Fade, by Ann K

For summary, disclaimers, etc., see chapter one. Author's 
notes at the end of chapter 6.

www.geocities.com/annhkus

Chapter Two (2/6)

I. 

It was noon when she finally arrived, the heat shimmering off 
the asphalt and creating ripples across the dusty two-lane 
road. She had driven for miles, the ribbon-straight highway 
tracing the tops of the flat hills, surrounded by pastures and 
farmland and large barns set off from the road. This was a 
country with which Scully was unfamiliar, an earthy 
atmosphere, and one driven by the sweat and toil of those that 
labored on the land. She tried, unsuccessfully, to imagine 
Mulder, sweat trickling down his brow, working in the fields, 
a hat propped haphazardly on his head. She saw his face in the 
men who galloped beside her as she drove, rounding up cattle 
from the large pastures dotting the countryside, sitting 
astride horses wet from exertion. She saw his body underneath 
the brimmed hats and plaid shirts, and she saw a Mulder very 
different from the one she held in her memory.

She willed herself to believe that she was not making a 
mistake.

Scully turned into the gas station inside the city limits, 
relieved to be able to walk for a moment and stretch her legs. 
After filling her up car, she walked aimlessly around the 
parking lot, unsure of what to do next. She felt feeble, her 
senses dulled. It had been a long time since she was out on 
her own, and she was unsure of herself.

She thought of all the towns she and Mulder had seen, the 
beige and navy and black rental cars as innocuous as the 
cities that colored her tenure with Mulder. It all seemed so 
long ago, but she clung to it with a desperate ferocity that 
frightened her. It was part of what she shared with Mulder, so 
she strove to make it real and tangible. If he could not be 
with her, then she would make sure their memories, the inane 
and significant and minute, all of them, would exist.

Brushing the dust off her slacks, she sat down on the curb, 
clutching a copy of Walter's file in front of her and taking 
stock of her surroundings. The town was small, at least from 
what she could see from her vantage point. She counted three 
stoplights on what she assumed to be the main street, lined by 
old brick buildings. A faded Coca-Cola sign stared back at her 
from what looked to be the town grocery. A few pick-up trucks 
rolled down the street, the midday heat making even their 
progress slow and lethargic. 

The grass was spotty, and uneven, giving the entire town an 
atmosphere of exhaustion, a place that had outlived its time 
and purpose. She instinctively knew that this was a place of 
hard knocks, broken dreams, all of the descriptions of a worn 
fragment of Americana.

Across from her was the town bank, its single drive-thru empty 
and looking somewhat forlorn. The sun shone off the glass 
windows, but, if she squinted, she could make out the shadowy 
figures moving around inside. Next to the bank, a large 
church, its pillars and staircase sweeping backward from the 
sidewalk. A furniture store, a small coffee shop, the local 
pharmacy, a handful of dress shops. Absolutely nothing 
remarkable. She tried to imagine Mulder walking these streets, 
living his life among these people. She was hard pressed to 
imagine him settling down here. The Mulder she knew would only be 
comfortable settling down with her, and that was a bridge that 
they had just begun to tentatively cross right before he 
disappeared. 

She refused to acknowledge the idea that Mulder did not 
remember her, or who he really was. That idea was better than 
the one that lurked beneath the surface, and mocked her 
insecurities the entire drive to Texas. That he simply did not 
want to be found, especially by her.

She remembered how she clung to him before he left for Oregon. 
She remembered how he turned to look at her as she left, the 
lingering glance speaking volumes when their voices could not. 
She remembered the first night he had come into her bed, the 
night she would always believe they created William. Scully 
refused to believe that he did not want her. If he had been 
returned, if he had been taken and returned somehow, she had 
to find him.

She wanted to believe.

Her cell phone rang, causing her to jump, and the papers in 
the file to shift, spilling out onto the asphalt. She grabbed 
them at the same time she pushed the "talk" button. The 
reception was fuzzy, but she saw Walter's office number 
reflected on the face of the phone. "Hello? Walter?" she 
shouted above the static, shoving the papers back into the 
folder, the photograph resuming its place on top.

