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Happy Hour (1/1) by Aurora Vere

Category - VH, H
Rating - R for language
Summary - Love on the rocks, with a twist on a half-price drink.
We don't mean the lime variety.  :)

Disclaimer - Please don't sue me for taking little liberties
with your characters, Chris.  I only mean them well.


Man, she's a beauty.  A real beauty.  One of those classic,
forties-movies kind of beauty, not like the bleach blonde
bimbos who walk by this table every day.

That's right.  Every day.  I come here every day.  Same time, same
place, every day during happy hour.  Sure, for most people it
would get boring, old, routine, even, but not for me.

Then again, I'm not most people.  I'm probably about the farthest
thing from most people.  Plus I have a vested interest in a few
of the regulars here.

Why, you ask?

I have my reasons, and they're sitting right across the aisle
in a large red booth, sipping a drink and talking to someone
on her cell phone.

Every day I come here, as early as I can get here, just so I
can take my usual place at my usual booth and wait for the
show to begin, when she makes her entrance through those glass
double doors like a shining star in some classic movie.

Normally she doesn't say anything.  Normally she just sits and
has a water, or tea, or coffee, depending on what mood she's in.
I can almost predict her mood when she orders her drink, just by
the look on her face.  If she's happy, soda.  Sad, gin and tonic.
Upset, hot tea.  Ambivalent, nonchalant, her usual standard coffee
with cream, no sugar.

But today she hasn't ordered any of those.  Finally, today, some
variety in her life.  She's drinking what looks to be something
frozen, with a lime on the rim of the glass.  Probably a
margarita or something.  She's smiling, too, just slightly
with those plump, pouty lips, more than I've ever seen her
smile before.

I wish I could see more of her; my view only allows me her half
of the booth.  I'd sit directly across from her, if I didn't
think she'd clue in on my secret little pastime.  But she always
sits in the same spot, facing the window, and she never notices
anyone around her.  And I always feel safe.

I wonder who she's on the phone with.  Probably with some other
admirer.  She's smiling again, with this light in her eyes.
God, those eyes.  I could just drown in them.  Fathomless pools
of blue.

Damn, that's cheesy.  Cliche.  I can't think of anything else to
describe them.  If I ever got up the nerve to approach her, I'd
end up sounding like an idiot with my juvenile and quite futile
attempt at flattery.

It would never work on her.

"Uh-huh.  Yeah."

The smile's gone.

Damn.

"Well, wrap it up and step on it.  I'm rotting like Claxton
over here."

She puts down the phone.

And there's the smile again.

God, I wish I knew more about her.  I wish I could work up the
nerve to surveil her one evening, just to see what she does when
she leaves here, what she has for dinner, what she does when she
finally has some time to herself.

No, I don't want to think about what she does when she finally
has time to herself.  Nothing would stop me from crossing that
line.

I'd rather just adore her from afar.

I think I will adore her from afar...for a few minutes.  Just
sit and stare in complete anonymity, memorize her face, burn
it into my subconscious to fill my nights as well as my days
with her image just beyond my retina, but deeper.  Deeper and
deeper until she is with me wherever I go.

Yeah, I'm crazy.  I know I'm crazy.  I'm a sucker, a gullible
sucker for unrequited love, in all my experience, in all my
futile undertakings.  I'm a mere mortal in the presence of a
goddess, an intelligent, strong, vibrant woman who hasn't even
tapped the full essence of her femininity, her mystical powers
that can drive a man to his ultimate ruin with just a look or
a touch.

And here I am, risking my demise, staring over a menu at her
in the hope that Zeus won't catch me laying visual claim to
his property.

Oh.  Someone's coming.

Good old peripheral vision.  Never fails me.  Always works well
in instances like these, when I want to watch her without others
thinking I'm some sick, obsessive stalker when they walk past my
table.  She knows I'm nothing of the kind.  I just don't want her
finding out I'm watching her.

What the hell....?

