Title: Go Be

Author: Invisivellum (Invisivellum@hotmail.com)

Codes: MSR, A?

Rating: G? PG? Nothing worse.

Spoilers: Fight the Future, mostly. The End , Max

Archive: Feel free/tell me where please!

Feedback: This is my first, so I'm looking for some constructive
criticism. If you must flame me, just type "You Suck" in the subject
line so I can just go ahead and delete it outright.

We fic-virgins are sensitive. =)

Disclaimer: The batch of characters portrayed in this little cookie do
not belong to me. They were baked with love and affection by Chris
Carter, 1013, Fox and Paul Prudhomme, ha ha. I took a very tiny bite,
no more than a nibble, really. No money involved.

Evan McKenna is mine, for what it's worth.

Warning: I don't know how you people churn stories out at the rate you
do! This little piece o' fluff took me days to write and now that I
re-read it, I think it pretty much sucks but I'm going to post it
anyway, by God! Beware of plot-potholes and meandering thought
processes, etc. It might also be helpful if you will just suspend belief
in all things logical, like the actual time / process involved in
acquiring a license to practice medicine in the state of Louisiana. =)
And I apologize to the denizens of New Orleans. I took creative license
with the geography!

Dedicated to all the little stories I have started that never got
finished

Summary: Flickfic; Continuation (sorta) of the last scene between M &
S; Third-person POV; Scully gets the opportunity to just "go be a
doctor" for a while...

Here goes: ******

I met her three weeks ago and I can't stop thinking about her.

Her eyes, her hair, her lips. The way her eyebrows rise and her blue
eyes widen slightly in surprise when one of the children says something
precocious. She seems fascinated by the children. She studies them
carefully, touches them tenderly, as she performs her examinations. She
evokes wide-eyed cooperation instead of the usual howls and
protestations.

She asks them serious questions about ridiculous things and she waits,
listening intently, for their answers. For a pediatrician, she's
remarkably unsophisticated about children. And she doesn't have that
edge of impatience or weariness in her voice, like some of the clinic's
pediatricians I have met.

Well, actually, I remind myself, she's _not_ a pediatrician. The bodies
she is accustomed to handling, I believe, are not likely to squirm off
the table while she's examining them.

At least, I hope not!

She's just helping out here at the clinic for a while. An arrangement
of some kind with the Director. A favor? She doesn't act like a woman
who needs a favor from anyone. There's an air of quiet confidence about
her; a sure, deliberate, calm that I find immensely attractive.

Maybe _she_ is the one doing _us_ the favor.

God knows, we are all grateful for the help. This place is a madhouse,
most days. I have my hands full with the parade of pregnant women and
new mothers --- some of them little more than girls --- who traipse
in-and-out all day long, every day.

I get so sick of prying between the legs of women, it's a wonder I even
_think_ about sex anymore.

But I do.

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

Subject: *NEW* Go Be (2/3)

**********************************************************************
These last three weeks I have thought about it a lot.

I have to close my eyes against the visions of her body that my mind
conjures for me. Feelings that I had thought were dead and buried are
surfacing within me. I don't just want sex with this woman. This is a
woman with whom I know instinctively I want more.

I don't even know where she came from. She mentioned once that she has
lived in California, San Diego or San Francisco, I forget which. But I
got the feeling that it was a long time ago.

And that casual remark was a slip-up from her. I could tell by the way
she pressed her lips together immediately afterwards, as if regretting
the reference. She wants to put it behind her, I think.

She wants to forget about whatever it is that drove her here.

My careful questions are neatly sidestepped, met with equally careful
answers that reveal next-to-nothing about her past. She is adept at
avoidance, smoothly guiding all conversation away from herself. Somehow
she manages to do this without seeming evasive or coy. It is driving me
crazy with curiosity.

I can't help wondering what she is doing here, although I am careful not
to phrase even my private thoughts in any way that could be construed as
complaining. I don't want the Power that led her here to lead her away
again. I want the chance to know her better. I want to be her friend.

Hell, I think I want to marry her!

