Title: Devotions
 Author: Vickie Moseley (vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com)
 Spoilers: subtle one for Detour, maybe one for Redux II
 Summary: Mulder finds Scully at Mass after a hard case. They
 both get something out of it.
 Rating: G (boy, do you look surprised!)
 Category: V (hey, look, Moseley wrote a vignette!), A, very lite
 MT, UST or MSR depending on your leanings
 Disclaimer: Bless me, Father . . . opps, wrong disclaimer. OK, I
 officially do not intend to profit from this work, and hereby do not
 intend to infringe on the copyright of 10-13 Productions or FOX or
 EWTN and Mother Angelica respectively.
 Love and cyberroses to my betas: Jenniferanne, Sally, Susan and Donna
 you guys buoy me up all the time :)
 Author's notes: for years (since Redux II) I've wanted to do a
 story where Mulder comes to find Scully in church. I may do a
 series, I've had some many ideas on it. But this is breaking a mild
 case of writer's block, so if there's potential here, let me know. I
 promise not to go overboard with religious overtones :) 

Devotions
 by Vickie Moseley
 vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

I see him as I'm coming back from Communion. I wonder idly how
 he knew which pew I was sitting in, then I realize. He's probably
 been standing at the back for some time. He does that. Just stand
 there, like he's late for Mass and waiting for the right moment to sit
 down, not wanting to disturb the service. In actuality, he doesn't
 want to disturb me. 

I've never rejected his presence. I've never told him not to come. 
 If anything, I've made subtle hints that he's welcome to join me,
 but that I understand if he doesn't. I'm not about to 'witness' to
 him. I don't think Mother Angelica would take Mulder on as a
 potential convert. His determined, even defiant rejection of religion
 and all it's meanings are too daunting to confront. But he doesn't
 have to believe to just sit beside me in a pew. 

I think he knows that. He knows that here, I'm finding peace. Just
 a moment. Sure, this isn't my own church. It's just a little mission
 church, off the roadside in the middle of Georgia. Not a lot of
 Catholics to be found in Georgia. I was lucky to find a Mass this
 Sunday. If I hadn't, it wouldn't have caused much concern. I
 could have gone to St. Pat's at noon any day next week to fulfill my
 personal obligation. It might not be Vatican II, but it's how I've
 had to adapt to my return to the faith. If I miss Sunday, I make it
 up somewhere else. But I need this time, this 60 minutes away
 from everything. 

He thinks I need this time away from him. For someone so brilliant,
 Mulder can be incredibly obtuse. He thinks he's the reason I run to
 the dark, the stained glass, the incense. He thinks I turn to God
 because I'm turning away, just for a moment, from him. From the
 work. From the lies and the deceit and the almost hopelessness of
 our quest. He couldn't possibly be more wrong. 

I come here to gain strength for the battle. In some of my more
 fanciful moments, I envision myself an older, modern Joan of Arc. 
 Joan found strength in God, the strength to lead an army, the
 strength to face betrayal, the strength to die for her faith. I like to
 think I find my strength here, too. My faith buoys me, calms my
 tormented seas. Gives me peace. 

As I kneel down, I feel him sliding into the pew beside me. 
 Without looking over, I acknowledge his presence. 

"Did you go running?" I whisper, still not turning my eyes from the
 ornate wooden crucifix at the front of the church. 

It's shorthand, and diversion, all rolled into one. If he got to sleep
 at any time last night, he probably just woke up. His hair is damp
 and he smells of soap and aftershave. If he didn't sleep, he was out
 the door of his motel room hours ago, trying to run himself into
 exhaustion, shove back the demons we unleashed when we entered
 this town. Four miles is average, but not always enough. Then he
 would have returned to the room, showered and shaved, then
 knocked on my door to take me to breakfast. That was probably
 the point, after a moment of terror, that he realized it was Sunday
 and knew where to find me. 

"Ten miles, give or take a couple," he answers in a whisper that
 even the little old lady in the pew behind us would have missed. I
 hold back a sigh. The longer the run, the harder the case has been
 on him. I knew he'd had a hard time this time. Kids. They were
 always the worst for him. But at least we put a stop to more
 killing. And at least three families know some closure, some peace. 

"Breakfast after this?" I whisper back. Again, it's a gauge more
 than a request. His answer will tell me a lot. 

"If you want. I'm not that hungry. Hey, aren't you supposed to be
 praying or something," he reminds me with a good natured poke to
 my back. 