"Dana? Are you there?"

She sighed, the sound of Walter's voice bringing a smile to 
her face. It reminded her of why she was here, and that he 
truly believed this man she sought was Mulder. Walter 
believed, and she found strength in that belief. She made it 
her own. "I am," she answered. Clearing her throat, she stood, 
tucking the file under her arm. "I just got here," she 
continued. "The drive was fine, and I slept a little at a rest 
area last night, enough to keep me going. That, and a couple 
of cups of strong coffee." She could still feel the slick 
caffeine pulsing in her veins.

"Have you checked into the motel yet? It's supposed to be in 
the middle of town."

"Not yet, Walter. But I don't think I could miss it. This 
place isn't exactly a sprawling metropolis." That was an 
understatement. 

"Look, Dana. I think you should check into the motel, take a 
hot shower, get some rest, before you start looking for..." He 
couldn't bring himself to say Mulder's name for some reason. 
They both sat in silence for a moment, but there was nothing 
else to be said. She was there, in a place where they believed 
she would find the answers that had eluded them both for 
years. That was enough. Even now, after all this time, they 
both took comfort in the possibility of the truth.

"I will, Walter. I am going to do this right, okay? Don't 
worry. We both have too much at stake here for things to go 
wrong." But I have more than anyone, she thought. I have the 
possibility of losing everything that defines my life. Or 
regaining it. She silently admitted that she wasn't sure what 
would be worse.

"I know, Dana, I know. I am just worried about you. I wish you 
had let me go with you. It would have been better having two 
of us there."

But they both knew this was something she had to do on her 
own. Whatever question lay in this dusty town, she would have 
to be the one to answer it. "Did William call you from camp 
this morning?" she finally asked, leaving his unspoken 
sentiment hanging in the distance between them. "He did," 
Walter answered. "Said he had talked to you twice, and was off 
for the trail ride. He's worried about you, Dana."

"I know he is. But he can call my cell phone anytime, and he 
knows that. I know he is safe there, and you are close by if 
he needs anything." He needs a father, she thought. He needs 
Mulder to be there when he leaves for school in the morning, 
and plays with the dogs at night. He needs his parents to be 
in the audience for his school play, and to be applauding him 
from the battered bleachers at his riding lessons.

Don't screw this up, Dana. Do it right, do everything right, 
for William, for you, for Mulder.

"So, call me and let me know what is going on, okay?" She 
focused again on Walter's voice, listening to the chatter of 
voices and the light static in the background. "I've got to 
go, Dana. But call me. Let me know what is happening."

"I will," she answered, and with the electronic beep echoing 
in her ear, she realized she was alone again. 

Tucking the file under one arm and reaching for her wallet 
with the other, she walked inside the gas station to pay, the 
cool air enveloping her as she pushed open the door. A small 
radio next to the cash register played twangy country music, 
and the smell of fried chicken blanketed the small space. An 
older woman sat behind the counter, her gray hair swept up on 
top of her head, and her glasses perched on the end of her 
nose, a dull silver chain hanging by her neck. "Betty," her 
nametag proclaimed. Betty's eyes reflected the fact that 
Scully was a stranger.

"That'll be eleven-fifty," Betty announced, taking the bills 
from Scully's hands. She pushed the receipt across the counter 
that was covered with a large sticker, peeling at the edges, 
that read, "We card," and pursed her thin lips even closer 
together. "Are you traveling through town?" Her heavily 
accented tone indicated that most strangers she met at the 
Stop N' Go were doing just that.

"Actually, I was looking for the motel. Is it on the main 
street?"

Betty's eyes widened only a fraction before she answered. "It 
is. About a block from here. My sister and her husband run it. 
They bought it from Mr. Simpson about three years ago." Scully 
wondered what to do with this information, and decided 
nothing. She smiled at Betty. "Thank you. I heard it was the 
best motel in the area." Actually, it was the only motel in 
the area, from what she gathered from Walter, but there was no 
harm in being friendly to Betty. 

Betty's eyes warmed a fraction before she answered. "They work 
hard. I'm sure they'll have a room for you." Betty paused a 
minute, considering, and then asked, "Are you staying in town 
long?"

