From: "Glass November" Date: Mon, 02 Dec 2002 02:08:11 +0000 Subject: Still Life, by Glass November Source: direct TITLE: Still Life AUTHOR: Glass November (glass_november@hotmail.com) RATING: G CATEGORY: V - friendship SUMMARY: A late night encounter at a coffeehouse. DISCLAIMER: Recent studies have shown that, contrary to popular belief, they're not mine . . . I'm trying to keep that fact hidden, though, and would appreciate if you would humor me. Muchas gracias. AUTHOR's NOTES: Sigh. Another lovely fall day - real-life is the best inspiration :) Once again, I beg humbly for feedback, sent to the above address . . . This is for Rose Tangle, and the Anticle. *********************************************************************** She's already there when I arrive, sitting in a corner table and reading the captions for the artwork on the walls. She doesn't look up when I come in, even when the little bell above the door jingles. The room is warm and smells of hazelnut and burnt coffee, and soft jazz music plays in the background. It's our normal meeting place, late at night when we don't have work the next day. I am surprised she agreed to meet me, as I know she is exhausted after arriving home late last night from our last case. "Hey," I say, pulling out a chair and sitting across from her. She smiles. "Hi. I'd about given up on you." "Someone went off the road by my apartment," I tell her. "Sorry I'm late." "Hope you don't mind I ordered already." "Not at all." We sit in silence for a little while, appreciating the calmness and the intimacy. Finally I clear my throat. "So, any new masterpieces?" I gesture to the walls. "Not a whole lot. More, ah, modern art," she smiles, pointing to the piece behind my head. It appears to be a pen mounted on a black speckled piece of paper. "Life Among The Stars," I read, raising an eyebrow. "Who needs function when you can have quality?" She grins, and our coffee arrives. It's hot, a nice change from the chill outside. Fall in D.C. isn't the nicest time of the year. "Any plans for the weekend?" I ask her after a long moment. "Not a whole lot," she sighs. "I'm going to visit Mom on Sunday . . . that's about it. You?" "Nothing big," I answer. She nods in agreement, not saying anything. Unspoken communication, maybe, or sharing a companionable silence. Either way, it works. We sit like that for a little while, until someone else enters, a tall brunette with a harried look on her face. She rubs her hands together as she stands in line at the counter. I watch her, wondering where she is headed, where she came from. She's evidently not meeting anyone here, and she's in a hurry. Scully clears her throat and I look up at her. She arches an eyebrow. "Anything interesting?" "Just thinking." "About?" "Actually, not a whole lot," I reply, and she smirks. I bite back my reply because I don't think I really have one. "I love the fall," she says, and I wonder what she is thinking about. "Why?" I ask. "I don't know. I like the rain, and the colors. It was always rushed when I was a kid," she smiles, lost in some memory. "School would be starting, and then Halloween, and there would always be something going on." "Was Halloween a big thing for your family?" "Only for us kids. Missy loved the costumes, dressing up and playing pretend. She was always good at that. She would make costumes for everyone else, too. I remember one year she made me this absolutely beautiful dress. I think it was supposed to be a princess's gown or something. Anyway, she told me to be careful with it, and of course, I wasn't. It tore within an hour after I put it on. She never made me another costume," her voice trails off and she looks embarrassed at having shared, or maybe talked, so much. "What was the best thing about fall for you?" she asks, changing the subject hurriedly. I think for a moment. "Memories. I remember walking late one night. It was the cliche fall night - wind, a full moon, red leaves. She asked me what was going to happen, with our parents fighting, and I didn't know. I told her that I said I wasn't sure, but it would be fine," I swallow, fighting a sudden lump in my throat. "The next night, she was gone . . . I wonder if she remembered what I told her. I wonder if she believed me." She doesn't respond, and when I look up at her after blinking back tears I didn't expect, I see that she looks horrified. "What? What's wrong?" "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . . " I cut her off. "It's alright. No problem. It's kind of nice to remember more than just the last night, you know?" She nods. "Yeah." We sit in a silence. I wonder what time it is - it's dark outside, almost pitch black. There are only a few other people in the room, including the man behind the counter who's busily cleaning the espresso machine. The music is familiar - it takes a moment for me to place it. Beyond the Sea. I bite my lip, mentally debating my options, and then I stand. "May I have this dance?" She looks up at me confusedly. "What?" I gesture to the small area in front of the stage, beginning to blush. "Would you care to dance?" She smiles quirkily, and rises, putting her hand in mine. I pull her against me, relishing the way her tiny body fits against me. Her hair smells like a combination of vanilla and the scent that I always associate with her, and I grin, glad that she can't see me. I realize that we aren't really moving, but just swaying softly to the music. No one is watching us, absorbed in their own conversations or magazines. The song ends, and she doesn't pull away. I hold her like that for a moment, wishing that it could last longer but knowing that it can't. "Scully?" I say softly, and she stiffens. "Sorry," she says quickly, and I catch the faintest hint of red on her cheeks before she turns and goes back to the small table. I hope she can't see my smile as I sit back across from her, playing with my empty Styrofoam cup. "You about ready to go?" I ask when she doesn't touch her coffee. She glances up at me. "Yeah. You?" "Sure." We rise and I notice that she doesn't have a jacket. Maybe she didn't think she would be out this late; with a twinge of guilt I wonder what I am keeping her from. Outside the air is cold and I realize how warm it was inside the coffeehouse. The night is still and relatively quiet, and I don't want to leave just yet. "Do you have to head home right away, or do you want to go for a walk?" She looks surprised. "Sure . . . a walk would be nice." I nod and we walk slowly along the sidewalk in front of the cluster of buildings. No lights are on in the other buildings, the only light coming from the streetlights and the large windows of the place we just left. The wind has picked up, and it blows her hair around her face in an auburn tangle. I glance over at her - her cheeks and the tip of her nose are red, and she looks cold. I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over her slim shoulders, waiting for her to reject my gesture, and when she doesn't, I decide to push my luck and I reach down and take one of her icy hands. She doesn't pull away, but instead leans against me. We continue our slow walk until we reach the end of the short sidewalk and get back to our cars. When I stop walking she looks up at me sleepily, questioning, until she blinks several times and pulls away. She shrugs out of my jacket and gives it back to me. "I guess I'll see you at work Monday?" she says, making it a question. "Yeah. Have fun with your mom . . . tell her hi for me." "Will do," she opens her car door. "Bye." "Bye," I reply, and she slides inside, starting the car. She doesn't wave as she backs up, and then she is gone, only her taillights visible in the blackness. I wonder what she is thinking, what she was thinking while we were walking, and then I slam my car door and head home. Monday won't come soon enough.