She's got company.

Familiar company, by the looks of it.

Familiar and surprising company.

"That was quick."

She isn't smiling anymore.  Good.  I'd hate to think she gave
them out so easily to men she knew.

"What, and miss a free drink?"

His voice is nowhere as pleasant as hers.  Monotone.  Drab,
with a twist of sarcasm.

What a piece of work.

If she greeted me at all, I'd turn on the charm without thinking
twice.  But it wouldn't get me anywhere.  Guys like me never get
girls like her.  It's as much of an impossibility as booking
the late great Jerry Garcia for one final gig with the Dead.

"So why'd you bring me here, Scully?  This place is way out of
your league."

Yeah, keep joking like that, Armani poster boy, and maybe
she'll laugh in a couple of lifetimes.

"It's happy hour, Mulder.  A drink in a bar is hardly out of my
league."

She flashes those baby blues at him, obviously miffed.
Man, she's gorgeous.  Too gorgeous to be seen with the likes
of him in a place like this or anywhere, for that matter.

Talk about being out of someone's league.

"Happy hour?"  I hear him say.

Yeah, bozo.  Happy hour.  You know, the time just after work
where people relax, let their hair down a little, kick back a
few drinks and enjoy a few hours out of their hectic day?

Oh, I'm sorry.  I've forgotten you've never had time for happy

hour, Mr. Workaholic.

Better be careful; you might rub off on her.  It's a rare
occasion for me to be able to feast my eyes on a goddess.

"Happy hour it is, then," he says.  "Let's get happy."

What the...?  What the hell kind of response is that?  The lady
offers to buy you a drink and all you can think of is a cheap
double entendre?

You'd better be glad she's used to it, otherwise I'd kick your
ass.

"'Happy', Mulder?"

Oooh, if looks could talk, her face wouldn't shut up for days.

Why can't she look at me like that?

"Yeah."

That better not be a proposition, buddy; you'd better think
twice before you use that tone of voice. I *will* kick your ass.
I don't know how, but I'd find a way to measure up.  Bite your
ankle, maybe.


"So what you got?"

Jesus, man, give it up.  She ain't interested.

"What I got?"

Another look that won't shut up.

That's it, sweetheart.  Put him in his place.  Take him down
a notch or two.  God knows I would if I could just reach his
shoulders.

"Yeah.  What's in that folder?"

"The folder...?"

She's not believing it.

This is great.

"You said you had something to show me.  Something you found
in Claxton's blood.  What was it?"

She's rolling her eyes, not much, but my eagle vision can spot
those baby blues from any distance.

Priceless.

"Mulder, why don't you at least order a drink before you drag
me back to work again."

Ha.  That'll fix him.

Round one, Dana Scully.

"You mean you don't want to talk about it?"

She's frowning slightly, with those little ridges in her
forehead.  She gets those often when she's drinking her hot
tea and mumbling a whole string of curses.

"Not until I've finished my third drink, thank you very much."

You just keep on drinking, honey.  Maybe you'll need a real man
to take you home.

"Your third drink?"

She's nodding.

"I've never seen this side of you before, Scully."

Those little ridges are getting deeper by the second.

"You've never bothered to, Mulder."

Oooo, quick punch to the jaw.

Round two, Dana Scully.

"Do you always come here after work?"

"As often as I can, when I'm not in every corner of the country
chasing figments of your imagination."

She says it so sweetly, like honey dripping from the comb.

Nice left jab.

"I'll take that as a joke, Scully."

He's obviously insulted.  Good girl.  Take him down.  Aim for
the face.  Get him out for the count.

"So why *did* you invite me here?"

She's looking at him again.  God, those baby blues....

"I don't know, Mulder.  I guess I just thought you might...
want to get out for a change."

Get out?  Get out?

Yeah, he'll get out real fast if he keeps egging you on
like that.

"Why?"

Why?  What do you mean, why?  How dare you second-guess
her like that?  I thought her answer was quite clear.
Clear as glass.

