From: ryexf@juno.com (Rye X F)
Date: Mon, 19 Oct 1998 22:35:20 -0400
Subject: Possible resubmission:  The View From Vic's (1/1) by Rye

THE VIEW FROM VIC'S (1/1)
By Rye (RyeXF@juno.com)
July 1998

Thank you for archiving at Gossamer

Category:  V, H
Rating: R 
Spoilers: None
Keywords: None, please
Summary:  Songs can get you in more trouble than you can imagine.

Disclaimer:  They ain't mine....I'm just borrowing them for the 
weekend.  I promise to have them back by curfew. (1013, CC have 
the rights, no infringement, etc....)

This is for the The Gang--names have been withheld to protect the
innocent, or at least the unindicted.  You know who you are, your 
names are in the book.


"Aretha Franklin." 

"I beg your pardon?"

"Aretha Franklin."  She articulated the words carefully, syllable by
syllable. "The answer to the question you're not asking me is 'Aretha
Franklin'." The petite redhead actually sounded amused rather than 
drunk, but I had to wonder.

"Really?"  I tried to keep my tone level, professionally friendly, 
all the while quietly sizing her up, trying to decide if I was going
to have to call Island Cab to take her back to whatever hotel it 
was she was staying at.

"Yup. The reason I'm here. The reason a nice girl like me is in a
place like this... It was all Aretha's fault."  She started to lapse
into silence. Clearly seeing something far away from my beachfront
bar.  Then she shook herself and looked back at me with blue eyes 
that contained the contradiction of ocean warmth and arctic frost, 
neither of which disguised the laser sharp intelligence of the 
speaker.  

"You ever really listened to Aretha Franklin?  *Really* 
heard her sing 'Respect,' or 'Chain of Fools,' or most dangerous of
all 'Think?'  Well I did.  Just yesterday.  Sitting there on the 
Beltway, stuck in traffic once more, I popped in a cassette.  
Aretha's Greatest Hits.  Seemed innocent enough, a little soul to
keep me company while I waited for the Staties to move the latest
fender-bender to the side of the road."  

She stopped for a moment and finished her mai tai.  Her second. 
She looked at the empty glass consideringly for a second and then
ordered her third.

I have to confess I was intrigued.  I've been running this bar in 
this little tourist town for almost 7 years now.  In that time, I've
seen a lot of tourists wander in here.  They come from all over. 
But no matter where they've come from--Britain, Germany, the U.S.
--there's a certain similarity to their expressions.  They are weary 
in some way and have come to this island to seek peace.  Maybe it's
the beaches, maybe the lure of the "tropics," or maybe it's just 
being somewhere that isn't home -- someplace different.  

By the time they hit my bar - Vic's Bar and View - they are seeking
something else entirely.  They're seeking a way to get away from 
themselves because they've discovered that no matter how far you 
travel, you still carry yourself with you.  You can't ever escape 
that nagging voice in your head.  

Vic.  That's me.  Short for Vicky, short for Victoria.  Just short.
That's me, too.  I came here 8 years ago seeking to get away and 
just never left.  Turns out that away was good for me, and that 
sometimes you can leave yourself, or at least your name and face on 
post office posters...but that's another story.

Back to the redhead at the bar with the Aretha Franklin troubles.

I'd known right away that there was something different about her.  
Everything from the way she walked in, to the way she was dressed.
She wasn't a vacationer, but she wasn't an islander, either.  No tan
yet, or sunburn.  She looked lost, but in a different way. There was
something about her--the way she carried herself--that sent off 
alarms in my brain, but I couldn't quite place it.

I'd served her the first two mai tais with a minimum of conversation.
She'd seemed surprised to find an American behind the bar--I don't
look particularly American, but the accent still gives me away.  Her
surprise disappeared as quickly as it had flashed across her face. 
She seemed like she was used to taking the unexpected in stride.

I'd found out that her name was Dana and that she'd just gotten here
last night, and that she wasn't sure when she was going back.  That
was sort of weird in and of itself, but sometimes people came with
open-ended tickets.  Still, she seemed like the sort who usually had
everything organized down to the last second.

As I served her the third mai tai, I prompted her to continue. "So 
what did Aretha do to you?"

"Well, there I was, singing along -- you know, the way you do in a 
closed up car -- and all of sudden, I really heard the words.  I felt
them somewhere in my gut." She paused to give a funny sort of laugh.
"Ok, so it's not like I'm a soul diva, but I *felt* them.  There I 
was, wailing along that he'd better "think," and I meant it.  I 
really, really meant it."

