mark on my soul." 

This was the result of a solid Catholic upbringing, I knew. I sat down
beside her, hesitantly slipping my arms around her shoulders, rubbing
her arm lightly. She pressed her face against my shoulder with a
shuddery sigh. "It's a nightmare. This whole case... it was just a
nightmare from start to finish." 

"And you haven't even seen the paperwork yet." That was only
half-kidding, but I got a tired grimace of a smile.  

"I can't wait." Her voice was strained as if she were holding back an
outburst with effort. She stifled a shaky yawn. 

"You should get some sleep," I suggested.  

"So should you."   

I shrugged. Sure, I didn't get any sleep, I thought. But I haven't been
in a fight for my life. I haven't been thrown against a mirror again
and again. I haven't been tied up and shut in a closet and killed a
man. 
She pulled away from me, tugging her boots off. "If I get some sleep
now we can go in this afternoon and file a report, maybe. Skinner will
want to know." 

"We'll tell Skinner when you're ready to," I corrected gently. I didn't
want her to be interrogated and bullied until she was strong enough to
handle it. I owed it to her to protect her that much. 

She nodded, pulling the covers over her knees, awkwardly, hugging
herself tightly, rearranging a pillow so it cushioned her bruised back
from the head of the bed. She stared at me evenly. 
"I don't know how I'm supposed to feel, Mulder." She sounded sad. "I
don't know how to categorise how I'm feeling." 

"Maybe you should talk to a counsellor," I suggested quietly. I knew
Skinner would recommend it when he spoke to her. 

She closed her eyes briefly, a frown passing her face. "I don't want to
talk to somebody who doesn't understand, Mulder. I need somebody who
understands what this feels like. Who understands what everything feels
like." 

I wasn't sure what she meant by 'everything' but I could make a pretty
good guess. Everything was all the evil we encountered and the
struggles we fought, the constant opposition. 

"You're a psychologist, Mulder." She dropped her gaze from mine. "And
more than that, you're somebody who understands." She looked up at me,
biting her lip. Her eyes were pleading with me, her voice was less than
a whisper. 
It took me a while to realise what she was asking. What struck me most
was how ironic it was that, after seven years of hiding her emotions
from me, she was practically begging me to listen to her. 

"Are you sure I'm not too close?" 

She shook her head. "This is personal, Mulder. Everything is personal
now. I need somebody who knows me, who knows my life." 

But I don't know your life, I wanted to cry out. I only have the
vaguest idea of what you do on weekends or what your first boyfriend's
name was or whether you like cats better than dogs.  

"Please, Mulder?" 

"I can't guarantee that I'm not going to hurt you, Scully. If you let
me that close to you, you might only get hurt. But I can listen." 

She nodded, a shadow of uncertainty crossing her features.  

"Scully, if you don't want to tell me something, I'm not going to force
you to. You don't have to see a counsellor. Maybe it's better not to
have to deal with it." 

"And let it fester inside?" She gave me a mocking non-smile. "Mulder, I
want to talk to you. It might be awkward, but ... It's something I need
to do." 

I nodded. "Okay." 

She sighed that shaky sigh again, closing her eyes and resting her head
on her blanketed knees. "We'll talk later?" she asked, her voice
muffled. 

"Whenever you're ready," I promised. I reached out to gently touch her
arm. I didn't want to touch her bruised back. I couldn't bear the
thought of being responsible for more pain. 
"You get some sleep," I said gently.  

"I don't know if I can," she said honestly, lifting her face. Her eyes
were swimming with tears but I didn't comment on it. "I don't know if I
want to." 

"Nightmares?" 

She turned away. "I see him every time I close my eyes." She yawned and
it ended up as a half-sob. "This is a nightmare." 

"I don't know what to say, Scully," I admitted, wincing at the honest
helplessness in my own voice. I wasn't going to promise to keep the
nightmares away or that it would all be better. I wasn't going to lie
to her. 

