TITLE:  Sins of Omission (1/1)
AUTHOR:  mountainphile
RATING:  PG-13 for language
EMAIL:  mountainphile@hotmail.com
URL: http://www.oocities.org/museans/mountainphile
CATEGORY:  MSR, S, D, vignette
SPOILERS:  "Blood"/Season 8 with Mulder still MIA
SUMMARY:  Too many important things were left to chance...
ARCHIVE:  I'd be honored -- just tell me where so I can
visit!
DISCLAIMER:  All things XF belong to Chris Carter, FOX, and
1013
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:  Grateful thanks to all of Musea for
unconditional encouragement; to Lara Means and Forte for the
thumbs-up; to Mish, Jintian, Diana Battis, and xedout for
eleventh-hour beta; and a wave to Clint Eastwood in
"Heartbreak Ridge" for the zinger.
********************

Sins of Omission
by mountainphile


Too many things, Scully maintained, were left to chance.
Neglected, omitted.  The oversights were too dangerous and
therefore inexcusable.

She felt as much to blame as anyone -- acquiescing to the
demands of an investigation in which she had no business or
reason.  In hindsight, she should have kicked a bigger fuss
and told them all to go to hell.  Refused outright.  Skinner
appeared to hate it as much as she did, but claimed the EPA
was breathing down his neck and his hands were tied.

"I have more urgent matters to consider."  She glared,
rising slowly from the lone chair that faced his desk.
"Even you, sir -- especially you, should realize the
potential foolhardiness of this assignment."

"Scully... "  Skinner averted his face, rubbing a hand over
his squared jaw, then balled his fists together.  "It's not
my call."

"Spare me!"  She hissed the words savagely.  Her eyes raked
him like hard, blue coals before she turned toward the door,
where she halted, too consumed by righteous anger to
comprehend how fine a line she walked between indignation
and insolence.

"What would you have me tell Agent Doggett?" she demanded.
"We're already deeply involved in a case, besides seeking
out other... valuable leads."

The significance of her last remark went untouched by
Skinner, though he chafed beneath the surface.  He loomed
behind his desk, big hands spread before him on the blotter,
power tie dangling.  At his silence, she tossed him a
glance.

"Just tell him what he needs to know," he growled back,
peering at her through the upper half of his lenses.  "That
the EPA is requesting the FBI's assistance in targeting and
verifying blatant hazardous pesticide use and violations.
That the OPPTS has specifically requested your involvement,
because of past case experience.  That you're to do what you
can to make nice to these people, even so far as
accompanying them to specific sites if they request it in
order to collaborate the claims."

At the last sentence, her eyes sparked at him.

"Scully, if you're looking for someone to blame for this, I
suggest you dip back into your own files," he volleyed, his
expression reduced to a wince as he handed off the
information.  "The name's Spencer, and he's the one
responsible for calling the shots in this charade.  It seems
you're highly favored."

Ten seconds of thought refreshed her memory.  Nearly six
years ago Tim Spencer was a fresh-faced and earnest town
sheriff in Franklin, Pennsylvania. Overly cooperative, he
did what he could to assist her and Mulder in the
investigation of a rash of unexplainable murders. Pesticides
proved to be the cause, sprayed over the sleepy agricultural
community by an unauthorized, unknown source.  More evidence
of secret government conspiracy, her partner believed, even
after The Office of Prevention, Pesticides, and Toxic
Substances -- the OPPTS -- stepped in to halt the abuse.
Despite Scully's initial doubts, she later felt inclined to
agree with his conclusions.

The first signs of exposure were manifested as
hallucinations, then deep paranoia caused by bizarre
subliminal messages, culminating in violent rampage and
finally murder.  Shortly after Mulder apprehended the last
victim-turned-killer, a former postal worker, Scully waited
at the hospital to examine the perp.  EMTs wheeled him in
under restraint, wild-eyed, and swaddled to the gurney.  It
was no coincidence that Tim Spencer trotted in beside him.