Ah, the million dollar question. Well, you see, Betty, she 
thought, I am in town looking for my partner and the father of 
my son, who I believe was abducted by aliens almost nine years 
ago and now is working as a cattle rancher in some small dot 
on a Texas map. I have no idea why he is in Texas instead of 
home with me and Will, and I have no idea what he'll say to me 
if, and when, I find him.

Instead, she answered, "A few days, at least." Cutting off 
Betty's inevitable next question, she smiled, thanking her and 
walking back into the suffocating heat, driving in the 
direction of the motel.

Paying for the room, her eyes began to blur, and she realized 
that she was exhausted.  Before she could make sense of her 
surroundings, she opened the lime green door, the faded room 
number lopsided on the metal frame, and took off her shoes. 
She lay on the bed, not even bothering to turn back the 
bedspread. The air conditioner on the wall rattled, emanating 
a cold stream of air into the tiny space. Betty was right. The 
motel was clean, but sparse, and she dimly heard a few passing 
trucks from the street as her eyes began to close.

She dreamt, of William riding a cowpony, galloping alongside 
her car as she drove down a road she did not recognize. He was 
smiling, a wide, toothy grin, the kind that graced his face so 
often when he was younger, but had begun to fade with age and 
maturity. "I'm riding, Mom. Look at me. Let's show Dad. We 
have to show Dad how I can ride. Tell him to come see," he 
exclaimed. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell Will that 
she was trying, but no words escaped. 

Walter sat beside her, holding tightly onto her hand as she 
slowed the car down and opened the door. She stood in the 
middle of the road, the sky clear, and the sunlight almost 
unbearable. And Mulder stood in front of her, his eyes dancing 
and a smile on his face. "Where have you been all this time, 
Scully? Why did you take so long?"

When she finally woke, the room was dark, and she pulled the 
bedspread over her body, shivering in the darkness and 
thinking of Mulder. Despite the lingering humidity, she felt 
the sweat chill on her back, and she couldn't stop her 
shaking. Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow, she would go to the 
ranch where Mulder worked, talk to the owner and find Mulder. 
She would know from the moment she saw him if he was really 
the Mulder she remembered, and she would bring him home, to 
Will. She would make everything just right.

She had to make everything right, she decided, trembling 
uncontrollably, because everything without Mulder had been so 
wrong.

II.

Dawn in Texas might be one of the most beautiful sights she 
had ever seen. After a restless night of sleep and vivid 
dreams of Mulder and Will, she woke before the sun, and took a 
long shower, reluctantly turning off the water only when it 
began to run cold. Pulling her hair up in a ponytail, she 
slipped on her slacks, and was surprised by her reflection in 
the small mirror above the sink. Even in the florescent glare, 
and despite the slight circle beneath her eyes that betrayed 
her insomnia, she looked younger than she had in years. She 
was reminded of the image of herself as a young woman, walking 
into Mulder's office for the very first time.

And now she sat on the trunk of her car, parked on the side of 
the motel, and watched the hues of the sun spread from a pink 
to an orange to a faded yellow, until the sun finally made its 
appearance over the horizon and the day began. The day when 
she was to find Mulder, to find all the answers to the 
questions that plagued her for the past nine years. It was a 
lot to ask for just one day, but she would accept nothing 
less. 

"Miss Scully?" She looked up to see Molly, Betty's sister and 
the motel manager, walking up to her. Her hair was swinging in 
a ponytail similar to Scully's, only streaked with gray, and 
Scully saw the weathered lines on Molly's face. A lifetime 
spent in the Texas sun, she decided. "How did you sleep last 
night?"

"The room was just fine. Thank you. I was awfully tired last 
night, so I slept just fine." That wasn't exactly true, but 
there was no need to burden Molly with the truth. Her poor 
night of sleep had nothing to do with the motel room.

"That's good. Robert said you walked by the office this 
morning without picking up any breakfast. I brought you a 
doughnut and some coffee."

