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"Washed in the Blood" Name: Branwell E-Mail: COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET Date Finished: July 4, 1999 Rating: PG, Innuendo. Category: V, M/S A, UST and MSR Vignette takes off from "Milagro", Angst, deeply buried Mulder/Scully UST and MSR Archiving permission: Anyone may archive this. Just keep my name with it. It's already been posted to ATXC and Ephemeral for eventual archiving at Gossamer. Disclaimer: Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Ten Thirteen productions created and own the characters you recognize. My writing is for fun, not profit. Thanks: I owe thanks, as always, to Pellinor's incomparable "Deep Background." I would also like to thank Bugs for words of encouragement, her unique insights, and for setting an example of remarkable courage by inviting public feedback on the newsgroup. Summary: An exploration of how the events of "Milagro" affect Mulder's view of his and Scully's relationship. ----------------------------------------------- Mulder hovered close enough to the tour group to eavesdrop on the lecture. He wasn't sure how he'd ended up at the Washington National Cathedral. Now that he was here he might as well indulge his curiosity. ". . . begun in 1907. The final stone was laid in 1990, during the presidency of George Bush. It will probably be the world's last example of pure gothic architecture. No structural steel . . . ." "When do we get to see the chapel you just re-opened?" a plump, pinkly sunburned woman interrupted. "Yes, that's what I came for too. It is open to the public again, isn't it?" a pale, earnest young man asked quickly. The young priest looked troubled. Then he tried to smile. "To everything there is a season," he observed. "We took the barriers down last week." "Have there been any . . . incidents?" the young man queried. "No. No. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened." Mulder noted the unconscious nods that accompanied the priest's denials. "Let me call your attention to the scale of the cathedral. From here to the high altar it's a tenth of a mile . . . ," the lecture continued. There was another, larger group gathered in the north aisle, closer to the main altar. Mulder drifted away to join them. Perhaps this was the famous chapel. An elderly docent stood inside the low railing and pitched his reedy voice to reach all his listeners. "It was built ten years ago. Some of you may have read sensational stories in the gutter press about the problems we've had. The stories are purely fictional. It's true we've had to close the area off from time to time to repair damage to the chapel and its contents. The cause remains uncertain. Engineering consultants say there may be an undetected structural weakness. We couldn't entirely rule out vandalism. Everything's been rebuilt and reinforced, and there's a new alarm system. Feel free to come by after the tour and offer a prayer or meditation for its future preservation." Mulder snickered quietly. People tied logic into love knots before they'd consider extreme possibilities. The guide looked around and smiled benevolently. "Now, does anyone know the story of the chapel's origin?" he asked. "It was built to honor government employees, now that the system has been purified," a blushing young woman proclaimed. "Yes, it honors all government employees by honoring one in particular," he agreed, ending his reply on a rising note that encouraged his listeners to add more. "It's dedicated to the Patroness of the Truth, St. Dana," said a school-aged girl in long braids. A tangled ribbon of sights and sounds flashed by in Mulder's thoughts. It changed as it moved through his mind, like a colorful scarf whipped through a magician's ring. He tried to follow the guide's recitation of facts. "Very good. She inspired a whole generation of men and women to change their world of work, thus changing our lives as citizens. There was no sacrifice too great. She gave up wealth, any hope of professional advancement, family, friends, health, and even love. The Truth became her Holy Grail. Of course in the end she gave her life for it." His audience observed the proper solemnity for a moment. Then they relaxed and low voices murmured at the back of the crowd. The docent drowned them out effortlessly with a louder, higher tone. "Hopeless people looked to her for hope. People who lived lies but hated believing them, who were forced to apologize as policy, who were sickened by a government culture of lawlessness. I'm old enough to remember the exposure of the unspeakable Black-eyed Fever experiments." The young people in the group rolled their eyes, while their elders nodded slightly in recognition. Mulder felt light-headed, as though he'd looked down into an unexpected chasm. He had been in this place before, but it must have been at night. The picture hadn't been visible. "That's a beautiful picture of her," came a voice from the back of the group. The eyes were too blue, Mulder was almost sure. The artist had painted her heart in a disturbingly realistic manner, as though he literally saw into her innermost self. The heart bled fat, shining drops into the Chalice of Truth in her right hand. "In the picture, who's that behind her, sitting at the desk?" the earnest young man inquired. "That's a colleague of hers who worked with her for a while. She always gave him credit for teaching her to ask the right questions," the guide answered. "St. Dana was born in . . . ." "He was named Mulder." The middle-aged woman who spoke had a strident voice that commanded attention as effectively as the docent's. She consulted a thick, hard-backed book and continued speaking. "According to Ms. Emory he was the cause of it all. According to the book St. Dana once said 'He made me what I am. I didn't even realize I'd taken vows of solitude, joylessness, and celibacy until it was too late. It didn't have to be that way, but that's how he wanted it.'" The old man gave her a stony glare. "Ms. Emory used the so-called Kosseff papers as a source. They are patent fakes. The Emory biography isn't accepted