Title: "Decaffeination"
Author: Alicia K.
Email: spartcus1@msn.com
Rating: PG-13
Category: Remnants of Scully/Other, M/S something, Angst
Summary: The return of Mike, the Mysterious Other.
Spoilers: Only for other stories in the series.
Archive: Spookys fine, anywhere else please ask.
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to 1013 and Fox. No
infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This is the final installment in the "Black
Coffee In Bed" series, in which we hear again from our
original narrator, Mike. This won't make too much sense if
you haven't read the previous three stories, which can be
found at http://members.dencity.com/aliciak/fanfic.html
Thanks, as always, to my tan-fastic beta team: Joanna, Mish,
and hap. Extra bundles of thanks to Mish, for the title.
XXX
Chicago was much hotter than I expected it to be. The
summers in D.C. had been frequently unbearable, and I
thought I was getting away from that, what with Chicago
being further north and all.
I wondered if it was just a bad heat wave. I turned on the
local news every night, expecting to hear the anchors going
on and on about this record-breaking heat wave, but all they
ever said was, "Another hot one today." Guess it was just
my dumb luck that I moved to a city that left my cotton tee
shirts plastered to my skin with sweat for three months
straight.
Just like it had been my luck to fall for a woman who only
wanted a one-night stand. It figured - the first time a woman
blatantly used me, and I loved it.
I thought about Dana for a long time after that night. I
hoped that I could leave her behind when I moved to
Chicago, but no, she invited herself along.
When I walked to work in the morning, I saw her on the
other side of the street, nose buried in the Tribune. When I
went shopping at the market down the street, there she was,
rounding the corner into the cereal and cookies aisle. When
I lay in bed at night, I saw her standing by the open window,
wrapped in my sheet and smoking my cigarettes.
So yeah, I guess you could say I was infatuated. And then
when I actually did see her one Sunday afternoon in early
August, you could say I was surprised.
I did about three double-takes before I convinced myself that
I was really seeing her. She was real and whole and there,
standing not thirty feet from me, apparently arguing with a
tall, dark-haired man.
She looked different: her red hair was shorter, and instead of
the jeans I had seen her in over and over again, she wore a
sky blue suit that I prayed for her sake was linen. She was
beautiful.
I was glad she looked different; had she looked the same, I
might have run after her, just as I had done that night in D.C.
But she was different, and that served as a gentle reminder
that she was never mine, and that I had finally stopped
seeing her everywhere I went, five months after being with
her.
Ironic then, isn't it, that I would see her now. My heart
pitter-pattering in my chest, I twirled my pen between my
fingers and watched her talk with her companion, wishing I
were close enough to hear her voice.
What would she do if I walked up to her and said, "Dana,
hi?" Would she pretend not to know me? Would her skin
flush the same color as it had when she came in my arms?
I remembered suddenly the wedding band she had so
carelessly tossed onto the bar before leaving with me. Was
this man the owner of that ring? Was he the one she had set
out to hurt?
He looked hot and uncomfortable. I wondered why he didn't
take off his suit jacket; he must have been sweltering. He
towered over her physically but looked at her with respect as
she gestured subtly with her small hands. He even flashed
her a charming grin as she spoke.
As I watched, two police officers and a man in a brown suit
approached them. Dana and the tall man reached into their
jackets and took out what looked like some sort of ID
badges.
They were cops, I thought, nearly dropping the pen into my
glass in surprise. But no - why would D.C. cops be here in
Chicago? My mouth actually dropped open; they were FBI.
Jesus. I had slept with an FBI agent.
A waiter approached to see if I needed anything else, but I
impatiently waved him away; he was blocking my view of
Dana. He gave a huff of annoyance and went back inside the
air-conditioned caf‚. He probably thought I was crazy, the
only person eating outside on this humid, 90-degree day. I
put up with it only because outside was the only place I
could smoke.