She never told Mulder about Spencer's whispered enticement
at the hospital, or the after hours phone call.  Less
discriminating then, younger and more impressionable, she'd
been sorely tempted to take the man up on his offer of
dinner.  He was young and intelligent, idealistic, and he
exuded a certain charm.  Invitations were few and far
between and he might provide a refreshing diversion.
Nothing more than that... perhaps.  As fate would have it,
Mulder's knock came minutes after Spencer's call; they were
on their way back to DC that same evening.

Exasperated, she drew her gaze back toward Skinner, hunkered
now behind his desk.  "There's no good reason I should be
involved in this, sir."

"The request for your involvement came directly from the
Region III office of the OPPTS in Philadelphia. Spencer, I'm
told, is their fair-haired boy with aspirations that go all
the way to the office of the Administrator -- so we just
shut our mouths and smile.  Like I said before, my hands are
tied."

"I don't accept that -- "

"There will be a subsequent meeting," he interrupted, his
voice rising, "which you'll duly attend, presenting your
findings, observations, and supportive conclusions.  They
want this to be by the book, Agent Scully, and the FBI is
unfortunately in need of mending some bureaucratic fences.
You know the drill -- and I trust you to take the necessary
precautions to get it done right."  He shuffled papers,
looked away.  "That'll be all."

His curt dismissal, paired with the absurdity of the
situation, kindled a rush of deep anger within her.  She dug
a sharp heel into the carpet before responding.  "Sir...
there's a word that describes this farce to a 'T'.  And as a
former Marine, no doubt you're familiar with it."

He inclined his head, but refused to meet her eyes.  "Try
me."

"Clusterfuck... sir," she spat over her shoulder, jerking
the door open.  A second later she was gone, sweeping like a
whirlwind past Kimberly's startled face and out into the
hall.

********************

Never bet against human error and the hand of fate, she
thought later.  Neither one should be toyed with nor
tempted.  She'd worked on a sufficient number of cases to
know that the unexpected always lurked within the realm of
possibility.

As for the hand of God... a childhood spent within the
teachings of the Church instilled irrevocable knowledge that
one reaps what one sows.

She'd mulled the circumstances over in her mind, like a
bland, unsavory mouthful.  Thrust into a meaningless
exercise in diplomacy for the Bureau despite her own
dissension, because it was rumored that the FBI had turned a
blind eye and deaf ear to issues of compliance.  Not a
lengthy assignment, but a hiatus requiring several days'
break from her current responsibilities.  She alone, without
Doggett, chosen because of her expertise as a medical doctor
and knowledge of forensics, pathogens, and the effects on
the human body.  Favored because of her past case experience
with similar phenomena... and because of a distant personal
acquaintance.

Her pregnancy.  The greatest omission of all, it remained
hidden, secretive, too confidential to acknowledge openly in
spite of potential hazards in the case.  Remembering her
fury in Skinner's office, she wanted to lay responsibility
for her lapse in judgment on the hormonal shifts she strove
to hold in check, or even on the false sense of security the
OPPTS people radiated.  In retrospect, she should have cast
self-consciousness and vanity to the wind and just worn the
damn mask.

The site was supposedly contained; no one expected the black
tarp to harbor a rusty, leaking canister. When it was
carelessly handled, a cloud of pesticide rose up to catch
Scully full in the face.  She froze, jolted to reality.  She
and several other participants were similarly affected --
coughing and rubbing their eyes for minutes.  She felt the
talcum-soft poison of it sift over her skin, realized as
soon as she caught a shocked breath that it spiraled its
acrid toxins deep into her lungs and the cells of her body.
Knew with a chilled heart that it stole through her
bloodstream toward the fragile, venous circuitry of her
developing child.

On-site tests revealed a suspicious mix, composed in part of
organophosphates and chlorothalonil, a known carcinogen and
fetotoxin.  It was potentially dangerous to the body when
inhaled, as she and others had done.  Teratogens all,
capable of producing functional defects during the early-to-
mid fetal stages.  Substances with the terrible, frightening
ability to create abnormalities within her...

Inconvenience and diplomacy be damned.  Against all
protestations to the contrary, she stalked from the site,
demanding a full battery of tests immediately.  They took
several days to complete and she kept them fiercely covert.
Urinalysis, blood work, then probable amnio.  Precautionary,
but she had too much at stake to further risk jeopardizing
the precious secret she hid and nurtured within her womb.

