Title: Beacon Author: Dreamshaper Feedback: dreamshpr@aol.com Archival: Sure. Automatic for Spookys and Goss and those who already have something on their websites. A letter from others would be appreciated :) Category: A, Missing Scene for SUZ, Other POV Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: For SUZ, minor Orison. Summary: "Easier for him." She raises the glass to her lips and downs the last shot. This time, she allows the shudder to race down her spine, and then whispers in her husky, careful voice. "Nothing is ever easier for him." Notes: Thanks muchly to Shawne for another strangely supportive nitpick, and also to Rob and Shannon for fast, thorough and easy clean-up. :) Disclaimer: Not mine, and I'm not making any money :) ~*~*~*~*~*~*~* I've seen her type come in here before. Stressed professional women with tidy, tailored suits, careful makeup and skyscraper heels. They always seem to smell like cell phones and dayplanners, and their shoulders are always perfectly straight under the weight of their worlds. They sit in booths, *hide* in booths, and order some light, fluffy, tropical drink. I put it on the table and they stare it down. Abruptly, they knock it back with a shudder, as if I had poured them straight whiskey. In a few minutes, they order another. And then a third. And then, an hour or so after they've come in, they take out their cell phones and make low-voiced phone calls...order another drink... While they nurse that fourth drink, a man swings through the door. He pauses on the threshold, looks around. This place is almost never what he expects, so he tosses me an uncertain smile and then heads for the woman. He slides into the booth beside her, touches her shoulder, says something quiet. Then she collects her belongings and he pays me. "I hope she didn't rack up a huge tab," he always says, with a faintly uncomfortable smile. They are a couple fashioned in the new-yuppie style, and bars make him nervous. They make him think that she's gone alky on him; they make him wonder if she intended to be picked up but drove the other men away with her cool, sad air. I always want to tell him no, she was an angel sitting there, because she almost always *was* quiet and polite, with nerves jangling under those barely alcoholic beverages. I always want to tell him to take her home and hold her, because even I can tell that's what she needs more than a quiet, comfortable bar that serves decent liquor. And I always, always wish I could do something more for her... I grew up in a single-parent household with four older sisters. I love my family more than anything, and the world-weary women always make me remember the laughter, fights and girl-talks that whirled around me. They make me miss my mother in a most fundamental way, and they make me appreciate my bubbly, sweet wife all the more. They make me wish all women could be--had the chance to be--like the ones I love. "She had three, four drinks," I always tell him as he stands before the bar, shifting in his polished shoes. "Lightweight." And then, because I can't resist, I try to stare him down. "Looks like she's had a hard, hard day, sir. No charge for the drinks. Just take her home, make her happy." Sometimes, he turns away from me without a word and goes back to her, hovering, taking her arm, touching her face. Those are the ones I have hope for. And sometimes, he smiles at me as if I'm a half-wit, blue-collar troublemaker. "Thanks for the drinks," he tells me. "And the advice. But she's my wife "--or girlfriend, or fiancee...the titles are easily substituted--"and I know how to handle her." He leaves and goes back to her, and I can tell by the set of her body that she knows her day is about to get much, much harder. Then they're gone. The situation has so few variables that it makes me wonder if they plan it before they come, a bunch of women in a bathroom at work, picking a bar to haunt one at a time for the next month... But I know that they're just women who feel the need to conquer the world and don't know what to do when it resists. And I understand. I think that's how they always manage to find their way here; my understanding must be a beacon. My wife would laugh. "Tom, they gravitate to your bar because it's clean, it's quiet, and all the cars in the lot look just like theirs--nice, respectable, family vehicles." I prefer the beacon theory. But I suppose she would know better--I met her the day she walked through the door, just like the rest of them, and looked around for a corner to huddle in. But that evening...our eyes met. And they held. It was like nothing I'd ever expected. Then she sat down at the bar, and began to talk. I fell for her in