Date sent: Sun, 22 Mar 1998 20:26:16 -0800 (PST) From: Andrea Lacuesta Subject: "Spring" -- submission Title: "Spring" Author: P. Lacuesta Rating: PG for a dollop of violence at the end Classification: VA Spoilers: Detour Keywords: Character death. Summary: What better way to spend a beautiful spring day than to take a walk in the park? DISCLAIMER: Dana Katherine Scully is not mine. Like, duh! She is the copyrighted property of the brilliant mind of Chris Carter, and of Twentieth Century-Fox and Ten-Thirteen Productions. The man is mine, though. O won't say any more because you'll happen to read this and it would spoil the story. Ahoy there! Another VA from yours truly. I seem to like these a lot the past few months. Uh-oh... Well, actually, it's more of a plain and simple V. But there's a smidgen of physical pain at the end. If I've written this well enough, this story ought to be depressing. Dedicated, with much love and gratitude, to my father, mother, brothers (though I'm still mad at Gabby for making me miss the Huling Lipad show!), and to Pamela and Stellar Stellar, my two good cyberpals. (Ashley and Nicolette, where *are* you?) Also to my offline friends: Elaine, Mae, Yosha, Hazel, my very own beloved Missy :D, and to all my classmates and friends that I'm not as close to but cherish in my heart all the same. Feedback? The magic word! PLEASE send me all your comments, ridicule, suggestions, corrections, and jokes. My life would be barren without your messages, believe you me. Bundle them all into aprlacuesta@yahoo.com . Author's note: This story is almost entirely written from Scully's point of view. ...What more can I say? Read on, please. SPRING by P. Lacuesta Dressed in sweats and running shoes, I step out of the apartment and lock the door behind me. It's a splendid spring morning, and what better way to enjoy it than to go for a run? The soft pale rays of eight-o'clock sunlight are warmth on my skin as I march briskly down the sidewalk, turn the corner, and cross the street to head for the park. Accidentally I step in a puddle of muddy water on the sidewalk. The chocolate-colored slush splatters on my shoes. Mud is *such* an irritant to neat freaks like me. I sigh and go on walking, to forget my worries and muddy shoes in the green and blooming splendor around me. I would willingly scrub a thousand pairs of mud-encrusted shoes if everyday there were tiny buds of flowers on the trees and the bushes, scarlet and deep violet and pink and white at the tips, holding delicious promises of silky petals and spots of lively color. The rich, green smell of wet earth and sprouting plants slowly waking up from the chill slumber of winter. The slight nip of cold in the air, a welcome change after the biting January frost. The sky, once bare, gray, and gloomy, now constantly splattered with small dark shapes as the birds come flying back from their vacation in the South. I could go on about spring forever. It's a time of new beginnings. In January and February it's way too cold to bother about making resolutions and turning over new leaves -- and besides, that's when the Christmas bills start coming in. But in March and April, when the sun finally shines and the days of full mailboxes begin to dwindle, you feel a stirring, a whirling in the blood that whispers pleasantly in your ear and urges you to make up and start over again. I feel a sudden urge to open my eyes wide -- not to miss one of the wonders around me -- and smile at everyone I meet. They smile back at me. All's right with the world, it seems, in springtime. On sweet and tranquil days like these, I feel amazed when I look back on my life (as I often unconsciously do) and realize how often it has been difficult, sad, and filled with confusion, fear, and trouble. It seems strange to me that about five years ago, I walked into the basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building and into the office of one Special Agent Fox Mulder. It seems weird that over the past few years I've believed Mulder to be dead -- twice, apprehended numerous criminals, killed a few, tramped through wildernesses and through forests, sung to my partner when he was in shock, been shot, kidnapped, shoved around brutally, and knocked on the head. Sometimes I even manage to forget that I once went missing for three months and that I once was diagnosed with a cancer that is now in blessed remission. On a day like this, filled with sunshine and lovely earthy smells and the laughter of little kids in the