Oddly enough, this vignette came to me as I was out walking on an absolutely gorgeous day. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and cloudless, and the fall colors were just astounding. I say 'oddly enough' because this story is not a happy one. I prefer not to give overly specific content warnings, but suffice it to say that the 'R' rating and 'angst' label are attached for a reason.

Please read the HTML version below or download the text version.

14th of February

The pub is quiet for a Friday night. A handful of people cluster around a couple of tables, leaning over their pints and filling the room with a blue fog, but mostly the place is empty. The music is turned down, and the lighting and conversation are low, almost...expectant. None of the usual weekend clamor disrupts the tranquility.

For which I am profoundly thankful. I came here for a drink, because I really need one, but I've never enjoyed the noise and desperation of the 'bar-scene.' Tonight's quiet is an unexpected benefit, though in my present mood, I find it more a relief than anything else.

I make my way from the doorway to the bar, trailing a gust of frigid air that momentarily parts the cloud of smoke, and pass through the odd assortment of antique tables and chairs that the owners have collected to give the place 'character.' Concert leaflets have been pinned to the walls amid the faded oil paintings, forming a curious mosaic. I don't pay the decor much mind, though. I'm not here for ambience, not tonight.

Sarah greets me as I lean against the bar. She's wearing a red heart pin on her shirt that makes me cringe inwardly. "The usual?" she asks. She doesn't notice my discomfort.

"No, scotch," I say, pointing to the top shelf of bottles. "The Lagavulin."

She retrieves the dusty bottle and a glass, looks at me inquiringly.

"Straight up."

That earns me a raised eyebrow, but she pours without comment.

I take the glass from her, sipping the liquid smoke within. "Pretty quiet," I say. I'm not sure why; I don't really feel much like chatting. But I like her. She and I have a certain connection, despite the different worlds we inhabit.

"It's the snow," says Sarah.

She's a student, working on her master's at Johns Hopkins. Not bad looking, but nothing special either. She's always attentive when I come in here. I think she finds me a welcome change from the parade of drunk, horny men who hit on her all the time. She knows I'm not after her for anything. I'm a DEA agent, after all, 10 years older than she.

"Keeps people at home," she adds.

I hadn't thought of that. Outside, a rare, deep blanket of snow covers the city, eight inches or more. Here in Baltimore, that counts as a blizzard, though the folks back home in Iowa would laugh at the idea.

"Suits me," I say, and upend my glass. Heat from the liquor expands in my chest, taking the chill off the room. Normally, I don't pound back the good stuff. I like to savor it, tasting every nuance, every smoky scintilla of flavor. But tonight I'm making an exception. I set the glass on the bar.

"Fill 'er up."

Sarah complies. "Rough day?" she asks as she pours.

"Yeah."

"Want to talk about it?"

No. Yes. I don't know.... I look around. There's no one all that near us, and even though Sarah's the only one tending bar, she's not too busy. What the hell...

"Jennifer...," I begin, then trail off. She broke up with me this morning, this of all mornings. And I'd had plans for us. This was going to be a special day.

A voice in my head snorts in derision. Meanwhile, back on the planet's surface....

Sarah gets it right away, looks appropriately concerned. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well it happens."

"How long were you--"

"Over two years."

"Well, I'm sure it's no comfort right now, but I think it's her loss." Sarah gives my arm a squeeze.

"Thanks," I say, not smiling, and "I don't want to talk about her." I really don't, I realize.

Sarah nods, begins cleaning up the debris left by an earlier customer, making small talk. She's not superficial, but like all barmaids, she takes her cue from whoever's buying the booze.

Which is okay. That's just the company I need right now, in some ways.

She's called away for a moment. One of the tables needs another round, so Sarah gives me an apologetic look and starts pulling pints. I ease back from the bar and take my glass to a seat by the window.

I notice the music. The late, great Jerry Garcia's fingers are doing their delicate dance over the fret-board, and he's singing something about 'winter's summer home.' I raise my glass; time to get down to business.

All day at work, I'd been only half there, through the daily grind of post-op paperwork, all the usual crap. And there will be more tomorrow -- we're working on a long-term case, annd I've been spending a lot of weekends in the field or at the office. I guess I should have seen this day coming, now that I think about it.

At any rate, I figure I'll combine tomorrow's misery with my hangover and kill two birds, so to speak.

It's still snowing outside, lightly. I watch the flakes drift downward. The city's never looked so clean, so pure. It's an illusion, of course, but a pleasant one.

"Michael." The voice comes from above me. I look up to see a tall woman standing by my table.

"Diana?" I'm surprised. Agent Fowley is the last person I expected to run into here.

"Cold night to drink alone. May I join you?"

I wave at the seat across from me. We get a few quizzical looks as she sits down. The other patrons seem to think we're a May-September couple, not that I give a damn.