Scully smiled, knowing that the last thing she needed was 
another cup of coffee, but she accepted the steaming mug with 
a smile. The day would be long, and she wasn't sure when she 
would have time to eat. Thank goodness for Southern 
hospitality, she thought, taking a small bite of the sweet 
doughnut.

"Big plans for the day?"

Scully choked as she swallowed the doughnut. She supposed they 
could be called big plans. "Something like that. I have some 
things I need to take care of in town."

"Anything I could help you with?"

Instinctively, Scully felt wary, untrusting, but she stared 
into Molly's sincere gaze for a moment, and then let out her 
pent-up breath. She just might need the help. Ask for it, 
Dana. Do this the right way. "Actually, there is. I was 
looking for Battle Creek Ranch. I have it on the map here, but 
wanted to make sure I have the directions right."

Scully could tell Molly was biting her tongue, struggling with 
the conflicts of politeness and curiosity. The question of why 
Scully was going to Battle Creek Ranch never came. Instead, 
Molly leaned over her shoulder, tracing the route with her 
finger. Scully watched the short, stubby nail outline the 
county road leading out of town. "Take a left up the street at 
the first light," Molly said, mimicking her directions with 
her fingers. "You are going to go about twelve miles out of 
town, and you'll see the ranch sign on the left. The house 
sits back a little from the road, but I don't think you should 
have any trouble. Are you going to see Larry?"

Larry Wilkins, the owner of Battle Creek Ranch, Mulder's 
employer, and indeed the man she hoped would be able to answer 
some of her questions. "I am," she confirmed, folding the map 
back into a small rectangle and smoothing the creases. "Thank 
you for breakfast, Molly," she said, pulling the keys out of 
her pocket. 

If Mulder was indeed here, if they were breathing the same air 
and watching the same sunrise, she couldn't wait a minute 
longer to find him. 

Her heartbeat thudded in her ears as she pulled out of the 
parking lot. The town was beginning to come alive. She sat at 
the red light, watching a young woman fumble with her keys 
before opening the door of a small bakery. Two men dressed in 
orange vests moved methodically down the sidewalk, stopping at 
the randomly placed trashcans to empty the refuse. She was 
entranced by the color, the simplicity and the vibrancy of the 
life here. It was as if she was seeing everything in 
Technicolor, everything magnified. She was so aware of the 
brightness that she winced, slipping on her sunglasses.

As she drove down the two-lane road, her only companions the 
light breeze blowing through her open window and a few passing 
motorists, she struggled to make sense of her thoughts. What 
day was it? She furrowed her brow, and then remembered it was 
Thursday. Three days since she walked into Walter's office and 
her life changed forever. Two days since she packed her son, 
Mulder's son, into her neighbor's car and sent him off to 
summer camp. Less than a day since she arrived in town. Mulder 
had been on her mind every moment of the last three days.

She allowed her mind to wander as she drove a steady fifty-
five, her heartbeat a steady accompaniment to her thoughts. 
What would she say to Mulder? A thousand possibilities ran 
through her mind. Hello. I've missed you. Where in the hell 
have you been? As sure as she was that Mulder was the man 
staring back at her from the well-worn photograph, she was 
also sure he would never knowingly abandon her. The cold grip 
of fear and uncertainty tightened around her chest.

She screeched to a sudden halt, looking out to an open field 
to her left. The steel sign decorating the front gates told 
her in looping cursive that she had indeed arrived at Battle 
Creek Ranch. Time slowed almost to a standstill as she 
surveyed the open land, lined by a ring of trees and a 
straight, white fence. Cattle grazed to her left, and a few 
horses were scattered to her right. A working cattle ranch, 
Walter told her. Mulder was a farmhand.

She desperately tried to put the pieces together in her mind 
as she drove down the dirt driveway to a rambling farmhouse in 
the distance.

The dust had yet to settle in her wake when she turned off the 
car. A wind chime tinkled from the wrap-around porch. Two 
tabby cats lay in the grass, soaking up the morning sun. As if 
on cue, a group of chickens ambled up beside the car, pecking 
the ground.

Mulder could not be here.

