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March 2001
It’d been quite a number of years since John Doggett stepped foot in a church for anything but a wedding, funeral, or—God forbid (blessed be the name of the Lord)—a case. Yet this cold, winter Sunday morning, he found himself walking into St. John’s for a 9:00AM mass. He wore a suit like any other day, but as he passed through the narthex, his hand rose to the knot of his tie, tugging it away from his neck—acutely aware of how suffocating it felt under the circumstances. He was stuck—the elderly couple in front of him drew the usher into a conversation and held up the line waiting to pass through the narrow entryway. As he waited, his gaze drifted to the font beside him, and he wondered whether he should partake—he could feel his mother's hand all the way down in Marietta on his shoulder guiding him to dip his fingers into the holy water—in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
“Amen, alright…” he muttered under his breath as the couple entered the church, and so, finally, did he.
Soft organ music echoed against the high, angled ceilings as patrons filtered in. Doggett tucked himself into a pew at the very back of the nave, sitting with his hands resting on the wood, tracing the grain with his fingertips. As he watched the crowd continue to fill the pews, he realized he forgot to genuflect before he sat (sorry, Ma). A young man mumbled a quiet “excuse me” as he shuffled past him—bumping into his knees—to sit halfway down the pew. Doggett's eyes scanned the room. It was large, and it was filling up quickly, but he was certain he'd have no trouble spotting the head of hair he was looking for.
Suddenly the music swelled, and the priest and ministers entered, gliding up the aisle to the front of the nave. They bowed to the altar and next he knew, Doggett was on his feet, hand sweeping across his chest like a reflex. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. “Amen.”
As they sat again, and the taller heads lowered into the pews, he spotted her: shining red hair curling toward her neck. A light sweater draped over her shoulders. She was a way’s up the aisle, but, thankfully, at the end of the pew. He could sneak up the aisle and slip in beside her, if he could just find the right moment. Until then, he watched her as the mass continued on, seeing the weariness in her movements each time they shifted from standing to sitting to kneeling—her hand gripping the arm of the pew, bracing herself.
Doggett had trouble focusing on the readings, but he couldn’t miss the eerily appropriate excerpt from the Gospel—
"...Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they who mourn,
for they will be comforted…”
—and the way Scully’s shoulders slumped at the words.
He had to make his move. His thumb fumbled through the sign of the cross over his forehead, lips, and chest as he strode down the aisle (forgive me, Father) before everyone sat once again for the Homily. He tried to be elegant about it, but she was too close to the aisle, and he had to nudge her to make room for himself in the pew. He cleared his throat softly in apology, but didn't speak, just sat—perfectly timed with everyone else—beside her, resting his hand over hers, flat against the wooden pew, not imposing, just… present.
As the Homily began, Scully found herself momentarily lost in the sudden company of Doggett. Did a case come in? No, he would’ve pulled her aside immediately, or waited outside until mass ended. Did he regularly attend Sunday mass? Surely she would’ve seen him before. She glanced down at their hands—his touch was so light, yet so warm—and she knew he was there for her.
She swallowed.
And then he stood for the Creed, moving his hand to her elbow briefly as she rose beside him. Her hands went to her stomach instinctively, resting on the round bump that was growing each day. His fell before him, lightly clasped together.
Scully eyed him curiously through the Creed, and into the Prayer of the Faithful—seemingly as surprised as Doggett himself was at “Lord, hear our prayer” escaping his lips. He could feel her watching him, but didn’t meet her eyes yet—instead focusing on the prayer and allowing her space. When they sat again, her eyes finally drifted back to the altar, watching the preparation of the Gifts. He snuck a glance at her face—she looked tired, and her eyes were slightly glassy. He blinked and turned his attention forward again.
They stood, sat, and knelt several more times before it was time for Communion. Doggett wasn’t certain he should receive it, but his body guided him to—whether it was muscle memory or a pull toward Scully, he wasn’t sure. As he approached the priest, he rested his left hand on his right, as he was taught—despite his handedness.
“The body of Christ.”
“Amen.”
