Title: Maelstrom Author: Darkstryder >upyours1013@rock.com< >CClaib2155@prodigy.net< Summary: Bill Scully musing through Emily's funeral. Spoilers: Oh, gee, could it be . . . Emily? Catagory: S, A, R ( MSR ) Disclaimer: They belong to Satan and 666 Productions. Or is it Chris Carter and 10-13? Sometimes I can't tell. Note: It is my personal belief that Bill does not know about the ova thing. In this, he does not. //\\//\\//\\//\\ "I can only conclude that I am paying off karma at a vastly accelerated rate." .susan ivonava. .babylon 5. ."points of departure". //\\//\\//\\//\\ .maelstrom. .darkstryder. I wonder who's child she was. The thought strikes me like a flash of lightening. Dana, having a kid and not knowing who the father was. Or that it was her kid, either. I choke back the sudden urge to burst out laughing during this painfull and sober event for my sister. Imagine; my niece's funeral, and I'm about to laugh. That thought itself nearly makes me giggle. Or gag. Whatever comes first. I never thought that one day, one bright day in December, I'd be sitting at a child's funeral, knowing her mother but not her father. The mother, ironically, being Dana. I never expected something like this from her. Or from the universe. Melissa -- Melissa I can almost picture having a daughter by some man she never knew. She was always the rebel, the one who needed to seperate herself from the rest of us, to jump off the straight path that we follow called life. But now she's dead, and Dana's left, following her own path. Following that path with *him*. I tell you, God has one sick sense of humor. Was he Emily's father? The timing would have been right, about two years after she met him. They hardly ever leave each other's sides; in fact, I wouldn't doubt that she invited him to come for Christmas, even though he *is* an atheist, and even if he wasn't he'd probably be Jewish. Not like that's a bad thing or anything. I'm just glad he didn't come with her. No, he came later, when she called him. One phone call, and he had booked a flight overas soon as possible. She didn't even tell him what was wrong, just saying, "I need you to come. " And he came. If it were any man other than Fox Mulder, I would have said that it showed devotion. Showed how much he loved and cared for her. But it is Fox Mulder, and he can't possibly love Dana. He'd better not. Mom says he does. But Mom has always been one of those people who sees what she want to see. Denial just ain't a river in Egypt, Mommie Dearest. Besides, I don't think someone like him is capable of love. It is, after all, his fault that Dana gets hurt all the time. His fault that she was kidnapped and left in a coma. His fault that Melissa died. His fault that she got cancer. His fault that Emily died. His fault that Dana can never have a normal, happy life. His fault. His fault. His fault. I'm not blind, though. I see the way that they look at each other. And I'm pretty sure I know why she's attracted to him; not just that he's handsome and single, but because he's a broken man with eyes that you could fall into, full of pain and the need for someone else. She thinks she can make him happy, and wants to fix him, that's what. A natural urge to heal. Blood-sucking monster. Mom would smack me upside the head if she knew what I'm thinking. She would say that Dana chose to join the FBI, and to stay in the X-Files. Dana could have quit anytime, she would say. Could she? Maybe Mulder's keeping her in the X-Files. I'll probably never know. I never understood why she joined the FBI in the first place, why she'd want to spend her life doing something like that. And when she's killed, Mulder, in one of the cases that you assign to her, then what will you do? Will you break down and kill yourself because your love is gone? Or will you shake your head and say she was a good agent and go out and find yourself another woman like her, who will meet your every whim? My thoughts are bitter. Dana and him are sitting together towards the front, his arm around her shoulders, but her body stiff with grief. He's crying, I can see from here, his head low. Crying for whom? His pain, or hers? Why should he care? Dana's silent, eyes dead. Just a few weeks ago she was dying in the hospital, wasting away because of a brain tumor, which suddenly went into remission. She can't even live without that damn thing in her neck. And now her only daughter is dead. I see Mulder stand shakily and start to walk out. His face is flushed from the tears, his eyes red. He pushes open the doors and walks out. Now is my opportunity. I can't talk openly when Mom or Dana is around, and he hasn't been away from either of them for long. I grunt something to Tara, and follow him. He's leaning against the wall, hands over his face, when I find him. I can hear his soft sobs, which give me a pang of guilt. But I force the emotion away. There's no need to feel sorry for him. "So," I say, trying to put all my anger that's forming inside of