This is getting way out of hand, I chastise myself. Although I've
watched her at work for nearly a month, she and I have only had,
perhaps, a dozen conversations -- none of them intimate or even very
lengthy -- and already I am envisioning the way her face would look
behind a delicate bridal veil, the look of joy that might cross her face
when our first-born child is placed in her arms.... This thought
reminds me of my true first-born and I slam the door on it.

A sigh escapes me as I scrub my hands and splash my face with water from
the lavatory sink. It's nearly seven o'clock and my mind is fatigued.
Time to call it a day.

I wonder, not for the first time, what she would say if I asked her to
have dinner with me.

I'm pretty certain she would say no.

With another heavy sigh, I start the nightly routine of shutting down
the clinic and getting ready for a run around City Park. I can hear
voices in the hallway, some of the nurses calling out good-nights to
each other. Laughter and the jingle of keys, the sound of relief at the
end of the day. I busy myself turning off lights and double-checking
locks.

When the noises die down, I step into the sadly dilapidated kitchen that
we call a "lounge," located in the back of the house that we call a
"clinic," and pull my gym bag from a cabinet that doubles as a locker. I
can work myself up into a fine temper, thinking about things like
budgets and allocations, so I turn my thoughts to more pleasant things.

I can think of nothing more pleasant than Doctor Scully.

I strip out of my suit, throw it on a hanger and scrounge around in my
bag for something more comfortable.

I gave up trying to change clothes in the clinic's bathroom after a
humiliating wrestling match with a pair of jeans. I tripped on the
jeans, lost my balance and keeled over like a felled tree, putting
another nice crack in the door to match the one in my forehead. Since
then, I've taken to lingering around until the clinic is empty, ducking
into the "lounge," and donning something simple, like the sweat pants
I'm pulling on now.

As I pull the sweatshirt over my head, I daydream about her, like a
love-struck teenager.

I can't help it.

The way her face transforms when she laughs out loud at the antics of a
child simply enthralls me.

The way those smiles always wash away on a wave of sadness....greatly
intrigues me.

I want to know what put that look of deep sorrow in her eyes.

Or perhaps it was a "who?"

I don't know. But I do know that I want to be the one to erase it.

"Doctor McKenna?" a soft voice yanks me from further fantasy.

"Yeah," I respond automatically as my head jerks up. I immediately lose
the ability to think coherently. There she is, standing in the doorway,
all five-foot-three-inches of her, one arm laden with overcoat and
purse, a knot of keys clasped in one small hand. Her other hand rests
lightly on the round brass doorknob.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she smiles gently at me and I feel
something swelling in the vicinity of my heart. She is so beautiful. I
am mesmerized by the way her lips move when she speaks, the way they
part when she stops speaking. I could watch her talk for hours.

For a man approaching the ripe old age of thirty-seven, I feel
ridiculously adolescent at this moment. My mouth is dry and my heart is
thudding in my ears. I must be gaping at her like a fish out of water.
Thank God, I'm clothed. I swallow hard and give her what I hope is a
warm smile.

"Doctor Scully," I manage, abandoning the task of tying my running shoes
to give her my full attention. "You're here late."

Lame, lame, lame, McKenna, says my inner voice.

"Yeah," she draws a deep breath and exhales mightily, sending a puff of
air up to lift the tendrils of hair clinging to her forehead. "Long
day."

Her hair is magnificent, a shade more golden than my own dark red.
Idly, I try to remember what the odds are of two redheads producing a
child with any other hair color.

It's my turn to talk.

"I was thinking about going for a bite to eat," I blurt, before I can
think better of it. "Would you like to join me?"

Her eyebrows arch slightly and her lips purse, in that way that she has
of conveying consideration without using any words. My heart is
skewered on a hook right now, pulsing erratically instead of beating, as
I await her response.

I can't believe I asked her.

My offer was too casual, too off-hand, says my critic. I should have
approached her in some other way. Dammit, I should have asked her out
on a real date, instead of tossing her an invitation like a bone. I
should have prepared.

