Title: Down-time Author: Flynn Date: January 23, 2002 Rating: PG for some earthy Doggett thoughts Classification: V Keywords: Doggett E-mail: flyn121@yahoo.com Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/ Category: Three Words post-ep, Doggett POV Archiving: Feel free, just tell me about it first. Spoiler warning: The general MulderMissing and Luke arcs Feedback: Nourishes the soul and is good karma. Disclaimer: Not mine. Too bad, so sad. What money I have, I earned. Scribbler's note: I actually had this drafted before Three Words aired the other night. Go figure. Summary: Peace of mind doesn't come in a bottle. Thanks, Christine. Don't forget about our date in May. ~~~~~~~~~~~ Down-time By Flynn ~~~~~~~~~~~ There's this place I go to. A bar. I stop in sometimes, you know, before I go home. It's .... quiet. Kind of off the beaten path, so I don't see many faces from the Hoover. Lots of oak and brass, etched glass, a big, L-shaped bar set apart from the booths. People go there to meet, sure, but some just hang by themselves. Casey's, it's called. Casey's. I like it there. After the donnybrook at the Statistics Center, I need some down- time. Maybe have a drink or three. Tomorrow I'll catch up with Knowle Rohrer and, God help me, I'm gonna get some answers. Right now I just need to sit and think. I go to Casey's. Things got hairy after Mulder and I hot-footed it outta the Center, but we managed to avoid the biggest trouble spots courtesy of those three space cadets he hangs with. You know, it's said you can tell a lot about a person by the company they keep. Well .... Don't go there, John. Just don't go there. Anyway, we stuck together when we made it out of that crawl-space, then parted ways in the alleyway a few blocks away from the center. Haven't seen him since, and quite frankly, I don't want to. I've had enough of Fox Mulder to last me a lifetime. Mulder. What a friggin' piece of work that guy is. All the effort and sweat and frustration that went into finding him; all the tears and grief and heartache, and for what? So he can treat Scully like shit? So he can call me a liar? Or worse, incompetent? Those months we searched, we were each of us in hell. Monica, Skinner .... hell, even that skinny kid, the bottle-red he has working his office. And Scully, of course. Man oh man, what she went through. I saw what it did to her. I hate what it did to her. I hate it because I've been there myself. Not knowing. Finding yourself hanging betwixt and between, strangling on loose ends, unable to move forward with your life because you don't know how to breathe when half of your soul - half of your own self - is taken from you. Then finding him like we did. Christ. I really don't know how she made it through that in one piece, *especially* knowing what I do about her now. She's strong, no question. Stronger than I am. And now he's back. And having met the man and worked with him after a fashion, all I can say is .... Shakespeare really hit on something with "much ado about nothin'." The city's pretty calm this time of night. At least, this neighborhood is. The place is quiet, too. Not much business. I take my place at the bar. It's on the short leg of the L, sort of in the corner. From here I can see the door, the aisle between the booths, the hallway back to the can .... everything. I like being able to see. The mirror over the bar's okay if my stool happens to be taken, but it's hard to scope the room out without *looking* like you're scoping the room out. You know what I mean. I take my place and make nice with the barkeep, a pretty woman with short, dark hair, then order up a drink - single malt, neat - and let my thoughts churn. Mulder. I coulda been killed tonight because of him. I coulda died, and the horse's ass *still* thinks my goal in life is to set him up for the big fall. I ponder the man as I take a sip of whiskey. If I added up all the bullets, all the threats, all the bullshit I've encountered since the day I took that first call from Kersh, what would the score be? Given the circumstances, I think it's only reasonable that I resent the guy just a little. If it hadn't been for him getting his sorry ass disappeared out in the friggin' boondocks last May, I'd still be working VC cases. Maybe I'd find the animal who killed my boy. Maybe not - but I sure as hell won't have a crack at it from the basement, that I know for a fact. Yeah, I resent Mulder. Not a reason in the world I shouldn't. I'd heard things about him even before he went missing. Loose cannon, they used to say. Flake. The guy chases fairy-tales. Conspiracies at every turn. He's made paranoia an art form. Well, I've come up with a few more names to add to the roster. Bullheaded. Egocentric. Asshole. I saw what his death did to her. It was like she put something of herself in the ground right alongside that coffin. A big chunk of herself. Then he came back. He came back to *her*. She should be