From:             "Randee or Cierra" 
Subject:          Story Submission
Date sent:        Wed, 7 Jan 1998 19:36:43 -0800

Title: I Could Have Sworn We'd Met Before...!
Author: Tango LaRue
Rating:G (unless you're Freudian, then bump that up to 'R'   *s*)
Classification: SH
Spoilers: Nope.
Keywords: Pre XF Story
Summary: No redeeming value.  But kinda cute, I guess.
Disclaimer: Okay, kids start singing!
And this is my first fanfic.  This is a big day for me.  This is, "I
Finished Something Day."  This will go down in history as the day I
actually-oh, forget it. : )
THE DISCLAIMER SONG
(To the tune of the X-Files Theme)

They don't belong to me,
They belong to FOX and CC!
I ain't making any money,
So please don't go and sue me.
Warning: I know diddlysquat about what the Scully offspring were like as
kids, so don't flame me for using my imagination, huh?




	The Scully family arrived at Three Pines Naval Base in November of 1979
and
had settled into their small house within a week.  The children were
transplanted from their old schools to the new ones: Charles to the base's
middle/elementary school, and Dana and Melissa to the local high school. 
Bill, Jr. had already run off to be a frosh in college, leaving Missy with
the impression that she was to watch after Dana and Charles so that they
didn't cause their mother to have a heart attack before her time.
	Dana had already distinguished herself in the freshman class by wearing
sandals on her first day in class, even in November, to show off the fact
that she had used a needle to bore a small hole in the nail of the big toe
on her left foot.  Into this hole she had inserted a piece of thin copper
wire, twisted into a hoop.  Having a pierced toenail was just wild enough
to make her exotic without sticking her with the label of "freak," but
being a Navy brat made a freak of her, anyway.
	Dana stormed home from school; feeling a little bit peeved, and broke in
on
the quiet scene of Missy ripping the hems out of her bellbottom jeans to
make them longer, while Charles slurped his tomato soup.  She dumped her
bookbag on the kitchen table and stood in the center of the room, scowling.
Missy didn't even look up.  "You didn't take the bus home."
	"I walked," Dana growled.  "I was sick of the weird looks everyone kept
giving me."
	Charles shook his head in mock sadness.  "See? Mom and Dad should have
kept
her locked up.  I knew this would happen."
	"Be quiet, Chas.  You don't know what you're talking about," Dana snapped.

"Just shut up and eat your soup."
	"So what happened?" Missy asked, making pacifying, airy-fairy motions with
her hands.  "Just, like, try to calm yourself down."
	"Don't be such a hippie, Missy," Charles muttered.  "It's embarrassing."
	"I prefer to be called an alternative thinker.  And I was talking to Dana,
not you."
	The girls' younger brother smiled, showing the gap between his two front
teeth.  "Really? What's your alternative to thinking?"
	Missy ignored him, and Dana tried to follow her example.  It was like
trying to ignore an itch.  "They just sort of.stared at me.  And they
whispered a lot."
	Missy smiled.  "They'll get used to you, Dana.  You're new.  People talk."
	"Mmmph," Dana replied.  She slumped into one of he wooden chairs that
surrounded the kitchen table.  There had been that one guy she'd seen,
dejectedly shooting baskets in his driveway.  He'd been about Missy's age,
and God, was he cute.  Brown hair, hazel eyes, and she'd bet he played
basketball back home.  She'd seen him at school, too.  He was visiting from
the East Coast and kept to himself, but when Dana had walked by after
school, he'd perked up a bit and waved at her.  And what a name.  Groovy. 
Far out.
	"Well," Dana amended.  "Not everyone was all bad.  There was this one cute
guy."
	"Ooooh," Charles teased.
	"Really?"  Missy smiled.  "Who was he?"
	Dana shrugged.  "His first name was Fox.  He's just visiting from the East
Coast."  Her shoulders slumped again, and she sighed.  "It doesn't really
matter.  I'll probably never see him again."

THE END
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Isn't it ironic?  Don'cha think? (sorry, Alanis.)
Send all (constructive) feedback to randee@thegrid.net
  

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