"I killed a man," she said softly. "There's nothing you can say to
that." 

She closed her eyes and hung her head, letting it fall to her knees.
She hugged herself tightly.  

I tried to gently prise her arms away. "You need sleep, Scout." 
The nickname had been floating around my mind ever since I'd heard the
story and came out almost unconsciously. I'd always wished I had a
nickname for her, something not as impersonal as Scully, but not Dana.
Dana was for her family and lovers. 'Scout' was perfect. 

She looked up at me with a teary half-smile, then nodded, settling down
in the enormous bed and pulling the blankets up to her chin.  

"You want me to stay in here?" 

I saw hesitation cross her face and I was sure for a minute that she
was going to say she was fine, that I could go. But she asked in a
small voice, "You wouldn't mind?" 

"I think I could make the sacrifice," I teased gently.  

She nodded uncertainly, wriggling to get more comfortable and rolling
on her side, facing away from me. She was silent and still, but I knew
she wasn't asleep. Her body was too rigid, her breathing too
controlled. There was tension between us, an awkwardness at an almost
embarrassing situation. I didn't want her to be embarrassed. 
"Did I ever tell you about the time my Dad took me to see the Knicks
play?" I asked. 

"No," she murmured sleepily. 

I launched into my tale, speaking quietly. She was listening to me, I
knew, even though her responses kept getting sleepier and shorter,
barely coherent. Minutes later her breathing fell into a slower rhythm
and her form relaxed.  

I grabbed a book from my bookshelves and - after clearing it of piles
of dirty laundry - drew a chair up to the bed. She was sleeping curled
up and took up less than half the bed, but I didn't want to disturb
her, even though it would have been more comfortable than the
hard-backed chair. I tried to read but it was a lost cause. My
attention kept straying back to my sleeping partner, and, after reading
the same paragraph five times and absorbing very little of it, I closed
the book gently and allowed myself to focus all my attention on her.   

She rolled over onto her back and I saw her grimace in her sleep. She
rolled onto her side, this time facing me. My eyes settled on her face,
her brow furrowed even in sleep, her hands clenched tightly.
Nevertheless, she slept quietly, uneventfully. I wondered if she was
lucky enough to have no nightmares, or whether I simply couldn't see
them.  
Feeling my own tiredness increasingly as I sat there, I ducked into the
kitchen to make some black coffee. When I returned, instead of settling
back down in the torturously uncomfortable chair, I sat on the edge of
the bed beside her. The creases in her forehead had faded, her mouth
parted slightly as she slept. I reached out gently and touched her hair
lightly. Pfaster had lusted after this hair for five years, the sick
creep.  
I combed my fingers through her hair gently, caressing. Still asleep, I
didn't know whether she noticed or not. I guessed not. But it comforted
me. Again, I'd almost lost her. The score was so high I'd given up
keeping tally. It never ceased to fill me with terror, the uncertainty
of our lives. 

My fingers caught in a knot in her hair and she jolted awake in my
arms.  
"Let me go!" She ripped herself from my grip with a sudden,
near-hysterical scream, scrambling to climb off the bed in a tangle of
blankets and linen. Her voice was filled with terror, the cry of an
animal with a predator bearing down on it. "Don't touch me you sick
sonofabitch! Let me go!!" 
I caught her arm, pulling her back toward me. She was kicking and
struggling like a wildcat. Her hair hung down before her eyes.  

"It's me, Scully, it's me..." 

She let out a sob and her kicking died down, her body slackening. With
my spare hand I reached to brush her hair away from her eyes. Tears
were coursing down her cheeks and her breaths were coming unevenly. She
looked dazed, still frightened. Then she dropped her head. 
"I thought you were him. You touched my hair." She looked up again,
almost accusingly. 

The knotted hair I'd inadvertantly tugged must have been attached at
the bump at the back of her head, I realised. That would have hurt
enough to wake her. 
"Sorr-" I began, but her the accusation in her eyes was washed away by
fresh tears. Her face crumbled. 

