From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Sun, 17 Sep 2000 20:38:47 -0500
Subject: NEW: OBSERVATION TECHNIQUE (1/1, PG) by tahlia hein
Source: direct

Reply To: th001_2000@yahoo.com


"OBSERVATION TECHNIQUE"

tahlia hein (th001_2000@yahoo.com)
            (http://th001.cjb.net)

Rating:  PG

Classification:  UST/MSR (implied), third-person POV

Summary:  "When you travel as often as I do with such bad
karma as I have, you learn to estimate arrival times."

Spoilers:  implied Requiem mentions (This is proposed to take
place on week before the events of Requiem.)

Disclaimer:  CC&1013 made this stuff.

Feedback:  I'm greedy, send me some. I never get any, send me
some. I want to know people read these things, send me some.
th001_2000@yahoo.com

Distribution:  Anywhere, I really don't care.

Author's Notes:  Come on, I think there are bazillions of
airport 'fic out there, so I highly doubt this is original and
unusual. I just hope it's entertaining, and interesting. Also,
I put some of myself into the main character, including the
fact that she and I are both Law and Order junkies.


= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
"The observation of others is colored by
our inability to observe ourselves
impartially."
                           -- A. R. Orage
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =


Bad karma. I've got *bad* karma when it comes to flying. I've
had every excuse dished out to me by airport employees and
ticket counter agents.

"I'm sorry, but the flight is overbooked."

"I'm sorry, your flight has been delayed one hour."

"I'm sorry, but you *just* missed your connecting flight."

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. It
appears the airport doesn't have a runway clear for our
arrival quite yet. It looks like we'll be circling for ten or
so minutes..."

And that's just getting *on* the plane. My seat is always near
the bathroom or next to/behind/in front of a screaming baby.
The stewardess runs out of the one drink I'd been spying all
the way from one end of the plane to the other. The meal I
ordered for my long flight across the country didn't go
through, and somehow I've ended up with the vegetarian pork,
if such a thing even exists. Or it's hot, or it's cold, or I
just can't stand my seatmate...

So when the lovely woman running things behind the US Air
ticket counter, the one with the bleach blonde hair and
drawn-out Southern accent that sounded more like a stereotype
than a real person, grabbed the phone-microphone and announced
that Flight 669 from Boston to Orlando with a stopover in
Washington, DC was delayed because of weather, I couldn't say
I was surprised.

All I want to do is come home for spring break, and see my
family and my brother's new wife and son, Justin.

When most of my friends and room mates were pulling out the
bikinis, cameras, and tanning oil, I was confirming my flight
reservation to Orlando. Sure, some of my room mates were going
to spots quite near Orlando, but I could guarantee none were
going for the same reason as I was. To them, Orlando equaled
party. To me, a suburb 45 minutes out of Orlando city limits
equaled home, and my mother and brother.

Maybe as we were all freshmen, they felt the need to fit in
with the older students and follow in their misguided
footsteps: party all night, wear as less as possible, drink
until you can't remember why you even came. I didn't feel like
I had anything to prove, so instead I opted to visit my mother
and brother back home, knowing she missed me greatly. She told
me so on the phone, and had made it her business to make sure
I never forgot. Besides, I'm not much of a party animal, anyway.

Resigned that my plane wasn't going to come for another two or
so hours (when you travel as often as I do with such bad karma
as I have, you learn to estimate arrival times), I sank
slightly into my seat, surveying the waiting area and
surrounding hallways, looking for a vendor to buy something. I
was suddenly thirsty and in need of the latest celebrity
gossip; thankfully I spotted a stand with a ceiling-high
magazine stand and a cold drinks case that same size.

I grabbed an issue of People Magazine from the third shelf,
proclaiming "Paul Finds Love Again," with a large accompanying
photo of McCartney and model Heather Mills. I stood patiently
as a rather tall man in a rather expensive-looking suit
reached into the drink case, fetching two bottles of Coke and
Diet Coke. He, in fact, had to replace the first Diet Coke he
chose when he realized that the Diet's were divided into
regular and decaffeinated. He quickly grabbed the former.
I smiled a little, realizing it must be for his wife or
girlfriend, and a picky one at that. I could just imagine her
rage as she expects less calories and more caffeine, only to
be disappointed when her significant other brings back only
half of her wish.

I, myself, grabbed a regular Coke and made my way to the
register, manned by a short Asian woman. She rang up my
purchase, and her loose grasp on English is evident as she
blurts out the cost of my purchase. I have to consult with the
number that flashes in the cash register display, because the
amount she quoted in indecipherable. I pay in exact change,
doing both of us a favor, and making my way back to my seat
and my stuff.