"Does there have to be a reason?"


Oh, now you've made her mad.  Shit, those eyes could
melt that glass right now.

"Scully, you without a reason would be like a ship
without a sail, a boat without water, a drowning man
without a lifejacket."

Throwing out bad metaphors in the interest of humor, huh?
Your taste is impeccable.

Jeez, man, you'd better grab what's left of you and run
like hell out those double doors.  She's got reasons,
all right, but that's not the way to drag them out of her.
Have you no clue of why she could've possibly invited you
here when the answer is written all over her face, in
those eyes, how they light up when you walk in the room?
A blind, besotted fool like me can only hope for looks
like that.

You're a goddamn lucky man, Mulder.

"Fine.  Whatever."  Her eyes are more intense now, two
focused laser beams of blue aimed right at him.

"I have no reason, Mulder.  I have no ulterior motive;
I have nothing secretive running around in my head.
I just thought you might like to get out of that goddamn
office for two seconds of your miserable, non-existent
life.  I guess I'll think twice next time before hastily
assuming you'd like to do more than pore over autopsy
and forensics results during what is, at *least* to
everyone else in this great nation of ours, Happy Hour."

She's getting up.

"Just forget it.  I'm sorry I asked."

Uh-oh.

Mulder, congratulations.  You're now a full-fledged
asshole with the opposite sex.

"Scully -- "

"Mulder, don't.  Don't even say it.  Just don't say
anything to me for the next five years, okay?"

He's standing now.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"No, Mulder.  That's my line.  I should be asking *you*
what the hell is wrong with you.  What the hell is wrong
with you that you can't even enjoy a drink with your
overworked, underpaid, mentally and physically frustrated
partner for two measly hours of your life?"

She throws the folder on the floor.

"Enjoy this, then."

She's snarling.

"It's good to finally know your priorities."

She's walking toward the doors, Mulder on her heels,
apparently asking her something I can't hear.

"Don't make a scene, Mulder," I hear her say as I
move closer toward the front of the bar.  "Just read
that folder, file your report and find some other
unexplained, unsolvable case for us to waste our
professional careers on.  I'm going home to enjoy
what's left of my evening."

She spins around on her heels and walks right through
those double glass doors, the legendary screen star,
as perfect in her exit as in her entrance.

Cut, print, it's a wrap.  The goddess has now left
the building.


And the forsaken partner is left to ruminate on his own
numerous shortcomings.

He starts walking back to the booth, but stops suddenly,
looking directly at me.

Shit, I'm trapped.

Busted.

"Frohike?"  Mulder looks surprised.  "What are you doing here?"

Shit.

Come on brain, think of a good one.  He's too intelligent
for the usual excuses.

"It's happy hour, Mulder.  Half-price brewskies on draft,
not to mention the elaborate appetizer menu, including my
personal favorite, the Bottomless Basket of home fries and
cheesesticks.  You think I'd miss this kind of deal?"

He looks a little wary.

"Where's Byers and Langly?"

"Eating healthy.  Byers is on some organic kick right now and
has Langly convinced that a buildup of food additives in the
system causes government-induced paranoid-delusional behavior."

"Cutting back, eh?"

You know Mulder, sometimes you're just a fucking comedian.

"Care to join me then?"  He gestures toward the Goddess's
booth.  "I've got a date with a manila folder, but I'd
appreciate the company."

You still don't get it, do you?  Jeez...

Oh well.  Someone needs to talk some sense into that thick
head of yours.  Might as well be someone with as much myopic
visions for the future of our existence.

I scoot into the booth, feeling the warmth of the seat where
the Goddess had been before and I manage a grin.

"Sure thing buddy.  You buy the Bottomless Basket, I'll
buy the first two rounds."

Something tells me we'll both need more than one to
ease our collective emptiness.


--
Liked it, yes, maybe?  Email feedback to AuroraVer2@aol.com.