I pulled her close to me. "Hey, Scout..." I didn't want to interrupt
the torrent of tears but I did want to comfort her. "He's dead now.
He's not going to come after you again. He's gone forever." 

"Don't talk, Mulder," she whispered, slipping her arms around me
tightly. She was shaking. "Just hold me. Please." There was a
vulnerability in her voice that made my skin turn cold.  

"Sure," I whispered. We gripped onto each other tightly and I let her
sob.  

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Skinner turned up at my door just over an hour later. The PD had told
him that I'd brought Scully here and he wanted to talk to her. She'd
only just fallen asleep again and I wasn't going to let him wake her.
He scowled at me for being overprotective, telling me that he needed to
know exactly what had happened, but I think he was secretly thankful
that I was there with her. I told him we'd come into the office for a
meeting when Scully felt up to it, no earlier. 
It was late afternoon when she woke up again. I was sitting playing
with a Rubics cube, once again in the chair by the bed. My back was
beginning to ache but I hadn't wanted a repeat of the stunned outburst
before. She lay, staring at me for a few minutes before I realised she
was awake.  
I suggested food, a late lunch, and she nodded slowly, wincing as she
threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. She declined a shower but
scrubbed at her face at the basin, washing away the tearstains. She
combed her hair, wincing as she did, biting her lip to stop herself
from crying out in pain as she combed out the knot my fingers had
caught in before.  
Our late lunch proved a quiet meal - she wasn't volunteering
conversation and I didn't want to push her. I was wondering if she was
reconsidering the idea of a pseudo-counselling session when she spoke
up, "I think I'm ready to talk." 

We settled down in my twin armchairs, sitting on opposite sides of the
room. She had picked up the orange shawl again and was huddled in it,
her fingers playing with the tassles. 
"So, where do we start?" 

"You want to go through last night's events again?" 

She repressed a shudder. "Not really." 

I stared at her. "Why did you take on this case, Scully?" 

She looked up at me, honestly. "We were equipped to deal with it. We
knew more about Pfaster than anybody else did. He had to be caught." 

I waited. 

"And... I wanted to show myself I could stay in control," she admitted.
"I thought that if I could catch him and face him then it would make
amends for last time. That I'd regain my power. But it went wrong,
again. And when I shot him, it just got worse. It was supposed to... to
restore equilibrium... but things just got worse." She paused, looking
down at her fingers. "He was going to cut off my fingers, Mulder," she
whispered brokenly. "He had my hands and I knew what he was thinking.
And then he said he was going to draw me a bath..." Her voice cracked
and she broke into sobs. I was out of my chair and across to her in a
second, but she pushed me away as I tried to touch her. She climbed out
of the chair, pushing past me to stand against the wall, pressing her
forehead against it as she shook with sobs. "I just screamed. It was
hate and terror and sheer horror and desperation... I don't think I've
ever felt so desperate before." She let out a shaky, mirthless laugh.
"And I guess that's saying something, huh?" 

I wasn't going to say anything. Not when she was letting all the
emotions spill out. Getting Scully to open up was normally a
near-impossible task.  

"I'm just so stupid," she muttered, her loose fists hitting the wall.
"So stupid." Again. 

"You're not stupid," I whispered. I moved up behind her and caught her
hands. "Don't say that." 

"We should have known that he was going to come after me." 

"You're right," I acknowledged. "We should have." 
In the hours earlier as she'd slept I'd begun to consider my own guilt.
None of this would have occurred if we'd been on our guards. And we
should have been aware of what was going on. I should have listened to
my machine as soon as I got home. If I'd heard the message earlier...  

"I'm just as much to blame as you are, Scully. Maybe more. I should
have been watching out for you." 

She turned in my grip and looked at me with surprised, bloodshot eyes.
"You didn't do this, Mulder. It's not on your head." 

"We're in this together, Scully." 

"Mulder-" 

I cut her off. "No protests." 