I don't think I noticed it until now, but the Flight 669
waiting area is littered with men and women in business suits.
They all look very professional, some reading rather thick
books, or typing some important document on their high-tech
laptops. Most are alone. There are a few pairs of women and
men, and even fewer couples. Business couples usually work
apart, and rarely see each other. At least that's how it is on
Law and Order, when the girlfriend of the husband is found dead.

In one corner of the waiting room, I spied a woman I swear
couldn't be much older than me. Beside her chair is another
chair, with luggage and diaper bags and other baby apparel
piled as high as the back of the seat goes. Even from such a
distance, I can tell she is exhausted. I assumed she got
pregnant young, and certainly didn't plan it. My eyes found
the baby crawling happily on the floor. Her hair is flaming
red and very curly, and the white ribbon that holds a tuff of
her hair in a ponytail stood out boldly. An adorable black
overall outfit over a white tee-shirt moved stiffly as the
child crawled in front of her mother. The child goes farther
from mommy then she should, because the young women grabbed
the child at the waist and brought her to rest on her knee. As
my eyes leave the pair, I saw the baby girl squirming vainly
against her mother's grip, eager to return to the floor.

A typical suburban American family, two parents with smiles on
their faces and two children (one boy and one girl, of course)
sat happily in front of the large window, the two children
turned around in the seats to watch the large planes come in
and out of the terminals. A variation of "Are we are there
yet?" plagued the two parents as the children asked if the
planes they saw were their plane.

My eyes fell upon an unexpected couple, and the moment was
like the final scene before a commercial on Law and Order when
Briscoe and Green look at each other, dumbfounded to find out
the two murdered (and married, to separate people) business
associates were sleeping together. They exchange the "Is this
for real?" look and the screen fades to black. Or maybe it's
the audiences reaction when you realize McCoy has been
(frequently) sleeping with Abbie, keeping up his reputation as
the ADA who sleeps with most of his female assistants.

I watched as she took a large, glorious swig of her Diet Coke.
Her head tipped back slightly as she did, causing the hair
that almost touched her shoulders to fall back. Darting my
eyes back to the baby girl, who was still squirming on her
mother's lap, I realized both hair colors were almost
identical. I suspected that maybe hers was not completely
natural, but from her coloring I assumed she at one point had
had such vibrant hair.

The man who had so carefully chosen his drinks before me at
the magazine stand watched her do this, a large grin spreading
over his face. He must have been thanking his lucky stars he'd
chosen the right one. She returns the grin, saying something
silently. I'm too far away to hear exactly what she says, but
I can only assume it's a 'thank you.'

I could tell she was exhausted by just studying her face. Her
reactions to his comments, which I assumed were witty and
cynical, were delayed and drawn-out. She wasn't bored, she was
tired. My mind could only imagine why; some of the reasons I
could think of I would have never mentioned to anyone but
myself.

It's amazing what the influence of pop culture does to one's
brain. I saw these two, dressed in business suits, and my mind
jumped to the conclusions pounded into me by the numerous
holiday marathons of Law and Order. Both were attractive
people, not to mention relatively young, so I knew they must
both be married.. to other people. I couldn't tell if either
wore a wedding band, but it didn't matter. The first thing you
learn about affairs is that wedding bands signified
commitment, and commitment was the exact opposite of an
affair. They were dressed businesslike, and they both seemed
to be in the same business, so they must have worked together.
Their boss most certainly doesn't have a clue, and maybe no
one but their closest of closest friends knew. Or maybe
everyone except for the boss and respective spouses were in
on the secret.

They must have traveled often, because they looked like they
were pros at hiding the affair, too. Passing glances that
could have been interpreted as something other than casual eye
contact in a conversation were kept at a low. However, I would
have bet one of them, probably him, laid on the innuendo and
comments heavily, with the other (her) simply ignoring them or
coming up with her own witty retorts. From the looks of it,
this must have been going on for quite some time now, because
from the looks of it, they were masters of disguise.

Immediately, my conscience kicked it. It was like a parody or
cartoon, because my conscience always takes the form of my
mother. "Mind your own business, Catherine Lee!" she said in
that typical, high-pitched angry mother voice.

However, instead of taking my mother's advice, I picked up my
heavy bag, heaving it over my left shoulder so that it came to
rest on my right shoulder, and set out to find a more
comfortable chair. In actuality, I was attempting to eavesdrop
on the spawning relationship laid out in front of me.

Perhaps the God of eavesdropping shone down on me that day,
because my luck drew me a seat directly behind the couple. I
was hesitant at first, but my evil nature took over, and I
plopped myself down in it, dropping my bag on the floor in
front of me, and pulling at the People Magazine I had bought
earlier.

As I opened to a random page, I caught the tail end of her
sentence.