Her call to Skinner was short, terse, and unapologetic.  She
refused further site visits, but would accommodate the final
meeting.  A band-aid pinched the crook of her arm, reminder
of the drawn blood and her smothered panic earlier in the
lab.  He cursed himself up one side and down the other until
Scully felt forced to halt the conversation.  The
inexcusable had occurred and there was nothing more to say.
In essence, they shared in the transgression.

********************

Doggett dealt with a different level of frustration.
Clueless and harried, he tracked Scully's movements since
their own case was put on simmer in her absence.  He took
his orders seriously; temporarily re-assigned or not, she
was his partner-by-default and he would continue to watch
her back.  Always capable and professional, something about
Scully's demeanor of late demanded his renewed
consideration.  Sure, he'd been married way-back-when and
had worked with numerous women on the force.  He knew all
the classic emotional signs of PMS, of monthly feminine
frailty.  He also realized it could breed a dangerous,
unpredictable mix of imprudence and even carelessness.

"I can understand how Skinner might think you'd be of help
to these yahoos," grumbled Doggett the next day.  "Call me
paranoid, but I tend to worry when my partner's out on loan
and then I hear that she's down at the hospital because of
negligence at the site."

"Routine procedure," Scully retorted, her lips set in a
preoccupied purse.

They wove through the halls of the Hoover Building, she
pulling him along in her slipstream.  She would be lucky to
make the meeting with any degree of punctuality, he thought.
Short on time, she seemed less generous with patience and
last-minute explanations.  This day she was impeccably
groomed, her dark suit sharp and spotless, setting off the
red-gold shine of her hair, which she quickly brushed behind
one ear.

Doggett shadowed her steps and eagle-eyed the personnel in
their path ahead.  "All I heard was that you'd gone to the
ER.  Okay, you did what you felt was necessary.  I would
have appreciated a phone call as well."

They came to a halt, pausing outside the meeting room.
Doggett ran a flustered palm over his forehead, then planted
both hands low on his hips, a conciliatory gesture.
Surveying her pale face, he acknowledged a nagging twinge of
concern, stubborn and evasive though she'd been earlier.

"Given the circumstances, Agent Scully... I probably woulda
done the same thing," he conceded.

She nodded brusque thanks, accepting the words with poise
and barely-concealed fatigue.  Or was it dread, he wondered?

Several of the meeting participants waited in the hall, all
men, shifting their eyes toward her at their approach.  The
effect was not lost on Doggett, who politely took his leave
and stepped to the water cooler to observe the proceedings
before heading back downstairs.  One individual, tall with
the enthusiastic intensity of a zealot, strode forward and
offered his hand to Scully.

"Special Agent Dana Scully," he gushed, eyes glowing.  "Tim
Spencer.  Wow, it's a pleasure to finally see you again!"

He did the introductions all around, his hand to her elbow,
loudly filling her in on the preliminaries before the group
began feeding itself through the doorway.  After the
chemical spraying was uncovered in Franklin, he'd progressed
from town sheriff to political activist, choosing to wet his
feet by wading into a presidential toxic cleanup initiative.
His persistence and stellar performance brought kudos,
recommendations, and further advancement.  He was now head
of a team from the Hazardous Site Cleanup Division, with
jurisdiction over five states including the Washington DC
area.  Scully's presence, he explained to everyone within
earshot, was a coup for him, professionally and personally.

John Doggett lingered over his water and scrutinized the
scene.  He knew nothing more of Spencer except that he'd
probably lick boots to get what he wanted, if pressed hard
enough.  The guy seemed okay -- likable, gung-ho, covering
his bases.  But smooth as silk, he'd already done the alpha
thing and established himself at Scully's side, his attempt
to re-introduce and ingratiate himself not lost on Doggett.
A real operator.

The perspective of the picture shifted, and he focused on
his partner's cool politeness, her diffidence and caution.
She reminded him of a flower -- the lonely petunia in the
onion patch, as the jingle went -- attractive, strong, head
held with dignity.  Surrounded by this pack of suited hounds
who sniffed her scent...  These people had no appreciation
for what she'd been through the last couple of days, or of
her past history and personal losses, including her all-
consuming search for her missing partner.  Hell, he himself
knew little enough, and here he was working with her on a
daily basis.  Watching her disappear into the room with the
others, he crushed the paper cup to a ball, puzzled by the
surge of protectiveness that nudged him.