She stared at me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. 

I flicked my head back to the armchair. "Go sit down, Scout." 

She gave me a tired, thin smile. I picked up the fallen shawl for her
and she held it in her arms, bundled. Something told me that, before
she'd grown up and found refuge in cold distance or hot bubblebaths,
Dana Scully had had a teddy bear. 

I settled back in my own chair, leaning forward so I was closer to her.
"Do you want to move on?" 

She nodded quickly, as if afraid to speak. 

We sat in silence for a few minutes and I prodded gently. "I charge by
the hour, you know." 

That gained me another small smile. "I don't know what to talk about,"
she confessed. 

"Whatever's on your mind." I paused, looking at her expectantly as she
examined her nails, then quickly drew them from sight. "What are you
thinking about, Scully?" 

"You." Her answer came quietly but took me by surprise.  

"Me?" I queried.  

She gave me a shy, sad smile. "You. Me. Us. The lives we live... The
loneliness." 

"Are you lonely?" 

"Sometimes. But other times, no. Not when I'm with you." She sat,
slumped, looking exhausted. The emotions had left her spent, and she
continued quietly, almost shyly, as though confessing, "Not when we
talk like this." 

"How long have you wanted to have this conversation with me?" I asked
curiously. 

"A while," she admitted softly. "But it wasn't... feasible. I didn't
feel brave enough. But this... last night... it's..." 

"It's opened some doors," I supplied. 

"I don't want to close them again," she admitted. "But I'm scared that
they're just going to swing shut again no matter what I want. I want to
go forward, emotionally, but there's always the risk that we'll just
slide backwards again, find ourselves back where we were without
realising that we've slipped. Or we'll get another touchy case and
that'll drive a wedge between us. It's hard to commit, to constantly
fight the elements..." 

"We can only try," I answered slowly. 

"I don't just want to try," she whispered. "I want an assurance that we
won't let anything pull us apart. But... I know it's something neither
of us can guarantee." 

"I can guarantee that I love you. That's something that won't change. I
won't let it change." 

She nodded. "I know," she said simply. The frown didn't budge. 

Another silence. 

"Why do you think God let it happen, Scully?" 

She looked down. "I don't know," she admitted. "Not yet. Maybe... Maybe
He was testing my faith." 

I bit my lip to stop myself from making a not-so-constructive comment.
I didn't know for sure why Scully's religious beliefs made me so
uncomfortable, but I could make a pretty good guess. She always seemed
so vulnerable, so lost and confused. That scared me. I hated seeing
Scully confused. I needed her strength, her rationality. When the
believer-skeptic coin was flipped it disrupted the balance of our
partnership. It took away my support. 

She continued thoughtfully. "Maybe I was meant to kill him. Maybe
Reverend Orison had really heard God speaking... and he hadn't finished
the job with Pfaster." 

"You think you were God's tool?" 

"Maybe." She looked up at me with shining eyes and shrugged, the light
fading. "Maybe it'll rest easiest on my conscience if I can convince
myself that I shot him on God's orders. But whether I did or not... I
don't know." She paused, drawing a shaky breath. "I can't tell, Mulder.
I don't know whether God is speaking and I don't know what he's saying,
or maybe He's not speaking at all and I've just convinced myself that
He is because I want to hear Him. I want His guidance so badly that
maybe I'm fooling myself into thinking that I'm getting it. The truth
is... I don't know." 

Not for the first time, I wished Mrs Scully were here.  

"It's just another struggle, Mulder. And sometimes it's easiest just to
give up or tell myself that I'm doing okay. But keeping the faith is
hard. Keeping faith in anything is hard with what we go through.
There's no certainty in anything." 

"Is it really worth the struggle, then?" 

She looked up at me, frowning, then said with childlike simplicity, "I
don't want to go to Hell, Mulder. That's where the Donnie Pfasters of
this world come from. I don't want to go to that place. But good deeds
alone won't cut it. You need faith to get to Heaven, Mulder. You need
faith and committment and trust in God and I don't know whether I have
it." She looked at me sadly. "And I know you don't." 

