Thanks, Christine. Don't forget about our date in May.
 

~~~~~~~~~~~
Down-time
By Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~

There's this place I go to. A bar. I stop in sometimes, you know, before
I go home. It's .... quiet. Kind of off the beaten path, so I don't see many
faces from the Hoover. Lots of oak and brass, etched glass, a big,
L-shaped bar set apart from the booths. People go there to meet, sure,
but some just hang by themselves. Casey's, it's called. Casey's. I like it
there.

After the donnybrook at the Statistics Center, I need some down-time. Maybe
have a drink or three. Tomorrow I'll catch up with Knowle Rohrer and, God
help me, I'm gonna get some answers. Right now I just need to sit and think.
I go to Casey's.

Things got hairy after Mulder and I hot-footed it outta the Center, but we
managed to avoid the biggest trouble spots courtesy of those three space
cadets he hangs with. You know, it's said you can tell a lot about a person
by the company they keep. Well .... Don't go there, John. Just don't go
there. Anyway, we stuck together when we made it out of that
crawl-space, then parted ways in the alleyway a few blocks away from
the center. Haven't seen him since, and quite frankly, I don't want to.
I've had enough of Fox Mulder to last me a lifetime.

Mulder. What a friggin' piece of work that guy is. All the effort and sweat
and frustration that went into finding him; all the tears and grief and
heartache, and for what? So he can treat Scully like shit? So he can call
me a liar? Or worse, incompetent?

Those months we searched, we were each of us in hell. Monica, Skinner
  .... hell, even that skinny kid, the bottle-red he has working his office.
And Scully, of course. Man oh man, what she went through. I saw what
it did to her. I hate what it did to her. I hate it because I've been there
myself. Not knowing. Finding yourself hanging betwixt and between,
strangling on loose ends, unable to move forward with your life because
you don't know how to breathe when half of your soul - half of your own
self - is taken from you.

Then finding him like we did. Christ. I really don't know how she made it
through that in one piece, *especially* knowing what I do about her now.
She's strong, no question. Stronger than I am.

And now he's back. And having met the man and worked with him
after a fashion, all I can say is .... Shakespeare really hit on something
with "much ado about nothin'."

The city's pretty calm this time of night. At least, this neighborhood is.
The place is quiet, too. Not much business. I take my place at the bar.
It's on the short leg of the L, sort of in the corner. From here I can see
the door, the aisle between the booths, the hallway back to the can ....
everything. I like being able to see. The mirror over the bar's okay if
my stool happens to be taken, but it's hard to scope the room out
without *looking* like you're scoping the room out. You know what
I mean.

I take my place and make nice with the barkeep, a pretty woman with
short, dark hair, then order up a drink - single malt, neat - and let my
thoughts churn.

Mulder. I coulda been killed tonight because of him. I coulda died, and
the horse's ass *still* thinks my goal in life is to set him up for the big
fall. I ponder the man as I take a sip of whiskey. If I added up all the
bullets, all the threats, all the bullshit I've encountered since the day
I took that first call from Kersh, what would the score be? Given the
circumstances, I think it's only reasonable that I resent the guy just a
little. If it hadn't been for him getting his sorry ass disappeared out in
the friggin' boondocks last May, I'd still be working VC cases.
Maybe I'd find the animal who killed my boy. Maybe not - but I sure
as hell won't have a crack at it from the basement, that I know for a fact.

Yeah, I resent Mulder. Not a reason in the world I shouldn't. I'd heard
things about him even before he went missing. Loose cannon, they used
to say. Flake. The guy chases fairy-tales. Conspiracies at every turn.
He's made paranoia an art form.

Well, I've come up with a few more names to add to the roster.

Bullheaded.

Egocentric.

Asshole.

I saw what his death did to her. It was like she put something of herself in
the ground right alongside that coffin. A big chunk of herself. Then he
came back. He came back to *her*. She should be happy. She deserves
to be happy. She's gonna be a mom. She's got her partner back. Not
partner in the sense that *I'm* her partner, but partner like the other
name going on her kid's birth certificate. Like someone she might be
carrying on her health insurance, under the right circumstances.

Happy? Does she look happy? I saw her outside her apartment tonight.
I saw her and I talked to her. *Happy* was not the word that came to
mind.