Dana's companion - partner? - was tugging awkwardly at
his tie and collar, and she gave him a sympathetic glance.
She gestured towards the caf‚, and he nodded gratefully.
I had a moment of serious panic when she walked toward
me, but she didn't even look my way as she went inside.
One half of my brain screamed in disapproval, but the other
half sent the electrical messages that told my legs to move
anyway. Neurological impulses were something that I really
couldn't ignore, so I got up.
The air conditioning was a bitter yet welcome shock to my
sticky skin. She was in line at the counter, and I stepped
behind her.
"Dana," I said, and thanked God that I was able to get the
word out of my suddenly dry throat.
She turned, looked at me, and hesitated a moment, as if she
wasn't sure how she knew me. Her hesitation hurt.
"Hi," she said after a few startled stammers. Her wide eyes
looked up at me with genuine panic. "What are you doing
here?"
My tentative smile faded. She obviously didn't remember
me the same way, or as often. "I live here." I refrained from
adding "remember?" She had the grace to look embarrassed;
yes, she remembered. "So," I continued. "How are you?"
"I'm . . . fine. I'm good. How are you?" she asked, but it
seemed to me like she really didn't want to know. The line
moved, and she stepped up to the counter. "Two medium
iced teas, please. To go."
I shifted impatiently while she paid for the drinks, then
started to follow her back outside. "What brings you to
Chicago?"
She stopped, setting the plastic cups and straws down on an
empty table. She looked like she wanted to run away as fast
as she could. It wasn't the first time I had seen that
expression on her face.
"Mike, this is very awkward."
I was just glad she remembered my name. "Yeah, I know."
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my baggy khaki cut-
offs. "I just thought . . . millions of people in Chicago, and I
run into you."
She gave the barest hint of a smile, and I knew she'd had the
exact same thoughts. I was sure the element of pleased
surprise was missing from hers.
I wanted to say more, but suddenly found myself at a loss.
What could I tell her? I watched you with him at the
hospital? I thought about you for months? I thought I was
in love with you? None of those seemed appropriate.
Dana's mouth opened and closed once, as if she wanted to
say something, but she finally just turned and gathered her
drinks.
I followed her outside, immediately starting to sweat again
in the heavy heat. Ahead of us, still talking to the cops, was
her partner/companion/whatever he was to her.
I jerked my chin toward him. "It was him, wasn't it?" She
had the gall to be puzzled. "The ring belonged to him."
A bright flush covered her white skin, and she looked down.
"Oh," she said in a low voice. "Mike, it isn't what you're
thinking."
"And what am I thinking?"
She met my gaze again, her strength rebuilt. She even had a
hint of a smile on her lips. "I'm not married to him. We
weren't, and we aren't."
"But you might as well be, right?" I was being mean, but
she didn't look hurt by my words. Why should she be hurt?
All I had been was a one-night stand to her. She hadn't
worn her heart on her sleeve the whole night, she hadn't
been the one to run after me.
She studied me for another moment. "I don't know what
you want me to say. You asked me to go home with you,
and I did. You asked if you could see me again, and I said
no."
She was very blunt, which made it very easy for me to stop
thinking of her as my vanished goddess.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice gentle now. I wondered if
she was going to give me any further explanation, but none
was forthcoming. She didn't spill her guts about why she
had shown up at a bar with his wedding ring. She didn't tell
me why she had gone home with me, or why she had been so
eager to flee to his side when she had obviously meant to
hurt him.
She left me then and walked back to him. He gave her a
grateful smile, which she returned with one of her own - a
smile so genuine and beautiful that I felt it back where I
remained.
I couldn't watch anymore. I turned to grab my notebook,
pen, and cigarettes from the table, and walked away. I didn't
look back.
END
Thanks for sticking with me through this angst-o-rama.
Feedback lovingly embraced and waltzed around the room
with at: spartcus1@msn.com
"Me fail English? That's unpossible!"