I find I am not prepared at all. I'm not prepared for her to turn me
down. I'm not even prepared for her to accept!

What the hell was I thinking?

"Sure, I'd love to," she answers with a small smile. She tilts her head
slightly, fixing me with a suddenly-clinical gaze. "Are you okay? You
look....pale."

I must remember to breathe.

"I'm fine, fine," I stammer, bending hastily to put on my other shoe.
"Give me just a minute to put my--" I break off in horror as I realize
what I'm wearing. Sweats and running shoes. In my haste to hook up with
the lovely Dr. Scully, I completely forgot that I had dressed to go for
a run.

Now I'll have to keep her waiting while I change back into my suit and
tie and put on some decent shoes.

This is embarrassing. If it is not already transparent to her that I
made up my dinner-plans for her sake, she's going to get a clue when I
go scurrying to the restroom to change back into my work clothes. The
thought of trying to put on a suit in that restroom helps me make up my
mind. I'm not changing.

As a measure of how unbalanced I become in her presence, a voice in my
head announces: "I'm going to have to either tell her I'm in love with
her or take her out to Burger King for dinner."

"Take your time," she says generously, oblivious to my dilemma, as she
props her shoulder against the doorframe and rests her temple against
the wood.

"I'm glad you weren't planning on anything fancy," she offers as I
struggle with the cotton laces on my sneaker. I would give anything
for a piece of Velcro right now.

Apparently she has accepted my invitation at face-value: just a casual
offer from a co-worker. With any luck I will dissuade her from that
perception by the end of the evening.

Although I wouldn't consider myself particularly aggressive, by any
means, I have never been one to beat around the bush for long. These
past three weeks I have been uncharacteristically reticent about
displaying my interest, where she is concerned. But then again, I can't
remember being this infatuated with a woman since the year I met Anna.
It's disconcerting.

She is so lovely.

"I know a quiet little place not too far from here," I tell her as I
stand. I tower over her, even though I'm only slightly above average
height. Next to this woman, my five-eleven stature seems much taller.
"It's a kind of combo bar-n-grill. The neighborhood's a little scary
but the food is good."

"Bad neighborhoods don't bother me," she replies evenly. "I'm armed."

My startled expression goes unnoticed by her because she turns as she
speaks this last phrase and precedes me down the darkened hallway of the
clinic. I snatch my keys from the tray by the door and follow her out.

We take separate cars because neither of us wants to leave our vehicle
unprotected in the clinic parking lot. I lead the way, hoping I haven't
made a mistake in my choice of restaurants. Capp's is a comfortable
place not too far from here, where I go to shoot pool with my few
friends from time to time. But it's not the sort of place I had
envisioned for our first date.

Date!

Ha!

I'm wearing a pair of black sweat pants with a top that used to match
but is now merely a shade of gray. I'm in desperate need of a haircut -
as I can tell because it's starting to curl - and I've got a seven
o'clock shadow that looks like someone rubbed a piece of rusty metal on
my jaw.

It's a good thing Capp's has low lighting.

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

Subject: *NEW* Go Be (3/3)

**********************************************************************
Nearly two hours alone and I know next to nothing about her.

Getting Dr. Scully to open up has proven to be a greater challenge than
I had imagined. At least we're on a first-name basis now. I would pay
good money to have a video recording of her saying, "Evan," over and
over.

We've talked about everything -- and nothing -- in the past two hours. I
know that she has two brothers who are both in the Navy. She mentioned
her mother, in passing, but not her father. I know that she likes
chocolate, she wears glasses to read and she once owned a dog named, of
all things, Queequeg. But I don't know anything about what put that
sad, knowing look in her eyes. I have been careful -- perhaps too
careful -- to avoid direct questions that I know will send her liquid
blue eyes skittering nervously around the room and bring the tip of her
tongue out to touch the corner of her mouth. On the few occasions when
I veered too close to whatever it is she is running from, she has
answered obliquely, or in generalities that only serve to frustrate me
and rattle her.

So, the conversation remained pretty light, relatively harmless, until
she showed curiosity about the scars on my hands.

