Title: Sentinel and Nun (1 of 1)
Author: Diana Battis
Distribution: OK for Gossamer, Xemplary and Spookys.  Anywhere else, just 
ask. I usually say yes.  
Classification: MSR, V, Angst 
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None  
Summary: A vigil in the night.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.  Never have, never will, damn it!
Author's Comments: Special thanks to my wonderful betas, Kristy and Kelly, 
for their suggestions and encouragement. Ladies, the beer's on me!
Music may be the food of love, but I live for feedback!  E-mail me -- 
All4Mulder@aol.com
My fanfiction can be found at: 
http://thebasementoffice.com/Musea/dbattis/TheXFilesFic.html

********
Like sentinel and nun, they keep 
Their vigil on the green. 
"The Cambridge Churchyard"  Oliver Wendell Holmes

********

I have a thing for good booze.  Vodka, scotch, gin -- as long as it's 
top-shelf shit, I love it.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm no drunk, even though I've been sitting in the 
back of this neighborhood bar every Friday night for the past two months.  
It's just that I have a certain appreciation for some of the finer things in 
life.

Like her.

She catches my eye the moment she enters.  Hell, she catches the eye of just 
about every man in the joint.

Standing in the doorway, she surveys the room gravely, her aquiline nose 
twitching slightly at the earthy mix of beer, sweat and desperation that 
permeates the air.  There is something regal about this woman.  She is 
absolutely beautiful, what I call real class, despite the frayed jeans, gray 
sweatshirt and oversized denim jacket she's wearing.  This little chick would 
look good in sackcloth and ashes, though I'm happy she ain't wearing 'em.  
But she's exquisite enough to carry it off.  Not many women could.

Her hair is gorgeous.  She wears it pulled back, but it's slightly damp from 
the rain.  It fights against its confinement, with loose strands escaping to 
curl wildly about her pale face.  And such magnificent skin! Fair and 
unblemished now, it's the kind that freckles in summer.  

There's a certain aura about her, too -- a sort of untouched quality that 
makes you immediately want to take her under your wing.  Fragile, like 
delicate bone china.  But looks can be deceiving, as I've learned over the 
years.  Sometimes little china dolls can kick some serious ass.

Friday is prime drinking time at the Blarney Stone.  On this rainy, November 
night the small bar holds the regular crowd, and the air is dense with smoke 
and the usual end-of-the-week bullshit.  A big screen television is tuned in 
to a basketball game, amid cheers and catcalls from those watching.  But she 
seems oblivious to the chaos.

In the dim interior, her hair is like a beacon.  I watch as she walks 
purposefully toward the tables, and am again amazed at her ability to balance 
on those high heeled black boots she favors.

Did I mention she's a redhead?  Her hair's not that awful orangy-red that 
looks like over-boiled carrots, all limp and unappealing.  No, it's more like 
the color of a spectacular sunset over the Pacific, beautiful tones that 
shimmer in the dusky atmosphere.

Shit, listen to me, getting all poetic about hair.  But the plain and simple 
truth -- I can't seem to help myself.  She *is* a knockout.

In all the times I've seen her here, the routine never changes.  She scopes 
out the joint, takes note of the other patrons, and finds a table.  Tonight 
there's only one that's empty, second from the front.  She seats herself, 
carefully draping her jacket over the back of the chair.  She usually opts to 
sit near the front, and always positions herself facing the door.  She's 
waiting for him, and I can sense her anticipation from where I'm sitting.

Hard to imagine this as a suitable place for a romantic rendezvous.  The 
dingy paneling is hung with ancient prints and tacky neon signs advertising 
cheap beer.  There's a jukebox in the back, and a small square of floor that 
would be suitable for dancing if it weren't occupied by a beat-up pool table.

The clientele ain't much better.  This is a working man's bar, a place to go 
to get away from the little woman and screaming kids.  They come here to get 
drunk in peace, and if they get a little thrill from a looker like her, well, 
that's just the head on a beer.

But this is where she always waits for him, week after week -- like 
clockwork.  

I've often wondered how any man could expect a woman as beautiful as this to 
wait in a bar full of such raunchy bastards.  Harsh judgment you say?  Not 
really, because I know exactly how they feel.  Shit, if I was ten years 
younger, well. . .Ah, but who the hell am I kidding?  She'd never give a 
second look to a guy like me, not at any age.

Oh, don't think some of these guys haven't tried.  Anything that looks as 
good as she does, looks even better through a boilermaker-induced haze.  They 
swagger over, smelling of sweat and cheap cologne, like sailors on shore 
leave looking for a good time.  And with a twitch of a brow and a simple 
'no,' she sends 'em back to the bar, looking like they lost their sea legs.

I told you she has class.

Mac the bartender sees her and immediately walks over to her table.  He has a 
pitcher of beer and two mugs clenched in his huge hands.  They have this 
little ritual they observe.  He pours her a mugful, and hovers while she 
takes her first sip.  Mac's like some goddamned wine steward, bowing and 
scraping, waiting to see if madam approves of his vintage Budweiser.