happy. She deserves to be happy. She's gonna be a mom. She's got her partner back. Not partner in the sense that *I'm* her partner, but partner like the other name going on her kid's birth certificate. Like someone she might be carrying on her health insurance, under the right circumstances. Happy? Does she look happy? I saw her outside her apartment tonight. I saw her and I talked to her. *Happy* was not the word that came to mind. He doesn't believe her. That thought hit me tonight with a slug to the gut, which must have been just about what it felt like to her. He doesn't believe he's the father. That is such horse shit. Okay, so she doesn't exactly confide in me - you don't have to be psychic to read the signs, and they're written all over her. She's crazy about the guy. She fell in love, they ended up in bed on at least one occasion .... and he still can't bring himself to believe it's his. What an asshole. For the record, I've read her casefile. I know about the infertility thing. I don't know if I believe all that nonsense about implanted alien embryos .... Christ, what am I saying? Of *course* I don't believe it. *Aliens*, for shit's sake? Okay, so if Scully's pregnant, and it's pretty damn clear that she is, then isn't it just a *little* more likely that it happened the good old fashioned way? I mean, lots of women who've been told they can't have kids find themselves in the delivery room, and not one of them have ended up with an alien baby. Believe me, I know, because if it ever happened, there'd be a file on it in one of those damn cabinets in my office. The whiskey's making my belly warm. I know I should probably have eaten something before I came here. I flag down the barkeep and order another malt. Is it too late to get a meal, I ask her. She smiles and says no, the kitchen closes in twenty. Great, I say. Gimme a double cheese with the works. I'm halfway through the second whiskey when the outside door opens. Who's the lucky one, I wonder with a little smirk. It's pushing one am, and not one of the people in here have someplace better to be. C'mon in and sit a spell. Cry into your beer. Tell me a good one. I'll tell you one, too. Shit. I don't fuckin' believe this. What the hell is *he* doing here? Of all the gin joints in all the world .... Fox Mulder. The man himself. He sees me at once, sitting here on my stool in the corner. Judging from the unpleasant twist to his mouth, I'd hazard to guess that I'm not entirely successful at hiding my contempt. We stare at each other for a long, cold moment. His hands are in the pockets of his jacket. I can see them move, his fists opening and closing, and I know as well as I know my own name that he's considering turning right around and going out the way he came in. Go ahead, I silently urge him. No one here's gonna stop you. Go on back and ignore your partner some more. Or better yet, go look her in the eye and ask her if she's been sleeping around. That'll do her heart good, or what's left of it. At least then she'd have the satisfaction of shooting your ass. At least then she'd know you're not worth having around. Maybe she'd realize she's really better off without you. Maybe she'd realize she could have anyone she wanted. Me, if she'd have me, which I know she never would. That thought sets me back a little. Where'd *that* come from? Must be the whiskey. She's actually not my type. Besides, I don't want .... that. I had it once, and it was .... shit, who am I trying to kid? It was good. Losing it was like losing .... well, I don't want to do it again. I couldn't go through that again and stay sane. I watch Mulder from behind my glass. Shit, stay if you have to, I want to say. There are lots of resting places to choose from. Chairs, booths, tables .... But does he go to any of them? No. Guess *I'm* the lucky one, because where does he plant his ass but on the stool right next to mine. Nodding acquaintances, I think to myself. That's all we are. We work with the same woman, we hold the same position - or did, we're both erudite men in our forties. We both like sports, we both like women .... And we don't have a single thing to say to each other. We sit in silence. The barkeep takes pity on us. Or maybe she just sets the play into motion. "Hey, Big M," she says as soon as she sees him. Big smile. Does she know something I don't? She actually seems to like him. "It's been too long. What've you been up to?" He shrugs one shoulder. "Six-foot two, give or take. Hope you don't believe everything you've heard about me. Gimme what he's having, would you? And an ice water." I sigh and nod without looking at him. "Agent Mulder. I see you made it back safe and sound." I don't know if he nods. He doesn't sigh. "Agent Doggett. Funny to run into you here." I shoot him a hard glance. "I drink once in a while." "And eat, apparently," he says, eyeing the plate of food the barmaid sets in front of me. "Apparently." I shovel in a couple