I shivered even though I didn't believe what she was saying. I was
healthily agnostic. Well, almost. There was still that doubt. What if
what she was saying was true? What if I was making the biggest screwup
of my life by brushing off the idea? What if I was going to spend
eternity in Hell with Donnie Pfaster? I shivered again. 

"I don't want to go to Hell, Mulder," she repeated, adding more softly,
"I don't want you to, either." 

"I don't believe that I'm going to," I stated, but I felt uncertain
even as I spoke the words.  

She sat silently, playing with her lower lip. "How can you be certain?"
Another pause. "Believing... it answers a lot of questions, Mulder.
People want to know the meaning of life. But it's not the big mystery
it's made out to be. " 

"What's the answer?" I asked quietly, curious. "What is the meaning of
life?" 

"To serve Him," she answered. She'd grown calm and quiet, reflective,
and spoke with the assurance that I wouldn't say anything offensive -
or that if I did, she could handle it. "To be His children." 

"Pretty big brood for one guy to handle." 

She shrugged. "He's God," she said simply. 

"And you put your trust in Him?" I asked moodily. 

"I need to put my trust in somebody." 

"What about me?" 

She gave me a look. "This is different, Mulder. This is a whole other
level." She looked at me with a small, sad smile. "Maybe God gave me
you as my angel." 

"So Section Chief Blevins is God now, is he?" I asked, mildly amused by
the thought that I, of all people, could be somebody's angel. 

"He works in people," she answered without missing a beat. "We don't
always see it. But He works in people. He looks after his flock." She
stared at me speculatively, a little light of hope in her eyes. "He
works in you." 

"I don't believe that," I answered quickly. I disliked the idea. 

"You don't have to believe it," she said, the strange, dreamy smile
playing on her lips. "But even if you don't see it or believe it, I
think it's there." The smile grew, so calm, tranquil. It was almost
disturbingly unfamiliar. "He's worked in you today. Helping you help
me. Can you feel it?" 

I shrugged, uncomfortable with the conversation. She looked at me, that
same curious, speculative gaze that made me feel like a specimen in a
science lab. The smile faded, little by little, and she sighed. "Sorry.
I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." 

She sighed again, standing. "I'm going to take some time, okay?" 

I nodded, watching as she picked up the shawl and left, closing my
bedroom door behind her.  

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey, Scout?" I knocked on the door, turning the knob cautiously. She
was sitting on the bed, cushions stuffed between her back and the
bedhead, an open book resting on her knees.  
"Dinner's ready."  
I moved closer, saw that the book was the bible she'd almost left
behind.  

"How long you going to keep calling me that?" she asked. There was a
teasing note in her voice and she seemed almost ...uplifted. 

"How's forever sound to you?" 

She gave me a tolerant, knowing smile that said 'You'll be sick of it
in a week.' 

"You don't mind, do you?" I asked as an afterthought. 

She considered for a moment, then shook her head. "No, it's fine. It
has ...good associations." 

Dinner was as quiet as lunch had been, but the mood now was nowhere
near as dark. It was thick tomato soup with croutons. Scully had eaten
little for lunch and now she seemed ravenous. I was wondering about the
change in her since our conversation. It seemed almost wrong to me that
she was already recovering. I guess I felt it was unjust that I wasn't
going to get any further opportunities to comfort her, hug her, feel
that for once I could take care of her. 

