BonnieGayle
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web site: http://members.tripod.com/xtrordinaryxfiles/index.html
Augustus Rubies: 1/1
Rating: R for language
Classification: Post ep, Mulder POV, Original POV, Scully POV, UST, Definite Angst
Summary: Post-ep for The End, because it didn't really end there, now did it? Mulder goes to do some heavy lifting at the local bar, but, unbeknownst to him, he's not alone.
Spoilers: The end of The End is spoiled. (ha ha) General knowledge of other eps help.
Disclaimer: (Most people try to have fun with this, but personally I just skip it when I'm looking at other sites, so...) The X-Files and everything else related to it belong to Chris Carter, Fox, 1013, David, Gillian, various others, and the BIG BAD WOLVES...um lawyers! I don't own them, I just borrow them for a while, but I'll try to return them in better shape then I got 'em:>) But if I did own them, not only would I be richer than I deserve to be, this UST mumbo-jumbo would be a bad memory!
Feedback: Yes please.
Augustus Rubies
I'm only slightly aware of Scully clutching on to me. It's only on the peripheral of my awareness. Only noted, and just as quickly filed away. I'm also aware that one or both of us is shaking, and I'm soaking wet from the automatic sprinklers which were just shut off moments ago.
All of these are just trifling details. Minor facts compared with what's sitting in front of me.
The smoldering remains of my life work.
"They. They burned it. The assholes Scully. The assholes. It's gone. It's all gone. All of it. Years of it. Burned."
I'm rambling on. Muttering about God knows what. Trembling and muttering and staring. Oh God, am I staring. I can't take my eyes off of the scorched filing cabinet. I haven't let my gaze move. I don't think I've even *blinked* since I walked in.
Two paces. Gape. Scully. Gape. Mutter. Gape.
There's a buzzing in my ears, and I realize that Scully's talking.
"'S okay Mulder. We have back-up. On the computer. I did it. 'S okay. Scanned pictures and everything."
I want to thank her. At the very least I should acknowledge what she said. I should. But I can't. Because it's gone. It's all gone Scully.
I push past Scully and walk the well-worn path to the filing cabinet that I've walked thousands of millions of times. I would always get to work before Scully, and my first stop, even before getting our coffee mugs refilled, would be the files. To flip through them. A daily stroll down memory lane. The unusual assortment of ghouls, monsters, mutants, freaks and aliens. If I flipped through them fast enough, it was my own personal Bella Lugosi movie. It would focus me for the day ahead. Keep me centered enough to reach whatever the goal du jour happened to be. Keep my eyes on the prize. I engulf the two strides for what could be the last time.
"Oh God Scully. Samantha's file. Her picture. It was the original. My favorite one of her. Oh Jesus. Your file Scully. It was all in there. The abduction, cancer, chips, check-up results. It's all gone. I have to save it."
I reach out and try to open a drawer, but it sticks.
Scully's scream makes me yank my hand back.
"Mulder, it's burnt!"
Well, this is news. I look down at my palm, and sure enough there's a nasty purplish blister rising up. It doesn't even hurt. Yet.
Scully rushes over, and clicks her tongue when she sees it. "We need to put ice on it and get you to a doctor as quickly as possible." She pauses and looks up at me. "Mulder, no file is important enough to put your life on the line."
I don't want to see a doctor. In fact, I don't even want to be here. I don't want to be here when Skinner gets here. I don't want to see when they take the files away. I don't want to watch them rip down my burnt poster.
I move Scully aside, and walk to the door.
"Mulder? Where are you going? That's a bad burn; you have to see a doctor. Mulder, come back."
I think of giving her one of my many fallback brush-off answers, but I can't seem to stop my legs from moving. Before I realize it, I'm in the hall, and halfway to the elevator.
I hear Scully calling me as I get into the elevator, but I'm too messed up to feel any guilt or remorse. I let the doors slide shut without saying anything.
Once I reach my car, I sigh, and rest for a moment with my eyes squeezed tightly shut before putting the key in the ignition.