He doesn't believe her. That thought hit me tonight with a slug to the
gut, which must have been just about what it felt like to her. He doesn't
believe he's the father. That is such horse shit. Okay, so she doesn't
exactly confide in me - you don't have to be psychic to read the signs,
and they're written all over her. She's crazy about the guy. She fell in
love, they ended up in bed on at least one occasion .... and he still can't
bring himself to believe it's his. What an asshole.

For the record, I've read her casefile. I know about the infertility thing.
I don't know if I believe all that nonsense about implanted alien
embryos .... Christ, what am I saying? Of *course* I don't believe it.
*Aliens*, for shit's sake? Okay, so if Scully's pregnant, and it's pretty
damn clear that she is, then isn't it just a *little* more likely that it
happened the good old fashioned way? I mean, lots of women who've
been told they can't have kids find themselves in the delivery room,
and not one of them have ended up with an alien baby. Believe me,
I know, because if it ever happened, there'd be a file on it in one of
those damn cabinets in my office.

The whiskey's making my belly warm. I know I should probably have
eaten something before I came here. I flag down the barkeep and order
another malt. Is it too late to get a meal, I ask her. She smiles and says
no, the kitchen closes in twenty. Great, I say. Gimme a double cheese
with the works.

I'm halfway through the second whiskey when the outside door opens.
Who's the lucky one, I wonder with a little smirk. It's pushing one am,
and not one of the people in here have someplace better to be. C'mon
in and sit a spell. Cry into your beer. Tell me a good one. I'll tell you
one, too.

Shit. I don't fuckin' believe this. What the hell is *he* doing here? Of
all the gin joints in all the world ....

Fox Mulder. The man himself. He sees me at once, sitting here on my
stool in the corner. Judging from the unpleasant twist to his mouth, I'd
hazard to guess that I'm not entirely successful at hiding my contempt.
We stare at each other for a long, cold moment. His hands are in the
pockets of his jacket. I can see them move, his fists opening and closing,
and I know as well as I know my own name that he's considering turning
right around and going out the way he came in. Go ahead, I silently urge
him. No one here's gonna stop you. Go on back and ignore your partner
some more. Or better yet, go look her in the eye and ask her if she's
been sleeping around. That'll do her heart good, or what's left of it. At
least then she'd have the satisfaction of shooting your ass. At least then
she'd know you're not worth having around. Maybe she'd realize she's
really better off without you. Maybe she'd realize she could have
anyone she wanted. Me, if she'd have me, which I know she never
would.

That thought sets me back a little. Where'd *that* come from? Must
be the whiskey. She's actually not my type. Besides, I don't want ....
that. I had it once, and it was .... shit, who am I trying to kid? It was
good. Losing it was like losing .... well, I don't want to do it again.
I couldn't go through that again and stay sane.

I watch Mulder from behind my glass. Shit, stay if you have to, I want
to say. There are lots of resting places to choose from. Chairs, booths,
tables ....  But does he go to any of them? No. Guess *I'm* the lucky
one, because where does he plant his ass but on the stool right next to
mine.

Nodding acquaintances, I think to myself. That's all we are. We work
with the same woman, we hold the same position - or did, we're both
erudite men in our forties. We both like sports, we both like women ....

And we don't have a single thing to say to each other.

We sit in silence.

The barkeep takes pity on us. Or maybe she just sets the play into
motion. "Hey, Big M," she says as soon as she sees him. Big smile.
Does she know something I don't? She actually seems to like him.
"It's been too long. What've you been up to?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "Six-foot two, give or take. Hope you don't
believe everything you've heard about me. Gimme what he's having,
would you? And an ice water."

I sigh and nod without looking at him. "Agent Mulder. I see you
made it back safe and sound."

I don't know if he nods. He doesn't sigh. "Agent Doggett. Funny to
run into you here."

I shoot him a hard glance. "I drink once in a while."

"And eat, apparently," he says, eyeing the plate of food the barmaid
sets in front of me.

"Apparently." I shovel in a couple fries before looking at him again.
"Why funny?"

He shrugs again, and I see the corner of his mouth drop a little. "We
just seem to have a lot in common for two men who don't have
anything in common."

