Title: Je Ne Regrette Rien,
peut-etre? (Written before Requiem)
Author: the inimitable Dana E. Vassy
Feedback: Please? Don't make me come after y'all with a gun...
Don't just click reply - send feedback to
scully_is_a_medical@doctor.com, if you will...
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. Not amount of wailing and
blackmailing my mother has altered this fact. Chris darling, I'm
being careful with my toys - just let me play a while longer - and
besides, who's crazy enough to sue someone who's a student
at the best law school in Scotland...*g*
Dis the claimer: Chris stop being nasty - let them get it on
PLEAAAAAAAASEEEEE...heheheh
Category: my first CSM POV! A little UST in here for good measure
Rating: PG, only a few ickle references..
Spoilers: Closure, Biogenesis Trilogy, and anything up until the
Amazing Maleeni...it really will depend on my mood. And erm, the
musical Piaf (much as I love you Madonna, leave it alone!) -
it kinda donates the title and the necessary inspiration
::ahem::
Dedications: To Kris for her Scully RP, and to Gerard for being a
great boyfriend. Also to the best actress in Piaf - no name
needed. That's all for today folks!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The darkness is familiar, welcoming. I sense the shadows moving as
the late night traffic makes occasional passage on the road
outside. She is due here soon, the flight from Colorado landed
on time. The meticulous Dana Scully is rarely detained whilst on
a mission. My patience is rewarded by the turning of her key in
the lock.
10:13pm
I hear the normal noises associated with homecoming. As Dana hums a
Madonna tune under her breath she drops her keys on the table,
pressing play on the answering machine as she does so. But the
messages have been deleted. A little quirk of mine - I can never
pass a blinking light. I shift on the edge of the bed and await her
usual trip to the bedroom to dispose of her coat and other trivial
possessions. Unfortunately, she will still have her gun. I shall
take my chances, relying on her past experience to relieve and
trigger-happy tendencies. I find myself holding my breath with ...
what?...anticipation?
She opens the door, still humming. As she senses my presence, she
visibly jumps. Gun drawn, with a slight quaver in her voice she
demands of me:
"Who the hell are you?"
This is when I realise the folly of my actions. So familiar are the
shadows, the anonymity that I find myself automatically drawn
to them and the protection they afford me. Clearly the wrong
approach here. Dana is still sensitive to any violation of her
personal space, and I should have considered this. Slipping into
my usual role, I turn and allow the cigarette glow to be seen,
challenging her slightly. I know the recognition eases her temper
a little - despite the animosity she feels towards me. Her
tone is typically harsh to me, and I realise how tired she appears.
A woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders. If she only
knew the strain of having that metaphor proved true. Still,
this was not about my trials and tribulations - at least not
directly.
The typical threats flow from her irate yet beautiful person. As
I stare at her, I see once more her near perfection and her definite
suitability. If only I were thirty years younger...Well, Dana does
have a certain penchant for older men. Any sarcasm I attempt is
met with a cold wall of contempt. Yet I know that my very existence
chips away at the metaphorical brickwork. We move to the living
room, and it takes all of my willpower not to join her on the
couch, opting for the safer vantage point of the armchair.
At least it makes a more difficult angle for any errant bullets.
I make my first pitch to her, realising she is being unequivocally
defensive. It becomes a joke to me - one that is icily received.
It is from reactions such as these where I see the force behind her
alias of the 'Ice Queen'. I even manage to proposition her, but her
revolted reply tells me what I have always known. No matter how
great my affection for Dana Scully, it shall never be reciprocated.
And I think the world at large could tell why with just a glance.
My age and illness defeat me, but nothing is more of an obstacle
than the love she feels for my son. My wonderful, brilliant son.
As my only real concession, I am fairly blunt. This time I tell her
directly that my goal is to allow her to have a child. At the very
mention of the topic, her eyes betray her. A glimmer of hope glints
in the opal-blue pools, only to be submerged in the submarine of
grief. She will not allow herself to pray for what she wants most
- because the pain of having that torn away again is more than she
can bear. How I wish I could have prevented the entire Emily
fiasco. As I chide her for 'playing dumb' I notice how she has
paled, even with such an ivory complexion. I curse every ounce
of me that can do this to her. If only it had been some other way.
Now, she is pacing, her little feet beating hard against the floor.
Again, she orders me out. She claims not to believe me, but I hear
her mind working overtime. The prospect of conditions have her in
further turmoil, but I note happily that most of Dana's chaotic
thoughts return to one image: Fox Mulder. My plea of making
amends is contemptuously received - I am reminded of the fable
of the boy calling wolf. How ironic that on the one occasion
of goodwill, there is no hope of easy acquiescence.