We watched TV after dinner. I let her have the remote and she flicked
through the channels, pausing on Law and Order before passing on. I
guessed that the last thing she wanted was crime TV. She settled on a
Harrison Ford movie, Regarding Henry, that had just begun. I left her
in my apartment, confident that she could handle being by herself for
half an hour, and headed down the street to a small children's toyshop.
I'd never been in there before, only jogged or driven by, but I knew
they had what I wanted, and that the store was open til late. 
I smuggled the shopping bag into my bedroom, pulling off the pricetag
and laying it carefully on the bed. Scully had been absorbed in the
movie and only glanced in my direction when I'd returned. I sauntered
back out into the living room, standing and watching as she lay
stretched out on the couch. She'd fallen asleep. 
I moved closer, watching her ribcage flutter with every breath. "Hey,
Scout?" I brushed the backs of my fingers across her cheek. She stirred
sleepily, then blinked and yawned.  

"I fell asleep?" She looked a little disoriented. 

"Yeah, I guess you did." 

She drew herself upright, rubbing her eyes. "It's been a long day." 

"Yeah, it has," I agreed gently. 
I laid my hand on her back and heard her wince. Remembering the
bruises, I drew my hand away. "Sorry, I forgot." 

"It's okay," she murmured. To my surprise, she stood on tiptoes and
kissed my cheek shyly. "Thank you for today. For everything." 

I nodded, grabbing her hands and kissing them gently. "You're welcome."

She smiled sleepily, yawning, and as I yawned myself her smile grew.
"You get some sleep too, okay?" 

"Yes, Mom," I chimed, teasing.  

She let out a low, tired chuckle before turning away. "Goodnight,
Mulder." 

I watched as she headed into my bedroom. This time she left the door
open behind her. I caught glimpses of her as she moved around the
bedroom, changing for bed. Then, as I settled down on the couch, TV
remote in hand, she appeared before me. She was wearing wine red silk
pajamas. The thought crossed my mind that Scully had an awful lot of
pajamas, but they weren't black and for that I was grateful. She was
tightly gripping the fluffy, furry green stuffed toy I'd forked out
fifty dollars for half an hour ago. It's head was enormous on it's
thin, weedy body, and it's eyes were bulbous white with huge pupils.
Scully was grinning. 

"I guess they're not so elusive after all," she announced. "The truth
was in your bedroom all along." 

"Not all along." 

She held the stuffed alien toy up and looked at it, amazed and amused.
"Where'd you get it, Mulder?" 

"Toyshop down the road." I couldn't help grinning. "I figured you were
the teddy bear sort, but this seemed more... fitting." 

She smiled at me. "It's perfect." She looked as if she wanted to hug me
but hugged the stuffed creature tightly instead. "Thank you, Mulder." 

"You're welcome, Scout." I moved forward and cupped her cheeks, lightly
brushing my lips across her forehead. "Sleep tight, okay?" 

A shadow crossed her face. "Yeah. I'll try." 

"Call me if you want me." It wasn't just a nicety; I meant it
earnestly. 

She nodded. I didn't know whether it was my kiss that had subdued her
or the threat of nightmares, but I felt a little disappointed that we
were ending the evening on a low note. "I'll let you know." 

She left again, and I settled back down on the couch. Flipping the TV
off, I lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling and considering our
pseudo-counselling session. It hadn't gone at all how I'd imagined, but
it had helped her. I'd ended up more confused than ever. Faith seemed
so  complex - few things were so complex that Scully struggled to
understand them. To me it was entirely foreign, something I didn't want
to hear about or think about because there was always the risk that if
I heard enough I'd be drawn into the confusion, begin to doubt, to
think that maybe I needed it. Maybe I did need it. For the moment I
didn't want to think about it. My life was complicated enough without
it.  

And yet -- 

I shut the voice off. I kicked off the blanket spread over me and
padded across the floor, standing in my bedroom doorway. She was fast
asleep, one arm hooked around the alien as she hugged it tightly
against her, her face pressed against it's furry, stuffed head.  

She was out of nightmare's clutches, I thought gratefully as I saw the
peaceful half-smile on her lips. I silently thanked whatever deity had
brought her through this trauma. Scully's God, whoever He was, was
watching out for her. And maybe she had been right. Maybe I was her
guardian angel.  
If so, I could only hope it was a lifetime job.  
  

fin.