I'm busy fighting with the pickle and the tomato. They keep shooting
in opposite directions. Shit, is it just the booze that's making me
clumsy? Maybe I can get one of those little umbrellas with the long
toothpicks for handles from the barkeep. Spear it all together. I give up
on the tomato and keep the pickle. Before I know it, the burger's half
gone. I really was hungry.

"You watch the Series last fall?" he asks suddenly.

I give him a look. Where the hell did *that* come from? And where's
he goin' with it? Do aliens play baseball? "Some of it," I say. "Not a
real fan."

He's toying with the ring his water glass leaves on the bar. I see the
Olympic emblem, five intercrossing circles. A wipe of his napkin
and it's gone. "Scully taped it."

Another handful of fries, another swig of whiskey. She taped it, sure,
I want to say, but did you bother to watch any of it? I think about her,
sitting in her apartment, taping sports for a man she knew she might
never see again. I think about finding her sleeping in his bed. I think
about the circles under her eyes that got darker, day by day. I think
about what she's given up for him. I have no idea where the words
come from, but before I know it, they're out. "You're it for her, you
know." Maybe I just meant to think them and my mouth couldn't help
but get in on the act. Booze does that to me. It's why I don't drink
very often.

"Am I?" he says very quietly. He's still playing with his drink. Has he
had any of it yet? I can't remember.

Before I can think better of it, my mouth's doing it again. Must be the
whiskey because after this day, I really don't give a shit about Fox Mulder.
"For someone who wants to believe, you sure don't act the part."

He levels those eyes on me. I've seen them dead. I've seen them cold
and angry and impossibly hard. They aren't hard now. Uncertain,
maybe. There's a little squint to them. "And how am I supposed to act?"

Now there's a question. My thought processes are slowed considerably
by the Glenfiddich burning its way through my brain, but I give it a
good college try. I have an idea what he means by that, and I don't
think it has much to do with conspiracies and such. "She moved on.
She had to." He winces, and I know I've hit the mark. "I think you
prob'ly know this on some level, but maybe other parts are slower
to catch up. Get over it, Mulder. Live with it. You're not doing yourself
no favors, lookin' back and bitchin' about what you've missed. If you'd
get your head out of your ass for thirty seconds, you'd see that you're
*still* missing out. Maybe you should do somethin' about it."

He stares into his whiskey like it's a crystal ball. "Wish it were that
simple." His tone is flat, without inflection.

I grunt as I prepare to stuff the last of the burger into my mouth. "If
wishes were horses, sonny boy, I could be in the Olympics."

He grunts. "Oh, I think I know a few things about that myself," he said,
half under his breath. "There are things you don't know - "

"You're right," I blurt around a mouthful as I signal for a third drink.
"There is a *shit load* I don't know about you OR this whole situation
tonight. I don't know who to trust. I don't know what to believe. I don't
know what's real. And I don't know who to turn to for answers."

He gives me a crooked little smile. I think it's the first time I've ever seen
him do anything but snarl at me. "We really do have a lot in common then."

The barkeep brings me my whiskey. Bless her heart, she also sets a glass
of ice water on the bar in front of me. Must have seen me watching
Mulder play with his. I down half of it in one long, delicious gulp.

He looks hang-dog. I feel for him. I haven't been in *his* place, God
knows, but I know something about being adrift. I've had the most
important thing a person can have and I let it slip away from me.
That's a commonality I don't want us to share. He's so intent upon
remaining alone. Does he find something noble in the whole thing?
Being a loner doesn't make him noble. It doesn't make anyone noble.
It just makes you lonely.

"Listen," I say, shoving my plate aside. "No one can tell you what to
think or feel. Hell, no one on earth has the foggiest notion what it is
to be you anymore." I hesitate. I want to tell him something about my
wife, but I can't. It still hurts too much. Besides, he wouldn't give a
shit. He might nod along, but I'd still be the yutz who took his place
in his partner's life, I'd just be a bad husband, too. Not goin' there.
"Mulder .... silence can be a disease. I lost someone to it. It dudn't
matter who. We just .... we blamed each other for shit we couldn't
possibly be responsible for. Didn't do us any good." I look at him
square on for the first time since he walked in. "Don't do it. You got
something to say? Say it. Chances are, she needs to hear it."

He looks at me, and I see something down deep in those eyes. Humor?