me into my voice. Instead, it comes out soft and rough, still bitter, but not strong like I wanted. I'm glad that he jumps when he hears me. "Why are you crying?" Mulder wipes his eyes on his sleeve before taking a breath and looking at me. His face is tortured and tight, not the image that I had expected. His eyes are graveyards, the dead dancing within the black holes that are his pupils and the dark green-gold that surround them. "She was Dana's *daughter*," he says, as if the answer is obvious. "She wasn't yours." Or was she? Is that why you're crying? Because your own flesh and blood is lying there in that coffin? All your pain, and never hers. His head snaps up. "But she was Dana's. And that's good enough for me. Her only daughter is *dead*, Bill." His voice cracks, and he closes his eyes. Good. I don't want to see myself reflected in them. If I can see myself, that means he's real. "She hurts, and there's nothing I can do about it." So she wasn't his. That answers one question. A cold feeling is tightening my stomach. Either he's just a great actor -- hell, a *wonderful* actor, because the pain in his face and voice and the emptiness of his eyes can't easily be faked -- or he really does care, and is crying for my sister's pain, my sister's loss. I'm pretty sure it's the latter, and that frightens me. "You could have prevented this," I snap, stepping closer. His face seems to twitch. With a perverse feeling of pleasure from that, I continue: "You could have gotten her out of the X-Files. Protected her." His eyes flash, mouth forming a bitter line. "I can't make that choice for her," he hisses. "It's her choice, not mine. I respect her, and God knows that she's the most important person in my life. She doesn't want anyone protecting her. I try, believe me. I would have given my life just so that she wouldn't have to feel what she's feeling right now." "You love her." It's a statement, not a question. My mouth seems to move on it's own, saying what I'm thinking. Open mouth, insert foot. I never thought that I could want to laugh and cry at the same time. He leans heavily against the wall. "Yeah, yeah, I do." He looks down at the flowers in his hands. "I wish that I could protect her from this. I tried to, but I failed." You know, for some off reason I believe him. Fuck. My mind is twisting with thoughts, burning. My emotions are a maelstrom, feeling everything at once: He loves her. She loves him. It's obvious. They seem to anchor each other, and he gives her a reason to go on. She won't die from this loss. I'm glad. I'm upset. I'm scared. He *can't* love her; if he loves her than that means he's human, and can feel emotions just like I can. I don't want that. I want to protect her. So does he. He can't protect her. Neither can I. He can make her happy. I can't. My sister used to be innocent and carefree, science as her religion. Now she's dark and cold, paranoid, always searching the shadows and chasing after things that aren't there. Following whispers in the dark. Searching for something she'll never find, something that *he'll* never find. Now, it's just one big circle. But he loves her, and most likely she loves him. Although why, I'll never know. The only thing I see when I look at Mulder is a little boy checking under his bed and in his closet for the Boogie Man, and watching dust flurries fly by in the wind and thinking they're faries. But so was Melissa, and Dana -- as well as the rest of us -- loved her. My sister is a very complicated woman. Feeling tired, I lean against the wall opposite from his and close my eyes. The darkness is somewhat comforting. "You make this really difficult," I say, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. It's almost funny, really; my sister's daughter is dead in the next room and I'm out here arguing with her boyfriend. It's still his fault, I remind myself. But I'm too tired to care. "Get back in there," I hear myself say. My own voice, tired and beaten. I open my eyes to see him, on the verge of tears still, starting to walk silently away. "But if I ever see you again, it won't be by my own free choice." He nods, still moving. "I know." My eyes close again. I know that. I don't understand it, and I don't like it, but I know it. She'll spend the rest of her life with you, Mulder, I know it. Chasing after faries and ghosts, blindly searching. I don't understand it, and I don't like it, but I know it. I wish that she didn't love you, and you didn't love her. I wish that she had never joined the X-Files. All I want if for my baby sister is to be happy and safe. That's all I want. Footsteps approach me. I open my eyes to find Tara and my baby Matthew standing in front of me, smiling. She holds out her hand. And I walk into my own family, the family that my sister can never have. //\\//\\//\\//\\ .the end. //\\//\\//\\//\\ .feedback is not optional. .resist or serve. upyours1013@rock.com CClaib2155@prodigy.net http://members.tripod.com/~Darkstryder/index-2.html