by the Roman Catholic or Episcopalian Churches," he ended stiffly. "What happened to him---the man in the picture?" the young woman asked, her boldness bringing more blushes to her cheeks. "He died three years before she did," the guide countered quickly. "In his way he was a competent partner. She might not have come to such a tragic end if Mulder had lived. They were never able to pair her with another agent willing to share the risks she took." He followed his remark with a gesture toward the carved stone sarcophagus at the back of the chapel. "You may already know that St. Dana isn't actually buried here. She disappeared and they never found her body. Years later a man turning state's evidence revealed that he'd witnessed her martyrdom. She was killed by a conspiracy of government operatives. They were trying to frighten her into silence, but she wouldn't submit. The gold cross she always wore was sent to her director at the FBI with a warning. Instead of intimidating him it started a reaction that ended by overturning the bureaucracy." Mulder's perception of reality threatened to trail off into a static buzz. He focused on the glass case sitting in the center of the chapel. The docent turned around to point triumphantly at the case. "That gold cross with its chain is one of our most prized relics," he continued. "It still has traces of her blood on it. The miracles that led to her canonization were cures of terminal cancer patients who touched the cross." "Mommy and Daddy work at the post office. Nobody kills people who work for the government now, do they?" asked a small boy in tremulous tones. "Heavens no. We live in enlightened times." the man comforted him. "Everyone wants the Truth to be known---no more deception, inveigling or obfuscation." "How did her colleague die?" the young woman asked, persistent in spite of the guide's frown. "I believe it was an influenza that turned into pneumonia," he said vaguely. The middle-aged woman looked at him with narrowed eyes. She grated out a different answer while he shifted from one foot to the other. "Mulder and some friends were experimenting with X-rated virtual reality gear. It still had some bugs in it. He suffocated before they could get him out. When the beatification process started her advocates tried to whitewash her associates," she said severely. Now Mulder knew what he had to have. He had to have it every time he came here. In between times he forgot, but now he remembered. If he possessed it maybe he could find her. Maybe it wasn't too late to ease the endless pain of regret over unspoken love and unconsummated desire. The guide had a lot to say about unnecessary wallowing in sordid details. He didn't immediately notice the horrified looks on the faces of his audience. They were riveted by something going on behind him. "Run Jeremy! Don't look back," the little boy's mother yelled. She took his hand and sprinted down the aisle. Most of the group were scattering, ducking behind pews or running toward the doors. Others raced toward the scene and stared into the niche with open mouths. "This can't miss on 'Unexplained Home Videos,'" whooped a jubilant man with a video camera. Mulder had picked up the glass case, setting off a loud, pulsing alarm. The container had a sophisticated electronic lock, so he lofted it high into the air. It landed so hard that the top exploded on impact with the marble floor. Fragments of bulletproof glass flew in every direction. The cross and chain were unharmed, as Mulder knew they would be. It was always like this. They tried to hide it, or secure it. He always came back and got it. He always would, but his hope of connecting with her had diminished with each fruitless effort. On his way out of the cathedral he passed the angry docent, now flanked by two security guards. The old man was snapping instructions into his cell phone. "That's right, I said go look for a gold necklace. Check the Mulder family plot, 121b. It's usually on the grass. It could be draped over the headstone." On the lawn Mulder moved quietly apart from the disappointed tourists and frantic officials. She had to be somewhere. Willing himself to shut out everything else, he tried to reach into the void with his mind. He had to try, but it was always the same. Everything would fade away into a confused twilight of half-remembered scenes until he found himself once again on a mission to seize his personal Grail. Mulder expected another failure. That's why her voice and her touch on his arm surprised him into sudden movement. "Whoa there, Mulder! It's only me, not the Flukeman. I let you drift for a while, but I'm getting sleepy too. If we both nod off we might miss something." He rarely felt so disoriented on waking up. Scully was in his apartment because they were surveilling Phillip Padgett. Only half an hour had passed since their debate over ordering pizza with or without extra cheese. "I need . . . I need a glass of water, Scully." He escaped to the kitchen, where he splashed cold water on his face. No more dreams if he could help it. This case seemed to drag on forever. He didn't understand what was going on between Padgett and Scully. It made him sick with a jealousy he had no right to feel. Even worse, Padgett's prying insinuations were stripping away essential layers of concealment between himself and his partner. It had to stop. He had to solve this mystery quickly. He refused to let things change. For years their partnership had worked just as it should. Long ago, before Antarctica and El Rico, he had dreamed of a wonderful evolution of friendship into love. Now he knew he'd been kidding himself. He didn't have the necessary humanity. Scully's response to his fantasy would be something along the lines of "Oh, brother." Change could only be for the worse. From now on he planned to behave more professionally than ever before. Mulder dried his face and filled a glass from the faucet. Scully sat forward just as he entered the room. "What's he up to now?" he asked. "He just started typing again," she answered. ------------------------------------------------ End of "Washed in the Blood"