Title: Patterns of Faith
Author: Anna Otto
Email: annaotto1@aol.com

Rating: PG
Classification: VA
Summary: Scully's POV. Is waiting worth it? An answer to "Meaningless 
Life" by Rachel Ehrentreu.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions 
and FOX. No copyright infringement is intended...
Spoilers: None

Please ask before archiving.
Feedback: oh, yes... 

Author's Note:
I could not resist writing a companion piece to Meaningless Life - so 
here I am, guilty once again of exploring this intriguing subject from 
another angle... I think that this piece will make way more sense if 
you've read Meaningless Life first. 
I attribute all the good stuff about this story to Rachel, and this 
one is, of course, for her :-)


January, 2019

	I endure memories like a physical punishment, gritting my teeth 
when the pain is too sharp, clenching my fists to prevent the tears from 
flowing. The images and sounds spill over from my waking hours into my 
dreams, but even then I am not free from the tormenting knowledge that 
I have lost you. 

	That I have failed you.

	Twenty years later, the memory of our first and last kiss still 
burns on my lips like a mark of the branding iron. The salty taste of 
your mouth, the gentle insistence of your hands on my body, the light 
whisper of the wind in the cool night air, and the giddy realization 
that this - this is what I've always wanted and never had... the 
sensations haven't faded with time, haven't dissolved in the dark 
waters of the past. Even if they belong to the previous century, 
previous millenium, to the man and woman who no longer exist. 

	It was the first thing I remembered as I woke up in a hospital 
bed fourteen months later - even as the knowledge of where I spent them 
was missing. My mother smiled with sadness and acceptance as I spoke such 
familiar words: I don't remember. She spoke of the unusually cold
weather of March, 2001, of Bill's new daughter and of Charlie's 
engagement, of the remodeling she started in her Baltimore house, even 
of the political situation in the Eastern Europe, as if she was looking 
for something - anything - to say to the daughter whom she'd lost and 
found again. Detachedly, I thought that mothers could never get 
used to the disappearances of their children even if they occurred with 
the regularity of clockwork.

	She squeezed my hand sympathetically when I asked the only question 
that made sense in my world, where is Mulder, he must have been going crazy. 
The only response was silence, and it was heavier than the knowledge that 
I had lost more than a year of my life. But I am back now, I said without 
comprehension. He will want to see me.

	Gradually, the recollections of the months of the past seasons 
filtered through, and smoke clouded my senses, a bitter taste filled my 
mouth. Was I so consumed with myself that I didn't notice the change in 
you? Was I so blinded by your attempts to cover your nervousness, to 
pretend the carefree normalcy, that not even a gunshot wound could open 
my eyes? Did I not realize that each one of your touches was tinged with 
the desperation, settling like a coat of dust in the recesses of the 
dark eyes?

	I remember the time before and the time after, and the contrast 
drives the poisoned needle of regret and guilt through my veins. 
Anticipation and chaos of new cases and your smile hiding in the corners 
of dark eyes against the orderliness of Quantico labs and reproachful 
respect on the young faces of my students. The knowledge that my work 
mattered and your unspoken need for my presence against the realization 
of my insignificance and my own unrelenting, thirsty need to hear your 
voice, to catch but a glimpse of your face...

	I remember wondering why I ran from you that night, my fears and 
reasons seeming so petty now. 

	I remember your apartment door opening and a young light-haired 
man smiling at me. He moved in a few months ago, and before that it was 
empty. I remember dialing your phone number and listening to the 
displeased automated voice telling me that it had been disconnected. I 
remember Skinner's frank pity, his frightening solicitousness as he told me 
that you vanished and the X-Files department was only a page in the Bureau 
history, that re-opening it would require time and effort. I remember nodding 
coldly and walking out of his office, only to be met by the impenetrable look 
on the face of the Cigarette-Smoking Man. His lips shaped into a resemblance 
of a benevolent smile - and he held the door for me with gentlemanly 
politeness.

	I remember Skinner averting his eyes when I asked him what the 
old man wanted. To find out how you are doing, he said gently. And in 
that moment, I knew with cold certainty that you were alive, that my 
return, my life, my very being may have mattered to you before...

	But they didn't matter now.

	I remember my rational, grounded side trying to convince me to 
forget... to move on... to stop searching the shadows. But occasionally, 
I would find fresh flowers on the graves of your parents, and I hoped with 
the fervor of newly converted or desperately mad that you would find your 
way back to me.

	I remember looking each day in the mirror only to discover the 
red of my hair fading to be replaced by silvery white, the wrinkles 
appearing around the dimming blue of my eyes, around the thinly drawn line 
of my mouth. I remember my throat drying up each time I picked up the 
phone, expecting always only the sound of your voice. I remember my 
fingers slipping sometimes as I opened my mailbox, telling myself that 
today would be the day when I received an envelope with the familiar 
handwriting. 

	Then trying to convince myself that maybe it would be tomorrow.

	Skinner retired a few days ago, but not before he re-opened the 
long-forgotten department. Perhaps the fact that the smell of nicotine 
had evaporated from his office was enough of an incentive... perhaps, the 
knowledge that a sixty-five-year old man on pension was hardly a threat... 
perhaps, the desire to right what went wrong prevailed. I visited the two 
agents who were assigned to The X-Files, and they treated me with polite 
interest and respect one affords the relics of history. They were young, 
impassioned, and self-assured, and I didn't have the heart to warn 
them... they would only have laughed at me.

	And as I left their office quickly, envy and unwanted self-pity 
combining into a dull throb in my head, I caught a slight whiff of 
cigarette smoke and saw the familiar slender hand holding a Morley. The 
tall man in a charcoal suit stopped and turned abruptly to meet my gaze.

	"You look well, Agent Scully," his lips moved, but all I could 
see were the fingers playing with a cigarette, each movement languid and 
mesmerizing, blasphemously familiar. Perhaps, he wasn't expecting an 
answer, for he continued right away. "If you will excuse me, I would like 
to meet my new... colleagues." The old cigarette was out, and a new one 
was lit reflexively.

	"Mulder..." a soft exhalation passed my lips, and no one could have 
heard it but him.

	"That is not my name," the door was opened and closed smoothly. 

	Today was the first day when I haven't looked through my mail.

	For twenty years, I have been directing each waking thought to 
you, seeing myself through your eyes, judging myself through your system 
of beliefs. I have been waiting with the patience that only you possessed, 
trusting with the faith that burned so brightly inside you.

	For twenty years, I have been living with a ghost.

	And for the rest of my life, I am destined to struggle in search
of the reason why you judged it worthwhile to betray not me, but yourself.

	Sometimes... sometimes I remember what came after the kiss: 
your screams as the flash of light engulfed me, and the terror magnified 
by love in your eyes. And I think that maybe I have all the pieces of 
the puzzle and the answers are there - but I am so tired of looking...

	An old woman, I am left only with my conviction that you did what 
you believed was right. In this ever-changing world, I know I could 
always trust only in the steady strength of your beliefs.

	For such is the nature of faith.

END

annaotto1@aol.com

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