TITLE:  The Mexican Absolution

AUTHOR:  ArtemisX5

EMAIL ADDRESS: artemisx5@hotmail.com 

CATEGORY:  VRA  
Note:  Borderline sallie-safe, Heavy Angst Warning!  

RATING: R for language

SUMMARY: Sometimes you gotta fight before you can 
forgive.

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Post-Truth. 

KEYWORDS: Mulder POV, MSR

DISCLAIMER: My lawyer and my shrink assure me that I 
did not, in fact, invent these characters.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray 
the Lord my muse to keep.  For she would not leave me 
well enough alone, until this story I did put down 
(on paper.)

I never claimed to be a poet.

God Bless mommy and daddy and my betas and me.

Amen.

Please excuse my lack of accent marks over the 
Spanish words that need them.  My computer is not 
multicultural.

FEEDBACK: Paves the road to Elysium.

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

Before I am fully conscious every morning, before my 
eyes even open, I take an inventory.  *Am I wearing 
clothes?  Check.  Am I in a bed?  Check.  Am I in 
shackles?  No.  Check.  Do I have a headache from 
being cold-cocked?  No.*  That always heralds a 
decent start to the day.  The most important item 
comes last:  Where is Scully? I have to open my eyes 
for that one.  *Not a hotel, not my apartment, not 
her apartment, not jail, not military prison, not a 
SnoCat...Mexico, yes.  So, where is she?*  I look 
toward her side of the bed, but it is empty.  I scan 
the small space we have come to call home and find 
nothing but empty air.  And so I greet the morning 
with the hot, gagging panic that only Missing-Scully 
can conjure in my gut.

The table is neat once again and the glass shards 
that she scattered across the floor last night are 
swept up.  Her notes are restored to an orderly pile, 
held down with an empty glass.  She's been awake long 
enough to clean and then she disappeared.

I slip out of bed and stand in the doorway, scanning 
the beach for her Kate Moss figure and new head of 
brunette hair.  Nowhere.

Out on the still-cool sand, I circle the little white 
bungalow, half-expecting to find her hiding teary 
eyes behind sunglasses while she lazes with mock ease 
in the hammock.  I don't see her anywhere along the 
beach, or in the garden-speckled border of the 
resort.

One of the gardeners waves to me, calling, "Buenos 
Dias, Senior McDowell."

"Buenos Dias. Donde esta mi..." My white man's 
tourist Spanish fails me.  "...esta la doctora?" 

He shrugs.  "No se, senior." 

"Gracias," I wave to him, hoping I look calm.  Inside 
my heart starts its familiar *Scully's missing* 
tattoo.  I am less willing to let her out of my sight 
now than I ever was.  And I was never very good at 
letting her go.  Even when our relationship was 
nothing but innuendoes and earnest promises, I wanted 
to chain myself to her.

Back in the bungalow, I search for evidence of her.  
The garbage glints in the sunlight and I find all the 
broken petrie dishes.  I had never seen her burning, 
raging as she was last night.  All her careful work, 
done with crude supplies--a child's microscope and 
agar pilfered from the local hospital--contaminated 
with bacteria in the Mexican heat.  She had shouted, 
"Fuck!" and swept the table clean.  The delicate 
tinkling of all the glass breaking was incongruous 
with her angry sobbing.   I had watched the 
microscope slip off the edge of the table.  
Mercifully, it landed on a chair, unharmed.

She crumpled over the table, shoulders shaking.  I 
put one hand on her back, but she shook me off, 
raising her head to glare at me.

"Don't.  Touch.  Me.  Not now."

I gave the table an angry shove.  "Dammit, Scully!  
Let me help you!"

"How are *you* going to help me?!" she spat.

I looked away, stung.  "You won't even let me try!  
You think can handle everything alone!"

"Are you saying I can't?" she challenged.  I could 
see her knuckles turning white where she gripped the 
table's edge.

I didn't want to answer.  We were indirectly fighting 
about William.  I didn't want to get mad at her 
again.  She didn't know how much anger I had about 
losing my son.  She was lucky Skinner was the one who 
told me.  He was the one who had to endure my pacing 
and wall pounding while I raged out loud against her.  
I had just as much anger for myself.  I believed-- 
and still believe--that I could have kept him safe if 
I'd been there.  We had talked about the possibility 
of giving him up, but it was the last resort, Plan Z, 
and I never believed it would happen.