playground, when I can't resist the urge to smile at everyone I meet, I marvel that so often in my life I've frowned, wept, screamed, arched an eyebrow, shouted, whispered, and groaned, in sadness, fury, doubt, anxiety, and pain. Any memories of mine that are upsetting or saddening seem very far away. On a day like this, I find it impossible to look at every person I meet with mistrust and suspicion, as I've had no choice but to become accustomed to do. Cancerman and his cronies are a ridiculous concept -- nonexistent on such a pretty morning. Against so much beauty and fragrance and sunshine, they are tiny, harmless, inconsequential beings. A couple comes toward me slowly, pushing a ruffled pink pram bearing a baby girl no doubt unaware of the flirting, whispering, and giggling that goes on behind her. The couple smile and nod at me, and I smile and nod back. Maybe someday I'll be half of a couple like that. Strolling in the park on a perfect spring day, pushing a pram with a baby inside, product of the love we share. Flirting with each other, whispering, giggling. Maybe someday Mulder and I... It can't hurt to daydream, right? When I was about thirteen my mother held a garage sale at home. I remember her, a few weeks beforehand, preparing, packing, sorting. I remember that I watched her arrange the things to be sold on the table that we'd dragged from the kitchen to the garage, but carefully pack away in a box the still functional childish clothes that Bill, Charlie, Missy, and I had outgrown. I remember her labeling the box "for my grandchildren." I look up at the bonny blue sky, smattered with a few sparse clouds, and smile, fantasizing. Maybe one day I'll present Mom with a tiny little package of joy, bundled up in flannel. Maybe one day Mom and I will dress up that package in Missy's old floral-print dress-- or maybe in Charlie's old jeans and Coca-Cola t-shirt. Maybe one day I'll clutch the tiny hand carefully in mine, and my child and I will walk down the sidewalk of this same park in a similarly beautiful spring morning... Well. It won't be *my* child, I suppose. I brush that thought away impatiently. I don't want to think sad today. That would be a waste of a perfectly splendid day. There will be plenty of time to dwell on my miseries later. I have plenty of time, full stop, both to enjoy myself and to make myself miserable. I'm only thirty-three, and a healthy thirty-three at that. With a lot of plans and and not a bit of inclination to let anyone or anything ruin them -- not nobody, not know-how. *** He hugged his sand-colored trenchcoat around him more closely against the crispness of the breeze, walking briskly along the cemented path in the park. His hand was buried beneath his coat, his fingers rested on steel and wood. He glanced idly at his wristwatch. No one was around; no footsteps, voices, or other sounds broke the twittering of the birds. A shadow fell across the path before him. His finger twitched inside his coat. *** Scully had her chin up, staring at the trees idly, admiring the spring greenery as she built her splendid castles in the air. A man came walking briskly in the direction opposite hers. He saw her, smiled and nodded, and she made greeting in response. She had only another, frenzied second to watch the man whip out a dark object from inside his sand-colored trenchcoat before a searing, dreadful agony ripped through her with a quiet "shunk". She doubled over, gasping, and felt a second merciless bullet in her chest. Wetness pooled under her fingertips, just barely felt through the haze of pain and fury and desperation -- the frantic cry of "No!" that blew through her mind. A swish of woolen coat, and the man was gone, mission accomplished. Ugh. It's pretty depressing, huh? Normally I detest character deaths, but I couldn't help it this time. You can tell I'm feeling pretty sadistic right now. Soooo.... cheer me up by sending feedback, okay? PLEEEEEEEEEZE?? I really, really want to hear from you all. You can tell me if I suck, don't worry. Flame me all you want. I'm a big girl; I can take it. I want to improve my writing. Please?? aprlacuesta@yahoo.com == --- Patrisha Lacuesta, X-Phile X-traordinaire! --- "Smart is sexy." - Scully, War of the Corprophages --- "Who, me? I'm Mr. Congeniality." - Mulder, Conduit --- "I think it's highly plausible that someone might think you're hot." - Mulder, EBE _________________________________________________________ DO YOU YAHOO!? Get your free @yahoo.com address at http://mail.yahoo.com