seconds, and two months later, we were married. Tom Conley, glorified bartender, and Rebecca Jakes, scientist. That's too odd a relationship, it was too chance a meeting; there has to be some kind of beacon... And the woman tonight--yeah, I've seen her type before. I automatically begin to mix something blue and fruity for her, and wonder which corner she'll chose. Business is slow tonight; all the corner booths are open-- When I look up, thinking I'll see her in the shadows, I have to struggle to keep my surprise from showing on my face. She's sitting at the bar, right in front of me. Other than Becca, *none* of them has ever sat at the bar. I study her, not even trying to be subtle about it, and wonder where the hell she works, what she does. She's more than stressed and sad, something deeper and darker is fairly *vibrating* in the air around her. "Whiskey," she says quietly. "Straight." I hesitate for a moment. She looks like a strong gust of air could pick her up and carry her for miles--she looks like she *needs* to be carried away by the wind--I don't want to pour her something she can't handle. Then she raises an eyebrow, and I pour the drink. Any woman with a face as cool and pretty and commanding as that...well. If I didn't pour the drink, she'd probably climb over the bar and do it herself. "Can I get you something to eat with that?" I ask her. My youngest sister's taken over the small, mostly abandoned kitchen space behind the bar, and offering these women food with their alcohol always makes me feel better. Something I learned from my mother. If they're sad or grieving, feed 'em. That was one of her mottos. And this woman needs a few extra pounds anyway. Her skin is stretched too tight over her cheekbones, and the wrists that just barely slip past the sleeves of her jacket seem fragile. Unsurprisingly, she waves my offer away. Then she lifts the shot of whiskey, spins it in the glass, watching the way the pale amber light of the bar shifts through and colors it. And she tips it back, downing it in one swallow. She doesn't shudder; she doesn't even make a face. But something shivers across her skin, and she sighs. "Another." I pour her a second, and turn away. I wait on the other customers and wonder how many she'll ask for, how many she'll need--how many I'll serve her. And I wonder who'll come to pick her up an hour or so from now. When I go back to the bar, the second shot is still sitting there. She's staring at her hands, and I look down, too--pale, slender hands. Ringless, though that doesn't always mean much. Her nails look neat and tidy but could use a manicure, and I wonder what's so wrong in her life that she hasn't been able to get one. I don't know a woman in this city who doesn't move mountains to have her hands seen to. Then I look back up into her eyes and realize that she has more weighing on her than any woman in this city. I want to apologize to her for the state of her life; I want to ask her if she has someone I can call for her. If she says no, I want to call my buddy Dave, who's always been a really nice guy and a charmer, but stubbornly single. A woman like this would knock him flat on his ass and have him thinking about babies, and that's what we all need, in my opinion. She tucks a strand of shiny, red hair behind her ear and ducks her head. It's the gesture of a woman who expects her hair to fall and block her face. Recent haircut, I think absently, and slide a basket of pretzel sticks down to her. I just don't feel right about allowing her to knock back something like straight whiskey, not without at least giving her something to nibble on. Seeming to sense this, she takes a pretzel and sets it between her teeth, almost like a cigar, and I wonder how long she's been fighting off the craving for a smoke. Then she goes back to studying her hands, and I notice that those long, elegant fingers are beginning to tremble. I can't take it anymore, and lean down on the bar. "Miss," I ask quietly, feeling awkward because she's probably only a year or two younger than me, and her eyes look older by far. "Is there something I can do for you?" "I'm fine," she says briskly, not meeting my gaze. I sense the barely veiled warning in her words--back off--but something keeps me from doing it. Some unknown need in me keeps me still, and I watch her face until she ducks her head again. Then I watch the way the light catches on gold and bronze strands of hair mixed in with the red. One of my regulars calls for me, but I wave a hand at him and he knows enough to be quiet. They all know how I am, and while most of them laugh, some of them understand. "There must be someone I can call," I say, doggedly determined. She