LUMINARIES OF THE HEART
by Blackwood
entreamis@yahoo.com

RATING: PG
CATEGORY: MSR, Vignette, ScullyAngst
SPOILERS: Minimal for The Amazing Maleeni, Requiem, Within/Without
ARCHIVE: With intact header and a note to me.
SUMMARY: An anonymous holiday package gives Scully pause.  This text
inspired by Christina's story, "Gold Embossing," found at:
http://www.geocities.com/christinalynne1227/fictions/skinnergift.htm
DISCLAIMER: These characters are the property of Chris Carter, 1013
Productions and all of *them.* The MSR herein is *mine.*

*~*~*~*

It isn't until she hears the sharp rapping on her door that she
realizes she's been washing the same glass over and over for the last
three minutes. "Who's there?" she calls then sighs, rinsing
opalescent soap bubbles from her hands and setting the crystal into
the rack of the drain board.

She's drifting again. She should ask her doctor about it. Maybe it's
hormonal or maybe it's stress. She isn't sure, but it's foolish and
dangerous for a law enforcement agent.  She hears the accusations of
the good ole boys in her head:  Agent Scully's losing her edge. Gone
womanish over her missing partner.  Sure, they were close -- *real*
close.  

Dammit.

She grabs for the damp terry dishcloth, patting residual moisture
from her hands, then working in a dab of glycerin ointment from the
tube near the faucet. Four o'clock and indigo twilight descends
outside the windows at the front of her apartment.  The glow from her
desk lamp grows brighter as the sky grows dimmer. The days are short,
but getting longer. The irony of her thoughts is not lost on her.

She crosses to the door and opens it. Peering into the hallway, she
glances up and down and back. Eyes squint, perplexed. Then she looks
down and sees the package beside the entry, gold paper embossed with
shiny stars, a gauzy ribbon wrapped around it with precision.

She squats down in slow motion, hand sliding along the doorframe for
balance as she descends. She picks up the box, turning it over and
around, looking for a gift tag. There's none to be found. She arches
a brow and stands. Studying the paper, she scrutinizes the stars as
if they are alien glyphs. Yes, she knows what those look like; but
no, these are simpler human symbols meant to mark the season at hand.

She closes the door and locks it behind her without looking before
making her way to the sofa. She sits down, package in lap. She snaps
on the table lamp and shadows scurry like mice into the
corners as she's flooded by a pool of yellow light. Cursory suspicion
gives pause, but the box is thin and flat; not the right proportions
for a mail bomb at all. She refuses to live in fear and frankly,
after everything she's been through, she feels like saying, "Surely
you can do better than that."

It's the day after Christmas and she should be working, but a bad
cold without benefit of meds kept her home today.  She didn't go to
San Diego this year. Mom called in and her nephew Matthew sang
"Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer" for her. Sweet. She wonders what
it'll be like when *her* baby can sing songs.

She looks at the package again and admires the care that went into
its wrapping.  It reflects a thoughtful giver and she wonders, again,
who might be so shy as to leave an anonymous gift by her door. And
why. She fingers the gilded bow then clasps the ends, tugging until
the knot loosens and the ribbon unfurls over her legs. She pulls at
it and it slides through her hands, fluttering to the carpet. She
leaves it there, curious about the contents of the package in her
lap.

The paper is stiff, heavy with crisp folds. Only the ribbon secured
the ends and the paper rustles and gaps as she pulls it from the
package. The box is plain white cardboard, hard and thick. She raises
the cover and places it beside her.  She stares at the object within,
pressed into the crushed tissue surrounding it. Tears fall without
her awareness, slow coursing over her cheeks, burning her skin with
salty memory.

It's a photograph.

Unframed, stark in its simplicity, she recalls the day it was taken
-- a day of commendation.  Mulder's ten year-old profile of Kyle
MacMahon, the Tarot serial killer, was still relevant as they tracked
down the rapist-murderer in the bowels of the New York City subway
system. Mulder resisted taking a righteous kill shot and the Director
lauded his restraint.

A government photographer was dispatched for publicity shots.
Kimberly was there, too, taking the photos she always did whenever
her boss was recognized. There was an album of such photos on a shelf
of Skinner's office, along with his Purple Heart and military bars,
personal commendations and assorted Bureau memorabilia. Scully has
seen it, though never its contents.

The photograph is one of those candids and she knows, then, who sent
the gift. She studies the print. It's a waist-up shot of three people
standing near the flag in Skinner's office. There she is in her black
suit, looking at Mulder with an amused secretive smile on her face.
He stands opposite, challenging the camera with his eyes, daring Kim
to take the shot. And between them is Skinner facing forward, his
arms encircling the shoulders of his best agents.

