Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Losses and Lamentations (1/1)
Date: Tue, 31 Oct 1995 17:10:41


At the suggestion of several people, I'm posting this story here.  
It's not an X-file; one can even argue that it's not a complete 
story.  It's a "filling in the blank," something that might have 
happened during the five months of missing time between the end of 
"Paperclip" and the beginning of "D.P.O."

It's rated PG-13 for adult language.

As we all know, "The X-Files" and its characters are the property 
of Ten Thirteen Productions and Twentieth Century-Fox Corporation 
and all that good legal stuff like that.

Maureen



                    Losses and Lamentations

                              by
			   Maureen

        It was a hot night for early May, even by Washington, D.C. 
standards.  A rain shower had passed by an hour earlier, but it had 
only been enough to wet the streets and amplify the traffic sounds 
coming in through the open windows of Dana Scully's apartment.  
Night noise, big city, the hum of life on its endless journey into 
the future.  It was Saturday, and people were out and about.  But 
Dana wasn't.
        The week had been a quiet time at the office, or at least as 
quiet as things ever got, and Dana had reserved this Saturday night 
to get some good, hard scrubbing done on her apartment.  She'd 
missed her usual thorough spring cleaning this year, and she 
couldn't let herself put it off.
        But she was putting it off.  She sat on the sofa, staring at 
her orderly apartment.  So organized, so fastidious.  So like her, 
Melissa used to say, every little nook and cranny accounted for, 
not a touch of chaos anywhere.  She sat and stared with unfocused 
eyes at her surroundings.  Everything was reminding her of Melissa 
tonight.  The gaudy clay statue from Costa Rica that Melissa had 
given her for her birthday two years ago to provide that missing 
touch of chaos.  The family photo on the bookshelf that she'd 
turned face down two days ago because she couldn't bear to look at 
the smile on her sister's face.  ...The section of floor by the 
door that the professional cleaners had scoured endlessly before 
the last traces of Melissa's blood were finally removed.
        When Dana had come home the first time after her sister's 
death, to her horror she had found she was standing on the 
red-brown stain on the floor.  Someone had obviously tried to clean 
it up so she wouldn't see it, she didn't know who, but the 
anonymous effort had failed and it was all she could do not to 
vomit when she saw the gory remains of her sister's blood under her 
feet.  That first night back she'd sat up all night in a tight ball 
on her sofa, every single light in the apartment on, and wondered 
if she would be able to stay another moment in this place.  The 
next morning she called the most expensive house cleaners in the 
phone book and put them to work.  If they could get the stain out, 
she would stay -- if not, she would be out the door by nightfall.  
But God must have wanted her to stay, as the Herculean effort of 
the cleaners paid off and all physical trace of what had happened 
was removed.
        But Dana didn't need physical traces to remind her.  When she 
looked at the doorknob, she could see Melissa's hands turning the 
lock; when she looked at the door, she could see her walking 
urgently into the dark apartment.  When she looked at the floor, 
she could still see the stain...
        Mulder had kept the police report far away from her, despite 
her insistence on searching it for some hidden clue.  Oh, the row 
they'd had in the office when she'd asked for it and he told her 
that he'd made sure she wouldn't see it.  They'd never had such a 
fight.  A number of passersby even came in to see what was going on 
-- quite a few, in fact, considering how few people traveled those 
basement halls near their office.  But they were each hurting from 
their losses, and they knew it, and when Mulder disappeared for the 
afternoon and Skinner steadfastly refused to return her 17 phone 
calls to him to complain about her partner's unprofessional 
behavior, she finally calmed down enough to realize what it was she 
was acting out.  She and Mulder made their apologies that night 
over the phone and never spoke of it again.
        Dana stared at the door of the closet that contained her 
cleaning supplies.  It was closed tight, and she seemed to be 
making no move to open it up and get started.  She sighed.  Maybe 
the cleaning house she had to do tonight wasn't the type she'd 
thought.
        She'd been so strong and professional since Melissa's death 
-- as usual -- and after her initial tears in the hospital she 
hadn't allowed herself time to deal with her pain.  That appearance 
of calm came at a price, though.  She barely remembered the 
funeral.  She was terrified of seeing her mother again, so afraid 
that the support her mother had shown her all through her career in 
the FBI would be gone. But her mother was merely quiet and sad, and 
Dana realized that her silence hurt more than any scathing lecture 
might have.  Mostly she was afraid of what someone in the family 
might say to her.  But no one said a word about what had happened.  