The squeak of the screen door caused her to look up. A gray-
haired woman walked out onto the porch, wiping her hands on 
her apron, looking at the unfamiliar car with curiosity. Now 
or never, Scully decided. It had already been too long. "Good 
morning," she offered as she stepped out of the car, her 
steady voice betraying none of her inner turmoil. If she 
stopped to process what was happening, she would falter. After 
all these years, she was so close. She could almost smell 
Mulder's scent in the air.

"Morning," the older woman responded, walking down the steps 
to greet her. "Can I help you with something?" Scully was 
surprised, when the woman neared, to see that she was even 
older than she first thought. She had a matronly, comforting 
air, and Scully was instantly drawn to her. "My name is Dana 
Scully. I was looking for Larry Wilkins. Is he around?"

"He is actually out in the fields this morning, but should be 
returning shortly. Is there some sort of problem?"

She was so close to Mulder, the truth, the answers that she 
craved for so long, that it was almost painful, and she felt 
the blood drain from her face. Her heart pounded mercilessly 
in her ears, and she took a long breath. "There's no problem, 
Mrs...." 

"Wilkins," the woman supplied. "I'm Larry's wife."

Scully nodded. "Mrs. Wilkins, I was looking for a man who is 
an employee of your husband's. I believe he is someone I knew 
from a long time ago, someone who I have searched for many 
years to find."

It was strange, to sum up Mulder so succinctly, but she could 
offer the woman no other words. Her relationship with Mulder 
was unexplainable, even to her, much less to a stranger.

"Ellen? Is something wrong?"

Scully turned to see whom she presumed to be Larry Wilkins, 
walking towards them from the barn in the distance. He was 
much as Walter described him, the quintessential Texas cowboy, 
with his brimmed hat riding low on his tanned face. She felt 
sickly pale in comparison to the people she met here.

"Everything's fine, Larry. Miss Scully was here looking for 
someone she thought you might know."

They both gazed at her expectantly, and she stood stupidly for 
a long moment, unsure of what to do next. She was grasping for 
anything to hold onto in this long side down a treacherous 
slope, and she was failing. "I have a photograph," she finally 
said, reaching down to pull the file folder from the car seat.

Handing them Mulder's photograph, she catalogued their 
expressions, and stopped breathing when she saw recognition 
dawn on their faces. Ellen glanced up at her momentarily, and 
then reached her hand over to her husband's arm. Neither of 
them said a word. Scully was about to speak when Larry thrust 
the photograph towards her and took his wife by the hand. "I'm 
sorry, Miss Scully. I can't help you."

By the time she grabbed the photograph from the ground, the 
couple was halfway to the front door. She began to run, 
catching Larry by the shoulder and turning him around. "What 
do you mean, Mr. Wilkins?" she stammered. "Are you saying you 
don't know this man, that he doesn't work for you?"

He stared at her, his expression blank, but his eyes 
sorrowful. "I'm saying, Miss Scully, that I can't help you."

She could not accept that. "No," she shouted, holding the 
photograph up in front of the couple. "Look again. I was told 
that you knew this man, and that he worked for you. I traveled 
a long distance to find him." She was desperate. "I have to 
find him," she said, her panic causing her voice to rise.

"Dana." Ellen was speaking to her now. "We have many men who 
work on the ranch during the season. We have to respect their 
privacy."

"Then he's here." Her words were not a question. Neither Larry 
nor Ellen would look at her. "He's here, now, working on your 
ranch." Their silence continued, and Scully cursed the tears 
that began to flow down her cheeks. She saw William, sitting 
defiant in the backseat of her car, begging her to take him to 
Texas, his stubborn gaze just like his father's. She could not 
fail him. She wept openly, staring at the couple.

"If you know something," she managed in a painful whisper, 
"you have to tell me."

Larry walked inside the house, silent. But Scully looked into 
Ellen's face and saw a deep sympathy. "I can't tell you 
anything, Dana." Her words were deliberate, and Scully closed 
her eyes against the bright sun, wiping the wetness away with 
a quick swipe of her hand. 