looks up and uses the eyebrow on me again, so I stop leaning on the bar, stand straight. But I don't take my gaze off her face, and I don't move away. She sighs. "I'll call Mul--" That's as far as she gets. Suddenly, she stops, stares back down at her now violently shaking hands, and uses them both to raise the glass of whiskey to her lips. Then it's gone and she's looking at me again. But I don't think she's really seeing me. "Another," she whispers dully, her voice hoarse. I pour her one, though I don't want to. My own hands are trembling now, and some of the dark liquid spills, but she gets another shot. "Please," I say as she taps her pale fingers against the bar and contemplates her drink. "Call someone." She looks up again, and I shrug. "I worry," I tell her simply, and surprisingly, she nods. "Why?" Her voice is clearer, her eyes are clearer, and I feel the power of her attention. It makes me want to straighten my spine and tidy the floppy curls of my hair, the ones that have been the bane of my existence since I was a boy. I repeat the word, and wince because I sound like an owl with half a brain. But it doesn't seem to bother her; she's just staring at me, studying me closely. "You feel like you have to protect me," she says calmly. "You're hovering. You're worrying. You're baby-sitting. What makes you think that it's your job to care for a stranger?" I don't really have an answer. "It's who I am," I tell her, and that's the best--the *only* way I can explain it. For a long time, she examines my face, my eyes. And then she sighs, and nods. "Who you are," she says softly, mostly to herself. Then, "All right." She moves her hands down and pulls a cell phone from her pocket. I move away a little as she opens it, taking a washcloth and desultorily scrubbing at the already glossy wood of the bar. "Byers. This is Scully," she says coolly while I shamelessly eavesdrop. "Turn off the tape and get on the phone." A pause. "I'm at a bar. Conley's. Blue sign, three blocks east of the office, on the right. Bring Frohike or Langly; I'm going to need someone to drive my car down to Mulder's." Another pause, longer this time, and her mouth tightens. "I don't know if he's all right," she says dully. "I just finished the autopsy, and I couldn't face him yet." Another long, tense silence, and she closes her eyes. I stop pretending to be busy and watch her face pale, watch her swallow. "I've only had two shots of whiskey," she murmurs, "but the bartender is concerned, and I suppose he's right. I don't want to chance anything today. Fifteen minutes? All right." Then the phone disappears back into her pocket, and she looks back over at me. A very faint smile tugs at her lips, and I can suddenly see her as she ought to be, smiling and content, utterly gorgeous instead of sad, pale and lovely. "Someone will be here," she tells me quietly. "Stop hovering. Go take care of someone else." I don't want to, but reluctantly move away and leave her to her whiskey. I've done all I can, I tell myself. With a woman like that, there's only so far you can go...and someone's coming for her. She'll be all right. So I tend to my customers and watch her out of the corner of my eye, noting the occasional faint shudder pass over her, watching her shoulders straighten and her hands still. She's pulling herself tight, gathering control with an almost visible effort. By the time the door swings open again and two men enter, she seems completely composed. And she hasn't downed the last shot. The two guys who're hesitating in the doorway are completely mismatched, I think absently, and wonder why she called them--there's no doubt they're the ones she called; they're already heading for her. But one is medium height, skinny, tidy, pale and serious--almost the kind of guy I could picture her with--and the other is short and scruffy. I frown and move closer to her, but she tries to smile as they approach, and the faint expression is almost genuine. "Where's Langly?" she asks, and the sandy-haired one murmurs something about a video game while the short one tries to stare me down. I keep my face impassive as I look back, and cross my arms over my chest. I'm at *least* twice his weight and a good foot and a half taller--eventually, he looks away. Normally I don't use my size to intimidate, but this evening...has not been normal. "Why didn't you go straight to Mulder's?" The short guy asks the question, and the woman looks at him like he's insane. "I autopsied his mother, Frohike," she says slowly, shaping the words carefully, almost as if her lips are numb. "How am I supposed to go comfort him when I just autopsied his mother?" I hold my breath and ache. I have no