By The Pimpernel
ThePimpernel@waitrose.com
 

Date: August 2003
Rating: PG-13 but I don't want to offend anyone so let's say R
for sexual situations, and bad words.
Summary: An irreverent look at biological imperative and
genetic predisposition -- possibly. Just read and enjoy.

Classification: SRA
Keywords: AU -- a 'what if' parallel time line that mangles the
two, angst, MSR sort of.
Spoilers:  YES. Play spot the reference.
Feedback: Warms the cockles of my heart and other bits of my
anatomy. - thepimpernel@waitrose.com
Archive: I'd be stunned but go ahead. It's written to be read.
Disclaimer: Just five more minutes Dad, then I promise I'll put
them away.
Fanfic is a self-indulgence of the non-fattening type for neither
body nor bank account. In other words any reference to
characters created by Chris Carter real or imaginary is purely
deliberate but they're not mine.
I'm English forgive me my spelling.

All due homage to hawk-eyed Elsie, who goads, herds and
generally corrals my grammar into something readable. That
just leaves the plot holes as a distraction.

I'm posting this now as I think this story stands on it's own.
However, (pauses to look over shoulder) there is more to come in
this universe. So check your WIP tolerance before reading.
 

***********************************************

A small beam of moonlight, from a crack between the curtains
-- a result of the haste in which they had been drawn, slanted
across the bed, allowing a dim outline of the bed's occupants to
be seen. A man's leg here, a woman's arm there, a hint of skin
here and there. There was just enough light to highlight the
perspiration on both bodies. Heavy breathing was slowly
brought under control. The man settled back with a sigh,
closing his eyes. The woman took that as a sign to make her
escape. However, as she started to slide out of bed there was a
gentle touch on her arm.

"Where are you going, Kate?"

She just knew it. Despite what they'd agreed, he was
harbouring continuance fantasies. "Home," she replied, peering
into the darkness for her clothes.

"So soon?"

"I explained it to you in the bar..."

"I know, a one-night stand only. I haven't forgotten, but the
night is yet young." Yes, he remembered it perfectly well; he
just wasn't prepared to let it go at that. Yet.

"It's two in the morning, Marty," she pointed out as she groped
in a pile of clothes, looking for her underwear. This was always
the awkward bit. She'd rather hoped he'd have dropped off to
sleep, or at least pretended. After the amount of effort he'd just
expended, she'd expected him to be out cold.

Keep her talking, he thought. Something innocuous but
plausible. "It's early. At the very least let me get you a drink.
After the odd alcoholic beverage or six you had in the bar and
that physical exertion, you must be risking dehydration by
now."

"I'll be fine, Marty, and it's late. Have you seen my
underwear?" If he was going to be chatty and awake, he could
at least be useful.

"It's still night," he insisted, locating his boxers with ease on
the dimly lit floor.

Nonchalantly, he handed her his shirt before padding towards
the kitchen. She fingered it thoughtfully, weighing her options.
A light went on, presumably in the kitchen.

"And you promised me one night and I intend to get my
money's worth," he continued from the kitchen.

"Money's worth!" she parroted, her voice somewhat squeaky
with shock.

"Sorry, bad choice of words. I wasn't trying to imply anything
derogatory. I've got coffee, tea, iced tea or root beer," he
recovered smoothly, while figuratively kicking himself in the
ass.

She wavered in the bedroom. This wasn't quite the response
she was expecting. He appeared calm, relaxed and...  amicable,
just as he'd been most of the evening. She hated to admit it but
logic was on his side. She really should drink something; she
could feel the beginnings of a headache already. If she drank
something now she might head the worst of it off. Then again,
the sooner she left the better.

She hovered uneasily at the kitchen door, fingering the buttons
on his shirt that she had eventually put on.

"Iced tea."

"Good choice," he said taking a pitcher out of the fridge.

"You made that yourself?"

"Don't sound so surprised. We single men have the occasional
domestic touch."

She looked pointedly at the unwashed dishes by the sink.

"If you are worried about the possibility of new life forms
growing in my fridge, feel free to take a look. I promise it's fit
for human consumption."

Curious to see a single man's fridge without several types of
mould growing somewhere, she opened the fridge door. He
was right; it was clean. As for the nutritional value of the
contents thereof, that was a different story.