She always does.

It used to surprise the hell out of me, the way she could hold her drink, but 
not anymore.  There's more to this little lady than meets the eye.

Tonight, she concentrates on the mug in front of her.  Shuddering, she chugs 
down half the contents in practically one gulp, but I can't tell if her 
reaction is from the brew's coldness or its bitterness.  Then she sets the 
mug carefully back on the table, using her fingers to absently wipe a trace 
of foam from her lip.  Such a dainty gesture after that beer guzzling 
display, yet somehow, it all suits her.

I've learned a lot about her, just by observing her habits here.  She likes 
draft beer, and hates basketball.  She never touches any of the peanuts or 
pretzels, even though the bartender seems to go to a lot of trouble to make 
sure her table is always well supplied with these snacks. Never plays the 
jukebox.  Never says more than a few words to anyone.  And despite all the 
beer she drinks, she never leaves her table until closing time.

Always patient, she waits and doesn't complain -- at least I've never heard 
her.  So poised, too.  There's this invisible wall around her that seems to 
keep her separated from the rest of us poor slobs.  Her own testosterone-free 
zone, where she can sit and wait in peace. 

I am constantly amazed at her patience.  She manages to remain in control, no 
matter what.  Maybe experience teaches you how to deal with the waiting, I 
don't know.  It sure hasn't done much for me. . .

She's usually very calm, too.  Except for sips of beer, a gesture for a new 
pitcher, or the occasional glance at the clock behind the bar, she just sits 
quietly and watches the door.  Nothing seems to ruffle her feathers or 
distract her from her vigil.

But that part's a little different this particular Friday.  She seems 
nervous.  She's shredding a napkin, tearing it into little pieces then 
rolling them into balls and lining them up on the table.  Her movements are 
methodical, but I don't think she's really aware of her actions.  Instead, 
she remains focused on the bar's entrance.

Every time the door opens she tenses up a little, scanning the doorway for 
him.  I can sense her anxiety, though I don't think it's apparent to anyone 
else, and I hate the way her whole body seems to crumple when someone else 
enters the bar.

It almost makes me want to cry.

But not her -- she's a real little trooper. After every disappointment she 
just squares her shoulders and takes another swig of her beer.  And she never 
stops looking.

I've wondered what it is about him that first attracted her.  What special 
attributes does he possess to inspire such loyalty and devotion?  Not many 
men could get a woman this beautiful to wait for them, especially in a joint 
as seedy as this one.  So what the hell is it?  What's his freaking secret?

He's not especially good-looking.  I should know -- I've seen him with her, 
sitting at that very table.  Nose too goddamned big, eyes droopy, and hair 
that must've been cut with hedge clippers.  But something in him, something 
not visible to the rest of us, speaks to her.

So she waits.

She's sipping at another mugful.  Her fingers trace over the condensation on 
the pitcher, swirling through the droplets of water.  It occupies her hands, 
but not her mind -- that seems to be still focused on the door.

A chorus of cheers and groans arises from the sports fans in the bar.  The 
basketball game is finally over, and I can hear the good-natured rumbling 
from the losers as money changes hands.  The winners call for a round of 
drinks for everyone, even her, but she just smiles and shakes her head, 
lifting her still half-full mug.  

Such a lovely smile, too.  A sweet and gentle curve of the lips that lights 
up her face.  And this was only one of her perfunctory ones.  The real smiles 
are a delicious sight to behold, stuff that could fuel a thousand erotic 
fantasies.

What I wouldn't give to be on the receiving end of one of those smiles.  He's 
gotten more than his fair share of them, and I want it to be my turn.  To 
know what it's like to be loved like that. . .

Aw, fuck it!

Right now I could use a good, stiff drink.  Some of that top-shelf shit I was 
talking about earlier.  But I can't, and settle for another club soda.  I 
have to keep a clear head tonight.  It's a long drive home. . .

She's been knocking back the beer pretty steady now.  Finished over half of 
the second pitcher.  Her eyes have a glassy look to them, and I know she's 
nearly reached the limit.  But glassy-eyed or not, she maintains her vigil.

I check my watch -- it's 1:50 a.m.  As if on cue, I hear the bartender 
announcing the last call, and the loud chorus of groans that erupts catches 
my attention for just a moment.  When I look back, she's slumped forward, 
elbows on the table and her chin resting in her cupped hands. Her eyelids are 
drooping, and I know it's time for me to make my move.

My knees creak slightly as I stand, and I drain the last of my soda with a 
hand that's almost steady. One deep breath, and I walk forward to her table.

"Scully?"

She looks up at me, her blue eyes slightly cloudy.  Drink and disappointment 
are a bad combination, and I hear the sigh that seems to come from her toes.  
"Is it that time already, Frohike?"

"Afraid so.  Come on, let's get you ready."  I reach down to grasp her hand 
and help her to her feet, but she ignores the gesture.