He, eh?  The plot was definitely thickening.  "Who's this he?"  I 
tried to sound nonchalant, didn't want to spook her.

"He?  Did I say..."  She laughed again.  I had the feeling that she 
didn't laugh much.  "Yeah, he.  My pa......  Him.  See, here's what
happened.  First song that really got me going was 'Respect.'  I 
mean I know he respects me, and all, but as I was singing along
yesterday, I heard the words in a whole new way.  I finally 
understood that there's respect and there's Respect, and he tends to
forget that, or at least to show it.  I was mulling that over, and 
then 'Chain of Fools' started.  Great song...great driving tune, but
man, just the wrong thing for me yesterday.  Or maybe the right 
thing."  

I leaned back against the wall behind the bar and watched her get
lost in the moment.

"A chain of fools.  It's so fucking appropriate.  Five years no less.
Five fucking years."  She was petite and tailored, but she could
swear like a sailor.  No hesitation or blushing for her - the words 
just flowed right on out as she continued.

"And me--just one more link.  Just one more goddamn link. I suppose
I should be grateful that at least I'm an alive link."  She took a 
gulp of her drink, but the hand that lowered the glass was rock
solid steady.

"It was 'Think' that really got me.  That was when it happened.
That stupid motherfucker just never thinks at all.  He just goes 
charging off after his stupid conspiracies and leaves me to face
Skinner and the fucking bureaucratic music.  Well, I've had it.  
I've finally had it."  The steely rage in her voice was a little 
frightening.  I was bloody glad that I wasn't that 'he,' she talked 
about, and just hoped that 'he' had the good sense to be a long way 
from here.

There was more, though, I could tell.

Her voice dropped as she continued.  "But that's not all of course.
If it was just that, I could request a transfer.  A new partner.  I 
mean I'm a damn fine agent--even he knows it--I could work anywhere
in the Bureau."  

Partner?  Bureau?  Oh mother of god.  That's when it hit me.  A 
Fibbie....she's a United States Department of Justice Agent with the
Oh My God FBI. My heart rate stepped up about a thousand percent
while I desperately tried to remember where I'd stashed that extra 
passport, and the suitcase with the.....but she was going on like she
had no reason to be here except to drink my exceptional mai tais.  
I relaxed marginally, but kept an ear out for footsteps on the porch
behind me, for unusual shadows under the door.

"No, that isn't the major problem.  The major problem is that Mul...
my partner, has the distinction of being the only man I have found 
even remotely interesting in the last 5 years, and now he knows it. 
Do I need this shit?  No, I do not."  She looked morosely at the 
dregs of her third drink as though she could read some horribly 
future in the fruit shards at the bottom of the glass.

Men.  It always comes down to men, doesn't it?  My voice was gentle.
"So you slipped and told him something you shouldn't have and now 
you've run away to the Island?"

Her head snapped up.  "I. Did. Not. Run. Away."  I shivered in the 
arctic wind that suddenly ripped through my bar.  Then she softened 
a bit. "Ok, maybe I ran away a little bit."

"What happened?"  By now I was *really* curious. My paranoia notched
down a fraction.  No "cover story" could be this real.  And I was 
dying to know exactly what it was that Ms. Agent had done.  She 
seemed far too controlled to really have lost it.  

"Well, there I was, singing along to Aretha, and I suddenly knew.  
I just *knew* that I couldn't keep all this....emotion....bottled up 
inside of me any more. Sometimes it's just gotta give way, you know?"

Looking over her tailored linen shorts and neatly pressed camp shirt,
I had no doubt that FBI Dana tended to keep things very neat and 
orderly.  And bottled up.  I wondered, though.  With that red hair 
and the flash of steel I'd already seen once or twice, I bet when she
blew, people ran for cover. I idly wondered if this partner of hers 
was actually still alive somewhere.

"By the time I reached the office, I'd gone long past the point of 
reason.  All I could hear was Aretha--that strong, undeniable voice
of a weary woman who isn't going to take it any more.  Ever.  I 
stormed into our office, and my partner had the misfortune of being
there."  She shook her head ruefully.

"Boy, was he ever there.  Wearing those damn glasses, no less.  He
started in on me, as usual.  Bugging me about being late, in that 
teasing, slightly innuendo-y way he has that gets under my skin in
ways I never let on, only I think he actually knows, which is why
he keeps doing it...."  

I handed her a fourth mai tai before she even asked.  As little as 
she was, and given that I hadn't seen her eat so much as a peanut
since she came in here, she certainly seemed to be holding her 
liquor well.