"Would you like any food to go with the drink? I can order
pizza -- it'll be here in twenty minutes, or, as I've stocked up
today, I could make a sandwich." Good, he thought, safe topic,
keeping her interest while casually showing my domestic side.

She still hadn't closed the fridge door, mesmerised by the
sticky, gooey chocolate cake calling her name from the top
shelf.

"Kate?" he tried again.

 Still getting no response and puzzled -- fortune had dictated
that he'd cleaned that fridge only this morning, there having
been several unidentified growths that turned even his stomach
-- he looked over her shoulder to see what had caught her
attention.

He had a horrible thought that he'd left something
embarrassing in there. He thought back to the time he'd put his
trainers in the fridge and the milk in the wardrobe after one
particular gruelling week at work. At first he didn't understand
her fascination -- it had been a long time since he'd been close
enough to a woman to remember some of the finer points --
then a memory from long ago was dredged up to put the
association in his head and therefore the correct words into his
mouth.

"Would you like a piece of chocolate cake?"

"Yes, please," left her mouth before the sensible side could put
a brake on. She shouldn't. Really, she shouldn't but if she was
going to sin, she might as well get them all over and done with.
Logic might dictate she should maybe sin once a week, eke
them out to avoid overindulgence, but practice dictated that she
had better control if she binged occasionally and applied strict
control the rest of the time. So tonight, alcohol, sex and
chocolate cake; that should top the sinometer and get it out of
her system. Of course, it meant she wasn't making good her
escape, but what the hell.

Marty watched fascinated as she savoured another piece of
cake. Her face had distinct overtones of ecstasy on it. She
mmm'd and ahh'd as she ate, licking her lips between bites.
She finished the second piece, which she hadn't needed much
urging to take, and was about to lick her fingers when he
reached out for her hand, pulling it towards his mouth, and
commenced sucking her fingers clean. He just couldn't help
himself.

She swallowed in excitement and apprehension. This wasn't
part of the plan; this wasn't the usual MO for a one-night stand.
Well, not any that she'd had anyway; she had sex -- if she was
really lucky, it would last more than ten minutes and there'd be
brief physical gratification, the man fell asleep, she made her
getaway.

"Marty, I should be going," she tried, but even to her ears it
didn't have the ring of conviction.

"Are you willing to reconsider your one night only
ultimatum?"

She shook her head.

"Then I'm still claiming the rest of the night."

He kissed her before she could get another word out, doing a
thorough inspection of lips, tongue, teeth, and sides of her
mouth for any cake remnants. He was doing quite well in the
multitasking department too. Unusual in a man, she thought.
His hands roamed over her body, paying special attention to all
those places he'd so painstakingly discovered the first time.
She was caught up in the moment, feeling nice, better than
nice, an accelerating pleasure. There were so few of these
moments in her life, it would be a real shame to miss out now.
Any thoughts about going home were rapidly vaporized in her
mind; she had said 'a night' after all. She just hadn't expected
to be taken so literally. The small, nagging voice at the back of
her brain saying this was a bad idea was overwhelmed by the
needy, pleasure-seeking voice that said, 'So it's unusual, this
evening was an impulse, remember. Let's go with it.' So she
did.

Later, much later, two physically exhausted but sated people
lay side by side on the bed, the sweat still glistening on their
bodies, a flush still across their skin, breathing still laboured.
The sky was lightening. She allowed the sweat to cool and dry
on her body, not wanting to appear in an unseemly rush after
he had just given so generously... again. There was also a small
hope that he would fall asleep this time. He closed his eyes, but
as she moved from the bed to look for her clothes, he opened
them and gave her a wistful smile saying nothing. She
pretended she hadn't seen it.

He got up and helped her find her clothes. How had her bra
gotten over there? She'd rather he'd feigned sleep, but he
wasn't trying to dissuade her from going or haranguing her into
seeing him again.

He went to the living room to call her a taxi while she dressed
in the bedroom. He fidgeted wanting to say something while
still trying to respect her wishes. She was at the door,
practically breathing a sigh of relief, when his urge to speak
overcame him. Just keep it simple, he told himself.

"Kate...?" he said as her hand was on the handle. She stopped
but didn't turn.

"If you ever change your mind, I'll be here." Lame, he thought
but what else was there?

She nodded her head and left.