About the fact that it was her fault.  That Melissa had died in her 
stead.  That if Dana had not made a few mistakes, if she hadn't 
gotten herself into this mess, if she'd stayed in medicine like Dad 
wanted, Melissa would still be alive...
        Yes, this was it.  It was time to face everything she'd 
avoided in the last month.  It was time to start feeling again.
        She put on a compact disc Melissa had given her for Christmas 
a few years ago, excerpts from some John Barry soundtracks.  It was 
lush, romantic, a musical landscape to wade into and wallow in.  
She sat through the first track, waiting for something, anything, 
to hit, but her mind wandered away from the grief she thought she 
should be experiencing.  She began to think about all the choices 
she'd made in her life -- going to Maryland instead of Stanford, 
choosing medicine over physics, deciding on pathology, joining the 
FBI...  From this detached perspective so many of her choices 
seemed to have been made just because everyone expected her to go 
some other way.  She pondered her unconscious stream of words:  
"...choices seemed to have been made..."  Had she floated through 
all of it so passively, drifting along some unseen current?  No, 
she'd deliberated and weighed and calculated, as usual.  But here 
on the sofa in the room where her sister had...she felt very 
passive.  This life that she'd made for herself, that she thought 
she was steering through very nicely -- it had suddenly rolled over 
her like monster waves on a raging sea.
        The suppressed guilt hit her hard, and she found herself 
scrambling for a box of tissues from the bathroom.  But getting up 
had broken the moment somehow, so she set the tissue box on the 
table next to her and curled up again on the couch, facing the 
music like some Grand Inquisitor.  Okay, she thought, give me your 
worst.  But the moment was gone, and she sat numbly, wanting to 
feel something and get this over with.
        The music poured out from the stereo and washed around her, 
swelling like ocean waves and carrying her off in thought.  So, now 
what?  Was this the rest of her life?  Losses, danger, watching 
family and friends drop away one by one?  When would it end?  Would 
it end at all?  Who else in her family would die because of her?  
Melissa had come to help her, and for her trouble she'd gotten 
killed.  Murdered.  Gunned down in cold blood.  Would the same 
thing happen to her mother?  One of her brothers?  Both of them?  
Someone else in the family?  She thought of Mulder and everything 
he'd lost.  His life had turned him into a near-kamikaze.  The 
truth was his juggernaut, he felt he had no more to lose and was 
willing to risk everything.  In that roadside diner in Maryland, he 
was willing to give up everything, including seeing Samantha again, 
to make public what they'd uncovered -- only his concern for his 
partner left the final decision in her hands.  She wondered now if 
she'd made the right decision.  What would she have said if she'd 
known that Melissa was going to die anyway, die before she could 
see her and say good-bye and...  Maybe she would have said to hell 
with it and go public.  Like Mulder would have.  Would she be like 
that someday -- alone, forsaken by family, friends, peers?  She 
prayed to God that she wouldn't, but the fear lingered.  Where was 
her life going?  She was 31 years old, in her prime -- past it, in 
some regards.  Would her life ever let her return to something 
resembling normalcy, with a husband, children, a dog and a cat, a 
house with a yard and her mother over for dinner every Sunday?  She 
wondered at what point she would realize that she'd lost her last 
hope of having a real life.  Her eyes began to fill with tears.  
"Please, God, don't let me turn into Mulder."  She felt guilty for 
the words, but she meant them.
        She sat for a long moment, then sighed with disappointment 
when she realized her welling tears were receding and she was 
slipping back into neutral.  She thought about her partner.  She 
had fought hard not to blame him for what had happened.  It would 
have been so easy to make him the scapegoat.  After all, because 
she had been assigned to "spy on him," she'd plunged off the fast 
track in the FBI...she'd left behind the medical path that her 
father had wanted for her, with little hope of going back...she'd 
been abducted...and she'd killed her sister.  The abduction.  She 
usually tried not to think about that.  That blank spot in her 
memory haunted her.  The aborted hypo-regression therapy that 
Melissa had insisted on only stirred up unpleasant images without 
answering anything.  Would it be better to know the truth of what 
had happened, or never to know?  The same was true for the dark and 
dangerous things she'd seen since she began work on the X-Files.  