"He is the father of my son," she said, blindly, speaking in a 
monotone. She had failed. "He doesn't even know that he is a 
father. He has been gone for such a long time, and I was told 
he was here. I didn't want to believe, but I came anyway." She 
pinned Ellen with her gaze and her words. "He drew me here. 
Don't you understand? I have to find him. I have to find him 
for Will."

Whatever wall existed crumbled. Ellen gave a visible shake, 
and then reached out to hold her hand. "I can tell you this," 
Ellen said, her voice a stealthy whisper. "Usually all the men 
on the ranch go down to Joe's on Thursday night. It's a pool 
hall not far from here. You just might find what you are 
looking for there."

Scully watched as the older woman followed her husband into 
the house, her footsteps echoing on the wide planks of the 
porch. She wasn't sure what had just happened. She walked back 
to the car, exhausted, and sat behind the steering wheel for 
another half hour, thinking of Mulder and cattle and Joe's 
Pool Hall.  

She was halfway back to the motel before she realized the 
second emotion that crossed the face of the couple as they 
looked at Mulder's photograph. They recognized him, she was 
sure. They were also terribly frightened. 

III.

Will Lyon hated the pool hall. It was smoky, and dirty, and 
generally tended to bring out the worst in people. Guys who 
would ride alongside him day after day, mild-mannered men who 
appreciated a good cigar and a better woman, would turn into 
raving thugs when they entered the pool hall. They would 
drink, they would swagger, and they would dare a guy across 
the room to catch their eye. When someone invariably did, the 
punches would start, and Will Lyon would walk out into the 
parking lot, staring up into the clear evening sky.

He supposed the men considered themselves to be true cowboys, 
but he considered them all to be idiots, at least on Thursday 
nights at Joe's Pool Hall. He wouldn't even be here, except he 
seemed to draw even more attention to himself when he stayed 
away. He hated answering questions, so he avoided them by 
nursing a warm beer and watching the locals sway drunkenly on 
the wooden dance floor.

It was already round two inside, with the boys from Mr. Jim's 
ranch down the road shoving Paul and Shane from his crew and 
generally starting a ruckus. He sat on the sidewalk, 
stretching his long legs out in front of him and leaning back 
against the building. The parking lot was full, mostly of cars 
with license plates from neighboring counties. They all came 
here on a Thursday night, women to find a cowboy and men to 
find a good fuck. That's just the way it went at Joe's Pool 
Hall.

The sky was clear, so clear he swore there were a million 
stars dangling mere inches from his head. He was tempted to 
reach out, try to touch them, but a group of giggling women 
walking by stopped him. For some reason, he felt like he spent 
a lifetime trying to grab onto the stars, gazing into the 
heavens. It was an old habit that was hard for him to break. 
Some men smoked, others drank. Will Lyon would walk out under 
a clear evening sky and spend hours gazing into the darkness.

"Hey, Lyon. Scoot over, wouldja?"

Mark Hagler stood beside him, his eyes dilated with alcohol, 
and his Levis reeking of smoke. Not the companion Lyon wanted, 
but he moved over anyway. Mark sat down heavily beside him. 
"You always seem to cut out when the good stuff starts."

Lyon grunted. "I'm there when you guys need me. This stuff," 
he said, jerking his head back in the direction of the pool 
hall, "is just a waste of time. You should know better."

Lyon did indeed have a reputation among the men who worked 
Larry Wilkins' ranch. He was a loner, an introspective man who 
spoke rarely and smiled less. He had a quick wit that few were 
able to see. But, in a pinch, Lyon was the man you wanted on 
your side. He was loyal. Be it a lost calf in a driving 
rainstorm or a late night call from the drunk tank, Lyon was 
always the levelheaded thinker. Mark supposed that was why the 
men admired him. Liked him, no. Not really. But certainly 
admired him.

"Did you see that blonde by the bar? I wouldn't mind a piece 
of that." They sat in companionable silence before Lyon 
answered. "Did you ask her to dance?" Mark choked on his beer. 
"Hell, no. I don't ask women to dance."

Lyon couldn't help the deep chuckle. "So, you admire them from 
afar, and never know what they would say if you actually got 
up the nerve to ask them to dance."