He collapsed on the couch with a sigh. "Damn. Damn. Damn,
fuckety, wanky damn!" he muttered. He'd so hoped to change
her mind, hoped he could obliterate whatever bad experience
she'd had with one night. Not arrogance on his part, just a wish
for a great triumph of hope over experience. He hadn't gone
out with the intention of picking anyone up, he'd just needed a
change of scene. A drink, where he could see people having a
good time. Not that he wanted to live vicariously, he just
wanted to know it was possible that people did still enjoy
themselves. That life went on.

Since his wife had walked out five years ago, he'd tried to get
back into 'living'. His job wasn't conducive to regular events,
meetings... dates, but he'd made the effort. When one of the
secretaries at work had asked him out, he'd been taken off
guard but willingly agreed, after the initial shock had worn off.
When it hadn't worked out, he hadn't taken it as personal; there
were always more misses than hits in the dating game.
However, after the sixth one, he got a bit suspicious and then
he found out that the secretarial pool had drawn lots for who
had him next.

He was viewed as hot property, in several meanings of the
term. They gave him a couple of dates, sampled the wares and
then went back to their 'regular' partners. He'd found out later
that one of the women was actually married. In evolutionary
terms, infidelity and promiscuity in women was supposedly to
spread the provider load, so if one 'mate' became tiger lunch
there was another one to bring home the mammoth steak for
dinner. That and the possibility of dipping into the gene pool
and winning the jackpot. Neither scenario seemed to apply to
him; he was neither viewed as long-term partner material nor
did he contribute to the population explosion, he was careful
about that.

He'd been played for a fool, basically used. Stud for hire and
very oblivious. The men in the office just thought he was
sleeping his way through the secretarial pool, as a reaction to
his wife leaving with a man who could keep her in the manner
to which she wished to become accustomed. Some guys would
have been over the moon, but he wanted more from a
relationship. He wanted security, someone to have a drink with
when work was shitty, someone to hold when life was hell; a
home and family, possibly children; someone to make plans
with. So, it had been no more work colleagues from then on.

He'd managed a few dates since, but his irregular hours, even
the work he did, put many women off. It seemed his looks
attracted them but he himself repelled them. He hadn't had a
date in months -- actually, could be years. He hadn't given up
hope; he just seemed to have fallen back on waiting for divine
intervention. He wasn't depressed, well not clinically, but
maybe lethargy and apathy had crept in.

Anyway, he'd had a shitty week, make that month, gone out for
a drink last night to try to absorb some... life. And seen her.
He'd seen her come in and sit at the bar, avoiding eye contact
with all accept the man behind the bar. She'd ordered a drink
and fingered it nervously. Then, as if reaching a decision, she'd
downed it and asked for another.  She was a petite redhead, not
his normal type -- he was usually attracted to brunettes, of
which there were several in the bar apparently available -- but
there was something about her. Maybe he was just being
fanciful, and his subconscious was trying to tell him that
maybe a different colour would suit him better. Not that colour
had anything to do with character or compatibility, but he was
operating at a basic, if not primal, level here.  However, on a
more rational level, he knew this was not the sort of bar to meet
someone for a long-term, meaningful relationship. He watched
her for some time, on and off, without actually admitting to
himself he was doing it.

After several drinks, she started to look around the room,
taking a note of possibilities but still not making eye contact.
She took another drink and several deep breaths; he guessed
she was about to get flirty. He didn't quite understand what she
was doing here if she wasn't comfortable; maybe she'd had a
bet with someone. Things took a slightly different twist when a
man sidled up to her, putting an arm around her shoulders and
giving her his opening statement. He couldn't tell what the man
said to her. That she had startled was clear, that she had tried to
create distance before looking at the man and continued to do
so, having gotten a look at him, was also clear. She shook her
head at whatever he said. The man persisted. She began to look
annoyed and worried all at the same time. He wondered if her
hair colour was an indication of temper as frequently portrayed,
and if she might rapidly resort to a knee in the groin to get the
message across.  The man continued to persist. In fact, he
ordered her a drink and looked set for the night.

He decided he'd wander in that direction, in case his Sir
Galahad services were required. He finished his drink and
walked towards them, ready to skirt around the back of them if
it appeared he'd misjudged the situation and she was just
playing coy. Still he didn't think Slime Ball, as he'd dubbed
the man, was the type she'd be looking for. He overheard "I'm
waiting for someone."