"I cut him off mid-sentence.  I can't even remember the first thing I
said to him.  Just that it shut him up pretty effectively.  Then I 
got going.  Jesus.  I said it all, every last damn thing I've 
suppressed during the past 5 years.  Every time he's gone around
me, every time he's ditched me, every time I've had to explain to
Skinner why we're having to requisition another stupid cellular 
phone.  He's the one with the photographic memory, but damn if I 
can't dredge that stuff up when I need it."

She looked up at me, and seemed surprised to realize that she was 
actually talking out loud.  Telling something that probably figured
she'd never mention again.  I simply looked back.  Seven years of 
tending bar teaches you to wear a quietly sympathetic face that 
doesn't judge and doesn't ask too many questions.  Apparently though,
my basic curiosity shone through, because she did keep going.

"I have to say that I don't think he was really all that surprised.
He just sat there, sort of nodding.  Looking just a tiny bit 
sheepish.  He had the good sense not to look amused, anyway.  But
then I fucked up."  She paused for emphasis. "Then I fucked up big 
time."

"You told him how you feel?"

Months from now I'll still be bleeding from the wound I got from 
that glare.

"No.  Oh no.  Nothing that simple."  She swigged down her drink.  
Seeming to need the alcoholic courage to even relive the memory. 
"Nope.  Nothing that simple at all.  Dana Scully never does anything
half-way.  Uh uh.  No Sir."  She closed her eyes, and her voice 
dropped to a whisper.

"No.  I after I finished shouting at him about every stupid thing 
he's ever done during the course of our partnership, I, and I 
remember these words *quite* distinctly, I said, 'And to top it all
off, you bastard, you had to go and make me feel like this.'  Then
I showed him how I feel.  I grabbed him by his Armani lapels, and 
I planted my lips over his and I showed him."

She blushed, her fair skin, still untanned by the sun of our island,
turning a vivid red in the afternoon light.  I could barely hear
her.  "And of course it was good.  It was so goddamn good.  It
figures the man would know how to kiss like nobody's business.  It
just bloody well figures."  Her sigh shook her whole body.

"After I planted that kiss on him, he laid one back on me. I honestly
thought I was going to pass out from oxygen deprivation, or just 
because it was so goddamn good.  But, I happened to find my legs
first, so I turned on my heel, stalked out of our office, caught the
first cab I could find to Dulles Airport, and here I am."

Quite a story.  I wondered how it was going to end, because sure as
death and taxes, there was going to be more.

"You can't hide here forever." Right, I was a good one to be giving
*that* advice, but in general it was true.

"Oh yeah?"  Just the slightest blur to her tone now, and I realized 
that the mai tais might have had more impact than I thought.

"Look.  Do you really love him?"  

"No.  Yes.  I don't know.  No, that's a lie.  I do know...." she 
trailed off disconsolately.  "It's why I'm here.  I just needed to 
get *away.*  The plane here was the first international flight I 
could catch."

"But you're going to go back, right?"

"Probably.  I don't seem to have a lot of choice where that man is 
concerned.  But dammit, I just hate this....."

That was when he walked in.  Hate to steal the line, but I got no
choice.  Of all the gin joints, in all the stinking world, why did
he have to walk into this one?  Jesus, Mary, *and* Joseph.  I knew
right away that the dark, lanky guy was Dana's "he."  I also knew 
that I was about to be catching an outbound plane.

He threw a glance at me that lingered, and I could see that foxy 
little brain of his gearing up, trying to pinpoint me.  The blond
hair and completely different wardrobe no doubt threw him, as did
the fact that Dana was facing him, looking for all the world like a 
deer caught in headlights.  After that first look at me, he looked no
where but at her.

He looked weary and worried.  Like he'd flown here on his own power,
fueled simply by his need for her and by his fear of losing her.

For all her words this evening, and even as she drew in a startled
gasp as she first saw him, there was a glow that suffused her as 
she studied his face.

I watched the connection arc between them like something out of a 
cheap paperback romance.  Well, at least I knew how it was going to 
end.

"Scully?"  I could hear the pleading in the near whisper.

"Mulder."  Wariness and resignation were drowned out by the 
acceptance in that single word.

Mulder.  Fox William effing Mulder.

Gotta run. It's been a pleasure serving you, but it's closing time.  

END

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feedback letter with a cyber-beverage of your choice, 
tastefully garnished with fruit and/or a paper umbrella.
RyeXF@juno.com