--Ralph Wiggum
Author: Alicia K.
Email: spartcus1@msn.com
Rating: PG-13
Category: Remnants of Scully/Other, M/S something, Angst
Summary: The return of Mike, the Mysterious Other.
Spoilers: Only for other stories in the series.
Archive: Spookys fine, anywhere else please ask.
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to 1013 and Fox. No
infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This is the final installment in the "Black
Coffee In Bed" series, in which we hear again from our
original narrator, Mike. This won't make too much sense if
you haven't read the previous three stories, which can be
found at http://members.dencity.com/aliciak/fanfic.html
Thanks, as always, to my tan-fastic beta team: Joanna, Mish,
and hap. Extra bundles of thanks to Mish, for the title.
XXX
Chicago was much hotter than I expected it to be. The
summers in D.C. had been frequently unbearable, and I
thought I was getting away from that, what with Chicago
being further north and all.
I wondered if it was just a bad heat wave. I turned on the
local news every night, expecting to hear the anchors going
on and on about this record-breaking heat wave, but all they
ever said was, "Another hot one today." Guess it was just
my dumb luck that I moved to a city that left my cotton tee
shirts plastered to my skin with sweat for three months
straight.
Just like it had been my luck to fall for a woman who only
wanted a one-night stand. It figured - the first time a woman
blatantly used me, and I loved it.
I thought about Dana for a long time after that night. I
hoped that I could leave her behind when I moved to
Chicago, but no, she invited herself along.
When I walked to work in the morning, I saw her on the
other side of the street, nose buried in the Tribune. When I
went shopping at the market down the street, there she was,
rounding the corner into the cereal and cookies aisle. When
I lay in bed at night, I saw her standing by the open window,
wrapped in my sheet and smoking my cigarettes.
So yeah, I guess you could say I was infatuated. And then
when I actually did see her one Sunday afternoon in early
August, you could say I was surprised.
I did about three double-takes before I convinced myself that
I was really seeing her. She was real and whole and there,
standing not thirty feet from me, apparently arguing with a
tall, dark-haired man.
She looked different: her red hair was shorter, and instead of
the jeans I had seen her in over and over again, she wore a
sky blue suit that I prayed for her sake was linen. She was
beautiful.
I was glad she looked different; had she looked the same, I
might have run after her, just as I had done that night in D.C.
But she was different, and that served as a gentle reminder
that she was never mine, and that I had finally stopped
seeing her everywhere I went, five months after being with
her.
Ironic then, isn't it, that I would see her now. My heart
pitter-pattering in my chest, I twirled my pen between my
fingers and watched her talk with her companion, wishing I
were close enough to hear her voice.
What would she do if I walked up to her and said, "Dana,
hi?" Would she pretend not to know me? Would her skin
flush the same color as it had when she came in my arms?
I remembered suddenly the wedding band she had so
carelessly tossed onto the bar before leaving with me. Was
this man the owner of that ring? Was he the one she had set
out to hurt?
He looked hot and uncomfortable. I wondered why he didn't
take off his suit jacket; he must have been sweltering. He
towered over her physically but looked at her with respect as
she gestured subtly with her small hands. He even flashed
her a charming grin as she spoke.
As I watched, two police officers and a man in a brown suit
approached them. Dana and the tall man reached into their
jackets and took out what looked like some sort of ID
badges.
They were cops, I thought, nearly dropping the pen into my
glass in surprise. But no - why would D.C. cops be here in
Chicago? My mouth actually dropped open; they were FBI.
Jesus. I had slept with an FBI agent.
A waiter approached to see if I needed anything else, but I
impatiently waved him away; he was blocking my view of
Dana. He gave a huff of annoyance and went back inside the
air-conditioned caf‚. He probably thought I was crazy, the
only person eating outside on this humid, 90-degree day. I
put up with it only because outside was the only place I
could smoke.
