I don't own the characters. Set after Scream 1.
Gale sat at her computer, her fingers flying over the keys as she translated the horrific events of Woodsboro into what would hopefully be a best-selling book. It was proving harder than she had expected. There was so much she didn't know, so much of the stuff between Sidney and her friends that no amount of pleading phone calls would get Sidney and Randy to reveal. The first time she'd called Sidney, they had actually chatted for several minutes, had been almost friendly, until Gale casually dropped her book into the conversation, at which point Sidney told her in no uncertain terms that she would not be helping.
Gale sighed and cracked her aching knuckles. Her first book had been far easier to write; she'd had Cotton's help with all the details, and it had had a purpose, to help free Cotton. What was the purpose of The Woodsboro Murders? To put a glossy spin on devastating events and sell them for millions, dredging up things she was sure Sid and Dewey and Randy and everyone else in Woodsboro would rather forget. Hell, she would rather forget them herself, if she was honest, but the journalistic instincts she had spent years developing wouldn't let her just throw away such a fantastic opportunity.
Sidney was far easier to write this time. Last time, she'd been trying to paint the young girl as some kind of monster, letting Cotton sit on death row when she wasn't 100% sure it was him who'd killed her mother. This time, Sidney was the innocent victim, plagued by disaster, first the death of her mother (Gale gleefully pointed out she had been right all along about Cotton's innocent at every chance she got), then all the murders a year later, and finally the big showdown in that big house out in the middle of nowhere.
It was that showdown which was the hardest to write. She obviously had to make it dramatic and exciting, but the bare facts just weren't gripping enough, and there were meaningless details she kept wanting to add in, because she had an inescapable urge to tell someone exactly what she'd been through. She had her notes, scribbled down the first chance she got after they actually happened. Gale had been to see Dewey in the hospital and managed to get his side of things out of him, before Sidney turned up and told her to leave him alone. She had done then, but she'd gone back a couple of days later, but by then Sidney had warned Dewey about what she was doing, and he hadn't wanted to even see her. She had been disappointed about that, and not even because of the book; she'd genuinely gone to see him to make sure he was okay. Gale tossed her hair to get Dewey Riley out of her head, so he didn't want to know her anymore, so what?
Since that hospital visit, Dewey had become much easier to write. Before then, she'd taken pains to show his sweet side, to show how much he cared about Sidney and Tatum, but since he'd blown her off, she had turned him into a caricature, a goofy, incompetent, small town cop. He was the character she wrote with the most relish, suppressing her own attraction to him, forcing the real, loveable Dewey she had in her mind into this new, stupid Dewey who she could make herself not care about. Almost.
Gale pushed her chair back from the computer. She needed a break. Rubbing her throbbing temples with her fingertips, she went into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of red wine, which she sipped slowly, leaning against one of her kitchen cabinets. She thrived on this; journalism was her life. Was that a little sad, she wondered, that her whole life was based on trash like this? There was nobody she really cared about, which made it easy to betray them like she was betraying Dewey with every word she wrote about him. But it meant there was no one who really cared about her either. Her parents had both been journalists, and as a child, she had constantly been shipped from babysitter to babysitter as they travelled all over the country looking for the big scoop. And she had ended up just like them. She downed the rest of her wine. What was she thinking about this crap for? She poured another glass and sipped it more slowly.
It was Dewey. It had to be Dewey. She felt guilty about the way she was portraying him in her book, because even in the short time she'd known him, she'd gotten the feeling that he could really care about her one day. She'd never found a guy who, when she had kissed him, had stopped her, had wanted to wait for the right time. All the guys she'd been with had been happy just to screw her and move on, and that had always been enough for her. She didn't want commitments, didn't want to be tied down. If she had no responsibilities, there was no one to let down, like her parents had let her down.
Cradling her wine glass, Gale went back into her study, frowning at the newspaper clippings she'd pinned to the walls, suddenly feeling sick just looking at them. Surrounded by gruesome reports and photographs she'd talked her way into obtaining, she felt claustrophobic, and realized she wouldn't get any more work done today.
She wandered into the living room, slumping onto the couch and flicking through the TV channels. She caught a glimpse of a female journalist she knew on one of the news channels, with an exclusive story about Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. Moving onto another channel, she knew she could've done a better job on the story, but she was taking time off from covering the news to get her book finished.
The doorbell rang, and Gale hauled herself to her feet to answer it, expecting the mailman, or a salesman, or someone to read the electricity meter or something. She wasn't expecting Dewey Riley. She gaped at him, he looked better than he had the last time she saw him in the hospital two months ago, but he'd lost weight, and his face was drawn. He looked far older than his twenty-five years now.
"Can I come in?" he asked.
"Of course, yeah, sure," she stammered, opening the door for him. What was the matter with her? She could present live news feeds perfectly, even just after almost being brutally murdered, and yet she couldn't greet one guy without sounding like a complete idiot.
"Thanks. I still can't be on my feet to much." Dewey limped through into the living room, and Gale stood anxiously next to him.
"Do you want a drink?" she asked, catching him looking at her half full glass of wine. Dewey shook his head. "Something to eat?" He shook his head again.
"I heard you've been bugging Sid for stuff for your new book," he said, sounding annoyed.
Gale was surprised, but she smiled charmingly and sat next to him, wishing she'd worn something a little more low cut. "I just want it to present a more accurate picture of her than my last one did, I feel so bad about that."
Dewey narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. "Why'd you need to write a book at all Gale? Can't you just let it rest and leave us all alone?"
"I write Dewey, it's what I do."
"Just don't involve Sid," he said, "Or me."
"It's just a story. It's not real." He looked at her as if she was a little kid telling lies that she'd managed to convince herself of but no one else. "I've changed some things," she said defensively.
"Like what?"
She suddenly couldn't think of anything. She'd always meant to write the truth first and change it later. "Kenny. I wrote that he was gutted, he wasn't, his throat was slashed."
"You're sick Gale."
Dewey heaved himself up and limped towards the door, shooting a disgusted look over his shoulder at her. He slammed the door behind him and a minute later she heard his car start and then drive away.
Fuming, she marched into her study and wrote the meanest passage about Dewey she could think of. He thought she was sick, huh? She'd show him. She'd make him a laughing stock; she'd make him out to be the worst deputy in America. She found a new energy, a new motivation. She wanted to finish the book. She wanted to get it published. She wanted Dewey to read it. That'd teach him. Nobody messes with Gale Weathers and gets away with it.
THE END