From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Wed, 19 Dec 2007 17:31:22 -0600 (CST)
Subject: New:  \"Hope in a Jar\", PG13, MSR (1 of 1) by Paige Caldwell-Hunt, David Stoddard-Hunt
Source: direct

Reply To: paigec38@yahoo.com, dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com


TITLE:       Hope in a Jar
AUTHORS:     Paige Caldwell-Hunt
             David Stoddard-Hunt
RATING:      PG-13
CATS/KEYS:   MSR
SUMMARY:     When the world says "give up",
             Hope says, "try one more time..."
SPOILERS:    Season 7: Per Manum, forward
DISCLAIMER:  This is a not-for-profit undertaking
FEEDBACK:    If you enjoyed it, let us know!
             paigec38@yahoo.com
             dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com

WEBSITES:    http://www.iwtbxf.com/paige             

NOTES:       For Nancy Bratt. She'll understand
             the "Hope in the Jar" reference. 
             All our love to our treasured friend.
             To learn more about Nancy, please 
             Visit her webpage:

http://kellycountry2002.homestead.com/Index.html
 
***********


There were days when I wanted to preserve hope like it 
was the most precious gift on earth, as frankincense 
and myrrh were to the ancients.  I would breathe the 
last of my optimism into bronze jars speckled with 
green glass jewels. It was much easier to imagine 
miracles taking place inside treasure boxes than inside 
test tubes or Petri dishes.  


"It didn't take, did it?"


**********


I woke with a start, my pillow damp with tears shed in 
dreams. From the darkness of my room, I focused on the 
sounds of my partner puttering around my apartment, 
emptying the dishwasher, reloading it with the 
breakfast dishes in the sink. I tried to envision the 
way in which Mulder would load the dishes this time. It 
never failed, whether just a cup, saucer and a 
teaspoon, or the lordly remains of a Thanksgiving 
feast, he always volunteered to put away the dirty 
dishes and got it absolutely wrong, every time. This 
thought, amazingly, brought a smile to my lips, a 
moment I did not want to let go.

After a bit, it dawned on me I couldn't hear him 
puttering any longer. I leapt out of bed, terrified he 
might be getting ready to leave. I ran from the cocoon 
of my room smack into the bright fluorescence of the 
kitchen, squinting against the light, calmed by the 
sight of Mulder leaning against the counter, scrubbing 
an old glass mason jar. 

"I was afraid you'd left," I said in a breathless 
voice.

Mulder ignored my fear, and my covert peek into the 
dishwasher, and smiled at me with such tenderness, I 
couldn't fathom what I'd done to deserve it.

"What is it?" 

He looked at canister impaled on his left arm. "This?"

I readied myself for the expected smart-aleck response, 
'a jar,' and my standard straight-man retort, 'I can 
see that, Mulder. What's it doing here?' Round and 
round we'd go, who's on first, I don't know, he's on 
third and I don't give a damn. It was habit, it was 
expected, it was comfortable. It was us, such as we 
were an 'us.' But, this time, Mulder strayed from the 
tried-and-true, and bypassed our routine.

"It's a project, Scully. For both of us."

I blinked. "Looks like you've cleaned it well enough, 
Mulder. I couldn't do any better."

He laughed. Apparently, I was being obtuse. 

"Cleaning it up isn't the project, Scully," he 
explained.  "Filling it up is the project."

I stared at the jar, perplexed and slightly annoyed.  
"With what, exactly?" 

He shrugged off my sudden irritation as easily as he 
would a t-shirt. 

"If I told you now what we're going to filled it with, 
you'd think I was nuts."

"I think you're nuts most of the time," I reasoned. 
"Why should now be any different?"

He stood, letting the suds-covered glass slide into the 
sink, and quickly dried his hands.

"Hey, " he said softly.

I don't know which was more surprising: how quickly he 
was right in front of me, or the realization I'd 
started crying again. I cursed myself - silently, I'd 
thought - for being both inobservant and weak.

"You've had more than enough to deal with for one day, 
Scully." When had he put his arms around me? "Let's get 
you back to bed, and then I'll go."

No. Whatever weakness I'd just felt stiffened into 
resolve. I didn't want him to go. "No!" 

"No, what?"  Mulder pulled back to arms' length.  It 
was his turn to look confused.  "No, you don't want to 
go back to bed? Or, no, you don't want me to leave?"