Dana's companion - partner? - was tugging awkwardly at
his tie and collar, and she gave him a sympathetic glance.
She gestured towards the caf‚, and he nodded gratefully.
I had a moment of serious panic when she walked toward
me, but she didn't even look my way as she went inside.
One half of my brain screamed in disapproval, but the other
half sent the electrical messages that told my legs to move
anyway. Neurological impulses were something that I really
couldn't ignore, so I got up.
The air conditioning was a bitter yet welcome shock to my
sticky skin. She was in line at the counter, and I stepped
behind her.
"Dana," I said, and thanked God that I was able to get the
word out of my suddenly dry throat.
She turned, looked at me, and hesitated a moment, as if she
wasn't sure how she knew me. Her hesitation hurt.
"Hi," she said after a few startled stammers. Her wide eyes
looked up at me with genuine panic. "What are you doing
here?"
My tentative smile faded. She obviously didn't remember
me the same way, or as often. "I live here." I refrained from
adding "remember?" She had the grace to look embarrassed;
yes, she remembered. "So," I continued. "How are you?"
"I'm . . . fine. I'm good. How are you?" she asked, but it
seemed to me like she really didn't want to know. The line
moved, and she stepped up to the counter. "Two medium
iced teas, please. To go."
I shifted impatiently while she paid for the drinks, then
started to follow her back outside. "What brings you to
Chicago?"
She stopped, setting the plastic cups and straws down on an
empty table. She looked like she wanted to run away as fast
as she could. It wasn't the first time I had seen that
expression on her face.
"Mike, this is very awkward."
I was just glad she remembered my name. "Yeah, I know."
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my baggy khaki cut-
offs. "I just thought . . . millions of people in Chicago, and I
run into you."
She gave the barest hint of a smile, and I knew she'd had the
exact same thoughts. I was sure the element of pleased
surprise was missing from hers.
I wanted to say more, but suddenly found myself at a loss.
What could I tell her? I watched you with him at the
hospital? I thought about you for months? I thought I was
in love with you? None of those seemed appropriate.
Dana's mouth opened and closed once, as if she wanted to
say something, but she finally just turned and gathered her
drinks.
I followed her outside, immediately starting to sweat again
in the heavy heat. Ahead of us, still talking to the cops, was
her partner/companion/whatever he was to her.
I jerked my chin toward him. "It was him, wasn't it?" She
had the gall to be puzzled. "The ring belonged to him."
A bright flush covered her white skin, and she looked down.
"Oh," she said in a low voice. "Mike, it isn't what you're
thinking."
"And what am I thinking?"
She met my gaze again, her strength rebuilt. She even had a
hint of a smile on her lips. "I'm not married to him. We
weren't, and we aren't."
"But you might as well be, right?" I was being mean, but
she didn't look hurt by my words. Why should she be hurt?
All I had been was a one-night stand to her. She hadn't
worn her heart on her sleeve the whole night, she hadn't
been the one to run after me.
She studied me for another moment. "I don't know what
you want me to say. You asked me to go home with you,
and I did. You asked if you could see me again, and I said
no."
She was very blunt, which made it very easy for me to stop
thinking of her as my vanished goddess.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice gentle now. I wondered if
she was going to give me any further explanation, but none
was forthcoming. She didn't spill her guts about why she
had shown up at a bar with his wedding ring. She didn't tell
me why she had gone home with me, or why she had been so
eager to flee to his side when she had obviously meant to
hurt him.
She left me then and walked back to him. He gave her a
grateful smile, which she returned with one of her own - a
smile so genuine and beautiful that I felt it back where I
remained.
I couldn't watch anymore. I turned to grab my notebook,
pen, and cigarettes from the table, and walked away. I didn't
look back.
END
Thanks for sticking with me through this angst-o-rama.
Feedback lovingly embraced and waltzed around the room
with at: spartcus1@msn.com
"Me fail English? That's unpossible!"
--Ralph Wiggum