What would have been so terrible about never knowing about the lies 
and coverups?  It wasn't as if knowing helped to stop them.  
Ignorance would not only have been bliss, it would have been life 
without guilt for her, and just plain life for Melissa...
        No, she was being too self-indulgent now.  The what-ifs would 
only screw her deeper into the pit of her losses.  It wasn't 
Mulder's fault.  It was Theirs.  Them.  The people he was fighting 
against.  They had done this to Mulder, They had done it to her.  
Fighting Them was the right thing to do.  If she could save one 
other person from going through what she had, it would mean that 
Melissa had not died in vain.  She tried to make herself believe 
that.  But as the yearning in the florid music surrounded her, this 
music that she never would have bought for herself but Melissa had 
given to her with the observation, "This will be good for you," she 
wasn't sure.  What was worth the loss of a sister?  What was worth 
the guilt of knowing that she could have -- *should* have -- kept 
Melissa out of harm's way?  If only Skinner hadn't shown up outside 
her door at just that moment -- if only Skinner had told her the 
truth earlier, damn it -- Melissa would be alive and calling her up 
on the phone to prod her and tease her like a big sister is 
supposed to and tell her to get a life...
        Sudden tears skipped down her cheeks and she tried to catch 
them with her tissue.  Damn it, damn it all.  Why?  Why did this 
have to happen?  Shit.  She hated this.  It wasn't fair.  If anyone 
had to die, it should have been her, not Melissa.  Why did Melissa 
have to die? This wasn't her fight.  Damn it.  It wasn't fair.  She 
shouldn't have let this happen.  She'd saved the lives of dozens of 
strangers, but she couldn't even protect her own flesh and blood.  
Maybe it was time to quit...
        Her tears waned and her numbness crept back as she 
contemplated that thought.  It didn't really startle her, it had 
been lurking in the shadows for some time.  If she quit the FBI, at 
least she wouldn't be responsible for anyone else's death.  She'd 
be safe.  Her family would be safe.  All They wanted was for the 
investigations to stop.  She had no proof -- she had less than 
nothing -- if she got out of the game They would leave her alone.
        She felt like part of her had already quit.  She thought 
about how she'd changed since her sister's death.  She's become 
sloppy, she'd become scared.  Two weeks ago when she and Mulder had 
helped out with a serial bank robbery task force, the stakeout at a 
bank that a tip had indicated would be robbed turned into a 
nightmare.  When the confrontation arrived and the agents drew 
their weapons on the robbers, Dana fumbled with her gun and nearly 
dropped it.  She couldn't forgive herself for that.  Her blunder 
didn't affect the outcome, and all the robbers were safely 
arrested.  But if she'd been the only agent on the scene, the 
robbers would have started shooting and there would have been a 
blood bath.  More people would have died because of her and her 
carelessness.  Mulder was the only one who saw what happened and 
tried to reassure her that it was just an accident, but he couldn't 
keep her from condemning herself over it.  It should not have 
happened.  Lives were on the line, and she'd screwed up.  Her 
numbness yielded to anger as she wondered why on earth she ever 
thought she could be an FBI agent.  What madness had possessed her? 
 She was a doctor.  She was supposed to save lives.  She wasn't 
supposed to kill people.  Or let them be killed...
        The depth of her anger flooded into rage as she heard a knock 
on the door.  She glared at it.  Not another kid selling band 
candy!  The stereo was loud enough that she couldn't pretend she 
wasn't home. No, forget it.  She wasn't going to answer the door.  
Let the kid think whatever he wanted.
        Another knock.  "Scully?"
        Oh, God, Mulder.  Why now?  Why couldn't he leave her alone?  
What fire maniac or beast woman did he want to go chasing after 
now?  For a moment she almost hated him, him and his damned quest 
for the truth.  The truth.  The only truth he'd found was death.
        "Scully?"
        She looked at the door.  She wasn't being fair to him, but 
right now she didn't feel like being fair.  She switched off the 
stereo and stood, locking up her anger and her vulnerability as 
best she could, and opened the door.