I trust Scully above all else, so I have to believe 
that she had no choice.  I have to forgive her, and 
I'm starting to, but it's better for both of us if we 
don't talk about Will.

So I didn't answer.  I sat on the edge of the bed and 
avoided looking at her.  After a few minutes she 
swept her notes to the floor with all the glass 
shards and sat heavily beside me.

"I'll need more blood," she said in a thick voice.

"I know."  My arms were already dotted with puncture 
marks.  So were hers.  She rested hesitant fingertips 
on a bruise near my elbow.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I know."  I chose not to wonder what she might be 
including in that apology.

The ceiling fan squeaked above us.  I would have to 
climb on the bed and tighten the blades.  The first 
night we were here I had a nightmare about fan blades 
coming loose and killing us while we slept, so I 
tried turning it off the next night.  The still air 
was like a down blanket, choking us both, and I 
turned it back on.  The resort had promised us an air 
conditioning unit, but the Mexicans were not known 
for their rapid follow-through.

Scully eventually drew her legs up and curled into a 
nearly-fetal position on her side.  I watched her for 
a while before lying beside her.  She snaked one arm 
out to turn off the light, and we listened to each 
other breathe in the dark.

Just when I became certain that she was asleep, she 
rolled toward me and tucked her nose in the space 
beneath my shoulder.  I rubbed her thigh with one 
knuckle and she let a hesitant hand flutter onto my 
belly.  We fell into an uneasy sleep, touching, but 
not really feeling.

We were still learning to be together all the time, 
to share a bed without sex.  Before William, when our 
love was all secret smiles and stolen caresses, we 
shared a bed only in the aftermath of frantic 
lovemaking.  In the mornings we were always full of 
laughter and told tales of each other's nocturnal 
habits.

In the 72 hours we were allowed to be a family, we 
could barely sleep.  Instead, we laid with William 
between us, touching him, watching him, listening to 
him breathe. I had to touch her too, unable to 
believe she was real after months of dreaming of her.

When we came to Mexico we fell into bed each night, 
desperate for comfort and exhausted from another day 
spent as fugitives.  I ached to hold her all night, 
keeping her safe and assuring myself that she 
existed.

As the days stretched into weeks, we learned to 
believe that a few hours of sleep would end with us 
still being together, being safe.  She didn't know 
about the panic with which I met each waking.  She 
didn't know that I search for her if I can't 
immediately lay eyes on her when I wake up.

Most mornings I find her on the beach or in the 
hammock, reading or gazing at the ocean.  She always 
wakes me before answering a call from the resort.  We 
have no telephone, just her beeper.  They only page 
her when they need her, which is only 2 or 3 times a 
day.  She's never gone long but I still wait in fear.  
She won't let me accompany her to the small clinic 
room; we made that mistake early on.

Another tourist with another infant, dehydrated from 
the heat and the dysentery that results from using 
the Mexican water to make formula.  Scully could 
barely look at me while she fought for access to a 
vein.  The blonde baby wailed as Scully dug under his 
skin with a needle.  Finally, she had fluids running 
in, restoring the baby's color and calming him.  His 
panicked mother rocked him while Scully lectured her 
in an absent voice:  Use bottled water to make his 
formula, keep him out of direct sun, he must have 8-
10 wet diapers a day, give him antibiotics twice a 
day for ten days...

Her voice eventually trailed off and she just stroked 
the baby's hair, rocking in time with his mother.  I 
couldn't meet her eyes either, so I busied myself 
behind the small desk, sorting paper clips into piles 
I mentally labeled 'Little' and 'Big.'

We were silent as we walked back to our bungalow, 
close but not touching.  Tacitly agreeing, we passed 
the little house and waded into the ocean.  Scully 
waded beyond me, eventually diving into a wave, 
soaking her shorts and blouse.  When she emerged, her 
sunglasses were speckled with water and her blouse 
clung to nipples made hard by the cool water.  
Shivering despite the afternoon sun, she came to me 
and took my hands, leading me back to the depths.  I 
ducked my head under, washing away my immediate need 
to storm the borders and get my son back.