They say self-disclosure is the surest way to get another person to open
up. Even so, I didn't disclose much about the scars, or the woman and
child behind them. Not because I don't want her to know about it, but
because tonight is not the night for it. And she looks like she has
enough sadness of her own to bear. We'll get to mine later.

To offset the mood that is descending, I tell her a story about a
patient of mine. Shoptalk; Inoffensive, unintrusive. Safe. Suddenly,
in the midst of laughter, she grows inexplicably solemn.

"You remind me of a friend of mine," she tells me quietly and my heart
trips into overdrive. I sense that she's about to reveal something.

"Really?" I reply, hoping that by leaning forward and making eye-
contact with her that I can encourage her to continue. "Who?"

My hopes quiver in my chest as she lowers her brilliant eyes and brushes
her hand across her mouth. She is silent, nearly motionless, for a long
moment before she looks up again with a small shake of her head. I am
startled to see the shine of tears in her eyes. She offers me a brittle
smile and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I'm sorry, I don't usually -- " she begins, but I interrupt her.

"No, no, go on. Tell me about this friend I remind you of." I am anxious
to keep her talking. I am anxious to let her know just how interested I
am in her.

She heaves a small sigh and shakes her head slightly from side to side.
"We weren't....close. I never even knew his first name."

Something about the way that she utters this phrase sends a chill down
my spine.

"Really?" I repeat stupidly. "How so?"

"We worked together. And....I just....never really got to know him as
well as - I never got to know him very well before he died. But I liked
him a lot," her voice trails off and the next words are so low I barely
catch them, "He just wanted to buy me a birthday drink...." She looks so
incredibly sad, I want to wrap her in my arms and rock her, but the
spark of something else -- I think it's anger -- in her eyes, forestalls
me.

I don't know what to say at this point, so I simply reach across the
table and take her hand in mine. It trembles slightly and she clasps her
fingers tightly around mine as if to still it.

I feel as though I'm treading on very thin ice, so I place my next step
carefully. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

Looking me directly in the eye, devoid of sadness or anger now, she
gives a tiny shrug, as if to say, "What's to tell?"

"He was killed by a gunshot wound to the chest," she answers simply,
without further explanation. My uncharacteristically slow mind begins
putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

Earlier, while sharing a funny story with me about her dog, she had
mentioned a "partner." Before we left the clinic this evening, she
indicated that she carries a weapon. And now this: a co-worker killed
by a gunshot wound to the chest. Maybe her partner was killed in the
line of duty, I think. Maybe she and I have more in common than our
vocations. But, no. She would have known the first name of her partner,
surely.

"So you were in law enforcement, then?" I am very pleased with myself
for this deduction. To hell with avoiding the direct questions. "Police
officer?"

"No," Dana replies. "Well, `yes' to the first part. I was......" her
voice trails off and her eyes go vague for a minute. "I _am_ an FBI
agent. I worked - actually, I still work- for an obscure division of
the Bureau."

"What happened? Why did you come here?" I indicate, with a jerk of my
head, the city outside our window. She turns to look

"I-," she pauses, draws her head back slightly, as if she's seen
something through the window that surprises her. She makes a noise
like, "hmph" and turns her eyes to the door of the bar. What looks like
mounting anger or alarm relaxes into indifference. She blinks and the
glimmer of light in her eyes goes out. She looks back at me.
"I had planned to take a vacation." That last word almost comes out as a
laugh. "A leave of absence, really. And this seemed like a good place
for it." She sighs deeply and shakes her head. "But I ran into `Bro' on
my third day here and..."

Rene Breaux, the clinic's Director. Ah, now I see.

"We were in school together, for a while," she explains, "And I was
toying with the idea of leaving the Bureau to practice medicine..."

"Just toying?" I ask, and am surprised by the sharp note in my own
voice. I have a very bad feeling about what she is going to say next.

"Not just toying. I truly considered it."

Past tense.

"And when I told Breaux about it and he told me about your
clinic.....well..... I _am_ licensed in the state of Louisiana, oddly
enough."