He swung by when he thought the meeting was over, his timing
skewed by fifteen lousy minutes.  A handful of agents cooled
their heels in the hall outside the empty room, planning
their next move.  From them he learned that Spencer had
impressed upon Agent Scully to join him for dinner.  So be
it.  Doggett had specific questions for her about their own
case, but wouldn't intrude by calling her cell.  It could
keep overnight on the back burner, which was exactly where
he found himself in all this bureaucratic posturing and
shuffling.

Yeah, she could damn well use a break from work as much as
the next person -- maybe more.

********************

Doggett was in the office early the next morning, already
busy at his desk when Scully made her quiet entrance.  Her
step slowed when she spotted him, standing, leafing through
a stack of paperwork.  She hung up her coat after a murmured
greeting, her movements measured and weary.

"Late night?"

She lifted suspicious blue eyes to his face and quirked a
brow.  It was none of his damn business and he must have
realized it, biting his tongue and looking away.

"Not at all," she countered, evasive, but his question
forced her to pause and reflect back to the previous
evening.

She'd fully expected Spencer to suggest dinner after the
final meeting and he didn't disappoint.  After all, he
wasn't a total stranger.  She hoped his company would be a
pleasant diversion after the stress of the OPPTS assignment
and the consuming pressures of the last few months.

In Tim Spencer she found something both attractive and
repellent.  He seemed considerate and safe enough -- yet
being with him in an informal capacity dredged up memories
of Mulder.  It might do her good, she chided herself, to
indulge in talk of old times, to resurrect and compare
perspectives on that past case.  Her emotions felt
compromised, however, threatening to rupture at the least
nostalgic provocation.

Doggett fanned through his papers, as if sensing tenuous
ground.  "I ran into a couple of the committee members," he
explained without eye contact, "and they said you'd gone out
for the evening.  There were a few more questions I needed
to go over from our own case, but didn't want to disturb
your meal.  I figured they'd keep 'til morning."

"You could have called anyway," she said dryly in response.
She cleared her throat, swallowing the bile that rose
burning to the back of her mouth.

"I'll remember that."

"I didn't sleep well," she added, knowing the circles under
her eyes told a tale.

Still wary, she'd accepted Spencer's invitation, emphasizing
that it was something of a rarity for her.  That she had
strict personal guidelines to maintain, offering no
explanation other than her work and the accompanying strain
and long hours.  No reason to mention Mulder's absence and
their close bond -- it was none of Spencer's business.

She could tell he was flattered, in spite of his mild
perplexity.  They spoke of other topics, changes in the
environment and the government's policies over the years.
Small talk.  Then, like a thermostat gone awry, Spencer
began to increase the charm with purposeful alacrity.

The climate of the meal changed after the wine was poured.
She refused it with grace, feeling no apology or explanation
was necessary.  Put off for only a moment, Spencer
persisted.  His agenda unfolded with the serving of the meal
and it became evident to Scully that his mind was more
focused on a long-overdue seduction than sharing dinner and
old times with a former acquaintance.

Conversation faltered and fell flat.  What could have been
an enjoyable evening was reduced to mental jousting and a
constant re-setting of limits.  He regretted her brush with
the pesticide, but felt her reaction and indignation were
too extreme to be justified after such minimal exposure.
After all, none of the others felt her level of paranoia.
Little was mentioned in the way of the old Franklin case,
and after a curt farewell, she retired early.

Back in her apartment, wretched with disillusionment and
remorse, the wounds for Mulder tore open afresh.  She spent
long hours alone in the darkness, sitting up in bed.
Cradling her stomach, awash in a sea of misery and regret.

"It could have been indigestion," she offered suddenly.

"Or the company on the other side of the table."  Doggett
shot her a knowing glance.  "At least, that's been my
experience," he explained.

