Title: Go Be Author: Amy Seymour (cseymour@iamerica.net) 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. ******************** 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. *********************************************************************** 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.