She looks thoughtful for a moment, her fine brows drawn like arrows
pointing to the faint line between them. She seems to think that being
licensed to practice medicine in this state is rather odd. I don't have
an argument for that one.

She looks up at me with something like the light of revelation in her
eyes.

"In a way, it almost seems....meant to be."

Meant to be.

The phrase rings in my ears. "I think _we_ were meant to be, " is what
I want to say. But never, not even at my most smitten, would I ever
utter a phrase like that to a woman. At least, not on the first date.
Not if I ever want to see her again.

And I definitely want to see this woman again. And again. And again. I
clear my throat nervously.

Our plates are cold and congealing at our elbows. The dinner crowd is
giving way to the party crowd. It's Thursday night in Fat City - party
time for all but the most dedicated of students - and the noise level
is rising steadily.

Our waitress keeps passing by, pausing to fill our glasses and bring us
baskets of chips with salsa. She doesn't bother to remove the dirty
dishes.

I guess she figures we'd feel rushed.

I love this city.

I am once again acutely aware that we've been sitting here for over two
hours and I don't know any of the things I want to know. She is lovely
and pleasant and funny and smart. But there's a distance in her eyes
that I can't seem to reach past. I feel it slipping through my
fingers. I don't know how to stop it.

I grope for a way to prolong the inevitable, but I've suddenly forgotten
all of the convenient little conjunctions and phrases that normally
string words together into coherent sentences. All my desperately
enamored mind can produce is fragments:

You. Me. Walk? Coffee?

Before I can muster the words, she is speaking again. My mind snags on
the visual of her lips moving, saying my name:

"Evvvvv annnnn," seems to spool out in slow motion from her mouth. I am
captivated by the way her teeth and lips move when she pronounces the
"v" in my name, the way her mouth stays slightly open afterwards.

"Evan?" She passes one hand between my eyes and her face.

Time snaps and my ears are once again filled with the jangle of people
having fun and my companion speaking my name in the most beautiful way
possible.

"I'm sorry, I'm -" This is becoming embarrassing. I can't focus on her
words for obsessing on how she says them.

"It's okay, I know you must be tired."

God, she thinks I was zoning out, not listening to her.

"I guess I should probably go. I want to finish my notes tonight so I
can give them to Breaux before I leave."

"Leave?" I am fumbling for my wallet as she fishes for her car keys.

"Dinner's on me, Evan," she says, giving me the sweetest of all smiles.
"I had a wonderful evening."

"No, no, I've got it," I insist, snagging the ticket before she can
reach for it. "You're leaving?"

"Tomorrow is my last day at the clinic."

Oh.

Oh.

"Oh," is the only word I have breath to speak.

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew. I thought that was why you --," she
breaks off with a worried look on her face. "Evan, are you okay?"

"Sure, sure, I'm fine. I think I'm coming down with something, maybe," I
finish lamely. "Or I'm just tired."

She smiles sympathetically and pats my hand as she stands. I can't seem
to move my legs and I don't think I can lever my body out from this
booth using only my arms.

"You're leaving New Orleans, too, then?" One last stab.

"Yes," Soft and sad.

I get the feeling that I've added to her collection of sorrows tonight.

"Thanks for dinner," she says softly, "and the company. I enjoyed it
very much."

I know my smile is a little watery but most of my life's blood is being
used to keep my heart pumping.

I don't have a lot of leftover energy for things like facial
expressions.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" she queries.

"Yeah, tomorrow." What is wrong with me? Maybe I _am_ coming down with
something.

"Okay," she leans forward and I catch a whiff of her scent just before
she places a soft kiss on my cheekbone, just beside my eye. "Good
night." My eyes refuse to move to follow her figure as she makes her way
past the booths to the door.

"Goodnight," my voice is barely above a whisper. I don't have enough
leftover energy for talking, either, it seems. "Dana?"

She turns at the sound of my voice, although I was sure she would be too
far away by now to have heard it.

"Yes."

"Wait," I swallow and turn to look at her directly. "Why _are_ you
going back?"

