The Visitor
By Christine Leigh

Summary: Post-series. Two POVs. Implied character death.
Rating: G
Category: V, MSR
Spoilers: None.

On a night when the moon shone over the yard making it appear like a scene out of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" -- this was the last time she saw him. He was sitting in one of the chairs. There were two by the side of the old shed, and by day they were shaded by the oaks from the cemetery that bordered the property on one side. When she moved here, many wondered at the thought of her living next door to a cemetery, but she had just laughed. Amateurs, all.

The fact is that it was a beautiful spot, and the chairs were placed perfectly in the yard. It was wonderful to sit and get a bit of fresh air before heading indoors for the duration of the hot afternoon. During the winter she loved watching the fog come in over the tops of the trees.

That night, the night there should have been fairies all around, he was somehow more present than usual, and more, she wasn't sure, forceful? That wasn't really the right word, but she didn't know how else to describe it. It was as though he knew something for certain that she was unable to understand. It had been so many years, but she still prided herself on her ability to keep up with him, so she told herself she would have to work this through, somehow.

She knew that he still visited. She would hear birdsong long before five in the morning, or a knock, ever so faint, at the back door. Sometimes it was just a breeze that came and went in a breath. But when she went to the window and looked out, both of the chairs were empty.

Then, one very early morning, she felt his lips upon hers.


She has lived here a year, and is quite glad she made the decision that she did. Dad had been concerned, but she knew that this was where she belonged. It wasn't a large place, but it fit her like no newer house ever could.

She'd been close to her grandmother, and had grown up thrilling to whatever stories she could get out of her about her days in the F.B.I. Grandma didn't share easily about those times, but in the right moment, she found the narratives that came forth to be fascinating.

And then there was the romance.

She didn't share that aspect of her choice in living arrangements with anyone. Grandma had been the most romantic person she'd ever known. Not many people could see this, but she had. There weren't many pictures of her grandfather, long deceased, and many years before she was born, but the ones that existed told a story of their own. Dad resembled him around the eyes, and she liked to think, but isn't quite sure, in his sense of humor. Dad had a terrific sense of humor, but she had gleaned that her grandfather's had been unique.

What she did know is that Grandma loved her grandfather in a way that she, so far, had not experienced in her life and that she had not seen in any other couple she has known. A part of her, if she was to be honest, hoped that living where such a woman had spent a good part of her life would rub off.

Three nights ago, she thought she'd heard a knock at the back door. It had been a little after three o'clock in the morning, but she'd gotten up and gone to the door and opened it. No one was there.

Tonight she was dreaming vividly. She was in a car and driving somewhere with Grandma and a man. She thought it must be her grandfather, but wasn't sure -- they were both so young. Then he turned and offered her some sunflower seeds. She laughed and took some from the bag. Of course, it must be him...

She awakened and sat up. So real it had seemed. They had both been so beautiful. She pondered this for a few minutes. Not that she hadn't known this before, but they had been right there, so close to her in the dream. She started to lay back down, but then heard a trill. What was a bird doing singing at this hour? Then she thought about three nights ago, and the knock at the door.

Not knowing why, but somehow knowing that she should, she got up and moved to the window that looked out over the backyard. Moonlight flooded the vista before her. She loved this place, truly. It had been no mistake deciding to live here. She pushed the window up and breathed in the night air. Soon, she heard another trill. Silly, confused bird. She glanced around the yard, and if she had blinked, she would have missed it. Or them, rather. They were just sitting there in the chairs under the oaks and, she couldn't help but notice, holding hands. They were looking at one another in that way that she knew they must have done all those years ago. She thought about pinching herself, but then shrugged. She wanted to believe, and that was all that mattered. She touched her lips to her fingers and blew a kiss out the window before turning away. Soon, she slept.

~ End ~

Archiving: If you would like to archive anywhere, I'd appreciate a quick note first. E-mail:

Feedback: Always happy to receive it.

This story is (c) Copyright 2005 by Christine Leigh. "The X-Files" and its characters are the property of the Fox Network and Ten-Thirteen Productions and are borrowed here without profit or intent for profit.