Title:   The Bar Scene: Better Light
Author:  Michelle Kiefer 
Email: msk1024@aol.com  
Category:  Post ep; series
Spoilers:  The Field Where I Died   
Rating: PG-13
Classification:  V,A  
Archive:  Just let me know.
Disclaimer:  Not mine.  Please don't sue.  Also, no 
in-jokes were included in this story, and no references,
conscious or otherwise are being made to the actors 
portraying these characters.  Just wanted to make that
perfectly clear. 
Summary: His recognition of her had been that of one 
damaged person to another--each of them a few fragments 
short of completion.  There was nothing more.
COMMENTS: Please visit my other stories at: 
http://artwc.org/MichelleKiefer/
Maintained by the wonderful Jennifer.
Author's Notes:  There are certain patterns on the
X-Files: bad things happen in bathrooms, pivotal moments
happen in hallways, difficult conversations happen off
screen.  What if those difficult conversations also had
a pattern--a special place where they took place?  What
if the hard truths were discussed in various bar
scenes?  This is the first in what I hope will be a 
series of post episode stories.

Thank you, Kel, for wondrous (and speedy) beta. 

"Instinct with better light led in by death,
That life was blotted out--not so completely
But scattered wrecks enough of it remain"
 
Paracelsus by Robert Browning


Flanagan's Bar and Grill
November 1996 

He didn't see her at first; the boisterous group standing 
at the bar had blocked his view.  It was only when they 
moved to a table he noticed her perched on a bar stool.  
Legs crossed at the knee, Scully sat forward, smiling 
at the man on the next stool.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her smile like 
that, flirty and a little wild.  She maintained a certain
soberness around him, rarely allowing herself to smile.  
He was graced with careful little curves of her lips, as 
if she didn't want him to think she was having fun.  

What brought her to this bar on a Friday night?  The place
was only a block or two from her apartment.  Did she come
here often?  When he imagined Scully away from work, he
pictured her enjoying the peaceful quiet of her apartment: 
listening to music, reading books.  Apparently, he was a
bit off the mark on that assumption.  Was this bar where 
she blew off steam?

Scully certainly seemed at home in this upscale bar with
its warm wood tones and maroon leather.  She fit right in
among the attractive young professionals sitting at the
bar.  

Mulder was the interloper in Scully's neighborhood, his 
contact having chosen the meeting place.  Mulder tucked 
the blurry photos the man had left into his pocket. They 
were most likely worthless; he didn't even need Scully 
to tell him that.  

Though his informant left a half hour ago, Mulder remained 
behind, ordering another drink and wondering about the 
sorry state of life in general.  Sometimes, the weight 
of failure was just too much to bear. Stumbling across 
Scully on a date was fucking icing on the cake.

Her eyes widened at something her companion said, and 
she tossed her head back in laughter.  Mulder couldn't
hear her above the Friday night din, but he knew how 
clear and rich her laugh must sound to the man at her 
side.  It had been a long time since Mulder had heard 
that sound, but he remembered how it sounded. 

He certainly hadn't heard her laugh in the week since 
they'd returned from Apison, Tennessee.  Scully had 
wrapped herself in layers of control and order until 
he thought he would scream in frustration.  

Mulder knew he hadn't been any prize either.  He believed 
the hypnotic regression was the key to the case, but 
Scully's resistance had been fierce.  How could she
not want to know, he wondered?  How could she not wonder
at the inevitability of their lives?  

But Mulder had wanted to know, wanted to believe his 
life was somehow preordained.  The idea was strangely
comforting to him.  He was simply destined to fail: dying 
over and over, losing the people he loved in an endless 
cycle of ghettos and battlefields.

In some ways, he hadn't left that damn battlefield, his 
thoughts still trapped among the dead in the Temple of 
the Seven Stars.  One loss in particular pressed on his 
heart.

He'd felt a connection to Melissa Ephesian from the 
moment he met her, as if her pain and sorrow had reached
for his own.  She'd called them soulmates, and he'd
accepted the term, though it had nothing to do with love
or even attraction.  It was...like being set up on 
a blind date.  "You'll like her.  She's tall."

Why had he been so quick to accept her as his "soulmate?"
His voice sounded so sure on the regression tape.
"But love... love... souls mate eternal..."  Where had 
that certainty come from?  

His recognition of her had been that of one damaged 
person to another--each of them a few fragments short 
of completion.  There was nothing more.

Scully took a sip of her drink and nodded her head at
something her companion said.  Had she been wearing
that blouse earlier today? The fabric shimmered in
the low light of the bar.  When she leaned forward,
Mulder caught a glipse of creamy white throat.  He 
sat back in his booth, glad she couldn't see him 
sitting alone.

The barmaid bustled past him, her tray loaded with
drinks for the booth behind him.  He should leave, 
but he was mesmerized by the sight of his sober, 
staid partner laughing and flirting a few feet away.  
Why did that twist in his gut, he wondered?  She 
was his friend, wasn't she?  Nothing more than 
that, after all.  Friends through the centuries 
if his regression was to be believed.  