I try to grasp the steering wheel with my injured hand without thinking, but am duly chastised by the pain. I gasp and yank back my hand to stare at it. It's already swollen to double the normal size, and is turning blackish. I guess I'll just have to drive with one hand.
I decide I have no idea where I'm going as I leave the parking garage. I definitely don't want to go home. That'll be the first place Scully'll check. I decide to drive on autopilot, and end up wherever my car takes me. I'm beyond caring right about now.
I end up at Augustus Rubies, the bar I frequent when I need to be nowhere, but have to be somewhere.
I sit down at the counter and order my first tequila.
He's had eight shots already. I heard from one of my weekend bartenders that he got up to 15 shots once. This man can hold his alcohol. I both appreciate and pity that talent in equal measure. I appreciate it because he's not going to be one of the pussies who's asking for the barf bucket after one shot, and moaning. I pity it because it's a quality you don't acquire overnight. He's done some major drinking in his life.
I like him. He's one of my favorite patrons. I only know his last name from hearing him answer his cell phone, but that's more than I know about most of my patrons. He's a quiet drinker. He doesn't start fights, or sing, or yell. He slinks into the bar, grabs a stool at the counter, hands me his keys, and jabs a finger in front of him. He doesn't even say, 'the regular,' like some of the men do, to brag. He sits there and gulps down one after the other, each one punctuated only by that jab. When he's done, he mumbles a thank you, grabs his keys, pays his bill, and lets me call him a cab. He knows exactly what a bartender likes in a patron. I asked him about it once, on one of his more chatty visits, and he explained that he was a bartender for a short while to help earn spending money during college over in 'jolly old England'. I *knew* he had experience.
He only comes in here when he's down on his luck. I asked him about that once and he said it was because he couldn't let his partner see him like this. If only he knew…. Sometimes, if it's a quiet night, I ask him what's the matter, and sometimes he talks, sometimes he doesn't. Let me tell you,when he does talk, it's some spooky shit. I don't know whether to believe it or not, but if even half of what he says is true, it's a weirder world than I thought we lived in. And as a bartender I see some weird stuff!
He's in a chatty mood today, and it's not that busy, so I let him talk.
"Oh shit Augustus," I think he likes me because I go by my first name. He told me once that he only goes by his last name because his first one is almost as weird as Augustus. I told him I could tell that he was obviously someone who didn't care about fitting in, why would he care what people thought of his first name? He didn't have a reply for that one.
"It's bad today Augustus. Not only am I more than likely out of a job, they burned it all on top of that. My office. They burned my office. It's all gone." I nod, and let him continue. He doesn't need a response very often. "I think I know who did it too. That man is out to get me. He knows just how to do it too. He takes away my partner, puts her in danger, gives her cancer, and abducts her. I always get her back though. Gus, she always stays too. Why does she stay? Why do you think?"
I look over his shoulder for a second, but getting a sad look, only shrug. "Women are mysterious. They have reasons that aren't always clear to anyone but themselves. Ever thought about asking her?"
He thinks for a second. "You know, I've thought about asking her, I’m really curious, but what if she can't think of a reason, and that makes her leave? I'd rather have her stay for no reason than leave me." He shivers at the thought.
I frown. His logic is either way over my head, or not logicat all, because that makes no sense. "I think with the weird stuff that you do, and the danger it puts her in, she has to have a *very* good reason for staying other than not ever thinking of it."
"I dunno." He drops his chin down to rest on his chest. "Oh Jesus Gus, I left her. I just left her standing in the hall calling after me! I'm horrible! She's probably scared to death! Worried about me. She probably thinks something bad happened to me! I should call her."
I look over his shoulder again, and get a frantic no. I have to make up an excuse, quick. "I'm sure she's okay. And you're sounding a little slurred. I think that would make her even more worried."
He calms down instantly. "You're right Gus."
We're quiet for a second, but then I speak up. "Why don't you call the cops on the guy that you suspect burnt your office?"
He laughs, and damned if I get what I said that was so funny."You don't understand how high up this guy is. The cops answer to *him*. He can take out the cops, no, the whole world, with a flick of his puny wrist."
I look over his shoulder in shock to see Red's amused nod. Wow.