"Sure you are. That dress is bound to attract someone and that
someone is me, so your waiting's over. I'm ready and available
and just aiming to please," Slime Ball drooled over her.

It didn't look like Slime Ball was taking no for an answer, and
she looked like she was about to throw the drink in his face. He
almost paused to see that, but decided it would be better to
avoid the fracas. He sidled up behind them, put a hand on her
shoulder.

"There you are, honey, I almost didn't see you penned in here.
Sorry, I'm late. Not been waiting long I hope?" he gave her his
best ingratiating smile.

He was rather depending on the fact that Slime Ball would not
have noticed him earlier, fixated as he'd been on the women in
the bar. And that his looks would work their usual magic charm
and get him a foot in the door, or more to the point, her to pick
up the thread. She stiffened, which, considering she'd been
rigid before, was pretty impressive. She turned to look at him,
pursed her lips in thought, then obviously decided he was
preferable to Slime Ball.

"I've been here ages. You said eight o'clock," she replied,
accepting his opening gambit.

Nice pout, he thought. "Sorry," he said again, leaning forward
to kiss her cheek. She didn't seem to withdraw, so he carried
on with the charade. "I'll make it up to you later. Promise," he
said smiling broadly at her.

Slime Ball interrupted, "Hey, you're muscling in."

"Some people just don't take a hint," Marty said quietly to her.
She shook her head 'no', smiling ruefully. "Let's go sit at that
table over there," he said pointing to an empty table near the
back. He turned to Slime Ball. "Sorry, didn't mean to crowd
you, but I had to make nice with my girlfriend. You know how
they get when you're late. We'll move out of your way."

There was an annoyed 'Hey!' as they moved away, Marty with
a proprietary hand on her back. However, Slime Ball didn't
follow them, his eye being caught by another woman entering
the bar and possibly easier pickings.

"I'll move away when the dust has settled but I think we should
have a drink and a little conversation just to throw him off the
scent," said Marty as they settled at the table. He signalled for
drinks.

"Thank you," she said with a small smile. She seemed lost for
words and opted for looking around the room. She downed her
drink rapidly when it arrived.

"Hey, slow down or I'll be carrying you out. And I try not to
show my Neanderthal side this early in the evening."

"Are caveman tactics allowed in here?" she said finding her
voice.

"I should imagine it's common place, but the night is yet
young. I may yet be proved wrong."

"You haven't been here before?"

"No."

"Oh." She looked a little confused.

"Your first time?" he solicited.

"Excuse me?" she asked a little startled.

"In this bar?"

"Oh. Yes."

Stilted conversation. What a wonderful start, he thought.
Another round of drinks arrived. She looked like she was going
to knock that back, too.

"Am I driving you to drink?" he countered.

"Sorry, I'm a little nervous."

"Nervous?"

"I don't do this very often. I'm out of practice."

And out of her element, but he kept that to himself for the
moment. "So why are you here?" he asked instead.

"Sometimes the need to connect overrides common sense," she
said somewhat cryptically.

"The need to connect how?"

She looked a little uncomfortable, took another drink, then
said, "The need to get laid."

He practically choked on his beer. "A little warning before you
hit a guy with a statement like that."

"Sorry, but that's why people are here isn't it?"

She'd gone from apparently shy to extremely forward all in the
space of one sip -- okay gulp -- of her drink. Her directness
caught him on the hop and he replied in kind with little
thought. "Not me. I'm just here to absorb the atmosphere."

Which of course wasn't the right answer.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... I'll leave..." she flustered.

"No. No, stay there. We haven't even exchanged civilities yet.
And more to the point Mr. Slime Ball hasn't settled," he
babbled trying to make a recovery but probably making it
worse.

Surprisingly, she glanced over at the bar, then sat back but
looked extremely tense.

"Hey, don't mind me. I'm out of practice too, I don't get out
much. Could we start this from the top?"

"The top?"

"You know -- name, rank, serial number?"

"Okay," she smiled back, relaxing slightly, but imparted no
information.

What was this, drawing teeth? he thought. She could come out
with she was looking for sex but not her name?

"Ladies first," he encouraged.

"Kate."

She was lying. Don't ask him how he knew, it was well
practiced but it was a lie.