He knew Scully hadn't approved of the hypnotic
regression--saw little value in the process, in 
fact.  Perhaps her resistance was part of his
attraction to it.  Scully's stubborn refusal to 
see what was right before her eyes frustrated
him beyond words.  He wondered how many of his
actions were fueled by the need to prove her
wrong.

He was forced out of his ruminations by a crash 
as, behind him, the barmaid dropped her tray.  
Mulder turned, craning his neck over the back of 
the booth.  The waitress apologized to the 
occupants of the booth as she mopped up spilled beer.

When Mulder turned back, he saw Scully crossing the
room, drink in hand.  Damn it.  The clatter had drawn
her attention, and she'd spotted him.

"What are you doing here, Mulder?" she asked, her
voice carefully neutral.

"Work," he answered, raising his eyes to meet
hers.  "I met someone who had some information
for me."

She nodded, and without waiting for an invitation, 
slid into the booth opposite him.  The slightest
hint of skepticism played over her features.   
"Anything worthwhile?"

"Probably not," he said, watching her take a sip
of her drink.  "So, what's a nice girl like you
doing in a joint like this?"

"That's the worst line I've ever heard, Mulder,"
she chuckled over the rim of her glass.

"All right, let's try another one.  'Come here
often'?"

"You have much luck with these, Mulder?"  

"Not much," he laughed.  Jerking his head in 
the direction of the bar, he asked, "Won't your
date get lonely over there by himself?"

"Date?" she asked, puzzled.  Understanding dawned 
on her face.  "Oh, him.   It was hardly a date--I 
don't even know his last name."

Mulder nodded, relieved that Scully wasn't with
the guy at the bar.  Not that it was any of his
business.  Scully's expression was quizzical, but
she didn't ask him to explain himself.

"So, then, what brings you here?" he asked. 

A brief smile flashed across Scully's lovely
features as she looked down at her drink.  
"I guess I was feeling restless tonight.  My 
apartment was a little too quiet."

She shook her head, as if trying to clear it.
"Did that sound as pathetic as I think it did?"
she asked.  "I must have had more to drink than
I thought."

"It didn't sound pathetic at all.  Remember who
you're talking to here, Scully.  Takes a lot of
pathetic to make it into my league."

"Is this a contest, Mulder?" she asked, one eyebrow 
raised.  

"Not even a fair fight," he said.  "Face it Scully,
I'm the poster boy for futility."

She pursed her lips, annoyed, he knew, by his 
self-deprecation.   Though her expression said,
"knock it off," her protectiveness warmed him, even 
when she expressed it by calling him a jerk.

He'd lived many years without that kind of support 
and he found it rather addictive.  He smiled, taking 
a sip of his drink.  Scully's loyalty was remarkable, 
but it didn't keep her from calling him on behavior 
she felt was wrong.

"You still pissed at me?" he asked, sitting forward.

"Pissed at you?" 

"Yeah, about the regression."

Scully's gaze drifted over to the bar as she pursed 
her lips.  "We don't need to get into that again, 
Mulder.  I told you how I felt back in Tennessee."

"You certainly did."  He couldn't quite keep the 
hurt out of his voice.

"Mulder," she said, her tone a little less harsh.  
"I understand why you felt you needed to undergo
the hypnosis--that you hoped to remember where
the bunkers were."

"Then why are you still angry?" he asked.  "And 
don't deny it, Scully.  You've been distant since
we got back from Apison."

"I'm not angry, Mulder, despite what you think.  
I...I guess I was just a little uncomfortable
with some of the things you said under hypnosis."

"Jeez, Scully, I get in enough trouble for what I 
say when I'm conscious.  Now, you're holding me 
responsible when I'm hypnotized?" he asked flopping
against the back of the booth in exasperation.  
"You don't even believe in reincarnation."

"No, I don't.  But that isn't the point, Mulder.  You
believe.  You believe so easily."

"What did I say to upset you?" he asked, puzzled.  
Mulder had listened to the tape of his session a 
dozen times over the past week.  He replayed the 
session in his head, trying to figure out what
could have sparked Scully's reaction. 

"I didn't say I was upset," she replied.  Scully
tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.  
"There were things you said...about the lives you'd 
led in the past...about the roles people played in 
those lives."

"Scully, I still don't understand why anything I
said in regression bothered you.  You don't
believe in those past lives, so why would my 
'memories' mean anything to you."

"You're right.  I don't believe in past lives. 
Hypnotic regression is far too disposed to false 
memories to be reliable.  I don't put any stock 
in the memories you and Melissa dredged up." She
paused, as if to consider her words.  "But I do
wonder if your 'memories' were colored by your 
emotions, and what those memories say about how 
you view your life in general and our relationship
in particular."

She hugged her arms around her, her gaze directed
anywhere but at him.  He'd hurt her.  God, what
a minefield they had between them these days.

"We were close in my visions of the past."