fries before looking at him again. "Why funny?" He shrugs again, and I see the corner of his mouth drop a little. "We just seem to have a lot in common for two men who don't have anything in common." I'm busy fighting with the pickle and the tomato. They keep shooting in opposite directions. Shit, is it just the booze that's making me clumsy? Maybe I can get one of those little umbrellas with the long toothpicks for handles from the barkeep. Spear it all together. I give up on the tomato and keep the pickle. Before I know it, the burger's half gone. I really was hungry. "You watch the Series last fall?" he asks suddenly. I give him a look. Where the hell did *that* come from? And where's he goin' with it? Do aliens play baseball? "Some of it," I say. "Not a real fan." He's toying with the ring his water glass leaves on the bar. I see the Olympic emblem, five intercrossing circles. A wipe of his napkin and it's gone. "Scully taped it." Another handful of fries, another swig of whiskey. She taped it, sure, I want to say, but did you bother to watch any of it? I think about her, sitting in her apartment, taping sports for a man she knew she might never see again. I think about finding her sleeping in his bed. I think about the circles under her eyes that got darker, day by day. I think about what she's given up for him. I have no idea where the words come from, but before I know it, they're out. "You're it for her, you know." Maybe I just meant to think them and my mouth couldn't help but get in on the act. Booze does that to me. It's why I don't drink very often. "Am I?" he says very quietly. He's still playing with his drink. Has he had any of it yet? I can't remember. Before I can think better of it, my mouth's doing it again. Must be the whiskey because after this day, I really don't give a shit about Fox Mulder. "For someone who wants to believe, you sure don't act the part." He levels those eyes on me. I've seen them dead. I've seen them cold and angry and impossibly hard. They aren't hard now. Uncertain, maybe. There's a little squint to them. "And how am I supposed to act?" Now there's a question. My thought processes are slowed considerably by the Glenfiddich burning its way through my brain, but I give it a good college try. I have an idea what he means by that, and I don't think it has much to do with conspiracies and such. "She moved on. She had to." He winces, and I know I've hit the mark. "I think you prob'ly know this on some level, but maybe other parts are slower to catch up. Get over it, Mulder. Live with it. You're not doing yourself no favors, lookin' back and bitchin' about what you've missed. If you'd get your head out of your ass for thirty seconds, you'd see that you're *still* missing out. Maybe you should do somethin' about it." He stares into his whiskey like it's a crystal ball. "Wish it were that simple." His tone is flat, without inflection. I grunt as I prepare to stuff the last of the burger into my mouth. "If wishes were horses, sonny boy, I could be in the Olympics." He grunts. "Oh, I think I know a few things about that myself," he said, half under his breath. "There are things you don't know - " "You're right," I blurt around a mouthful as I signal for a third drink. "There is a *shit load* I don't know about you OR this whole situation tonight. I don't know who to trust. I don't know what to believe. I don't know what's real. And I don't know who to turn to for answers." He gives me a crooked little smile. I think it's the first time I've ever seen him do anything but snarl at me. "We really do have a lot in common then." The barkeep brings me my whiskey. Bless her heart, she also sets a glass of ice water on the bar in front of me. Must have seen me watching Mulder play with his. I down half of it in one long, delicious gulp. He looks hang-dog. I feel for him. I haven't been in *his* place, God knows, but I know something about being adrift. I've had the most important thing a person can have and I let it slip away from me. That's a commonality I don't want us to share. He's so intent upon remaining alone. Does he find something noble in the whole thing? Being a loner doesn't make him noble. It doesn't make anyone noble. It just makes you lonely. "Listen," I say, shoving my plate aside. "No one can tell you what to think or feel. Hell, no one on earth has the foggiest notion what it is to be you anymore." I hesitate. I want to tell him something about my wife, but I can't. It still hurts too much. Besides, he wouldn't give a shit. He might nod along, but I'd still be the yutz who took his place in his partner's life, I'd just be a bad husband, too. Not goin' there. "Mulder .... silence can be a disease. I lost someone to it. It dudn't matter who. We just .... we blamed each other for shit we couldn't possibly be responsible for. Didn't do us any good." I look at him square on for the first time since he walked in. "Don't do it. You got