Summary: Bill Scully, Jr., finds a reason to open himself to new family members.

Comments: This is my first fanfic, so please be gentle with me. Special thanks to Kestabrook for her wonderful support. Feedback: If it's positive or helpful, I'd love it.

I see her in the kitchen, and immediately, my attention is upon her.

My name is Bill Scully, Jr., and I am in love with a younger woman. What is really surprising is that my wife is not at all upset by this. The object of my affection is my sister's five-year-old daughter. I fell in love the first time I saw her carried by her father, sleepily sucking her thumb, her caramel-colored skin flushed from a nap in the car coming to Grandma's house.

I didn't want to love her. She was eighteen months old when I first saw her, soon after they adopted her. I tried to remember the reason my sister could not have children and that it was all the fault of her sorry son of a bitch husband. I tried to steel myself and searched in vain for any drop of racial prejudice I could muster. I should have realized it was futile; I was a goner from the first glimpse.

I won't go into the reasons why my sister can't have children or why I hate that poor excuse of a husband of hers. Let's just say that I have my reasons and leave it at that. Anyway, not long after they got married, Dana and the creep decided to adopt a child. Because of Dana's past medical history, and because they were on the high end of the optimum age range for prospective parents, they decided to try for a child that would be considered less adoptable. They fell in love with Charisse, a mixed race older baby whose mother had a history of drug problems. No one knew how affected Charisse would be by her mother's drug consumption during pregnancy. She had been in two foster homes, and had been very lucky with both as she was obviously well cared for when she arrived. She is a very bright, healthy, and good natured little girl, and my sister adores her. I'm not at all surprised at what a good mother Dana is. It kills me to say it, but her husband is really good with Charisse and obviously loves her to distraction.

Charisse's mother was a white teenager who was unable to provide much information about the baby's father. We don't know Charisse's racial makeup, but it appears that she might have African American, Native American, Caucasian, and possibly Asian or Hispanic blood from her father. This has conspired to make an exotically beautiful child. Her skin is the color of caramel, and her eyes are light. Her hair is a soft brown and quite curly.

Mom arranged a family gathering in honor of Tara's, Matthew's, and my visit this week. Charlie and his family would not be in town, so the guest list consisted of my family, Dana's family, and Mom's next-door neighbors who have two kids whose ages fall between Matthew and Charisse's.

Family gatherings have become much more difficult for me since Charisse has joined the family. That sounds wrong--let me explain. I feel contempt for my sister's husband and have always felt free to express this. I could be surly and nasty to him, and neither my mother nor my sister could stop me. I felt I had a right to my opinions, and no one could stop me from expressing them. Charisse was quite small when that had to change. She adores her father and was very sensitive to the atmosphere around him. My comments and little snubs upset her. I couldn't bear to see the hurt look in her eyes, so I had to make nice a lot more than I wanted to.

Neither of my sisters had ever listened to my opinions on how they should live their lives. Dad raised us to adhere to a certain code of conduct. He believed that we had obligations and responsibilities and that staying within our assigned roles in life made it easier to meet them.

Maybe he was too indulgent since Melissa and Dana always did as they pleased. It would not be an understatement to say that Dad hated Melissa's new-age lifestyle and could barely carry on a conversation with her. She would go on about karma and auras, and I could see his blood pressure climb.

He and Mom were devastated when Dana joined the FBI and rejected their plans for her. They'd spent a fortune putting her through school, and hey, was it too much to ask that she pick a specialty like obstetrics or pediatrics? But she had to go into pathology and a career with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Dana believed that before he died, Dad forgave her for her decision. I'm not so sure of that.

I used to harbor a lot of anger at Dana for the damage to our family that her choices wrought. While she lay close to death in the hospital, I found myself transferring that anger to her partner. It seemed to be a good fit as far as I was concerned. Dana wouldn't have been dying if it hadn't for him, and Missy wouldn't be dead. Mom wouldn't have been dealing with the death of a second daughter. I wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp.

Well, Dana got better, but I have my doubts that it had anything to do with that thing they put back in her neck. Thinking about the whole thing makes me sick. But years went by, and my wife and my mother wouldn't put up with what they call "negative talk," so I kept my feelings to myself.

The introduction of Charisse into our family forced me to look at my feelings for my sister and her husband and the strange journey they have lead our family on. I wonder sometimes if, in some cosmic tangle, they were led on this path so they would be there when she needed them. My belief system is a little simplistic to handle this theory, but it gives me pause sometimes.

So here we are on this warm and sunny October Sunday, having probably the last cookout of the year. Sometimes I am forced to get away from the rest of the family before I say something that will get me in trouble. I escaped to the house to watch some football and am now happily flipping channels when the squeak of the screen door interrupts my focus. I look up to see Charisse in the kitchen, her face like a thundercloud and her hands balled up at her side.

"Hey Punkin, what's up?" I ask. She comes into the family room and sits down on the couch. She starts worrying the fringe on my mother's throw pillow.

"Justin said I don't belong in this family. I don't look anything like the rest of you."

I can tell she is close to tears, and it kills me. Justin is the son of my mother's neighbors. I want to smack the little brat or maybe his parents who have obviously not raised him to be tolerant or to at least keep his mouth shut.

I think fast and, looking into those eyes of hers, I have a revelation. I have seen those same eyes somewhere else. I remember standing in a hospital corridor, so angry I could spit and looking into eyes that exact shade of green, filled with the same hurt and pain.

"Justin doesn't know beans about beans, Punkin." This gets a smile, but those eyes are still brimming with tears. "You know something? Your eyes are the same color as your Dad's."

"Yeah?" she is not so sure of this, but her smile is starting to show in those eyes.

"Yeah, sure. And you know what else? When your mom was little, she had curly hair like you." Now the smile looks like the sun breaking through those thunderclouds. "But belonging in a family isn't about looking like everybody else. And let me tell you, boy do you belong in our family."

A sound from the doorway gets her attention, and I realize that her father has come in the house. Must not have heard him over the noise of a touchdown or something. She smiles up at him, and his face seems bathed in the light of that sunshine.

"Grandma's handing out cupcakes. Thought you might be interested," he tells her.

She is out the door like a flash. Amazing how fast kids recover from life's little stings.

"So, how long you been standing there?" I ask. I can feel the color rising up my neck. Damn the Scully complexion. The bastard is amused.

"Long enough," he drops down into the recliner. "What's the score?"

Well, I think I know the score. Maybe for the first time in years, I know the score.

End

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