"I do want to go back to bed, Mulder," I said, wiping 
my eyes with the back of my hands. "I just don't want 
you to go. I want you to stay," I cleared my throat and 
summoned up my courage, "with me."

I saw hope flicker in his eyes.  Mesmerized, I stood up 
on tiptoe and tried to capture his hope with my kiss, 
gently brushing over his eyelashes. I felt weightless, 
floating up as he lifted me to his lips, and our 
partnership, our friendship, our world changed in an 
instant.

In his embrace, the flicker of hope smoldered into 
passion and despair crumbled in the bright, blue flame 
of desire. And maybe, I told myself, that is what 
nature had intended all along. 

There were no candles or soft music, no scented oils, 
no champagne, no chocolate-covered anything, like I 
might have at one time imagined. None of that. Not even 
the light from the street outside dared disturb our 
first time together.

There was only Mulder, the warmth of his skin on mine, 
the softness of his hair between my fingers, and the 
bolt of liquid flame that shot through me as his mouth 
closed over my breast, my body arching, expanding 
outward, everywhere, to accept this man - my lover, my 
partner, my friend - with every fiber of my being.

Afterward, pulling the comforter over us as our bodies 
cooled in the night air, I felt freed from the burden 
of loss, past and future, borne on the embrace of the 
present, giddy in the moments before sleep claimed us 
both with the thought that anything was possible. Yes, 
Mulder, anything, even that. Giddy with hope. With the 
last strand of conscious thought, I prayed I would not 
lose this feeling with the dawn.

*********

The next morning, I noticed Mulder hovering over the 
jar. His 'project' for us.

"What are you doing, Mulder?"

He seemed tentative about broaching the nature of his 
project with me.  I found it amusing that he would 
hesitate approaching me about anything after last night

"It's okay," I said, walking up behind him and hugging 
him tightly from behind. "I feel a lot stronger now, 
thanks to you."

Mulder twisted around in my arms, searching my face for 
the truth behind the boast. "I know it's going to sound 
funny coming from me, Scully, but most things are 
better faced with the shared strength of a partner." 

He, the ditchmeister, at least had the grace to seem 
sheepish. 

"Oh, yeah?" I replied. I was going to kiss and cajole 
him back to bed when I noticed a grain of rice at the 
bottom of the jar.

"Rice?" I fairly squeaked the word.  

Mulder looked at the jar, unfazed, and turned back 
smiling. 

"Yup."

This had to be good. I pulled back a step, crossing my 
arms. Mulder brought the jar into the space between us.

"Think of this jar in terms of time, Scully. Think of 
it, in fact, as the rest of our lives. The grains of 
rice stand in for bits of hope. Each day, I'm going to 
make it my business to add to your jar of hope."

I stared at the largely empty jar, and looked up at 
him, stricken. 

"Only one grain a day?" I shook my head.

"On really hope-filled days, I reserve the right to add 
as much rice as I see fit!" Mulder said, undeterred.  
"Just you wait and see how fast that jar fills with 
hope."

It was a nice sentiment, I'd give him that. "And what 
if I have a really crappy day, Mulder, and dump all the 
rice out of that jar? What then?"

He upended the jar into his palm, took out the one 
grain, and looked solemnly at me. "Then, the next 
morning, I start all over again," he said, deliberately 
holding his hand over the open jar-mouth and dropping 
the single grain into it.

"You said this was our project, Mulder."

He nodded, without a word.

For the first time in what seemed like ages, I smiled. 
"If you're with me, Mulder, then I guess I can believe 
in the possibility of a grain or two of hope. Are you 
with me, Mulder?" I asked.

He paused, gauging my full intent, then said, "I truly 
think I've always been with you, Scully, and you with 
me, for better or worse."

"Well," I said, grabbing a fistful of rice and dumping 
it into the jar, "If that's not what I call hope, then 
I don't know what is." 

*********** 


There were days when I wanted to preserve hope like it 
was the most precious gift on earth, as was the child I 
carried in my womb.  I filled our jar of hope with the 
last of my optimism and in a moment of despair dumped 
it down the drain when you were abducted.  But, then I 
realized that a miracle has taken place, not inside a 
treasure box or a Petri dish.  The miracle of hope had 
already taken place inside of me.  

I righted the jar that instant, and dropped one grain 
of rice into it.

The jar is filling fast, Mulder. I'm getting ever 
closer to finding you, and bringing you home.

I can feel it.

-end-