"I'm Marty," he lied back. He wasn't sure why he did that. It
just seemed to be in line with the evening. "Divorced, no
current attachments." Then told the truth because it was easier
than lying and he hoped it would encourage her to reciprocate.
No such luck.

"Why are you trying to absorb the atmosphere? Is it some form
of addiction? You soak up the alcohol and nicotine by
osmosis?"

"Actually, I'm hoping some joy and laughter might hit me by
random chance -- more Brownian motion than osmosis."

"That sounds sad."

"I'm not going for the sympathy vote here. It's just been a bad
time and I needed to... what was your word? Connect, that's it.
Remind myself what normal people do."

"You don't consider yourself normal?"

He gave a chuff of laughter. "Well, I think that sort of
philosophical question could keep us occupied for most of the
night. What do you consider normal?"

"That is considered as avoiding the question. As it was you
who referred to normal you should be the one to define it.
However, I might deem it odd that you are looking for normal
here," she countered.

"Maybe this is as normal as it gets for me?"

He realised as he said this that he was spiralling the
conversation into a deep depression, which was not the
direction he wanted to go. So he followed up before she could
reply, hoping she wasn't getting the wrong impression.

"Sorry, that sounds like I'm going for the pity vote let alone the
sympathy vote. I'm just a little... bitter and twisted by past
experiences."

The "aren't we all" caught him unawares. "It's why I don't
date, just..." she waved a hand.

"Cruise bars? That's what you do? I guess I should spare the
lecture on health, safety, et cetera, et cetera..."

"Yes, you should."

"Sorry," he put his hands up in apology. "Sorry. And sorry for
being sorry three times in as many minutes... almost. Can we
go for third time lucky?"

"Third time lucky?"

"Yeah. Try for a more 'normal' start to a conversation. Like
where do you live? What type of work do you do?"

"I'm not prepared to reveal personal details."

"A woman of mystery. In that case, have I got some stories for
you."

And this time he hit the right note. They chatted and drank. He
told her a few choice exerts from his work without going into
the details of what he did. She laughed at his stories, probably
thinking he was making them up, especially the flukeman
thing. For the record, he wasn't but it didn't matter.

"You have a vivid imagination."

"No, it's just that fact is stranger than fiction."

They drank and conversed some more, even danced, but when
he needed a pee break, it gave her a chance to think. When he
came back to the table, her eyes were roaming the room. Slime
Ball was still unattached. He had no idea whether she was
scanning the room for a likely mate, questioning what she was
doing there, or wondering if she could just slip away into the
crowd. Whatever, his time was running out.  As he sat down
she gave him a rueful smile.

"You were serious, weren't you?" she asked.

"About what?"

"Just being here to absorb the atmosphere?"

"I wasn't here seeking an opportunity for a fleeting union, no."

She nodded her head in disappointment.

He wasn't ready for it to end yet. He was relishing this contact;
brief though it was going to be, he was enjoying himself. He
hadn't found out much about her, but she was obviously smart
-- one-night stands aside; a lovely smile, fascinating blue eyes,
maybe it was just because she was laughing at his jokes.
Whatever, he prepared to spin it out.

"So who do you want to go home with? I'll go check him out
first."

"What are you -- a pimp?"

"No, just concerned. How about him?" He pointed to a blond
guy at the bar, who he assessed as being good looking to a
woman.

"Ideally not someone who's preening himself in the mirror like
that."

"Surely you want someone who's trying to look their best?"

"True, but he's more worried about his looks than what's going
on around him."

"Okaaay... that aside, as a physical model how is he? You
know, height, weight, hair colour. What's your preference?"

"Ohh, you know, the usual."

"That being?" he coaxed.

"Tall, dark, handsome, broad shoulders, flat stomach, narrow
waist, tight ass, long legs. Enough muscles to give definition
without being beefy."

"Not many of those in here." He wondered how many of those
criteria he made the grade on. He kept himself fit, but he didn't
exactly have rippling muscles.

"No," she agreed glancing at him under her lashes.

"So, you'd settle for?"

"Clean and healthy looking. Every thing else is a bonus."

Ouch. "Anything character wise?"

"Kind, generous, good sense of humour, unselfish... there's not
much point in specifying character traits. You don't usually
have much chance to evaluate for such qualities, it's... I'm
sorry I feel a bit foolish discussing this."

"Don't be, I'm finding this fascinating. I'll reciprocate if it will
make you more comfortable."