something to say? Say it. Chances are, she needs to hear it." He looks at me, and I see something down deep in those eyes. Humor? Sympathy? Empathy? Who knows? Maybe we really do have more in common than either of us thought. "I'll think about it," he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few bills. He puts a five on the bar next to the whiskey. It doesn't look like he drank much of it. Which, in my book, is something of a crime. Maybe not a high crime, but single malt's meant to be drunk. I illustrate by tossing mine back. As I'm digging in my own pocket for cash - I know I have a twenty in there somewhere - I hear the front door open again. Some other poor sap, I think to myself. Well, the bar won't close for another forty minutes or so. Plenty of time to get shit- faced, especially if you hit it as hard and as rapidly as I have tonight. I think I'll call a cab. Mulder's not driving yet - this I know. Some snafu with the DMV, I think. I guess their computers aren't any better at the rising-from-the-dead thing than the federal government's. Probably having one hell of a time sorting out his bank accounts, too. I'd imagine he's been living off loans from his three geek friends since the day he got out of the hospital. Does he need a ride? Arlington isn't exactly up the road from my own neighborhood, but we can flag down a gypsy and split the fare. He's not looking at me. I wonder at what point in the last fifteen seconds I ceased to exist. He's staring across the room at the new arrival. I think I could guess who it was just from the look on his face. Sure as shit, there she is, standing in the doorway just like he did a little while ago. Man, she was pretty when I first met her, but *now* - soft and round and glowing, just like you always hear about pregnant women .... I swear, drop-dead gorgeous wouldn't be far wrong. She looks a little out-of-place here, though. Not many pregnant customers around here. I wonder about the cigarette smoke filling the place. I hadn't noticed it until just this minute. Is it bad for the baby? I *know* she's not here to drink. She just stands at the door, hands pressed into the small of her back, and looks around. The place isn't particularly well-lit. Scanning. Scanning. Over here, I want to say. I don't. I know she's not looking for me. "Catch ya later," Mulder says, sliding off his stool. She sees him immediately. Her eyes flick past him to me for an instant, and I muster a weak little smile. What she's feeling .... I see it in her eyes. I see the anxiety and the hope. Most of all, I see wariness. Give her what she wants, I want to scream to the asshole I supposedly have so much in common with. Jesus, put your arms around her and hold her. Tell her you want to be here for her; tell her you aren't leaving her again .... And then don't leave. *Ever*. They're close now. Closer than she ever lets me stand. I wonder if this is new for them. A return to normal, maybe. I can't see much of his face, but I see hers. She's still wearing that guarded, chiseled expression. He's talking to her. His head is bowed toward hers. She looks past him to me again, and I don't have much trouble reading her lips, or the flash of anger in her eyes: *You were talking about me?* A nod and what I can only imagine is a sheepish smile. Her head tips back a little and she looks at him squarely. I see defiance. Affection. Relief. Other things as he continues to talk. Her brows flit upward. A smile slowly appears. Before long, her lips are trembling. Her hand settles on his cheek, touching the marks with her fingertips. I cringe to think of what put them there. Then her thumb strokes slowly over his mouth. I should look away. I should, but I don't. He bends just a little as she lifts her chin, and they kiss. Once. Twice. The third one, they take their time. A little side-to-side. Her cheeks hollow out as his jaw moves, and I figure their tongues are getting in on the act. Her hand remains on his face, but her other one takes a handful of his shirt and holds on tight. His hands are on her hips. Or at least where her hips would be. Before long he's got his arms around her. Okay, enough is enough, I think as I tear myself away from the spectacle of Man Kissing Woman. It's late and I'm feeling my whiskey. Time I got my ass home. The barkeep has my change. I leave her a tip next to Mulder's five-spot and turn on my heel. They're still face to face, exchanging words I can only guess at. I don't need to hear them. I remember fighting with my wife. I remember .... well, I remember a lot of things. What those two have ahead of them .... I've been there. I just hope to God he finds a way and a reason to stay with her now. She deserves it. I don't look back at them as I duck out the side door. It's cold out. It's gonna rain again. It ain't noble, being alone. It's just the way it is for me. I don't plan for it to last forever. I have my memories. Right now, they're enough.