"I don't think it's very professional for you to come 
with me from now on," she said.

"Yeah.  Okay."  I nodded, conceding to this cover 
story.

Since then, I can tell when she's seen another baby.  
She returns to me and nudges me into holding her.  We 
sweat together, bolstering one another's will to go 
on.

This morning her absence is like a hole in my 
existence.  I have to find her.

The sand is too well tramped to find any trace of her 
footsteps. I close my eyes, casting about for her 
presence.  Since that terrible time with the ship, I 
can sense her sometimes.  She has to be making a lot 
of emotional noise for me to hone in on her, but I 
can do it.

Today she is nothing but a pale blue glow at the 
farthest edge of my ability, but I try to follow it.  
A walk down the beach and up into the narrow streets 
near the market brings her more into focus.  The glow 
is brighter and shimmers with fluctuating emotions.  
Closer now and a low buzz joins the glow.  

There are a lot of people in the market and it makes 
it hard to concentrate on one presence.  She should 
be easy enough to spot among the natives, but 
scanning the crowd brings nothing.  I would have to 
close my eyes and cover my ears, and I know that will 
draw unwanted attention.  I have to fall back on my 
the-I-in-FBI skills.


Finally, I notice a white church.  The door stands 
wide and I can see a crowd of parishioners inside.  I 
creep up the steps and try to find my quarry.  She's 
there, in the back row, sitting with her head dropped 
forward.  As I approach, her presence floods out the 
others in my mind.  She is aching, burning, melting 
inside.

I slip into the pew beside her.  She raises 
frightened eyes to me and I can see that she has been 
crying, before recognition dawns.  She looks forward, 
away from me.  I follow her gaze and finally notice 
that there are a group of Mexican babies awaiting 
baptism in the sacristy.  A small team of priests is 
milling about, preparing the oils and the baptismal 
bath.

*Oh Scully, why are you doing this to yourself?*

One of the babies begins to cry and Scully covers her 
face, shoulders shaking with anguish.  I pull her 
into my arms, absorbing her grief.

"William never cried," she whispers to me.  My chest 
tightens.  "He was perfect."

I want to let her go and leave the church.  Breathe 
air free of incense and try to reclaim control of my 
anger.

"I never should have let him go," she whispers, 
stilling my heart.  "I should have waited for you."

I tighten my arms around her, not wanting her to find 
those sentiments echoed in my eyes.  "I should have 
tried harder," she sighs.

The dam breaks and I let my long-held tears fall.  I 
have needed her to say that for so long.

Another baby begins to howl in harmony with the 
first.

"I should never have left," I confess in a whisper.  
"You were never any safer without me."

"We were so stupid," she gasps.

She's right.  We were foolish, believing we could 
outsmart our enemies.  Believing we were just as 
strong apart.

Scully's presence fills all my senses.  Her hair 
still smells faintly of Clairol, and her body smells 
of sweat and sorrow.  She feels hot and soft and so 
very real.  I want to taste the salt of her skin, but 
even I can't defile the Church that way.

"I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry," she whispers.

"I know," I assure her.  "I love you.  I'm sorry I 
left.  I'm sorry I couldn't protect you; both of 
you."

"I know," she sighs in my arms, slowly coming back to 
herself.

We watch the babies become little Catholics, neither 
of us following the lilting Spanish of the sacrament.

When the service is over we wait for the church to 
empty.  One of the priests approaches us.

"Sister," he says, "you are in pain?"

"Her mother died one year ago," I lie before Scully 
can give him her famous, 'I'm fine.'

"Ah," the priest nods and extends his hands to us.  
To my surprise, Scully takes his hand readily and 
nods for me to take the other.  The young priest 
begins a prayer in his native tongue.  I recognize 
the occasional word, but not enough to make sense of 
it.

The ring on Scully's left hand feels foreign in my 
palm.  I wish we had more than a forged marriage 
license and these gold-plated rings.  I wish we had 
our baby here with us.  I wish a lot of things.

The priest releases our hands to cross himself.  
Scully mirrors him and I belatedly mimic her motions.  
She smiles at me a little.

"You are welcome here..." the priest leaves us an 
opening to introduce ourselves.