It's the most direct question I've been able to muster all night. When
she comes back to the table and sits down, I realize that I should have
been more direct with her from the start.

There's something anxious about her face, as if she were eager to
explain her decision, not only for my sake but for her own. She pauses
at the last minute, however, seeming to reconsider her response, and
then she plunges in, revealing a facet to me, as a sort of good-bye
gift.

"I think it was...the children I've been seeing," she says hesitatingly.
"They are so small, so vulnerable. And there's no one to protect
them...." her eyes darken. "No one at all who can protect them, who can
guard their futures. I guess I've realized....that it's not enough to
cure their aches and scrapes and send them off to play." Her voice is
rising slightly in pitch. "It's a waste of time for me to work at
treating measles and chicken pox and broken arms when -" she breaks off
abruptly, a look of consternation in her eyes. She doesn't know why
she's telling me this.

"What, Dana? What is it that you protect them from in your work, in
whatever it is that you do, that makes treating the injuries and
illnesses of children _pointless_?" I am distressed by her statement,
more than I realized when I first began speaking. It just doesn't mesh
with what I've seen of her in practice, her careful examinations, the
look of affection in her gaze as she gently presses their tummies and
pries into their ears.

She looks at me helplessly for a moment, obviously trying to come up
with a response to that question.

"It's complicated," she says, somewhat lamely. "Convoluted."

"Try me."

She almost laughs, but composes her features before it goes anywhere.
"I'm not doing....what I am supposed to be doing. What I need to be
doing....."

"Which is...?"

She has the strangest expression on her face, akin to mirth but laced
with helpless despair.

"Saving the world," she gasps and starts to laugh.

"Saving the world," I repeat stupidly.

"Yeah!" she is laughing hard now, covering her eyes and forehead with
her hands, her shoulders shaking. "This is _crazy_. I can't believe this
is my life. I can't believe I'm telling you this."

"Dana," I will say this one thing, heedless of the fact that I have
absolutely no idea what she's talking about, "You're not the only one
between....the world....and whatever it is you think you're protecting
it from."

She stops laughing and gazes at me solemnly.

"No, no, you're right. I'm not. I'm one of two. Two in five billion."

Two?

"Your partner, then...he's alive?"

She nods, looking perplexed by my question.

"And he is involved in....whatever is going on?"

"Yes. He...he...he's at the center of it. For so long...he has been
the only one willing to get between it and us."

What the _hell_ is she referring to? Is this smart, sweet, lovely woman
delusional? She is presenting definite signs of mental imbalance.

She takes note of my concerned expression and hastens to reassure me.

"I know it sounds crazy, Evan. I _know_ it does. It doesn't make any
sense and I can't even begin to explain it.....but it doesn't matter
anyway. I've made up my mind and that's......Oh, God." She tries to pull
her thoughts together. "I'm going back and I'm going to just....go be
there....stand against it......do what I can do. Make some sense of it,
hold some people accountable and..."

"Save the world," I finish for her and give one of her hands a squeeze
to show that I'm not making fun of her. I get another of her sweet
half-smiles.

"That does sound a little grandiose, doesn't it? I don't blame you for
looking concerned for my sanity. I am beginning to sound more and more
like my partner."

"Did your partner take a leave of absence, too?" I want to know.

"No, he -," she takes a deep breath, "He has been waiting for me. This
whole thing....me working in the clinic....I got the idea from him,
actually. Our office has been under reconstruction....."

A tiny line appears between her brows as she continues, "....we've been
getting the run-around. And I needed some...space. So I came here, to
rest." That almost-laugh again. "And then the opportunity presented
itself and....well..... I got the chance to try it, to lay some doubts
to rest."

She pauses long enough to give me a rueful smile. "I'm sure now....that
it's not what I am meant to do. So, I e-mailed my partner and told him
I'd be returning to the Bureau next week."

She glances around the bar a little nervously. "He called me earlier
today and told me he would be here in the morning. But I've been
jumping at shadows all day, halfway expecting him to show up at any
moment, " she admits.