Sympathy? Empathy? Who knows? Maybe we really do have more in
common than either of us thought. "I'll think about it," he says,
reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few bills. He puts a five
on the bar next to the whiskey. It doesn't look like he drank much of it.

Which, in my book, is something of a crime. Maybe not a high crime,
but single malt's meant to be drunk. I illustrate by tossing mine back.
As I'm digging in my own pocket for cash - I know I have a twenty in
there somewhere - I hear the front door open again. Some other poor
sap, I think to myself. Well, the bar won't close for another forty minutes
or so. Plenty of time to get shit-faced, especially if you hit it as hard and
as rapidly as I have tonight. I think I'll call a cab. Mulder's not driving
yet - this I know. Some snafu with the DMV, I think. I guess their
computers aren't any better at the rising-from-the-dead thing than the
federal government's. Probably having one hell of a time sorting out his
bank accounts, too. I'd imagine he's been living off loans from his three
geek friends since the day he got out of the hospital. Does he need a ride?
Arlington isn't exactly up the road from my own neighborhood, but we can
flag down a gypsy and split the fare.

He's not looking at me. I wonder at what point in the last fifteen seconds
I ceased to exist.

He's staring across the room at the new arrival. I think I could guess who
it was just from the look on his face. Sure as shit, there she is, standing in
the doorway just like he did a little while ago. Man, she was pretty when I
first met her, but *now* - soft and round and glowing, just like you always
hear about pregnant women .... I swear, drop-dead gorgeous wouldn't be
far wrong.

She looks a little out-of-place here, though. Not many pregnant customers
around here. I wonder about the cigarette smoke filling the place. I hadn't
noticed it until just this minute. Is it bad for the baby? I *know* she's not
here to drink. She just stands at the door, hands pressed into the small of her
back, and looks around. The place isn't particularly well-lit. Scanning.
Scanning. Over here, I want to say. I don't. I know she's not looking for me.

"Catch ya later," Mulder says, sliding off his stool. She sees him
immediately.
Her eyes flick past him to me for an instant, and I muster a weak little
smile.
What she's feeling .... I see it in her eyes. I see the anxiety and the hope.
Most of all, I see wariness. Give her what she wants, I want to scream to
the asshole I supposedly have so much in common with. Jesus, put your
arms around her and hold her. Tell her you want to be here for her; tell her
you aren't leaving her again ....

And then don't leave. *Ever*.

They're close now. Closer than she ever lets me stand. I wonder if this is
new for them. A return to normal, maybe. I can't see much of his face,
but I see hers. She's still wearing that guarded, chiseled expression. He's
talking to her. His head is bowed toward hers. She looks past him to me
again, and I don't have much trouble reading her lips, or the flash of anger
in her eyes: *You were talking about me?* A nod and what I can only
imagine is a sheepish smile. Her head tips back a little and she looks at
him squarely. I see defiance. Affection. Relief. Other things as he
continues to talk. Her brows flit upward. A smile slowly appears. Before
long, her lips are trembling. Her hand settles on his cheek, touching the
marks with her fingertips. I cringe to think of what put them there. Then
her thumb strokes slowly over his mouth.

I should look away. I should, but I don't.

He bends just a little as she lifts her chin, and they kiss. Once. Twice. The
third one, they take their time. A little side-to-side. Her cheeks hollow out
as his jaw moves, and I figure their tongues are getting in on the act. Her
hand remains on his face, but her other one takes a handful of his shirt
and holds on tight. His hands are on her hips. Or at least where her hips
would be. Before long he's got his arms around her.

Okay, enough is enough, I think as I tear myself away from the spectacle
of Man Kissing Woman. It's late and I'm feeling my whiskey. Time I got
my ass home.

The barkeep has my change. I leave her a tip next to Mulder's five-spot
and turn on my heel. They're still face to face, exchanging words I can
only guess at. I don't need to hear them.

I remember fighting with my wife. I remember .... well, I remember a lot
of things. What those two have ahead of them .... I've been there. I just
hope to God he finds a way and a reason to stay with her now. She
deserves it.

I don't look back at them as I duck out the side door. It's cold out.
It's gonna rain again.

It ain't noble, being alone. It's just the way it is for me. I don't plan
for it to last forever.

I have my memories. Right now, they're enough.

~~~~~
end
~~~~~