Date: Fri, 21 Aug 1998 03:22:36 GMT From: twilightly@my-dejanews.com Subject: NEW: States of Matter by Laine G Title: States of Matter Author: Laine G Rating: PG, for implied character deaths Category: VA Spoilers: Beyond the Sea, One Breath, The Blessing Way Summary: An enroute reflection on a reunion of two Scullys Disclaimer: The characters and the universe belong to the great CC and 1013 Archive: sure Other: Thanks to Pellinor's wonderful Deep Background for info regarding the Scully family. Also, I enjoy feedback. Really. States of Matter Laine G When she woke after the nap, if something so brief and unsatisfying could be classified as such, her chin was pressed against the window, and the thin grey blanket with the airline stamp had slipped from her lap onto the floor. She jerked her head away from the inner layer of plastic, noticing the dense stratus clouds that obscured the flat ground of the Mid West, the wholesome, milk-loving Heartland of America. She pictured the statistics they'd been showing prior to the in-flight movie, the outside temperature dropping precipitously, the distance to destination decreasing, accompanied by a map with a moving airplane icon. On the animated safety film everyone was smiling, and jaundiced. It wasn't a long flight. She'd had a wealthy Japanese friend in college who regularly made fourteen hour journeys home to Osaka and back again in a few days without, apparently, a trace of jet lag. Perhaps the girl's steady diet of amphetamine pills had helped, but then again she recalled no evidence of the drug alleviating the stress caused by a rapid change in time zone. Sun glasses, she'd once heard, were supposed to help, but she had yet to have the chance to test this particular theory. She retrieved a copy of the Los Angeles Times from the web pocket of the seat in front of her and flipped to page eleven on the grounds that the news had to be less appalling and more arcane (X-File!)than on the front page. She scanned the article headings, which were short and dark but conveyed no more meaning to her than a sociology text book in Russian would have, then refolded the paper neatly, ensuring that all the pages lined up, and dropped it on the empty seat next to her. The sweet, faintly citrus icing of a danish she'd purchased at the airport surfaced in her mouth, and she had a strong desire for a cup of black coffee. Not five-dollar, ten-word designer, not European, certainly not Bureau. And, she concluded gloomily, decidedly not the lukewarm airline beverage, in little white plastic cups with tiny handles. She noticed the thin, metallic sounds that had slipped into her ears, courtesy of the endless parade of classical selections she'd settled on out of sheer lesser evil theory. She wanted Beethoven piano sonatas; she appeared to be listening to a MIDI rendition of the Sibelius violin concerto. She tore off the headphones, not bothering to replace the soft foam she'd inadvertently removed from the ear piece, and turned her head, massaging her neck. Her hair felt rough and dry, although she had washed it early that morning with her normal level of detached, painstaking precision. The flight was nearly half empty, and her fellow passengers seemed to be engrossed in the badly lit movie, asleep, or unnaturally taciturn. Across the aisle, a man gave her a tight-lipped smile, and she nodded in response. He looked like someone, she hadn't the faintest idea who, perhaps a suspect? His eyes, narrow and pale grey, and the brown hair with asymmetrical sideburns, tiny ears with attached lobes...She felt a frown, his frown, realized she had been staring, smiled to excuse herself, and turned away. She glanced at her watch, seven minutes since she'd last done so, and folded her hands in her lap, feeling foolish, seeing her brother again in the garden of his suburban home. Pruning an orange tree. She smiled at the thought. They hadn't spoken in years until her father's funeral, as he'd quarreled with their mother over a girl- a girl! long gone, of course- his senior year of high school, when she was a sophomore at the University of Maryland, then gone to college on scholarship, receiving a BA in mathematics. He'd always been headstrong, rebellious, and, perhaps, brilliant, although their proximity prevented her from making a judgment in that respect. She'd been angry at his treatment of their mother, taking it as a personal affront, and had refused to call or write. After his freshman year he moved away. Her parents talked to him from time to time, found out about the marriage after the fact, knew he was in computers, said he sounded happy, and had invited him for Christmas a few years back, but his wife was sick and they had two young children to cope with. Soon after the death of Captain Scully they'd moved to Virginia for a year, where he'd had a temporary position as a computer consultant. She met her nephews, whom she found noisy, tiring, curious, and adorable. His wife, Theresa, seemed tired and irritable, but she assumed the woman was under a considerable amount of stress, juggling her doctoral thesis and the children. The family of four returned to Los Angeles, and after a few weeks he stopped returning her calls. Her mother had been frantic, then furious, and finally silent on the matter. She had received an evening phone call two weeks ago, and found, after a search, that her own stubborn fury had dissipated completely. He told her the news in a calm, quiet voice, neither a justification nor a plea for sympathy, but a simple statement of fact. She did the same. They hadn't spoken much the three days she had been there, but it didn't matter. I was sick, she had said, and he said, You're okay now. No questions, no interrogation, no details. Not what she was used to. Somehow he'd understood as much as was necessary, almost the way Melissa had, although without the accompanying stream of earnest psychobabble. Lately she had been able to think that way, to refrain from correcting every thought that was at all critical, to avoid the voice that told her sternly not to speak ill of the dead. And that was good, wasn't it? It meant she was moving on, to some extent. It meant she had other things to worry about. Her head ached, a vein pulsing audibly. Her left foot was asleep, and she wiggled her toes. She shut her eyes and inhaled, certain that the combination of gases she was welcoming into her body contained no oxygen. "You loved him." After dinner. They were sitting on the terrace, drinking red wine. "Yes. Yes. God. I never told him, though. I mean I did, but he couldn't hear me." There was a moon, just a sliver of silver, and she watched it rather than the reds and oranges of the setting sun. "He probably knew. And you know." "So that's enough? In the end?" "Is it?" He examined her closely, although not in a way that made her uncomfortable. "I hope so." And in time it had begun to rain, a warm drizzle, and after a while they got wet, but neither made a move to return to the house. They weren't going to melt, after all. the end