There's no obvious favoritism in his posture, no betrayal of any
emotion other than approval in his formal smile. Then she sees his
eyes as they watch *her* watching Mulder and, all at once, she
understands why Skinner is willing to risk his career, his pension,
his life to find Mulder.  For her.  She can't return the gesture. Her
heart is already given, although under other circumstances, Walter
Skinner might have been more than a supportive boss or faithful
friend.

She turns the snapshot over and sees the neat, square print of her
supervisor's meticulous hand. The words are minimal, but their
meaning large in her mind: "I miss him, too -- W." She closes her
eyes, brushing tears from her cheeks as she inhales a deep breath.
She releases it and wipes her hand dry on the shirt over her heart.

She isn't afraid to raise a child by herself, but children need a
father figure in their life. And if Mulder doesn't return... No. She
can't think this way.  But she does.

Laying the photo on the table before her, she stoops to pick up the
wrapping paper and ribbon strewn on the floor. She adds the empty box
to the heap and rises to cross to the kitchen. Opening the cabinet
door under the sink with her foot, she pitches all into a brown paper
refuse bag. She pauses, then reclaims a scrap of crushed paper,
tearing off an odd-sized piece before tossing the rest away.

She closes the cabinet and passing by the coffee table, picks up the
photo, cradling it in her hand as she continues to her desk. There
sits her new laptop: plugged in, modem connected, ready for her able
command. She sets the glossy on the shelf beside the desk, propping
it beside the picture of Mulder and herself -- the one they took on a
lark after a case in California with a wry con man who practiced
magic and chicanery with a deft hand.

She stares at the two images a long time, her right hand stroking her
stomach in small circles. She turns to consider the wrinkled paper
poised in her left. Looking up, she scans the bookshelf. She tugs the
book of college literature from the shelf, coughing at the scattered
dust. She sets it alongside the computer and without hesitating, she
thumbs to a random page.

The thick volume's worn binder cracks from disuse and the smell of
aging paper reminds her of a time when life was still an adventure
waiting to happen. Her eyes fall to the words that rest beside her
index finger. She's pleased to find she's turned to a page of
religious quotations. She's certain that if Mulder were here, he'd be
going on about automatic writing, channeling spirits or the practice
of stichomancy.  *She* chalks it up to chance.

"The heart of the giver makes the gift rare and precious." The quote
is from Martin Luther, reformer and freethinker. He quested for the
truth regardless of the personal cost. Mulder said the personal costs
of *their* quest had become too high, but he was wrong.  Now more
than ever, it is the truth that matters.  And only uncovering the
truth will return him to her.

Her thoughts turn to the meaning of the words she's just read and the
man who left the package at her door in secret silence.  A good man
who cares about her well being and that of her unborn child.  He,
too, will confront the status quo, the Powers That Be in her search
for the truth.  Placing the scrap of gold-on-gold paper in the crease
of the page, she closes the book, returning it to its place among her
other belongings for safekeeping.  Yes, she could be sentimental with
the best of them.  She could even be maudlin.  It just never seemed
to help. And it won't help her find Mulder.

She picks up her cell phone lying beside the laptop.  She hesitates,
then dials a full exchange, unwilling to enter it into speed dial.
Not yet. The fourth trill ends with a gravelly, "Agent Scully?"
Doggett has caller I.D. and she's allowed her number to show through,
but she's glad he confirms her identity in such a formal manner. She
does the same with him.  It keeps them grounded.

John Doggett has been low key and careful. He hasn't pressed her for
information or tried to deceive her.  It could all be a bluff, but
her instincts say otherwise.  Perhaps she's misjudged him.  He *is*
the task force leader.  Perhaps it's time she allowed him to truly
help her.

"Agent Doggett? I was going over my notes regarding Mulder and --" 
Her mouth purses at the interruption.  "Better, thank you. Just a
cold. Thank you for asking." She listens, pressing her tongue to her
upper lip. "There's something else we need to discuss." She waits.
"No, I haven't eaten. I can meet you there in half an hour." She
pauses and assesses the motives of the man on the other end of the
line. She drops her head a notch. "Merry Christmas to you, too," she
says low.

She hangs up the phone and leaving the computer on, leaves her chair.
Tugging on her woolen coat, she finds she can't button the bottom two
buttons. She leaves it all undone. Closing down the file, she turns
off the power to the laptop. She looks out the window and sees the
evening star, a silvered point of light in the twilight sky.  "Star
light, star bright..." she whispers to herself and makes her silent
wish.  The ancients lived their lives by the positions of the stars
in the night sky, their explorers navigating the unknown by stars and
faith alone.  She has more resources than that.  Her own luminaries
to light the way.

She casts a glance at the two photographs on her library shelf. A
moment to linger on the face of the man she loves and then she
pockets her keys, her badge, her weapon and her cell. Her back
straightens and she exits her home, pulling the door closed with a
solid snick.

Time to seek the truth. Time to work.

END
December 2000