From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 21 Nov 2002 00:28:04 -0000
Subject: NEW - Nuestro Cuento (1/1) by Michelle Kiefer by michelle kiefer
Source: direct

Reply To: msk1024@aol.com


Title: Nuestro Cuento    
Author:  Michelle Kiefer 
Email: msk1024@aol.com 
Episode: El Mundo Gira
Summary: "Do we have a story, Scully?"  
Category: Post-ep, M/S UST 
Rating: PG-13 
Disclaimer:  Not mine.   
Written for the El Mundo Gira episode challenge for  
After_the_Fact.  Other stories written by the list 
member authors can be found at: 
http://after-the-fact.tripod.com/ 
 
Visit my other stories at: 
http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm  
Maintained by the wonderful Jennifer.  
Author's Notes at the end.


Fresno, California
Wednesday, 4:15 PM

PJ's Tavern wasn't the kind of bar yuppies frequented after 
a hard day spent climbing the corporate ladder.  It wasn't 
a place to pick up pretty women during happy hour.  No, 
PJ's was a cop bar, and the perfect place to lift a glass 
to a fallen comrade.

Even here, amidst law enforcement officers, he and Scully
didn't fit in.  They were too formally dressed, too polished.
Scully in her neat blue suit, cream blouse open at the throat;
he in his charcoal slacks and white dress shirt.  Clothing
appropriate for the field, or for court, or for another 
officer's funeral.

Some of the cops were still in uniform, and those that were
not looked awkward, wearing suits that hadn't fit properly 
in ten years.  Jackets strained over bellies which had grown 
on a diet of coffee and donuts and too much fast food.  Suits
that were just a little bit out of style, but hardly ever 
worn.

So, Mulder had chosen a booth, leaving the bar stools to the 
INS agents and local cops.  He recognized some of them from 
the funeral.  The others must have come to the bar as if by 
instinct, to pay respects to an officer killed in the line of 
duty.

It didn't matter whether the officer brought it on himself. 
They didn't care that Lozano's own stubborn insistance on blood 
cleansing blood put him in the middle of something that blew up 
in his face.  To these brothers in arms, he died wearing his 
badge and that's all that mattered.

"To Conrad Lozano," Mulder said, as he raised his tequila.  
"Rest in peace, buddy."

Scully remained silent, but that wasn't unusual these days. 
He wondered what thoughts dwelled in her pretty little head. 
Shit, he'd better watch himself.  One too many tequilas and he'd
make that kind of crack out loud.  And then Scully would probably 
shoot him.

A gale of laughter drifted over from the bar, raw and raucous 
as befits an unofficial wake.  Scully glanced over at the source
of the noise, her face a calm, beautiful mask.  

"I liked him," Mulder said, after a few moments.  

"I know you did."  Scully's voice was low, and he had to sit
forward to hear her. 

"He was funny."  Mulder took a sip of his drink.  "Had an
interesting way of looking at people."

"You spent more time with him than I did."  Scully crossed her
legs, one silky calf brushing against him.  Did she have any 
idea what those careful, methodical movements did to him?  
She guarded her thoughts so closely.  He scrutinized each
tilt of the head, every purse of her lips for any clue to
her feelings, like an ancient mystic studying runes.  

"Do we have a story, Scully?"

"What?"   Confused and slightly exasperated was a delightful 
look on Scully, causing her cheeks to flush and her eyes to 
snap.

"A story," he said.  "Lozano said that the migrants loved to
weave stories.  To distract them from the despair of their own 
lives."

"And what does their propensity to confabulation have to do with 
us, Mulder?"

"Lozano said you and I had our own stories, Scully.  I just wanted
to know if that was true."    

"I'd say you have a story, Mulder, and a pretty wild one at that.
And mine is..."  Scully's voice drifted off, understanding dawning
in her eyes.  "Oh.  You mean do *we* have a story."

Even in the dim light of the bar, Mulder saw a blush rise from
the neck of her blouse.  Scully became fascinated by the 
condensation on the side of her glass.

"Yeah."  

"I guess our stories, like our lives, have become intertwined." 
Scully's head was down, her words soft.

"And you don't want them to be?" he asked, hating himself for 
the weakness that drove him to need an answer to that question.

"I...I didn't say that," she answered.  He detected the hint of
a smile on closer observation.  Scully raised her eyes to 
meet his.  "Maybe I like it."

Well, he thought.  Well, well, well.

"Hey, we'd better get going," he said, glancing at his watch.  
"Our flight leaves in an hour."

Scully smoothed her skirt as she stood.  She glanced up at
him as they moved to the door, her smile now real and true.
The winter sunlight invaded the bar as he threw open the 
door, his hand at her back as they walked into the brightness.

Everyone has a story, but you have to wait until the end
to see how it turns out.

End.

Author's Notes:  And here I was, starting to think that I'd 
slipped into retirement when I wasn't looking.  So, guess how
surprised I was to get an El Mundo Gira (of all things) story
idea.  Who'd a thunk it.  Thanks to Dawn and TCS1121 for 
looking this over.  Happy 1121 to TCS1121!  And thanks, too, 
to Sybil who had a Christmas wish.