idea what an autopsy is really like, I have no idea who Mulder is, I don't know why she autopsied his mother. But I feel like I know *her*, and her pain is very real to me. The taller man flinches, and all three are quiet for a minute. The whole *bar* is quiet--the only noise is the sound of cars flashing past right outside the door. "What did you find?" The short man asks, very, very quietly. "It was suicide," she replies. "Nothing out of the ordinary; nothing I didn't expect to find." Silence spins out between the three of them for a minute, and then she taps her fingers against the bar. "I won't tell you the specifics, I don't think that's my right," she says and her voice is husky again. "But she had cancer. She was dying, and she knew it. She just...hurried the process up." Sandy-hair looks away, and the short guy begins to swear quietly, under his breath. But she sits completely still, and stares back down into her drink. "I really, really tried to be completely detached," she whispers, and I can barely hear the words. "But when I was weighing her heart, I thought about her life. And when I was examining her uterus..." she shudders, and the short man pales. I think I've turned fairly green just thinking about even it, and when she says no more, guilty relief spreads through me. "Mulder...needs to know. More than that, he needs you right now," the taller man says calmly, breaking the silence, and the woman nods. "I know that. I just needed...an hour to think about it. To straighten it all out in my head." She sighs, twirls the whiskey with fingers that no longer shake. "I just needed an hour," she says again, and then smiles grimly. "But if one of you will play designated driver..." Both men nod, but nobody moves, not even me. "Why do these things happen to him?" she abruptly asks. "Samantha, his father, now this--how much more will he be asked to take? How much more *can* he take?" "As much as he has to," the short man replies quietly, reaching out for a second to lay his hand on her arm. "And it'll be easier for him with you there." "Easier for him." She raises the glass to her lips and downs the last shot. This time, she allows the shudder to race down her spine, and then whispers in her husky, careful voice. "Nothing is ever easier for him." Then she rises, stands steady and straight despite the liquor, despite the weariness on her face. The men look at each other, at me, and I raise a hand, shake my head. I won't accept money from them, from her. Nothing in the world could make me do it--I haven't helped her any more than they've helped her, with their questions and their demands that she be somewhere she's not ready to go. Despite her steady hands and strong eyes, she is as...haunted...as she was before. Those strong, deep eyes meet mine again, somberly, and I stare back with equal seriousness, not apologizing for listening in, not apologizing for hovering, but sincerely wishing I could offer an apology that would help her. And then, with a swift stride, she's heading out to wherever it is she's afraid to be, and the mismatched pair is following close on her heels. I stare at the door for a second after they're gone, not thinking, just wishing the world wasn't quite so hard on some of us. And in a sudden rush, the everyday noises of the bar assault my ears, televisions and stereo busily chattering to themselves, my regulars deep in murmuring conversations. The cars on the street are coughing and purring, my sister is clattering pans in the kitchen...normal. Sounds I know, and had cast aside in favor of the slow, steady breathing of a haunted stranger... I shake my head, feeling like I've cast off an enchantment. Picking up the dishrag again, I think about that woman and the usual women and my wife and my sisters. And I wonder if maybe Becca is right about my beacon theory-- Just then, the door opens again, admitting a little late-evening light and a blonde in a mannish blue suit. I meet her pale eyes; she looks away and heads straight for a corner booth. I have to smile as I begin to mix a weak drink for her. Can't be wrong on this one, I think, feeling blessedly normal again. Lightning never strikes the same place twice, as Mama always said. Not in one night, anyway. I wonder if the man who comes to get her will hover or sneer... ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* I've been listening to people talk about how interesting it is read a story and see things through Other eyes--I hadn't read very many, really, but the idea suddenly seemed intriguing. I like the results and had a grand time experimenting--would muchly appreciate knowing whether or not it worked for you. :) Dreamshaper (dreamshpr@aol.com)