********************

Her obligatory flicker of a smile was not lost on Doggett,
nor was another painful swallow, manicured fingers pressed
to a spot on her chest.  She did everything with effort this
morning, eyes guarded and hollowed, with dark smudges
beneath.  Skin pale against the navy blue of her suit and
the red wave of hair that shielded her face.

"Excuse me," he mumbled, escaping into the hall.  What the
hell... if she wasn't going to get relief on her own, then
at least he could help out with the simplest of antidotes.
The water cooler stood between him and the elevator.  He
bent to reach for a cup when the opening door arrested his
movement and Tim Spencer appeared in the dim light.

"Speak of the devil."

The muttered comment hung heavy in the close air of the
basement like second-hand smoke, though Spencer seemed not
to have heard.  He faced the agent, topcoat over his arm,
briefcase in the other hand, and craned his head to get a
look past him down the narrow hall, toward the flood of
light from the opened door.  Instinctively Doggett blocked
his view, an automatic, protective, fluid stance.

"I think you took a wrong turn, Bud," he advised.  "The main
exit is upstairs... "

Spencer stopped before the human roadblock.  "Tim Spencer,
OPPTS.  I'm looking for Dana Scully and was told she could
be found on this floor.  In the office of the X-Files."  He
fidgeted, too impatient to free or extend a hand.

The lapse was duly noted.  "Special Agent John Doggett.  I
think she's busy."

Spencer checked his watch and stood his ground, sizing up
the taller man.  "Listen, I've got a plane to catch.  All
I'm asking for is a few minutes of her time."

"Let me tell you something, Mr. Spencer.  I would suggest
you do your job and let Agent Scully do hers.  You got what
you came for -- you had your people do their investigative
site visits and write-ups.  You had your meeting.  My
partner ingested a snootful of pesticide, thanks to you.
The way I see it, your work here is finished."

The man processed this information, his face reflecting a
modicum of regret at the mention of the chemicals.  "I'm
well aware of that unfortunate incident.  You can lighten up
on the guard dog routine, Agent Doggett."  He stared and
cocked his head, throwing down an invisible challenge.  "So,
what's *your* interest in Agent Scully anyway?"

"She's my partner and our association is strictly on a
professional level," shot back Doggett.  Forehead wrinkled
with renewed irritation at the presumptuous question, he
took a bold step forward.  "And whether you're well aware of
it or not, someone else *does* happen to have a personal...
investment.  Let's just say I'm looking out for *his*
interests.  You follow?"

His words echoed along the narrow walls of the passageway.
He wished Spencer would know when to cut his losses and take
a powder, but the man seemed hell-bent on doing things the
hard way.

"Go home, Mr. Spencer, and let sleeping dogs lie. What you
don't seem to understand is that Agent Scully has enough on
her mind without you adding to the burden.  You may want to
pick the flowers closer to home."

"Butt out."

Doggett edged forward, hand riding high on his hip, suit
jacket askew.  If his exposed gun holster added to the
overall effect, so much the better.  He squared his elbows,
taking up as much space as possible in the shallow confines
of the corridor.  One hand rose before him, forefinger
extended for emphasis.

"Okay, Spencer.  Let me tell you something that only a few
people are privy to: it really, really gripes me when I have
to repeat myself the first thing in the morning. Especially
before I've had a decent cup of coffee... "

The two men eyed one another for the fraction of a minute,
though it seemed much longer.  Spencer broke first,
apparently unaccustomed to backing down, if his scandalized
expression of outrage was any indicator.  Darting a glance
at his watch, he scowled before shaking his head in disgust
and turning on a polished heel.

"Fuck you, Doggett," he threw back over his shoulder.  "I
don't have time to play your game right now, but this isn't
over.  Just tell Agent Scully I'll be in touch."

After Spencer's swift departure, Doggett waited until his
blood had sufficiently cooled while he stared at the closed
doors of the elevator.  Then, remembering his original
purpose, he bent to retrieve a paper cup of water from the
cooler.  Pausing at the open door, he counted to ten, then
re-entered the office.

Scully's narrow back greeted him.  Her arms were crossed,
the navy suit jacket taut across her shoulder blades.  She
turned around stiffly when she sensed his approach.  From
the blanched expression on her face, it was apparent she'd
overheard the entire hallway conversation from start to
finish.