Now for the whammy, unscientific though the term may be. I reveal
the condition: my son Fox must be the father. I explain that it
is also my attempt at partial reconciliation. Despite all the
heartbreak, I love him dearly. He wants children so badly, and
he wants them with Dana. I loathe myself for the fact that he
willingly carries the guilt for her barren state. Although he knows
that I had the power to stop it. He thinks he is responsible for
the torture of Special Agent Dana Scully, as he brought her into the
mess. How little he knows...
Now the concept of proof that Dana once held so dear is not enough
to guarantee her consent. She really does trust no one but Mulder.
How tragic, that I should have destroyed her faith in human nature.
Perhaps, it is a lesson I was correct in teaching...who, at the end
of it all, can we ever trust? Now she is flustered, angry with
herself for permitting me to chip away at her armour. I see a
certain coyness in her expression as she fobs me off with the
need to consult Fox, pretending not to know how he loves her.
I ridicule her purported naivety. She is a shrewd operator,
now accusing me of granting this child only to use as my pawn
in the eternal battle between us. But I explain that with the
baby, our war is over - they win and peace is restored. I die,
paying the price for my ambition. My reference to Macbeth merits
a glance that might eventually defrost to mild sympathy. But
Dana hardens her thoughts once more, having learned the cost
of vulnerability. She is ready to see the proof.
She manages to stay in control somehow, at a time where lesser
mortals would have crumbled. I convey this to her: how she is the
only suitable partner for my son - both professionally and
personally. She protests again over Mulder's willingness.
I endeavour to make the facade slip, without a great deal of
success. Thankfully, I feel her thoughts beginning to embrace
the notion. I illustrate how well I know her - using the
nickname her father did. But this is a step too far...reopening
another wound that has never quite healed. I wince at the
flood of memories in her mind...particularly those about her
father, and the thought of losing Mulder. I know I have
outstayed my welcome, but I inadvertently irritate Dana further by
making reference to her 'personal' life. Well, she does need
to enjoy herself more - it's only healthy.
I step out into the hallway, finally granting the single warm tear a
path down my weather beaten cheek. Every morning I wish it
might have been different. But nothing is achieved without
great sacrifice. Taking a moment to regain my composure, I
stride off down the hallway. The past is dead; my future does
not have long to live. Why should I cry tears for matters that
cannot be altered? No saline floods will recover the losses.
Having reconsidered my position, I light up another trusty Morley.
And yes, my dears:
I regret nothing.
peut-etre? (Written before Requiem)
Author: the inimitable Dana E. Vassy
Feedback: Please? Don't make me come after y'all with a gun...
Don't just click reply - send feedback to
scully_is_a_medical@doctor.com, if you will...
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. Not amount of wailing and
blackmailing my mother has altered this fact. Chris darling, I'm
being careful with my toys - just let me play a while longer - and
besides, who's crazy enough to sue someone who's a student
at the best law school in Scotland...*g*
Dis the claimer: Chris stop being nasty - let them get it on
PLEAAAAAAAASEEEEE...heheheh
Category: my first CSM POV! A little UST in here for good measure
Rating: PG, only a few ickle references..
Spoilers: Closure, Biogenesis Trilogy, and anything up until the
Amazing Maleeni...it really will depend on my mood. And erm, the
musical Piaf (much as I love you Madonna, leave it alone!) -
it kinda donates the title and the necessary inspiration
::ahem::
Dedications: To Kris for her Scully RP, and to Gerard for being a
great boyfriend. Also to the best actress in Piaf - no name
needed. That's all for today folks!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The darkness is familiar, welcoming. I sense the shadows moving as
the late night traffic makes occasional passage on the road
outside. She is due here soon, the flight from Colorado landed
on time. The meticulous Dana Scully is rarely detained whilst on
a mission. My patience is rewarded by the turning of her key in
the lock.
10:13pm
I hear the normal noises associated with homecoming. As Dana hums a
Madonna tune under her breath she drops her keys on the table,
pressing play on the answering machine as she does so. But the
messages have been deleted. A little quirk of mine - I can never
pass a blinking light. I shift on the edge of the bed and await her
usual trip to the bedroom to dispose of her coat and other trivial
possessions. Unfortunately, she will still have her gun. I shall
take my chances, relying on her past experience to relieve and
trigger-happy tendencies. I find myself holding my breath with ...
what?...anticipation?
She opens the door, still humming. As she senses my presence, she
visibly jumps. Gun drawn, with a slight quaver in her voice she
demands of me:
"Who the hell are you?"
This is when I realise the folly of my actions. So familiar are the
shadows, the anonymity that I find myself automatically drawn
to them and the protection they afford me. Clearly the wrong
approach here. Dana is still sensitive to any violation of her
personal space, and I should have considered this. Slipping into
my usual role, I turn and allow the cigarette glow to be seen,
challenging her slightly. I know the recognition eases her temper
a little - despite the animosity she feels towards me. Her
tone is typically harsh to me, and I realise how tired she appears.
A woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders. If she only
knew the strain of having that metaphor proved true. Still,
this was not about my trials and tribulations - at least not
directly.
The typical threats flow from her irate yet beautiful person. As
I stare at her, I see once more her near perfection and her definite
suitability. If only I were thirty years younger...Well, Dana does
have a certain penchant for older men. Any sarcasm I attempt is
met with a cold wall of contempt. Yet I know that my very existence
chips away at the metaphorical brickwork. We move to the living
room, and it takes all of my willpower not to join her on the
couch, opting for the safer vantage point of the armchair.
At least it makes a more difficult angle for any errant bullets.
I make my first pitch to her, realising she is being unequivocally
defensive. It becomes a joke to me - one that is icily received.
It is from reactions such as these where I see the force behind her
alias of the 'Ice Queen'. I even manage to proposition her, but her
revolted reply tells me what I have always known. No matter how
great my affection for Dana Scully, it shall never be reciprocated.
And I think the world at large could tell why with just a glance.
My age and illness defeat me, but nothing is more of an obstacle
than the love she feels for my son. My wonderful, brilliant son.
As my only real concession, I am fairly blunt. This time I tell her
directly that my goal is to allow her to have a child. At the very
mention of the topic, her eyes betray her. A glimmer of hope glints
in the opal-blue pools, only to be submerged in the submarine of
grief. She will not allow herself to pray for what she wants most
- because the pain of having that torn away again is more than she
can bear. How I wish I could have prevented the entire Emily
fiasco. As I chide her for 'playing dumb' I notice how she has
paled, even with such an ivory complexion. I curse every ounce
of me that can do this to her. If only it had been some other way.
Now, she is pacing, her little feet beating hard against the floor.
Again, she orders me out. She claims not to believe me, but I hear
her mind working overtime. The prospect of conditions have her in
further turmoil, but I note happily that most of Dana's chaotic
thoughts return to one image: Fox Mulder. My plea of making
amends is contemptuously received - I am reminded of the fable
of the boy calling wolf. How ironic that on the one occasion
of goodwill, there is no hope of easy acquiescence.
Now for the whammy, unscientific though the term may be. I reveal
the condition: my son Fox must be the father. I explain that it
is also my attempt at partial reconciliation. Despite all the
heartbreak, I love him dearly. He wants children so badly, and
he wants them with Dana. I loathe myself for the fact that he
willingly carries the guilt for her barren state. Although he knows
that I had the power to stop it. He thinks he is responsible for
the torture of Special Agent Dana Scully, as he brought her into the
mess. How little he knows...
Now the concept of proof that Dana once held so dear is not enough
to guarantee her consent. She really does trust no one but Mulder.
How tragic, that I should have destroyed her faith in human nature.
Perhaps, it is a lesson I was correct in teaching...who, at the end
of it all, can we ever trust? Now she is flustered, angry with
herself for permitting me to chip away at her armour. I see a
certain coyness in her expression as she fobs me off with the
need to consult Fox, pretending not to know how he loves her.
I ridicule her purported naivety. She is a shrewd operator,
now accusing me of granting this child only to use as my pawn
in the eternal battle between us. But I explain that with the
baby, our war is over - they win and peace is restored. I die,
paying the price for my ambition. My reference to Macbeth merits
a glance that might eventually defrost to mild sympathy. But
Dana hardens her thoughts once more, having learned the cost
of vulnerability. She is ready to see the proof.
She manages to stay in control somehow, at a time where lesser
mortals would have crumbled. I convey this to her: how she is the
only suitable partner for my son - both professionally and
personally. She protests again over Mulder's willingness.
I endeavour to make the facade slip, without a great deal of
success. Thankfully, I feel her thoughts beginning to embrace
the notion. I illustrate how well I know her - using the
nickname her father did. But this is a step too far...reopening
another wound that has never quite healed. I wince at the
flood of memories in her mind...particularly those about her
father, and the thought of losing Mulder. I know I have
outstayed my welcome, but I inadvertently irritate Dana further by
making reference to her 'personal' life. Well, she does need
to enjoy herself more - it's only healthy.
I step out into the hallway, finally granting the single warm tear a
path down my weather beaten cheek. Every morning I wish it
might have been different. But nothing is achieved without
great sacrifice. Taking a moment to regain my composure, I
stride off down the hallway. The past is dead; my future does
not have long to live. Why should I cry tears for matters that
cannot be altered? No saline floods will recover the losses.
Having reconsidered my position, I light up another trusty Morley.
And yes, my dears:
I regret nothing.