Doggett placed the wafer in his mouth, signed the cross on his chest, and rounded the pews slowly, waiting to feel Scully at his heels. When he reached the end of the pew, he dropped the kneeler, lowered himself to it, and folded his hands against the pew in front of him. Scully knelt beside him in a similar position, but brought her head to her hands, closing her eyes. He watched her pray, wondering what she was asking of God. Did she pray for Mulder, even in death? Did she pray for the baby growing inside of her? Maybe just a single week where she wasn’t afraid for her or anyone else’s life?
When she drew her head back, their eyes finally met. Hers looked like they carried the weight of all those prayers and more, and yet they also looked as if they were asking a question.
He answered, a low whisper, “Just thought you might like some company, Agent Scully.”
Her eyes stung and she chewed at the inside of her lip. “Thank you, Agent Doggett.”
January 2002
Despite being raised in Mexico by loving, devout Catholics, Monica Reyes was about the farthest she could be from Catholic these days. She was nowhere near any religion, really, despite studying all of them and graduating with a Master’s degree to show for it.
So church on Sunday? Not her scene. But she knew how to act (and how to dress—her mother's voice echoed in her mind, “Mija, cúbrase esos, vamos a la casa del señor, no a un antro con tus amigos…”).
More importantly, she knew how to support someone she loved.
She arrived early, keen to take in the atmosphere of St. John’s—she’d never been, and she loved comparing how different houses of worship felt, even within the same sects. She wondered how the light would look shining through the stained glass windows, how the sound of the organ would echo against the walls, and if the smell would be familiar as it so often was in Catholic churches—as if they bottled and sold it.
She passed through the narthex swiftly, splashing her finger into the font and signing the cross deftly along her chest as she entered the nave. She paused at the back of the room, shifting just beside the aisle to avoid blocking anyone’s way. There was a low hum of music mixed with murmurs of churchgoers entering the pews. The smell of incense was strong—and yes, as familiar as she expected. She breathed it in, her eyes closed, a small smile playing at her lips.
Then a familiar voice approached her. “Monica?”
She opened her eyes. “Hi, Dana.”
“What are you doing here?” Scully asked, an eyebrow raised.
Reyes flashed a grin. “It’s Sunday, isn’t it? I’m here for mass.”
Scully narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but… I didn’t think you practiced.”
“I don’t.” She chuckled, but then softened considerably. “I know it’s been difficult for you without Mulder.” She stepped toward Scully and rested a hand on her forearm. “I wanted to offer a little company.”
Scully looked up at her, eyes darting across her face. Her smile was so warm, so effortless. She’d grown to appreciate that—and much else—about Reyes in the short time they’d known each other. She offered a small smile in return and nodded, turning to walk up the aisle. Reyes followed, matching Scully’s pace and following her to her choice of pew. They genuflected in unison—so fluid it was like they’d rehearsed—before sliding into a pew central to the nave. Reyes dropped the kneeler gently and leaned onto its cushioned surface. She rested her hands against the pew in front of her, lacing her fingers together and bowing her head. Scully followed suit, watching her carefully, wondering if she was actually praying, or just going through the motions.
“I'm praying for Mulder,” she answered as if Scully had asked aloud. “That he can return home to you soon.” Scully’s throat bobbed as she turned her own head down.
Reyes prayed a moment longer, then sat back on the pew and watched Scully. Sunlight streamed in through the eastern windows—a mix of clear and beautiful stained glass—bringing out the red of her hair. It was the kind of light you could see in the air; Reyes lifted her hand to catch it on the tips of her fingers, collecting the colors one by one. Scully finally sat back, lifting the kneeler up as she moved, just in time for the music to rise.
As mass began, Reyes found herself drifting in and out of the readings–though she managed to respond at the appropriate moments—Amen. And also with you. Thanks be to God. When they stood, her eyes wandered—to the organist, her fingers gliding along the keys through the hymns, resting as the priest spoke. To the crucifix perched high above the altar, catching similar streams of light to those before her. To the people around them, some intensely focused on the mass, others looking like they’d rather be anywhere else in the world. When they sat, her hands roamed—to the bible she lifted out of the pew, splaying her hand across the leather binding, tracing the worn texture. To the cool, smooth wood of the pews, her fingers sliding along the edges. To the space beside Scully, filling, but not crowding it.