"Agent Doggett, I.... "  She looked up to him, hand still at
her chest, lips pursed and tight at the corners as she
picked her words with obvious care.  "I'm standing here
deciding whether I should be royally insulted -- or
extremely grateful.  That," she said with a tilt of her head
toward the door and a furrow in her brow, "wasn't necessary.
I'm in the habit of taking care of myself.  But... I can
appreciate the intent."

He walked closer to hand her the cup of water.  A reminder
of their first disastrous meeting after Mulder's
disappearance months before, it had been representative of
her distrust and his lost opportunity.  He hoped this peace
offering between them would get him all the mileage he
needed for the next few minutes and beyond.

"Don't mention it.  You'd do the same for me, I'm sure,
under similar circumstances."

He tried to disarm her, soothing any qualms.  The gentle
common sense in his voice seemed to work, her smile of
thanks tiny and half-hearted.  She drained the paper cup
with closed eyes, appearing to savor the relief it brought,
then dropped it empty into the waste basket next to Mulder's
desk.  Without thinking, he saw her hand reach out, fingers
lingering in caress on the wooden edge.

He glanced over at Scully's wan face.  Stalling, he stepped
to his own desk and busied his hands among the papers there,
as he had done before, wondering how Mulder would have
handled her.  He hoped his desire for frankness and honesty
was valid.  That he was doing the right thing in the right
way, rather than burying or ignoring what he now suspected
to be true.

It seemed appropriate to speak his mind now, while she was
still receptive and accessible.  "You know," he began, his
words slow and quiet, "my ex-wife started out with
heartburn."

He sensed her stillness, knew her half-smile had vanished.

"Yeah.  She made these little groans sometimes, so soft I
could hardly hear 'em... I noticed it mainly when she stood
up and sat down.  Walked up the stairs.  When she got in and
out of the car.  She didn't want me to know about her
discomfort and worry about her."

"I assume you have a point."

He went for broke, stepping toward her so he could look her
full in the face with eyes that begged understanding.  "I
figure you must be, what?  About four... five months along
now...?"

After the deep, tremulous breath she drew, he almost
expected tears.  But he remembered to whom he spoke,
remembered the control under which she operated.  Her gaze,
while firm and direct, held a shadow of fear.  "You're quite
the investigator."

"Me?"  He shook his head.  "Nah, I'm not the expert... just
had some first-hand, personal experience a while back,
that's all."

Scully received the disclosure in silence, seemed to mull
over this frail hint at his failed marriage and nebulous
fatherhood.  Encouraged, he plunged ahead.

"They say honesty's the best policy.  Nothing gets
overlooked and we both benefit, in the end.  I've learned
the value of knowing my partner, among other things," he
continued.  "Strengths, weaknesses... changes in behavior.
Believe me, I know how hard it must be for you right now.
And, Agent Scully, like it or not there are some things you
can hide, and other things that, well... are just out of
your control."

Scully stood before him, receiving his disclosure with
shoulders back and head bravely erect.  "Please... make no
mention of this conversation or what you've learned to
anyone.  For reasons of personal safety," she quickly added
when his brows lifted, "which I'm not at liberty to divulge
at the present time."

"Will do," he concurred.  "I usually know to keep my nose
away from where it doesn't belong.  So, tell you what: I
don't need to know anything more than you want me to, unless
it compromises our safety out there.  Does that sound like a
plan?"

"It's workable," she agreed, though with reluctance.

"For the time being we're partners.  We watch each other's
back.  Though in the next few months, security or not,
well... your front is gonna get a fair share of public
attention.  Meant respectfully, of course."

She gave a tiny huff, eyelids lowered, cheek pinking.  "Of
course."

"Just the way the world works, Agent Scully," he ended,
dropping his gaze and waiting until she stirred, said
something, anything, to let him know he hadn't made a botch
of it.  "I just didn't want to see something this important
left to chance."

Her small hands remained clenched and pressed to her sides,
he noticed.  Always in control.  However, when she swiveled
her head upward to regard him, her face was softer, gentler
in the morning light from the window.  He wondered, with a
curious sense of hope, whether some of the load she carried
had just been lifted by his words.