Mark bristled and squinted his eyes at him. "I don't see you 
in there with all the ladies, Lyon. If you are such a 
goddamned Cassanova, why are you sitting outside here all by 
yourself in the fucking parking lot?"

By choice, he thought, looking away from Mark without 
answering. There had been a few women recently, a few 
tentative dances on the wooden floor inside Joe's. But he just 
wasn't interested, not right now. He was too tired to care, 
and he was too frayed around the edges to ever be able to give 
a woman the love she needed. He accepted that as a part of his 
character. He didn't like it, but he accepted it. 

"No answer, huh?" Mark goaded, drinking the last of his beer, 
crushing the can with one hand and tossing it in the direction 
of the trashcan by the door. It missed, tumbling noisily 
underneath a nearby Ford. "I didn't think so. You talk big, 
Lyon, but I have never seen you with a woman on a Thursday 
night."

He wasn't interested in discussing this, especially not with 
Mark, but he spoke anyway. "I'm no expert, but I know you at 
least have to talk to them before you have a chance."

"Yeah, you're no expert," Mark answered, embarrassment egging 
him on. He knew his own flat face and unruly blond hair were 
not the same as Lyon's dark hair and darker personality. Women 
were attracted to that sort of thing, he thought ruefully, 
feeling sorry for himself. What Mark lacked in looks, he tried 
to make up in attitude. It rarely worked, except with women 
who were as desperate as he was.

He clasped Lyon on the shoulder, pulling him to his feet. "But 
I know neither of us will get lucky tonight staring at dirty 
pickup trucks. C'mon back inside. I'll buy you a beer."

Lyon allowed himself to be pulled back inside, the quiet of 
the evening sky broken by the band playing on the small stage 
and the heavy boots on the dirty floor. Only a few more hours, 
he thought, and then I can go home, to my small room, where 
things are mine. I am answerable only to myself. 

The cigarette smoke hung heavy around him as he settled on an 
empty bar stool, accepting the beer Mark pushed toward him and 
watching as the younger man ambled away, heading in the 
general direction of a petite blonde surrounded by men Lyon 
did not recognize. Leave it to Mark to pick out the woman 
every other man in this place would want. Dumb kid.

He swiveled the stool back around, staring at his reflection 
in the smoky mirror behind the bar. Sometimes, when he caught 
a glimpse of his face passing by a mirror, he didn't recognize 
himself. He was startled, turning quickly to see the stranger 
who was walking so close to him. His own face belonged to a 
stranger. He would stare at himself for hours, cataloguing 
every wrinkle near his dark eyes, the prominent nose, the 
wayward dark hair. 

He tried to remember that face, every detail, so he would quit 
scaring the shit out of himself when he walked by a mirror, 
but it didn't work. 

Lyon took a long sip of the cold beer, wincing as it slid down 
his throat. Alcohol dulled his senses, and he avoided it. At 
the very least, there was an evening sky to look upon, and 
fresh air to breathe. A commotion started behind him near the 
stage, where Mark was standing next to the blonde. Lyon turned 
to look, but instead, was drawn to a woman walking in the 
front door.

Later, he would spend hours trying to recall the way she bit 
her lower lip as she stood in the doorway, the harsh lights 
glinting off her red hair. He would try to remember her 
expressive blue eyes, the way they surveyed the room, 
betraying nothing, yet noting everything. He would close his 
eyes and desperately try to picture the soft swell of her 
breasts and the curve of her hips. 

But, for now, his first thought was that she was lost, and she 
certainly picked the wrong place to go to for directions. She 
stood awkwardly near the door, scanning the crowd. He didn't 
know much, but he knew from the lean cut of her slacks and her 
blouse that her clothes were expensive, and not from any shop 
around here. He watched as she tucked her red hair behind her 
ears, crossing her arms uncertainly.

There was something about her, a vulnerability that made Lyon 
follow her petite figure as she began an uncertain route 
around the crowded room. She was hesitant and desperately 
unsure. Lyon prided himself on his ability to read people, 
their body language and their unspoken words, and this woman 
was sinking in despair.

