Category: Vignette, minor angst
Spoilers: Biogenesis/Sixth Extinction/Amor
Summary: So Scully saw a spaceship. Now
A/N: Thanks to Getty for giving me the go-
ahead to post.
* * *
There comes a time in one's life where you
have to face the possibility that everything
you've ever believed in is a lie. My mother
raised me to love her God; she took me to
church every week and taught me to believe
in miracles. When I was twelve, I made Him
my God and decided that, more than anything,
I wanted to be a nun and serve Him.
Sometimes I think of the girl I used to be:
a young, eager child so ready to accept
things out of faith. What happened to her?
There are moments when I long for the blind
faith I had as a child. Mulder has faith
like that. He's forever looking at things
with an open mind, always searching for
When I was sixteen, I fell in love with
science and felt I could better serve God by
helping people. I wanted to be a
pediatrician, a far cry from where I
eventually landed up. It's almost funny, in
a sad way, that is.
Some people argue that one can't be both a
scientist and a Christian. To be honest, I
have been neglecting my faith these days.
The cross around my neck is a symbol of that
faith, and yet it is so much more besides.
It's a reminder of what I've survived:
Tooms, Duane Barry, that hellish summer when
I ended up in Antarctica, cancer . . .
A week ago, I stood on a beach in Africa,
staring at something I don't want to admit.
If what I saw really was an alien
spacecraft, then . . .
I don't know.
On a very superficial level, it would mean
that Mulder was right. When I was first
partnered with him, I'd joked with my mother
that I'd be hunting UFO's. Mulder's
reputation as Spooky was not unknown to me.
In those early days, I'd never imagined
being where I am now, being *who* I am now.
On a deeper level, it means that everything
I learned in Sunday School was wrong. That
. . .
I really don't *want* to think about it.
Ha! As if not dealing with it is going to
So now I found myself standing in my church.
The late afternoon sunlight shines through
the stained glass window. The Madonna
smiles beatifically down at me, the Christ
child cradled in her arms. For a moment the
familiar bitterness returns as I think of
the child that I knew all-too-briefly, and
then lost. My hand covers my belly, my womb
"Can I help you, Miss?"
I turn at the unfamiliar voice. How long
has it been since I was at church? This
priest must be new. He's young and looks
like he's come straight out of the seminary.
I realize I'm staring, and quickly look
"Miss? Is everything alright?"
"I'm . . . fine." Fine. A four-letter word
I know Mulder hates. I hate it too, but
find myself using it more and more these
The priest doesn't push me. I notice that
his eyes are old, far too old for the rest
of his face. Something about him reminds me
of Albert Hosteen. Albert, who visited me
in my apartment when my world was falling
apart, who prayed with me . . . who had been
in a coma then. Yet I have to believe he
was there. If not, then I'm losing my mind
too. Maybe I can have Mulder's old padded
What the hell, I had come here to talk to
"My name's Dana Scully. I was looking for
Father McCue . . ."
"He's visiting some of the elderly
parishioners today . . . Wait, are you
I nod. No one's called me that in years,
not since I was a little girl.
He smiles and clasps my hand in his. His
grip is firm and warm. "I'm Father Andrew.
It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
I used to be a very trusting person. Too
trusting, in fact. Mom always used to worry
that I'd go off with a stranger without
thinking twice. Mulder trusts no one aside
from me, and it took him ages to let himself
do that. And now he's the only one I trust
completely. But something about Father
Andrew inspires openness. I find myself
sitting in a pew, telling him about the
rubbing, Mulder's illness and my trip to
Africa. He listens patiently.
". . . And so, Father, I'm lost. Despite
everything that's happened, everything I've
seen, I still can't bring myself to accept
it. I hardly thought about it while I was
looking for Mulder, but now . . ."
"Now he's well again and you have time to
I nod. "If I accept that what I saw really
was a . . . a spacecraft, it would mean that
everything I've ever believed in was . . .
wrong." I feel guilty telling a priest that
the Church may have taught me wrong, but he
doesn't seem to take offence.
"In the beginning, God created the heavens
and the earth."
"Genesis 1:1." I remember learning about
creation in Sunday School. It had
fascinated me that everything had come from
nothing. It still does.
Father Andrew nods. "If everything is from
God, then surely this craft you saw was too?
There are worlds beyond this one, Dana."
"Do you believe in . . . aliens?" Did I
just ask that? I sound like Mulder now.
"If our world was the only one that
contained life, it would be a waste of a
universe, don't you think?"
I never thought of it that way. I think of
Mulder's poster hanging in our office. I
want to believe, really, I do. It's just an
awfully big leap of faith for me to make
"Dana, I wish I could explain everything
neatly, but I can't. God never meant for us
to understand everything. You may look for
truth in a different manner than I do, but
ultimately it's the same truth."
I'm too scared to ask what that truth is;
scared I've misunderstood him.
"Everyone has times where they doubt their
faith. Don't give up on what you feel in
your heart, Dana. God has a plan for you."
I feel somewhat relieved now that I've
discussed my thoughts with someone else.
I'm glad I came here today. I stand up and
thank Father Andrew. Before I leave, I
light a candle: for Mulder, so miraculously
healed, for Emily, for Melissa, and for
My faith is not lost. It is still there,
keeping me going. I realize now that
without it, I wouldn't have had the strength
to face that artifact. I wouldn't have had
the stamina to keep looking for Mulder. I
wouldn't have been able to see Albert
Hosteen kneel with me on my living room
carpet, even as he lay dying hundreds of
I call my mother when I get home and tell
her that I'll be coming to Mass with her
this Sunday. I tell her I met Father Andrew
today and I hear her hesitate.
"Father Andrew. I just spoke to him."
"Honey, the new priest is Father McGuire."
Which one of us is wrong? I see my
reflection in a mirror as I reply. A beam
of light catches my cross. "Young guy,
blonde hair, pale blue eyes?"
"I don't know who you saw. Father McGuire
is bald, with brown eyes and glasses."
I hang up, mystified. Who did I see? I
think of my father sitting in my armchair
the night he died. I think of Albert. I
think of my vision of Emily. Unbidden, a
fragment of a childhood memory verse springs
to mind . . . *for thereby hath some
entertained angels unaware.*
I smile as I finger my cross, and quietly
thank God for sending me Father Andrew.