        She said nothing as she eyed him from the doorway, but she 
could tell the expression on her face must have been harder than 
she realized by the recoil and flash of sadness on his.  They 
looked at each other in silence.  They knew each other too well to 
need words for a moment like this.  His apologetic gaze was met 
with her short, challenging sniff to clear her stuffed nose.  She 
stood her ground in the half-opened doorway, her hand locked on the 
doorknob, blocking the way.  But he was ignoring the message, and 
when it became obvious he wasn't going away, she let out a tight 
sigh and reluctantly stepped aside.
        He sat on the chair as she closed the door and settled 
heavily back into her spot on the sofa.  He was in jeans and a 
T-shirt, she noted absently, which meant he probably hadn't been to 
the office all day.  She thought how odd it was for Mulder not to 
work on a Saturday.
        He glanced around the room, and she could see him taking in 
the details of the sink full of dishes, the pile of untended junk 
mail on the counter, and the downturned photo on the bookcase.  She 
resented being on the receiving end of his investigative instincts.
        His voice was remarkably soft:  "How you doing?"
        "Fine," she said harshly, angry that her clogged sinuses made 
her voice resonate dully in her head.
        His reply surprised her.  "Good."
        Good?  What the hell kind of answer was that?  She wasn't at 
all fine or good and he knew it.  How could he even think about 
patronizing her?  Suddenly she realized she was gazing at the floor 
by the door, and she looked away with a grimace to keep down the 
sudden welling of emotion.  But before he could even offer 
consolation, she held up her hand to keep him at his distance and 
tucked her reaction back inside.  He obeyed and made no move 
towards her.  He looked back at the spot on the floor, then turned 
to her without making eye contact.  "I know.  When I was up helping 
Mom pack up Dad's house, we both wondered if maybe it wouldn't be 
better if we accidentally dropped a match on some gasoline-soaked 
rags in the living room."
        For a moment she resented his reminder of his own pain as if 
to one-up her, but she knew it wasn't intentional.  There was 
nothing dishonest or calculated about this man.  He was here 
because he cared.  How could she think such cruel thoughts about 
him?  Her angered ebbed for a moment.  In spite of herself, she 
almost smiled.  "My neighbors probably wouldn't appreciate that."
        "That's the trouble with this big city living."
        They sat in silence for a while, and eventually she said, 
"I'm really pissed."
        "I know," he said quietly.
        "No," she said as her anger flared, "I'm *really* pissed.  I 
hate this.  And don't give me any of that psychology crap and tell 
me it's good to let out my anger."  Her mind was telling her mouth 
to stop, but some other part of her had taken over and was reveling 
in this chance to blast him with a broadside.
        "Okay."
        Her fury had her now, rising up her spine like a serpent.  
She might regret this later, but she was tired of being okay for 
everyone else.  "I hate this.  It's rotten as hell.  It's no damn 
fair.  I hate it."
        He said nothing, which only made her angrier.  This was his 
fault.  "My dad was right.  I should have stayed in medicine.  This 
cops and robbers crap is bullshit.  We can't win.  We lock them up, 
and someone else just takes their place.  And those people you run 
with, we can't even lock Them up.  They always win.  They can do 
whatever They damn well like, and we can't do a damn thing about 
it."
        He nodded, and an overwhelming urge to hit him washed over 
her.  She shuddered and kept it inside.  She found some consolation 
in remembering the look of pain and surprise on his face as he spun 
to the ground after her bullet ripped through his shoulder.  She 
wondered where her gun was.
        "I want his address."  She remembered her gun and holster 
were on her dresser.
        He frowned questioningly at her.
        "Your 'Cancer Man.'  Didn't you say once you'd had his 
address?  I want it."
        "You don't think he still lives there?"
        "I wouldn't put it past him, the arrogant son of a bitch.  He 
probably thinks we can't touch him.  I'm going to go over there and 
shoot his fucking head off."
        Mulder didn't respond.  She seethed for a few moments, then 
her words finally reached her brain along with the realization that 
there was absolutely nothing she could do about this, she was 
utterly helpless.  Melissa had died in vain.  It meant nothing.  
None of it meant a damn thing.  She buried her face in her hands 
and began to cry.
        In a single gesture he was up and sitting next to her on the 
sofa, gently rubbing her shoulder.