"..didn't find your answers, Mulder. I hope you're not
disappointed."

"Me? Disappointed? Not really." I almost held my breath as I
waited for the inevitable sarcastic comment. But it never
came. Instead, he said, "I'm just happy to get out of that
godforsaken office." I mentally added a comment about getting
away from his wife.

I thought I heard her snort slightly.

"I thought you liked working in the basement, or am I just
boring company?" God, was she asking for it, or what? I
visualized her lips in a pouting expression.

"It's not that."

Even I could have told you he was holding something back.

"Mulder..?" Obviously, I assumed this kind of statement was
commonplace when talking with this man. I imagined Mulder's
thoughts, as he juggled how to tell this woman what was really
wrong with the godforsaken office in the basement.

Finally, he did.

"Skinner told me to expect an auditor in the coming week."

I was left wondering who 'Skinner' was. Possibly a boss? I
heard the proverbially dark chords ringing as the plot
thickened. Perhaps this 'Skinner' had found out about the
affair..

"An auditor? What for? We've turned in our expense reports on
time." There was a pause before she continued. "Most of them,"
she added with a smile. I imagined him smiling, too. Inside
joke.

"The Bureau believes we're over budget."

The Bureau? As in.. Federal Bureau of Investigation? I
couldn't imagine what these two could possibly *do* at the
FBI.

"So what?"

Gloom overrided Mulder's tone. "So.. it seems the powers that
be aren't too happy with our -- how did Skinner word it? --
'whimsical' use of Bureau funds and resources."

The woman - I still didn't know what her name was -- was
worried, even if she didn't say anything. I know I would be,
too, if I knew what exactly was in danger.

"You know this is just another ploy to shut us down," she
said, and I found myself wondering what the meaning behind
this statement was. Perhaps they belonged to a controversial
division of the FBI, but why would such broad-scoping power
have it in for these two people?

"I know."

There was no more conversation after that final comment. I
went on reading my People Magazine, but I found that after
three skims of the content and one intense read of every
article, I had only wasted an hour and a half. Casting a
glance toward the ticket counter, I saw the agents were no
closer to announcing boarding calls then they had been an hour
ago.

I opted to buy another magazine at the stand I had before. I
cast longing glances over the tall case, examining each
magazine's headlines. For a small stand, the woman running
things sure did have a vast selection of periodical reading
material.

Resigning myself to the latest issue of Vanity Fair, I found
myself almost knocking over someone behind me.

Whirling around and already spitting out apologies, I found
myself face to face with Mulder's.. friend? partner? lover? I
couldn't find something to label her as.

Almost immediately, I noticed her expression. I thought maybe
she would faint, or maybe she would puke up whatever the last
meal she had eaten. I assumed my bump hadn't caused that, or
at least I hoped it hadn't.

"Are you feeling OK?" I heard myself asking, and I wanted to
slap myself. Then I stopped, telling my conscience that I was
polite to inquire to the medical status of those you almost
knock over.

She quickly nodded. "Oh, I'm fine," she said quickly, and for
a minute I thought would slap herself for her last comment.
Why? I don't know. "Must have been a bad hamburger."

My television-influenced brain went into hyperdrive as she
gathered herself and the magazine she had dropped, and made
her to the register. I heard myself whisper an 'ohmygod' under
my own breath as I realized the number one rule in soap
operas, comedies, dramas, movies, televisions, and anything
else had been crossed off the list.

    1) Any female character complaining of dizziness, nausea,
    food poisoning, stomach cramps, or other related disorders
    is automatically pregnant.

I shook my head at the thought of her telling Mulder, and each
telling their respective spouse.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

The plane finally arrived an hour later. By then, the woman
I'd bumped into at the magazine stand had fallen asleep on
Mulder's shoulder, her own issue of Vanity Fair open on her lap.

I finally learned this woman's name - Scully - when Mulder
woke her from her nap to tell her it was time to board. Lucky
people, their seats were toward the back, allowing them to
board before me. I wondered why the Bureau hadn't paid for
first class, only then remembering Mulder's comment about
over-budgeting.

"Odd duo, eh?" I heard directed at me. My head turned from my
magazine to meet the eyes of a nice young man sitting next to
me. He was smiling, his blue eyes lit up against his short
blonde hair. Quite attractive.

"Who?"

"The two you were eavesdropping on." I wanted to blush at the
accusation. "Don't worry, I don't think they noticed."

The man pointed to my ticket. "Where are you sitting?"

I opened it. "7A."

He smiled again. "Must be fate, then."

My eyebrow shot up, confused. Opening his ticket, he pointed
to his seat assignment.

7B.

"Must be."

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

You like? Tell me! th_001@yahoo.com

09/16/00