I understand their puzzlement, though. Diana is in her fifties. She's been with DEA for more than a decade, and she had a long career with the FBI before that. I've known her for five years, since I joined the Baltimore field office.

She's seen a lot, over the years. More than she lets on.

She's a good friend.

I take another drink; Diana looks at my glass significantly.

"Do you do this often?" Her smile is friendly, though sad. I realize that though I've known her a long time, I've never run into her off-duty.

"No."

Sarah comes over. Diana orders gin. Then she turns back to me. "Good," she says.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

She gives me a wry look. "Just had to get out of the apartment, you know?"

That's nonsense, of course. I know I've mentioned this place to her. She must have followed me here.

Or perhaps she had her own reasons for coming.

"I'm sorry about what happened," she says. "I've been there, myself." There is real compassion in her voice.

With the guys at the office, I'd have shrugged it off. I'm glad I don't have to play games with Diana. "That obvious, huh?"

She nods. "I wasn't born yesterday, Michael. You haven't been yourself all day, and now here you are, on this night, alone in a crummy bar in Fells Point."

Something in her tone penetrates the early stages of scotch-induced haze that surround me, and again I wonder what she's doing here. I look hard at her, and her countenance is distant, suddenly guarded.

Sarah arrives with the gin and another round of scotch. My glass is almost empty, so I finish it off and make the exchange.

I decide to pry. Diana is a private woman, not prone to discuss her personal life, but I suddenly want to know more about her. "So, really," I say, "what brings you to this crummy bar in Fells Point?"

"I'm sensing something here," I add.

Diana laughs softly, in melancholy rather than humor. She gives me an appraising look, decides to tell me about it. "Today is a sort of anniversary," she says. "Someone I knew, years ago, he...." She stops, then "I...he was lost."

I remain silent, wait for her to go on.

She takes a long pull from her glass. Her gaze is focused elsewhere, not on me. "I remember, there was so much blood," she says.

This takes me by surprise. "What?"

She glances my way, suddenly. "Oh, it was a long time ago. Someone -- a colleague -- was killed during an operation. A bust, if you will."

"What happened?" She must be talking about her FBI years. I've never heard about anything like this happening to her while she's been at DEA.

She hesitates. Then, "I've never told you about what I used to do, have I?"

I shake my head.

"I worked on a project called the 'X-Files.' It was a Bureau thing, mostly obscure cases that nobody cared about."

"Unsolvable stuff," I suggest. "Closed cases."

"Something like that. We did some research into the paranormal, as well."

I give her a look. This is a side of Diana that I've had no inkling of.

"The paranormal? Ghost-busting?" The alcohol has lightened my mood a bit. I've gone from grim to grimly humorous. Diana is not really amused, but she takes it in stride.

"The project's been closed for years," she says. "After they shut us down, I left the Bureau." She doesn't explain any further about what the 'X-Files' were.

I let it go, returning to the matter of the 'anniversary.' I'm not morbid by nature, but the conversation is taking my mind off Jennifer, and I need that. "So, what happened...today?" I ask.

She's quiet for a moment, distant again. Then she says "It's been a long time since I've told anyone about this. It was about 15 years ago." She laughs softly. "I was still on your side of 40 then. We were approaching a cabin out in the woods, somewhere in western Pennsylvania. There was a lot of snow."

"Out in the boondocks, eh?"

"Yes. Long way from anywhere. Because it was an 'X-File,' there were just four of us. No backup."

"For a bust?" I ask. "What was the case?" What Diana is describing sure isn't how DEA does things. Doesn't sound much like standard FBI procedure either.

"It wasn't a bust, exactly. We weren't expecting any trouble. We were... investigating. Besides, we didn't often do things by the book." She pauses. "Agent Scully -- she was one of the team -- she and I were approaching from one side. Fo--" She breaks off, then "The other two agents had gone around the cabin, just in case."

I'm not following her. Maybe it's the alcohol. "What do you mean? I thought you said you weren't ex--"

"The cabin was on a slope," she says. "We didn't want the subject to take off on us, so the two of us who could move the fastest took the far side, the uphill side. Dana and I took the side with the easier terrain, that's all."

"Dana?"

"Agent Scully."

Okay, I've got it now. I nod my understanding. There's no wonder that things went badly, I think. Even a rookie would sense danger in what Diana's telling me.

She sighs. "We should have been more careful, but we really didn't expect violence. And it was a last-minute operation. We hadn't really had a chance to prepare properly. The man we were after had a rifle, as it turned out. Something must have spooked him."

Diana pauses again, drinks from her glass of gin. "Dana took a bullet in the abdomen."

Oh, Jesus, that's not good. My dismay must be evident, because Diana nods in grim agreement. "Yes, that's bad," she says. "Very bad."

She is quiet for a long while. I don't press her, just sip my scotch, soaking in the music and the low hum of conversation that fills the room. A few more people have drifted in, but it's still not crowded.