        "Damn it, Mulder.  This really hurts."
        "I know."
        "I hate it.  It isn't fair."  He nodded.  She snatched a 
fresh tissue and wiped her cheeks in a futile gesture.  "I mean, 
shit, this wasn't her fight.  This had nothing to do with her.  
It's my fault.  I knew I was in danger.  I shouldn't have turned to 
her for help.  I should have sent her away.  I knew the risks.  She 
didn't.  I was selfish, and I got her killed.  She died in my 
place..."
        He wrapped an arm around her and held her as she cried.  "I 
know.  I know."  She settled into his embrace, needing his strength 
to lean on as the anger that had buoyed her up for so long flowed 
out, but she was surprised to hear his voice thicken with emotion:  
"...I know..."  She looked up at him and saw tears filling his 
eyes.  He didn't look at her as he said, "But it was easier for me. 
...You lived."
        The flood burst up into her, and she choked on her tears.  
"...God, Melissa, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."  He drew his other 
arm around her and held her tight against his chest as the last of 
her well-laid barricades came down.  Up from the hidden depths 
exploded all of her grief and anger, her guilt, fear, and 
frustration.  She wanted to punch, kick, and scream, but it all 
flowed out as tears.  "...Missy ...please forgive me."
        He kissed the top of her head.  "She does."
        She cried and cried, for once not holding back.  She cried 
until she ran out of tears, energy, and the will to keep going.  
She cried until she was empty.  She didn't know if that was good or 
bad, just that there was nothing left to feel.
        She sat on the sofa, wrung out like an old dish towel.  Her 
head hurt like hell.  Her ears were ringing and replaying the 
thumps of her pulse.  She had no idea how bad she looked, but she 
was long past being embarrassed.  But she didn't want to look at 
her partner, who sat steadfastly beside her.  She sighed, 
exhausted, and wondered what time it was.  She looked at her 
kitchen clock, but her swollen eyes wouldn't let her see that far.  
Well, it didn't matter.
        The crying had taken a lot out of her, and when she began to 
shiver she wrapped herself tightly in a light afghan.  Mulder made 
tea, which she sipped slowly.  They sat silently, side by side on 
the sofa, for nearly half an hour.  She was grateful that tomorrow 
was Sunday, so she could have more time to recover from this.  
There would be more, and she didn't when it would hit or where it 
would take her, but at least the worst of it was over.  For now.
        The phone rang, and she flinched at the sound.  Without a 
word, Mulder got up and picked up the receiver.  "Hello?"  He 
glanced at her.  "Oh, hi, Mrs. Scully."  She looked away.  "No, I'm 
sorry, she just stepped out.  ...I'll tell her."  He put down the 
receiver.  "She called to see how you're doing.  Call her in the 
morning."  She nodded.
        He stood by the sofa, suddenly ill at ease, and glanced at 
the door.  He gazed at her and said softly, "You going to be okay?" 
She nodded.  "Want me to stick around?"  She shook her head, then 
got up slowly.
        She gave him a small hug of farewell and thanks, the afghan 
bunching up between them.  He gave her an encouraging smile, and 
she managed to give him a small one back.  He turned, and she 
stepped to the door with him.  As he turned the latch, something 
occurred to her.  "Mulder, why did you come over here tonight?"
        He glanced down with a small shrug and shook his head 
slightly.  That gesture might have told someone else that he 
thought it wasn't important, but she knew it really meant that he 
didn't want to talk about it.  "What?"  He shook his head again, 
but he didn't make eye contact.  She put her hand on his arm.  
"What is it?"
        He glanced at her, then scanned the room without looking at 
anything.  "Today's my dad's birthday."
        Her dry eyes grew red, and she put a tender hand on his 
cheek.  "I'm sorry."
        He offered the slightest of shrugs as he looked at her.  
"That's okay.  I wanted something to take my mind off it."
        They stood together in the doorway, her hands resting on his 
arm.  There was no energy left for guilt or recriminations, just a 
final moment of shared sorrow and loss.  He said gently, "Call me 
if you need to."
        She nodded.  "You, too."
        He nodded, then slipped out into the hallway.
        She closed the door and wrapped the afghan tight around her 
as she stood on the spot where the stain had been, where it always 
would be.  She sighed, and then put the tea away.



                              *****