"Honestly?"

"Yes. Sure, why not."

"It might be revealing."

"Maybe I want to be seen."

She gave him a speculative look, which involved the raising of
one of her eyebrows. It was captivating to watch.

"Discussing character traits is superfluous in this context.
Chatting in a bar like this, is no indication of what someone
will be like..."

"In bed?" he supplied.

"I was going to say in private but that's close enough, so yes."

"So someone who rescues damsels in distress, has witty
repartee, common courtesy, are not indications of correct
bedroom etiquette?"

"Modest too," she said, smiling. " Not usually. Men tend to be
goal-oriented and use various techniques and stratagems to
achieve their goal. In this case, a woman. When they have a
captive audience, so to speak, all bets are off."

He gave her a quizzical look, encouraging her to continue.

"A man may be generous, buy a woman a drink, several drinks,
make pleasant conversation, compliment and flatter her, but
once down to the... nitty gritty, shall we say, off comes the
disguise and the selfish ape appears."

"Ah, you mean 'wham bam thank you m'am'. And your goal
differs how?"

"I'm at least after mutual satisfaction."

"Ahh."

There was a pause before she asked, "Are you interested in
mutual satisfaction?"

"Yes, but in the longer term," he queried.

A regretful smile and slight shake of the head were her
response. He still persisted.

"I can't interest you in a second date?"

A shake of the head.

"Then I guess we'd better pick out a guy for you. Have you
seen anybody you fancy?"

A sigh. "No, and what's this 'we?'"

"Not much point rescuing the damsel in distress just to throw
her back to the sharks. What about the guy in the blue shirt?"

"No, and I didn't consider myself a damsel in distress. Maybe
the one in red, at the table over there."

"No. Not for you."

"Why not?" she snapped.

"I've been watching him. I think he's dealing."

Her astonished expression didn't surprise him. "Drugs?"

He nodded. "And the guy in the white shirt over by the
window, a pimp for bored housewives."

"How do you know that? I thought you'd never been here?"

"I haven't, but I watch people and I've seen him before."

"So you frequent this type of bar?"

"No! This is the first time I've been out for a drink in six
months."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"It's the truth. Believe it or not as you will," he said brusquely,
her tone having touched a sensitive spot. It wasn't him who'd
been hiding all night. The awkward pause that followed made
for a natural break in their evening.

She selected a guy, he checked him out with a chat at the bar.
He wasn't really happy but what could he say? They couldn't
agree terms, she was a grown woman.

Kate went to the restroom and detoured back via the bar, she
brushed into the guy as she passed, not difficult to make it
appear accidental after the amount she'd had to drink, and a
few minutes later they were dancing. Marty watched for a few
minutes and all seemed well; lots of smiles and flirting. So he
went back to contemplating the life around him, making a note
of red shirt's activities for later.

When he glanced back at Kate, purely accidentally, fifteen
minutes later, she was trying to redirect Romeo's hands while
not completely pushing him away. It was what she was here for
after all. Marty saw her glance over at him, then back at her
dance partner, resignation in her face. Well it was her choice.
He couldn't go through with another one-night stand, certainly
not deliberately. He downed his drink and ordered another. He
should go but some masochistic tendency kept him glued to his
seat.

When Marty couldn't resist looking back at her again, Romeo
was still at it and Kate's squirming didn't look like it was all in
pleasure. Romeo was nuzzling her neck now and ever so often
her head would jerk away from him. He must be nipping her
and he must be way too sharp, too soon for that sort of
stimulation. Marty's fingers twitched to do something, but it
wasn't his place, he was hardly a long-standing friend and he
wasn't even related. He distracted himself by looking at other
couples. He was so distracted, focusing on a pair who were
kissing with determination if not much style, that he didn't see
when Kate detached herself from Romeo. She made her way
over to him and he startled when she put her hand on his
shoulder and sat next to him.

He looked at her enquiringly "No good?"

"When a man doesn't stop doing something I don't like at this
stage, there's not much hope of him stopping later."

He peered at her neck, noting the red patches that had nothing
to do with arousal.

"Never mind, give it a couple of minutes. There are plenty of
other fish here tonight."