But there was something else, he realized, watching with 
hooded eyes as she climbed onto the stool at the end of the 
bar, away from him, her feet not touching the floor, and 
motioned to the bartender. He grinned when he decided that 
this woman could probably kick the asses of about half the 
cowboys in this room. She was strong, her sinewy figure only 
one indication, but her eyes the other.

They were desperate, and determined, and he admired that.

Jon, the bartender, pushed what looked to be a soda toward the 
red- head, and she slipped him a few crisp bills. As he turned 
to walk away, she called him, motioning him back to her with 
her hand. Lyon watched, intrigued, trying to figure out what 
the hell this woman was up to. Jon obviously felt the same, a 
quizzical look on his face as he stood in front of her.

She leaned over the bar, trying to make herself heard over the 
loud bass guitar. Lyon was surprised by an irrational rush of 
what he recognized as jealousy when Jon leaned over to speak 
to her, his face mere inches from hers. He wasn't even aware 
when his back stiffened and he unconsciously leaned closer to 
the two, trying to decipher their conversation.

The redhead spoke for a few moments, and then pulled something 
out of her bag. It was a photograph, and Lyon watched with 
interest as she fingered the edge of it absentmindedly as she 
spoke, almost as if she drew comfort from its existence. She 
extended her hand for emphasis, talking heatedly to Jon, and 
then placed the photograph on the bar between them. 

Jon knew whoever was in the photograph. Lyon could tell from 
the way his eyes lifted the instant he saw the image, and the 
way he looked around the crowded bar room. His gaze never 
reached the shadowed end of the bar where Lyon sat huddled on 
the bar stool, but Jon nodded his head earnestly at the woman 
before turning to mix a drink.

So, whoever the woman was looking for was here, in the bar 
tonight. He surveyed the crowd himself, trying to decide which 
lucky bastard this woman could be looking for in a joint like 
this. She didn't belong here, and she sure didn't belong with 
any of the roughnecks who gathered here on Thursday nights. 

"Lyon!"

He watched as Mark stumbled closer to him, his arm draped 
around a plump brunette that he saw here every Thursday. 
Looked like she needed the company tonight, and Mark sure as 
hell did. "Who's the fucking Cassanova now, Lyon?" Mark 
drawled, his words thick from alcohol. "Knock yourself out, 
buddy," Lyon shouted after the pair, watching as they walked 
towards the door, Mark's middle finger extended in his general 
direction.

Prick. 

When he twisted back on his stool, his heart stopped when he 
saw the redhead staring straight at him. Her eyes widened, and 
a manicured hand flew to her mouth. She paled, and Lyon swore, 
even from twenty feet away, he saw tears suddenly glisten in 
her eyes. She looked like she had seen a ghost. He couldn't 
help but glance behind him, to see if someone was standing 
there, returning her gaze, but there was no one. The woman was 
staring at him like she knew him. But he had never seen her 
before tonight, and he sure as hell would have remembered. 

What in god's name was going on here?

They stared at each other for what seemed like hours, when it 
only could have been a few seconds before she slid off the bar 
stool and walked towards him. She never took her eyes off him, 
never wavered, in spite of the crowded dance floor. She 
ignored the jostling, moving towards him in a steady line. The 
world slowed down as she stood in front of him, and he 
realized that this woman was absolutely beautiful.

What she said next shocked the hell out of him.

"Mulder?"

He opened his mouth, but no words came to him. He wasn't this 
person, this Mulder she was seeking, but this woman looked at 
him as if she knew him, an absolute certainty in her eyes that 
unnerved him. He instantly decided that Mulder must be one 
lucky son of a bitch. "Mulder?" she asked again, stepping so 
close to him he could smell her perfume. "Is it really you?"

Before he could answer, to tell her that she was mistaken, 
that his name was Will Lyon and he was sorry, he wasn't 
Mulder, whoever the hell that was, the woman closed her eyes 
and swayed in front of him. He barely had time to react before 
she fainted, falling into his arms in front of Jon the 
bartender and half his crew from the ranch and most of the 
population of Blackwood.

He was never going to live this down in the morning.

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