I shake my head, but my smile fades quickly. He has barely eaten in
 days and it's starting to show on his waistline. I wonder for a
 moment if that's sexual harassment in a veiled form, the fact that I
 can tell when he's lost weight, probably before he even notices. I
 shove the thought aside. 

Communion doesn't take long, there are no more than 100 people
 in the small church this morning. Some smiled at me when I came
 back to my pew earlier and as they passed my pew on the way to
 their own. One or two I remembered from the crime scenes, a
 teacher of the kids whom we'd interviewed, one of the deputies at
 the Sheriff's office. They'd nodded solemnly and looked away, but
 I could detect a hint of respect in their glance. Maybe the suits
 from DC weren't so bad after all, I'm sure they'd been thinking. 

Mulder is fidgeting, anxious to leave. I would tell him to wait for
 me in the car, but that would offend him, so I don't. I just look up
 at the board near the pulpit to find the recessional song. 

Joyful Joyful, We Adore Thee. I love this song! It's Beethoven
 and joyous and I can actually hit the notes. After all we've been
 through this week, I need this song. It's a song of triumph over
 death, over evil. Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, God of Glory, Lord
 of Love. Oh yes, I feel like shouting, but content myself to the
 words of the song. 

I notice I'm not alone. It's not surprising that Mulder would stand,
 it's sort of uncomfortable sitting in a pew when all around you are
 on their feet. But what surprises me is the voice I'm hearing in my
 left ear. Strong and confident, hitting each note as if he'd practiced
 it for years. To my astonishment, he's not even holding the book. 
 Photographic memory aside, when did he run across this particular
 number on the religious Top Twenty Hit Parade? 

As the last notes fade, he tosses me a smile. "Oxford. Vespers
 were mandatory for underclassmen," he says by way of cryptic
 explanation. 

"You have a good voice," I comment as I gather my purse. 

"You do, too. You just need to sing more classics," he returns as
 an offhand compliment. "Not that Three Dog Night aren't right up
 there with Beethoven, but . . ." 

I blush and put the Weekly Missal back in the holder behind the
 pew. He takes that as his cue and moves into the aisle. He tries
 not to look embarrassed as I genuflect quickly before turning
 toward the door. I decide one day without holy water isn't going
 to be my undoing, but it might save Mulder a little discomfort so I
 button my coat and head out into the cold winter sunshine. 

The priest is smiling and shaking hands. He recognizes us, though
 I'm sure we've never met. Word travels fast in small towns, and
 the fact that the FBI had arrived and even solved the case would
 have spread like wild fire. 

"Thank you both, so very much. You have know idea how many
 prayers you've helped to answer," he says as he pumps Mulder's
 hand and then my own. I detect the faint pink cast appearing on my
 partner's cheeks, but it could be from the strong wind that's come
 up. "Are you heading home now?" 

Mulder seems dumbstruck at the priest's genuine show of gratitude,
 so I answer for us both. 

"Yes, we're driving to Atlanta this afternoon. We have a plane to
 catch back to DC." 

"Well, God's speed to you both. You'll be in my prayers." 

I smile and thank him. I start to turn away, to find the car,
 wondering who dropped Mulder off, or if he just walked from the
 motel, when I stop because I know he's not following. My eyes
 scan the crowd and I find Mulder deep in conversation with the
 priest. I start to go over to them, but he shakes the older man's
 hand and catches up to me. 

"What was that all about?" I ask lightly, my curiosity overriding my
 natural inclination to leave well enough alone, again. 

Mulder shrugs and hurries ahead of me to open the driver's side
 door for me. I stand there, waiting for an answer. 

"No conspiracy, Scully," he chuckles as he moves around to the
 other door. "I just wanted to make sure he got our names right." 

I smile, but don't comment directly. "McDonald's on the way to
 the airport or Millie's Dine-In after we've packed the car?" I
 inquire. 

"Millie's," he replies with a yawn. "I could eat a horse." 

I smile again, but hide it by checking my left side mirror. God does
 indeed work in mysterious ways. 

the end.
 Vickie 

"When you start, you make certain choices, and those choices accumulate and
 create a number of [other] choices. The story starts to tell itself, and
 that's been very exciting in a way. There's so much that has come and been
 told that you are, in a way, a slave to the facts you've created, and it's a
 really fun way to tell stories. That's not to say it's simplified. In fact,
 it becomes complicated, but it all starts to make sense, and that's been a
 really wonderful thing." 

Quote from Chris Carter on development of The X Files