"I appreciate your discretion in this matter," she murmured.

"Like I said, don't mention it."

He rubbed a sweaty palm down his pants leg, congratulating
himself.  He thought he'd covered all the bases unscathed,
that the conversation was, in effect, over.  Her next
puzzled words brought him up short.

"I was surprised to find this out on the desk when I came
in."  She indicated Mulder's nameplate with a faint wrist-
flick, where it still perched on the edge of the blotter.
"Is there any specific reason or significance for its being
there?"

His big shoulders rippled in a shrug.

"Like you, I'm committed to finding him... for a number of
very good reasons," he said quietly, picking up the object.
He approached her, reading the name to himself as he walked,
coming to a stop at her elbow.  "You know, it's kind of like
the focal point in Lamaze childbirth.  The way I see it, we
both could use the inspiration."

Looking down at this stalwart woman, sensing the emotion
that struggled within her, he slipped it into her hands
before turning away to attend to his own morning business.

********************

In the silence that followed, Scully clutched the nameplate.
One finger traced the first concave letter of Mulder's name.
Lightly, without unconscious thought, she lowered the other
hand to the front of her jacket, over the tiny swell of her
belly and the treasure hidden within.

She had pondered several things while trying not to overhear
the testosterone display out in the hall.  Why Doggett had
gone to the trouble of unearthing this particular object
from the drawer.  Why he put it out in plain sight again,
right where she would notice it.  He must have recognized
the significance of its absence -- even before she allowed
herself to admit the obvious.

Mulder.  Her beloved partner, the focus of an investigation
that still came up empty after months of fruitless
brainstorming.  Mulder, concealed and overlooked in the rash
of new cases that slid across their desks.  Mulder, buried
out-of-sight in a drawer, by her own hand -- like so many
significant things of late.  Perhaps Doggett had more savvy
than she realized.

She fought the surging remorse that burned through her
chest.  Of course she was discouraged by the lack of
positive leads after Mulder's unexpected disappearance,
disheartened by the hollow weeks of silence that grew to
become months of not knowing.  Still...

Head bowed, she felt like a lapsed pilgrim, who had somehow
misplaced her faith on this backward journey from firm
conviction to disenchantment.  When had she slipped?  Was it
the hormones of this miracle pregnancy racing through her
body, affecting her reactions, weakening her resolve and
priorities?  Had she become weary through constant
vigilance, then soft through inactivity and lack of tangible
results?

She loved Mulder to the depths of her soul, missed him with
an anguished intensity that burst forth only when she could
be alone with her grief.  Yet, in spite of that knife-edged
sense of loss, she felt in some untenable way that she'd
failed him.

Her hand rose up her body, fingers coming to rest on the
sharp tines of the gold cross at her neck.  How long had it
been since she attended Mass with any regularity?  Her
mother was sweet and relentless, leaving persuasive
invitations every Saturday night on her answering machine.
Maybe she should reconsider, in light of recent events.

And how long since she'd slipped to that serene, quiet
alcove within the church to light a candle for Mulder?  With
a chill it occurred to her that she'd never thought to light
one for their baby.  This tiny developing child within
her... loved into existence, compromised at conception, and
now endangered by the faulty inattention of his own mother.

Nothing dare be left to chance.  Oversights were risky,
dangerous, and therefore inexcusable.

The first step to redemption was in confession.  In
recognizing the sin and asking forgiveness.  She'd done
that; she was doing it again, over and over in her heart.
Sins of omission were just as forgivable as other types of
transgression.  She tried to remember her catechism,
realized how far from her roots and upbringing she'd
strayed... Then came penance, an opportunity to recompense
the wrongs committed through innocence and error.

She sat down behind Mulder's desk a few moments later to
rest and compose herself.  Blinking back emotion, she took a
measured breath, reinstating the nameplate on the smooth
surface before her where it could be viewed from all sides.
Perhaps Agent Doggett was right.  They could both use a
fresh dose of inspiration, a renewed focus.

She, on the other hand, would regard it as a talisman.  A
monument to faith -- and to her belief in the surety of
Mulder's inevitable and future homecoming.

********************
THE END

Sins of Omission
by mountainphile
February 17, 2001