"You know, she could stay for the excitement. Not everyone could say that a man who holds the world in the palm of his hand has a personal vendetta against them."
He laughs again. "Not Scully. I know her better than to think that. She's *smarter* than that. There's about as much thrill tangling with that cancerous fuck as there is getting choked to death by a boa constrictor." He frowns, and then jabs a finger on the counter morosely. "I need another one."
"Why do you continue the job if you're so negative about it?" I ask him.
He sighs and closes his eyes before responding. "You know, my reasons are getting more and more worn out and pathetic as the days go by. The weird thing is, I would argue that fact with Scully 'til I'm blue in the face, but I would silently agree with her. I don't know her reason for staying, but I'm starting to forget mine too." He jabs his finger down again.
I look over his shoulder again to see her nod. Red'll let him get up to 10 before stopping him.
He catches me this time. It's a first out of many."Hey, what are you looking at?"
"Nothing." But he's already turning and it's too late for Red to hide.
"SCULLY!" He yelps.
Red grins sheepishly.
"What? *What!* What are you doing here Scully?"
"Coincidence?" Red answers weakly.
He turns to me. "Augustus?"
I decide to tell the truth. "She came in one day, and gave me her card, and asked me to call her if you ever came, so I give her a ring every time you show up here. She drinks a club soda and stops you after 10 shots. Makes sure you get home safe."
"WHAT?"
Red finally pipes up. "Mulder, stop yelling. You're making a scene-"
"I don't *care*. You've been...how long? *Every* time?"
I decide to put in my 2 cents, "and it's a good thing she does too. The only time she wasn't here was the time you were raving about her having cancer, and that was the time you drank 15 shots! The weekend bartender thought she was gonna have to call 911."
"Mulder," Red sighs and walks over to him. She takes his elbow, "come over to my booth. I'll explain everything."
"Scully?" He whispers in confusion before getting up and letting her lead him.
Good. I hope they talk. I know why she stays, and I know why he stays. I know them better than they know themselves, and I hope, for my two favorite patrons sake, that they figure it out too.
I got found out. I've been doing this for *years* and Mulder's usually too far into his cups to notice Augustus, or Gus as I call him, looking at me. Great. It had to be *today* of all days.
Mulder and I slide into the booth facing each other. He scowls at me for about a second, but the frown crumples and he just looks confused.
"Why Scully?"
I have no readily available answer to this. At least none that Mulder would like to hear. I would trust Mulder with my life any day. I just don't trust Mulder with his *own* life. He seems to care about himself the least of anyone. Call it survivor's guilt, or self-sabotage, or whatever. It just is. He would take the bullet for anyone walking down the street. Admirable, but in the same breath I would have to call it complete suicidal stupidity. I don't want to see him hurt himself, so I watch out for him. He wouldn't like this a bit, I know. I understand too. I would hate it myself. But, the only way I can sleep at night is knowing that Mulder's safe.
"Because...because Mulder. I take it as part of being your partner. You know, looking out for your partner's safety? I learned it at Quantico."
I can tell Mulder doesn't understand it or like it, but he just frowns for a second and then sighs as if he hasn't slept for a month and it's finally hitting him, and knowing Mulder, he probably hasn't.
He rests his head on his folded arms for a second, and I'm surprised when I hear him start to softly snore. He's really out of it.
"Mulder. Mulder! Come on. Let's get you home."
His eyes snap open, and he jerks upright. "Huh? Where are we?" He looks around in panic.
"Mulder...a bar. Come on, let's go. You need someone to look at your hand, and a shower to sober you up," I murmur when he calms.
"No doctors Scully. I don't want to see a doctor." His voice takes on a wheedling tone, and he gives me the 'Sad Puppy Dog Look'. "Can't you look at it Scully?"
I smile secretly. I love it when he asks me to be his doctor. He even asked me to take his tooth out once, when he got an abcess. I turned him down, of course, but talk about trust! "Fine Mulder. Not here though."
Mulder waggles an eyebrow at me. "My place or yours?"
I roll my eyes, nod a goodbye to Gus, and lead Mulder out to my car.