"In both memories, I was a male authority figure."

"And you're afraid I see you as 'one of the guys'?
Believe me, Scully, I'm more than aware of your
gender," he said with what he hoped would pass as a
leer.   Mulder fought back a smile.  'Aware of her 
gender' was something of an understatement.   

"Well, that's certainly reassuring," she said, dryly.
But she still didn't meet his gaze.  "It's more than 
that.  In both cases you saw me as someone in a 
position of control over you.  Why would that be, 
Mulder, unless subconsciously you think of me as 
holding you back, reining you in?"

"Why thank you, Dr. Freud," he said, his voice low 
and dangerous.

"It doesn't take a psych degree to figure this one
out, Mulder.  I just...I never realized I played 
such a limited role in your life."
 
Her sadness wicked away his anger.  How could he 
explain the enormity of her place in his heart?  

"Scully, you have no idea...no idea how important
you are to me."  He wanted to reach across the table,
take her hand, touch her face.  But Scully was still
wrapped tight in her own embrace.

"I'm your safety net, Mulder.  I can see how that 
would be important.  But what really puzzles me is
why you found it so easy to believe a mentally ill 
woman you'd known for a matter of hours was your 
soulmate.  I think that says something about your
level of desperation."

He stared at her, unable to speak.  He'd been by no
means certain of his connection to Melissa Ephesian,
but hearing Scully's view of the issue jolted him
to the core.  Mulder opened his mouth and hoped 
words would come out.

"You don't believe in soulmates, Scully?" he asked.
 
"Soulmates in terms of the one person in the entire
world you are pre-destined to love?  No.  What if you
take the wrong bus one day and miss meeting your soulmate?
Do you spend the rest of your life pining away?  And you,
Mulder...are you destined to mourn for the rest of your
life because the soulmate you met for a minute and a
half killed herself?"

He almost laughed.  Spending his life alone was
almost a given and it had nothing at all to do with 
anything he'd remembered in Apison, Tennessee. 

"I'm sorry, Mulder.  That was too harsh.  I don't 
believe in soulmates through time, but I do believe 
in love."

"Glad to hear it," he said.  "I bet you're a closet 
romantic."

"I don't know about that." She smiled, tracing a circle 
left on the table by a wet glass.  "I'm not really the 
'hearts and flowers' type.  But I do believe people can 
love each other--love based on trust and caring.  I 
believe we open our hearts to the person we love, 
allowing them to see everything inside--even the things 
we hate about ourselves--trusting them to accept us.  
I think when we love someone, we want to be a better 
person for them.   But you know what?  All that takes 
time.  It doesn't happen in a few hours."

She pushed her drink away with a shudder.  "God, I have 
officially had too much.  I sound like a Hallmark card."

Scully began to slide from the booth.  He'd rarely heard
her speak like this and it unnerved him.  Scully masked
her emotions so effectively, it was easy to think she'd
buried them completely.  But they were still there, just
under the surface.  Clearly, the events in Apison had 
affected her as deeply as they had him.

Mulder reached forward to touch her arm.  He had to let
her know he had doubts of his own.  He was accustomed to
stonewalling, to matching her skepticism with his own
stalwart insistance that he forgot she couldn't read his
thoughts.  But now, his silence was hurting her, and
by extension himself.

"Scully...I don't know where the memories came from.  
I'm no more convinced they were true than you are."

"You seemed so positive," she said, studying his face.

"I felt sure.  But as I listened to the tape, I found
small inconsistencies.  Timing that wasn't quite right."

"The Cigarette Man would have been born before the Second 
World War."

"Yeah, and I saw him as the embodiment of evil in a 
Gestapo officer.  So, I began to question what else 
might have been wrong...and where it had come from."

"And what did you come up with?" she asked.  Though
her voice sounded casual, her eyes never left his 
face.

"That perhaps I was affected by what Melissa had said
earlier that day.  In the suggestible state of hypnosis, 
I may have internalized her words."  

Scully nodded, her full lower lip caught between white
teeth.  She seemed satisfied, but something forced him
to go on.

"You could be right, Scully. Maybe there is something 
desperate in me." he said, trying to keep his voice 
steady.  "Or maybe I just want things I can't have." 

"Things you can't have..." she repeated, softly.  
"I can understand that."  

She exhaled slowly, her posture relaxing a little.  
"It's getting late, Mulder.  I need to go home
before I fall asleep."

She slipped out of the booth, and Mulder followed
suit.   "Did you drive?"

"Afraid I'm 'under the influence'?" she asked, smiling
up at him.  "Don't worry.  I walked here."

"Let me drive you home."

"That's all right, Mulder.  I could use the fresh air."

"Then, I'll walk you home.  I could do with some 
fresh air too."

Scully shrugged her shoulders, grabbing her coat from
a hook by the door.  "Suit yourself, Mulder." 

The clean scent of her perfume teased him as he helped
her into her coat.  One hand above her shoulderblade,
he guided her though the door and into the chilly
November evening.

The End.