"Why would he come here at all? Isn't he already wherever you're going?
Waiting for you?"

Why am I asking her this?

Because I already know. I just want her to say it.

She is not going to say it.

"We have some...unfinished business between us," she hedges and takes a
sip of her watery tea. "He said he would be here tomorrow, but.....he's
not the most...patient...person."

She reflects upon this comment for a moment. "Well, I guess he's
patient in _some_ ways."

"Does he know where you're staying?"

"Yes."

"Maybe he's waiting for you there."

Maybe you should go, Dana. Maybe you should just go now, before I make
an utter fool of myself.

"Maybe...but I don't think he would wait. I think he would have come to
the clinic if he were in town already."

"Well, perhaps he arrived late. Maybe we were gone before he got
there?" It feels so good to say the word "we" to this woman. I've got
about another five minutes to hold on to the illusion.

"Oh....," a half-smile, "Mulder would find me."

Oh, that's right. He would be an FBI agent, too, naturally. My mental
processes are uncommonly slow tonight. And FBI agents are trained to
gather evidence, to see telling clues where normal eyes would see
nothing at all. Of course he could find her.

But somehow I know that this is not precisely what she means.

Our waitress pauses beside me, having spied the money lying atop the
ticket. "Ready?" she asks, her eyes on the money. I nod and hand it to
her, tell her to keep the change. Dana is standing again, threading her
arm through her purse strap.

"I'll walk you out." I start to stand as well but Dana moves to my side
of the table and places a small hand on my shoulder, effectively
blocking my exit.

"No need," she says firmly, and there's something behind her eyes that I
can't read. "My car is right there. I'll be fine."

Her car is parked within view of the window at the end of our table.
She doesn't want me to follow her out there. She doesn't want me to
tell her goodbye. She doesn't want to participate in the end-of- date
ritual. She's trying to let me down easy. I reach up and cover her
hand with my own.

"Dana," Her name comes out too loud, I sound slightly panicked. I clamp
down on the thing rising in my chest. Now is not the time for
declarations. I school my emotions and tuck them down, out of the way,
where I can visit with them later.

"I'm happy to have met you," I say, with all sincerity, not like the
usual trite phrase that one says upon leaving a new acquaintance.

I'm really, really happy to have met you.

I wish I could muster up the nerve to say more.

I know there is no point.

"Me, too, Evan," she says simply, with a squeeze of my hand. She
doesn't bother with the usual lies. She knows she won't be keeping in
touch with me. "I'll see you tomorrow."

And then I will see you no more.

She walks away and I turn my eyes to the window, watching her car.

She comes into view, approaching the driver's side door, keys in hand.

A tall man steps out of the shadows behind the car and her head snaps
up. For a moment, her face is illuminated in amber, pink and cold blue
by the neon signs adorning the exterior of the bar. She looks alarmed,
her hand inexplicably going around to slap the small of her back. I feel
a moment of panic on her behalf, and an overwhelming sense of deja-vu.
But it subsides when I see her shoulders relax and her hands making an
exasperated gesture. She says something to the tall man, who, I deduce,
must be Mulder.

She was right about him finding her. I wonder how long he's been
standing out there, watching us through the window.

Her partner approaches slowly, his eyes on her face. He's a bland-
faced man but even from this distance I can see the mingled hope and
wariness in his eyes. He stops about six feet away from her and speaks.

I can't hear what they're saying, of course, but I can see what they
mean.

To each other.

I am suddenly weary; tired of this night and all its tensions. I slide
out of the booth and make my way out of the bar. A glance in their
direction shows his hands cradling her face, his mouth a mere inch away
from her upturned lips. She is trembling and he looks pretty shaky
himself. Over the faint noise of distant traffic, I hear him say her
name.

He doesn't call her "Dana."

I round the corner and head for my car.

********************************************************************
The End.

Aaaghhh, I can't believe I finished something!
Please let me know what you think.

E-mail me!

Back to Invisivellum's Fiction

Back to Links Page

Back to Barbara D.'s Page