And he diverted her with another story and another. And she
laughed and smiled at him; it made him feel good so he kept
doing it, he laughed and smiled back. Also they kept drinking,
and they touched when they laughed; he touched her knee, she
tapped his forearm, he laid a hand on her thigh, she grazed his
bicep. Subsequently they reversed, his knee her forearm, his
thigh her bicep. Then he brushed his fingers across her cheek to
smooth a piece of hair back that had fallen forward when she
laughed.

There was a lull in the conversation and she looked around the
room. The crowd had paired off while they weren't looking, it
had also thinned leaving a few single stragglers around the
room and at the bar including Slime Ball. Some couples were
still dancing, some up close and personal in the booths.

Kate looked disconcerted.

Marty realised he'd been monopolizing her, somewhat
deliberately, he acknowledged to himself. Well, he had been
having a good time. "I'm sorry, I got carried away. I didn't
notice the time..."

"It's not your fault, I got carried away too."

"I've ruined your evening..."

"No, really it's okay. It's not what I planned but it's okay. I
enjoyed this evening."

"Me too." High on happy endorphins and alcohol he cast
around in his mind for a way to make it up to her. And came up
empty. "One last dance for the road," came out as if by way of
apology. It obviously made sense to her because she agreed.

He knew it was a mistake. It was late, he'd had too much to
drink but not enough -- he was soaring on a high, feel good
factor, he had a beautiful, attractive, soft, warm, curvy woman
in his arms. His hands were probably roaming more than he
intended but she felt sooo good. Intelligent (apparently,
although he still couldn't regard her penchant for one-night
stands as intelligent), her conversation had been interesting and
informed. She'd asked clever questions during his stories,
trying to catch him out, arguing for the simple, obvious, logical
choice. And now she was looking at him with those beautiful,
blue eyes a man could drown in, her lips slightly parted. So he
forgot caution, and kissed her. And she kissed him back.
Eventually, the need for air brought a small chink of reality and
he pulled back.

"I shouldn't have done that."

She nodded in resigned understanding and pulled away from
him. "Time for me to go then."

"No chance of meeting again?"

"Not by design, sorry" was at least said with a note of regret.

"I'll walk you to a cab."

"I'll be fine."

"I insist."

She was a little ahead of him, as he'd detoured slightly to pick
up his jacket, when Slime Ball grabbed her arm, and giving her
his best alcoholic leer, propositioned her. Marty saw her
hesitate. Hesitate! She might be considering where best to land
a punch but Marty's inebriated brain wasn't giving her any
chances to say 'yes'. As far as he was concerned, he'd started
out rescuing the maiden from this fate worse than death and he
was going to end the evening rescuing her.

He sped forward. "Come on, honey, time to go," he said,
detaching Slime Ball's hand none too gently and propelling her
along with a possessive hand on her back. As they got outside,
intoxication removed the brakes from his mouth. Well, he
knew already, having kissed her when he shouldn't, that the
brain to mouth control was gone and the lips and tongue were
freewheeling.

"Please tell me that you weren't honestly thinking of going
with him?"

"That's none of your concern."

"A beautiful woman like you shouldn't be contemplating a guy
like that."

She scoffed a laugh.

"A beautiful woman like me? Oh yes, I just had all the men
flocking round me this evening," she said with just a touch of
sarcasm.

"You attracted lots of men."

"Right, an obsequious creep, an asshole and one not interested
prattler," she ticked them off on her fingers.

He paused while his alcohol impeded brain tried to decide if he
was the asshole.

"I am interested."

"But not in what I have to offer. I'm still going home alone. Do
you realise how much..." she trailed off, suddenly conscious of
what she was about to reveal.

"How much what?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter. Goodnight, Marty and thank you
for a nice evening."

"Nice? Nice! It was more than God damn nice. This has been...
was one of the best evenings of recent years, bettered only by
the Knicks winning a game. It was more than God damn nice!"

She was concerned and moved towards him, a hand on his arm
to calm him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. You're right, it was a
wonderful evening."

"But not wonderful enough to repeat."

"I'm not getting into this with you, Marty. I have my reasons.
It's my life."

"Yes, but it's my..."

She gave a regretful smile and turned towards the street to hail
a cab. There was no lightning strike from either heaven or cab
drivers to prolong the moment. As alcohol, want, frustration --
both physically and mentally, coursed through his blood, he
vacillated. Stick with the logical decision he'd made when
alcohol wasn't clouding his judgement or, go with his
impulses. As the cab pulled up, she reached for the handle.

