TITLE: Sins of Omission (1/1) AUTHOR: mountainphile RATING: PG-13 for language EMAIL: mountainphile@hotmail.com URL: http://www.geocities.com/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
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