But all the while she studied Scully—watched how she touched a hand to her necklace when a passage particularly resonated. How quietly she sang the hymns. How neatly she folded her hands to pray.
How her eyes drifted to the couple with a young boy a few pews ahead of them.
They were standing when she noticed, shortly after the preparation of the Gifts. Scully’s hands were resting on the pew in front of them—Reyes covered one with her own and gave it a light squeeze. Scully glanced at her, glassy eyes flickering across her face, before turning her attention back to the altar—leaving her hand in place.
Reyes held it a moment longer, grounding them both, until Communion began.
Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sins of the world. Blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb.
“Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”
Lines began to form in the aisle as they rose simultaneously from the pew. The sound of the organ filled the air gently, blending effortlessly with the softly spoken blessings. The line was slow-moving, but Reyes took the time to appreciate the light casting down on Scully once more—especially when she turned to face her and it illuminated her blue eyes—and all that was held within them.
Scully spoke, soft but sincere, “Thanks for being here, Monica.”
Reyes smiled. “Anytime, Dana.”
And Scully knew she meant it.
March 2002
Walter Skinner stood outside of St. John’s Church at 8:30AM sharp—for the 9:00AM Sunday mass. His hands were stuffed in his trenchcoat pockets, shielding himself from the chilly winter air, as he waited for a familiar face to arrive.
Skinner was not a religious man, let alone Catholic. His youth had been sprinkled with Orthodox values passed down from his grandparents, but not forced upon him by his parents, who didn’t share the same background to begin with. He did marry in a church, but it was Protestant, as per Sharon’s upbringing; he no longer remembered the prayers, or even the pastor’s name—he really just remembered how beautiful Sharon looked that day.
But he did believe in God, or he tried to. He hoped there was someone who’d listened to all the prayers he’d ever whispered for a fallen soldier—every hand he held in Vietnam, every agent lost under his FBI Assistant Directorship.
He watched the waves of people filing into the church, most in a hurry to get out of the cold. So many different faces, but not the one he was looking for, until—
“Sir?” She was still walking toward him as she spoke; he waited for her to come to a stop to reply.
“Hi, Dana.”
“Were you looking for me?” she asked, her brow furrowed.
“I was.”
She pulled her coat tightly around her body. “Do we have a case?”
“No, I—” He cut himself off, his jaw working. “I came to join you,” he explained, “if you’d like.”
Her mouth fell open slightly and she studied him through narrowed eyes. He lifted his arm to his side, offering it to her. She stared down at it, considering—then hooked her hand through his elbow with a nod. He walked them into the church. Scully paused at the font, dipping her finger in, and signing the cross against her chest. Skinner did not partake, but waited until she led them forward, greeting the usher with a nod as they passed through the doors into the nave. The smell of the incense hit Skinner immediately, strong in his nostrils. Scully continued to lead them down the aisle to her preferred pew. About halfway down the aisle, she let go of Skinner’s arm to genuflect, then sat. Skinner mirrored the gesture, despite not fully understanding, and followed Scully into the pew. He removed his coat and folded it neatly, setting it beside him as he sat. He straightened his tie and smoothed it down his front as Scully lowered the kneeler.
He leaned forward on the kneeler as Scully did, joining his hands in front of him. He wasn’t quite sure what to pray for, or even how to do it. But he tried. He thought about Scully, about all she had been through, was still going through—may she continue to endure, and find some kind of peace. He thought about William, about how he’d already survived so much—may he continue to do so. He thought about Mulder, about where he might be, and if he were okay—may he be, and may he return safely. He thought about Doggett and Reyes, about all they’d given of themselves in such a short time with this team—may there be light at the end of this tunnel.