"Come home with me?"

She turned, surprise on her face and gave him an enquiring
look, with just a hint of hope.

"Please. Come home with me," he repeated.

"Are we quite clear what the rules are here?"

He nodded.

"I am not coming for a cup of coffee and a chat. We are not
trying to be friends. We are going to screw each other stupid."

He nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.

"Then tell the driver where to go." A quick and decisive
woman; he felt a twinge of pleasure that she obviously wanted
him.

So, to his bachelor abode they had gone. He'd kept her too
busy to notice the piles of dirty clothes, festering half cups of
coffee, and other things best left unmentioned. Despite what
she'd said, he'd hoped to demonstrate that he had some
admirable qualities in the sack as well as out of it. That they
could achieve mutual satisfaction - together. To that end he
was assisted by the amount of alcohol he had imbibed. Just
enough to slow the process down but not enough that he didn't
appear interested. A very fine line, avoiding the embarrassment
of brewer's droop. She'd wanted the light off, which had added
additional fumbling on top of his lack of practice. Actually,
their lack of practice. Despite her appearance of bravado back
in the bar, she'd obviously been out of the game some time,
too.

He'd thought it had gone rather well and he'd stupidly gotten
his hopes up, especially after he'd 'persuaded' her to stay
longer -- well, for more. But no, she'd stuck to the deal. Just
when he would willingly have encouraged a woman's
prerogative to change her mind, he found a woman who's not
for turning. He didn't even know her full name, or her real
name; he wasn't convinced that Kate was her name. He
couldn't explain why he was so disconsolate. It had just felt so
comfortable, so right being with her.

So shit, damn, wanky fuck pig, he vented into his apartment.
The phone rang and he snatched at it exorcizing some of his
frustration. "Mulder," he barked.
 

***************************************************

Kate entered her apartment, placing her purse and keys on the
hall table. She went to the kitchen to get a glass of water,
before walking thoughtfully through to the bathroom. Tonight
had been an impulse, one brought on by cheerfulness, for a
change. Here she was in a new apartment, in a new city,
starting a new job on Monday. Her old life soon to become a
distant, unloved memory. Okay, soon was optimistic but at
least the possibility was there. All this newness and she'd just
felt the urge to celebrate, to make contact with new people...
someone. She observed the glow of her skin in the mirror, the
sparkle of her eyes, the slightly abraded skin on her neck and
chest and other places she could currently feel but not see. And
for once in her life it had been a really good impulse.

She seemed to have had a really lucky week. She'd found this
apartment, close to her new job by sheer serendipity. The job
had fallen into her lap at the beginning of the week. She
observed herself in the mirror again. She'd certainly made
contact and how.

Most times it was over so quickly and brought back all the
realities of life -- or men. Burnt, nay incinerated, in past
relationships, she should never want to be close to a man again.
But she was practical. Generally she could satisfy her own
needs, but occasionally she needed more. Needed the reality,
the skin on skin contact. When she did eventually give in to her
baser needs, these encounters were usually a disappointment
and only served to remind her why she steered clear of men
and relationships in general. But this one had been different.
Normally, at this point, she'd be rushing into the shower to
wash the aroma of sex and male from her skin, and, if she was
really lucky, her sweat. But this time she didn't feel the same
compelling rush; she felt more inclined to savour a few more
minutes of the experience.

Was it her own attitude, the fact that she had gone out to
celebrate rather than just to become uncelibate that was the
difference?  Or was it just something about him, despite his
propensity for being a jerk, or saying the wrong thing at the
wrong time? There had been several instances early on, when
she'd nearly walked away from him. She stayed, well, he was
cute and she wasn't exactly after Mr. Erudite. Whatever, after
an iffy start, he'd proved to be articulate and amusing. In the
end he'd exceeded her wildest expectations; she'd really been
quite taken with him, probably something to do with his single-
minded pursuit of her goal. She'd almost been tempted to see
him again, but no, she had her strategy and she was going to
stick to it. No man was going to distract her from her career
this time; no man was going to ruin her life any more than had
been done so already. Stepping into the shower, anticipating
Monday morning and her new life, Dana Scully washed away
her Kate persona and completely missed the clues that
indicated that her recent luck might actually have offered up
that once in a lifetime jackpot, of job, apartment and lifetime
lover.