From: Laura Anne Gilman Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: By The River (1/1) Date: 4 Oct 1995 12:59:06 GMT This is a piece of (hopefully) original fan fiction, and in no way is meant to infringe on the copyrights of Chris Carter, Fox Television, and/or Ten-Thirteen Productions. And before they think about suing me, they should just realize that I'm in their most-valued viewing demographics, and if they take all my money away I won't be able to buy all that lovely merchandise... BY THE RIVER By Laura Anne Gilman She sat on the bench, wishing it were colder, to match the cold core inside. But the late spring night was the kind of weather that brought the tourists out, strolling hand-in-hand even now, even at this late hour when all good Washingtonians were asleep in their beds. Home, where she should be. Home. Where Melissa -- No, she told herself firmly. Don't. She stilled her thoughts. Let her heart numb itself with the cold. She could block it all out, refuse to feel anything. Just sink into the cold. There was no reason to feel any more. Mulder understood. Mulder had the right of it. Just let everything else fade into the distance, that way they can't reach you. They can't pull your strings if there's nothing there. No matter what Missy -- Missy was gone. A sob broke from her throat and she stared fiercely out at the shimmering water. Missy was gone and her mother -- their mother -- refused to blame her. Refused to point the finger and curse her for letting her sister die. Instead, Margaret had hugged her youngest daughter and whispered comforting words, told her that Melissa wouldn't have wanted Dana to blame herself. Margaret had cupped her hand alongside Dana's face and told her that, had the gunman found Dana, there would have been no-one left to track the killers down. Melissa would have wanted justice, not anger or blame. "These men are beyond justice," Dana had said. "Then you'll bring it to them" her mother replied, pulling the cover over her shoulder and gently pressing a kiss on Dana's tear-free cheek. There was no justice. There was nothing in the world except plots and counterplots and suspicion and fear. And loneliness. So much loneliness that her cold spot of it was nothing to the whole. And so she sat on that bench, where she had waited so many times before, and let herself sink deeper and deeper into the cold. A shadow fell over her, but she didn't respond. The shadow sat heavily on the other side of the bench, and was silent. After a period of time she couldn't recall, she turned her head to look at the shadow, her face betraying nothing. "I brought a full bottle this time." She blinked, then reached for the bottle. Stoli, chilled to the temperature she had been trying to achieve. He pulled two small glasses from his coat pocket and let her pour them each a glass. "L'chaim," he said, without the slightest bit of irony. She smiled, only the corner of her mouth turning up, but the iced vodka burned smoothly on the way down. They sat there, the bottle slowly emptying in silence. And after a while, she began to speak. "When I was born, Missy was five. Mom says that she announced my arrival to the entire neighborhood. She had a baby sister. Someone she could play with, and teach, and be a big sister to. Only when I got older, I didn't want to play with her. I wanted to play with my brothers, who were outside having fun. After a while, I guess she just gave up. We didn't have anything in common. "By the time I was in high school, she had left home and was living in a brownstone in New York with a bunch of her friends. The few times she came home, she and Dad would fight, and Missy'd always end up storming out of the house. I took Dad's side. What else could I do? I didn't understand her side. When I got to college, and began to understand, it was too late. Entire months would go by without us speaking to each other. "When I graduated from med school, she showed up at my apartment. Late, after my folks had gone back to their hotel. We sat in the kitchen, and broke open a bottle of red wine, and talked until three in the morning. She was proud of me, she said. Being a doctor was an important thing. Even pathology, which she thought was a violation of the.. the dignity of the soul, was a good thing. I was making a difference, she said, if it kept another person from dying beofre their time. She said..." Her voice stumbled, then recovered. "She said that she was proud to be my big sister. We tried to keep in touch after that, but it was difficult. She was living in California, and my residency was making me crazy. But when Dad and I had our big fight about my joining the Bureau, she hopped on a plane and came out here. She didn't agree with me, but anything I wanted that badly, she -- she wanted me to have. She wanted to teach me how to yell at him, make it a fair fight. Said it was a `big sister' thing, and that our brothers were never any good at it." Her companion laughed. The sound was comforting, like a slow waterfall in the distance. "Dad never did give in, but she showed me how to move on, do what I needed to do even without his support. She was always there, just a phone call away when it got rough, when I would have given in and given up. "She moved back to Washington after Dad died. But by then I was too busy to spend much time with her. Not until I was in the hospital, and we realized how much we had let slip by. All those years, and it wasn't until now that we were beginning to see each other as people. She drove me crazy sometimes, but I really loved her. And I never got a chance to tell her that." "So tell her." She turned to look at her companion, one portion of her mind noting that the vodka had seriously blurred her vision. "She's dead," she explained carefully to the figure leaning against the back of the bench. "So? Who says they can't hear us?" She started to retort, and then shrugged instead, knocking back what remained in her glass. "Whatthehell." She reached for the bottle, pouring herself another slug, then stood and raised her glass. "I love you Missy," she said sadly into the night air. The river breeze dried the moisture on her face, making her skin tighten in response. Behind her, Frohike stood and placed one arm over her shoulders. "Come on, Agent Scully. Let's get you home." (This story will appear, in a revised form, in the fanzine REMOTE CONTROL.) Any comments/criticisms/wanna-say-hi's are welcome at lgilman1.ix.netcom.com =or= L.Gilman1@genie.com. Flamers will be ignored -- life's too short to be cranky! =30=