"Isobel," Scully supplies.  Her fake name still 
sounds foreign on her lips.  "This is my husband, 
Marc."

"Isabella y Marco," the priest repeats our names in 
Spanish while we slide out of the pew.

"Si," I agree.

"Bienvenidos," he says, shaking our hands 
individually.

"Gracias," Scully says gently.  Her Spanish is 
minimal, but her accent is more natural than mine.  
She has learned in the market and from the staff at 
the resort.

Her beeper chirps once then buzzes.  She presses the 
button to silence it, glancing at the display.

"We should go," her voice is gravelly.

"Emergency?" I ask.

"No," she smiles faintly at the priest.  "Gracias, 
Padre."

"De nada, Isabella."

She smiles, then takes my hand.  Her wedding ring 
scrapes my palm.  Just before her eyes disappear 
behind sunglasses again, I catch a glimpse of some of 
her familiar light.

"You look better," I tell her as we head for the 
beach.

"I feel better; a little anyway."

We are walking through the bright market now and the 
vendors are all clambering for our attention.  We 
ignore them with practiced ease.

"I'm still pissed about my cultures," she confesses 
after a while.

"I know you are, Izzy."  I have adopted this pet name 
for her in public because it feels like Scully in my 
mouth and because she always rolls her eyes at the 
sound of it.  "Lucky for you I've got lots of blood."

She smiles faintly.

"How long have you been going to the church?"

She's startled by my question, glancing at me out of 
the corners of her eyes.  "Just since last week.  You 
were sleeping."

"You still believe?"

Her mouth twists in thought.  She takes a deep 
breath, "I pray to William."

My heart squeezes.  "Oh."

She looks away.  "You think I'm foolish."

"No."  I don't.  I'm just surprised.  "Seems like a 
big burden for a kid."

"I know.  But I believe in him."

"What do you pray?"

"Mulder," she warns.

"Marc," I correct her.  

She sighs.  "I pray that life will finally be kind to 
us.  That we'll be all right.  That we'll be safe 
here.  That we'll be together again.  I don't 
know..."

"Do you think he can hear you?"

Although I cannot see her eyes, the eyebrow pops up 
over the left lens of her glasses.

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not.  I want to know what you think."

Her lips tighten into a thin line for a moment.  "I 
like to think he does."

She doesn't know that I can sense her sometimes, so I 
am hesitant to tell her that I have been searching 
for William with my mind.  He is a brilliant white 
light, shifting, molten like the sun.  I memorized 
his presence in the short time I played daddy, and 
now I can feel him very far away.  He is difficult to 
hold onto, I think because he only has baby thoughts.  
There is no language, very little differentiation of 
emotions.  All I know is that he seems happy and 
safe.  The distance makes it difficult to be certain.  
I hope some day he'll reach out for me and I can be 
sure.

"He's okay, Scully," I say in a low voice.  
"Sometimes I can feel him, and he's okay."

She stumbles to a halt in front of a fruit vendor, 
looking at me intently.  One quivering hand floats up 
and tugs her sunglasses off.  She slides mine off 
next, forcing me to meet her eyes.  "Are you sure?"

I nod, squeezing her hands.

Her knees buckle and she grabs me for support.  I 
loop my arms around her, pulling her close.

"Thank God.  Thank you, God," she murmurs into my 
chest.

I pepper her hair with kisses to distract myself from 
the hot tears that sting my eyes.

"Okay," she mumbles, pulling back from me and 
readjusting her collected look. Her eyes are puffy 
and red, but I recognize the familiar fight in them.  
She smiles at me, cupping my cheek in one palm.  
"We're gonna do this," she affirms.

I nod once, agreeing.  I feel somewhat restored, 
confessing my secret connection.  I had wanted to 
keep it from her, hoard the knowledge and let her 
worry as I did, but we need each other too much for 
these petty schemes.  I never expected that it would 
be difficult to forgive her anything, but now that I 
am starting to forgive her for giving up William, I 
realize how distant I have remained.  And I see now 
that she has been trying just as hard to forgive me 
for leaving.

We've always worked better together than apart.  It's 
amazing how we have remained apart despite our 
proximity.  Finally together, finally truly together, 
I want to believe that we will win; that we'll get 
William back.

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

Fin.