Before he knew it, there was a swell of music, and movement in the aisle—the priest and ministers making their way to the altar to begin the mass. He stood beside Scully, who had already risen. Perhaps he knew what to pray for, after all.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. He mimicked the sign of the cross along with the rest of the congregation, and answered with a quiet “Amen.”
The Lord be with you.
“And also with you,” Scully responded, for both of them, as Skinner remained quiet.
When the readings began, he sat straight and tall, listening carefully—while also sneaking glances in Scully’s direction. She was focused on the priest as he spoke, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her composure amazed him, as did her faith—how could she continue to believe when the world fought against her time and time again?
There was a moment she caught him watching her, and his head snapped forward, examining the tabernacle as if he’d be tested on it. He could feel her eyes on him, and then a brushing of her hand against his forearm—a subtle gesture, but one that allowed him to exhale. She turned back to the altar and they continued through the mass like that, settled into a shared quiet, all the way to the Eucharist.
Skinner realized this part of the mass involved a lot of participation. He could feel out the “Amen”s, he was starting to pick up on where “And also with you” fit in, and he was even able to fumble through some of the Lord’s Prayer. But when Scully rose for Communion, Skinner remained seated on the pew.
She gestured for him to go ahead, but he hesitated. “I don’t think I should,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to receive Communion, sir,” she said softly. “Cross your arms, like this”—she rested her palms on her shoulders, forming an X across her chest,—“and the priest will bless you instead.”
Skinner nodded and stood, following the line to the altar. He didn’t see anyone else do as Scully instructed, but he trusted her, and when he reached the front, he did as she showed him—arms crossed, hands flat against his shoulders.
“May God bless you,” the priest said.
Skinner bowed his head slightly, unsure of how else to respond, and continued on the path back around the pews. He followed suit with the pews ahead of them and dropped the kneeler once again. Scully returned moments later, kneeling beside him, their elbows bumping. She leaned her head against her folded hands and prayed again, briefly this time, Skinner watching all the while.
She rocked back on her heels and met his eyes. “I appreciate you coming here,” she said.
His jaw twitched. “Just glad you let me stay.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Scully’s lips as they stood once more.
Let us pray.
“Amen.”
May 2002
Sunlight streamed through the warm, wooden blinds in Doggett’s bedroom. They were slightly open, as usual—half an effort to wake with the sunrise, half out of laziness, if he was being completely honest. He turned over in an effort to escape the light, but seemingly forgot there was a window on that side, too. He thought about pulling a pillow over his face when his phone rang. He reached for the nightstand—eyes still shut—patting his hand against it until he landed on the phone.
“John Doggett,” he mumbled into the receiver, his voice uneven with sleep.
“Good morning, Agent Doggett.”
He pushed himself up against the headboard. “Agent Scully. Is there somethin’ wrong?”
Scully laughed softly. Doggett exhaled. “No, no, sorry to alarm you. I um—I was wondering if you were busy this morning.” She could see the confusion laced across his brow as if he was sitting in front of her, and continued, “I’m getting ready to go to mass, if you’d like to join me?”
Doggett rubbed sleep from his eyes as a crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, sure, I’ll see ya there, Agent Scully.”
He hung up the phone and stretched his arms above his head for a beat before climbing out of bed and hopping in the shower. He washed up quickly, then toweled off and headed for the closet, where he suited up—somewhat reluctantly, given it was the weekend and all. But he wasn’t one to turn down a rare invitation like this from one Agent Dana Scully. He straightened his tie in the mirror, then clasped his watch around his wrist—glancing at the time and determining he could squeeze in a cup of coffee before he had to head out.
He pulled into the St. John’s lot a little after 8:30AM and parked his truck in a spot of shade. He walked to the entrance and waited outside the church for Scully, scanning the faces around him to see if she was already there—no dice. But soon enough he felt a light tap on his shoulder.
He turned to face her. “Mornin’, Agent Scully. Thanks for the invite.”
She nodded. “Thanks for coming, John. I… I felt that I’d like some company.”
Doggett’s crooked smile returned as they walked into the church, dipping their fingers into the holy water in unison.
“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”