I wait patiently for Diana. She'll continue when she's ready.

At last, she speaks, her voice a bit shaky. "I...I did what I could, but... there was so much blood. I remember, it was bright red in the snow. She just lay there, breathing hard, shallow. She kept saying 'I'm okay. Just give me a second. I'll be okay.' Over and over. But she couldn't get up."

Diana has another sip of gin. "I don't think she realized how bad it was. Not at first."

"And then I heard another shot. That was Jeffery -- Agent Spender -- I found out later. He took down the suspect. He and...Agent Mulder...they hadn't realized what had happened, but they heard the gunshot, so...."

She pauses once more, then continues. "Like I said, I did what I could, but she'd been hit really badly. I think the bullet had been modified in some way."

For a long moment, Diana just stares at the glass in her hand. She's 15 years away, I realize.

"Dana started asking for her partner, then. Asking for Mulder." Diana is unconsciously rubbing her wrist, and I get a mental image of a dying woman, her blood all around her, clutching it in hopeless desperation. "By the time he got there, she was coughing up blood, choking on it. She wasn't getting enough air. It was terrible." Diana takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "We called for help, but there wasn't enough time. We didn't see an ambulance for almost an hour."

"No chopper?"

"They sent one, but it didn't arrive much before the ambulance. We tried to help, but Dana was the only doctor among us, ironically. So in the end we just...watched her die." An odd expression passes over Diana's face. "It was neither dulce nor decorum," she says.

What a fuck-up, I think, though I don't voice that sentiment. I reach out and take her hand. "Jesus, Diana. That must have been awful."

She gives my hand a brief squeeze and then pulls back, digging into her purse and taking out a box of expensive cigarettes. I don't smoke very often, but I take the one she offers me, lighting up with her.

"I suppose she was lucky, in a way" Diana says. "She didn't suffer as long as she might have. And he was with her, at least. I think that must have comforted her."

"Her partner," I say. It's a question, though I don't understand why.

Diana nods in the affirmative.

"Mulder blamed himself, of course. He'd planned the investigation, he'd insisted on going in." Diana gives me a sharp look. "We weren't supposed to be there, you see. Later they used that as a reason to close us down."

"You came to DEA after that," I say.

"Not right away, but within a few years. After the 'X-Files' were closed, there wasn't much to keep me at the Bureau."

"Well, I'm glad you joined us, anyway." I sound inane, even to myself.

"It's a terrible thing, to watch someone die," Diana says.

I agree. I've never seen it, but hearing about it is bad enough. "That was awful, what happened to her."

She nods. "But I meant her partner. When she left him...he died. I was watching his face when it happened. I saw the light in his eyes just...go out."

"Jeffery had to take his weapon. Mulder was kneeling in the snow next to her. His clothes were ruined, all bloody. All of a sudden, he took his gun out." Diana raises her right hand toward her temple. "He had it half-way...I don't think he knew what he was doing. He didn't resist when we disarmed him."

Through the smoke, I see that Diana's eyes are moist now, and I'm wondering what she's not telling me.

She continues her narrative. "Mulder just knelt there, then. Wouldn't get up, wouldn't say anything. After a while, I saw him take out a ring and put it on her left hand. A diamond, you know?"

I must look puzzled. Diana says "Mulder and his partner were...a lot more than partners."

"Lovers," I say.

Diana nods, a strange look on her face. She's quiet for a second, then the corners of her mouth quirk, without humor. She looks at me. "Seems melodramatic, doesn't it? The ring, I mean."

I shrug.

"Mulder was like that." She pauses. "Jeffery never liked him, but even he felt sorry for him then."

I feel sorry for him too. I drink my whiskey and wonder what was supposed to happen that day, before Mulder decided they had to go to that cabin instead. A quiet dinner someplace nice, perhaps. Flowers, champagne, all the usual props.

I wonder if his lover had known.

"How old was she?" I ask.

"About 35 or 36, I think. Mulder was a couple years older. Bit of a late bloomer." Diana smiles fondly, remembering him.

And she's still not telling me something, but I'm starting to get the picture. I wasn't born yesterday either.

"So what happened to him?" I ask. Poor bastard, I think. That's a hell of a thing to have happen.

"He started drinking. A lot. After Dana's funeral, he left the Bureau. I never saw him again."

"Never?"

She hesitates. "I...didn't know him very well."

Sarah comes to check on us, and I order another round. When our drinks arrive, Diana and I touch glasses in an ironic clink.

Happy fuckin' 14th of February, I think to myself, knocking back a large swallow. I don't say anything, just watch the snow fall. I'm not thinking about why I came in here.

I'm wondering where Agent Mulder is, on this night.

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori."

-- Horace, Odes, bk. 1, ode xxxiv, l. 1

Feedback is always welcome.   Please email: ravenscion@yahoo.com

Completed Stories
Homepage