"Not yet.  How 'bout one for the road?" she wheedles, holding up her empty 
mug.  "And lookee here, we got a nice clean one for you, too."  Her voice is 
slurred, and her coordination has deteriorated as well.  She grabs for the 
other mug and misses, knocking it to the floor, where it shatters.

"I broke it."  Her voice is hollow, and she stares at the remains with 
something akin to horror.

Mac comes over to clear away the glass, waving away her apologies with a 
smile of reassurance.  It does nothing to drive the away look of pain that I 
see in her eyes.

"I think you've had enough, Scully.  And it's closing time.  You wouldn't 
want to get poor old Mac in trouble, would you?" I ask softly, my hand 
touching her cheek.

She shakes her head, and slowly gets to her feet.  She teeters noticeably, 
those damned stilts she wears not helping her sense of balance one bit.  I 
reach out to steady her, my hands resting lightly on her shoulders, and she 
leans into me for a second as she struggles to regain her equilibrium.

"Thank you," she whispers, and I drop my hands, allowing her to step back.  
Her fingers tremble slightly as she pushes a few escaping strands of hair 
behind her ears.  "Let me just. . ."  She gestures toward the restrooms, and 
I move aside, watching while she makes her way unsteadily to the back.

I want to help her, to take her elbow, or walk behind her with my hand 
supporting her.  But I won't.  She would hate it.  I'm not Mulder.

She's barely gone five minutes.  When she returns there's a hint of color in 
her cheeks.  Her hair is slightly damp, and her eyes seem a bit brighter than 
before.  Amazing what cold water and a rough paper towel will do.  She snags 
her jacket off the back of her chair and pulls it on.

"I'm ready," she announces, her voice husky with fatigue.  Together, we leave 
the Blarney Stone.

These nights I play chauffeur.  Her car is in Georgetown, relegated to its 
usual parking spot. Yeah, some lucky cabbie gets to bring her here and I have 
the pleasure of escorting her home.

We stand just outside the bar. She wobbles noticeably, and I grab an elbow to 
steady her.  The damp air seems to help sober her up a bit, and she breathes 
deeply, her breath misting in the chill of the night.  After a bit, we make 
it to the van, the lady and her tramp.

The drive to her place is silent.  Several times I try to start a 
conversation, but it's more like I'm talking to myself and I finally give it 
up.  She sits quietly, a blank expression on her face as she stares out the 
window.  Though she seems engrossed in the scenery, I get the distinct 
feeling that she's really not seeing anything.  It makes for an uncomfortable 
ride.  Fortunately, the roads are practically deserted this time of night, 
and in less than thirty minutes we reach her apartment.  

I pull up outside and turn to look at her.  She's pretty much done in, and 
there is no attempt to straighten her shoulders to show the world she's 
strong.  By now, all the fight's gone out of her, leaving this mere shell 
sitting next to me.  

I can't help myself -- I pull her over and give her a hug.  She stiffens for 
just a second, then, wonder of wonders, leans against me, resting her head on 
my shoulder.

"Why, Scully?  Week after week -- why do you keep putting yourself through 
this?"  It's the question I've asked her several times before, but she's 
never answered it.  I really don't expect one this time, either.

But she shocks the hell out of me.  Her head comes up, and her eyes meet 
mine.  They are now blazing, the cloudiness chased away by her anger.  "How 
can you ask me that?"

"I'm. . ." I try to respond, but she'll have none of it.  She pulls away from 
me as if I were poison, and the red in her cheeks is more pronounced.  
Scully's pissed at me because I've done the unthinkable. . .I've broken 
through her shell.

"He said he'd meet me there.  Eleven o'clock.  Friday.  You know that!"  Her 
voice is raised, and even though we're still sitting in the van I glance out 
nervously, wondering if any of her neighbors can hear us.

I try to reason with her.  My voice is low, and I try to be as gentle with my 
words as I possibly can be.  "Scully, they fished his car from the Potomac 
almost three months ago.  He's gone, you know that.  You went to his funeral. 
 We all did."  I touch her arm, grateful when she doesn't shrug off my hand.  
"He's not coming, and you've got to stop doing this to yourself."

Her lips curve slightly, and it shocks me.  I can't figure out what the hell 
she's found to smile about, but I'm not left wondering for long.  "They found 
a car, not a body.  He's not dead."  Her words are so firm, so sure, that I 
almost believe her.  Almost.

"Scully, you saw the condition of the car.  The top was practically ripped 
off.  His body was probably pulled from the wreck and carried away in the 
current.  Chances are, it'll never be found."  Christ, he was my friend too.  
Doesn't she know I'd give my right arm to have him back?

She's shaking her head, and I expect tears of denial, but she's still 
smiling.  "You're wrong, Frohike.  He's alive.  If he weren't, I would feel 
it here."  She pats her chest, over her heart.  "He's out there, somewhere, 
and I'm going to find him.  Or he's going to find me."

There's nothing left to say, so I just nod.  And that satisfies her, for the 
moment.

She reaches for the handle, and opens the door.  Before stepping out, she 
turns back to me.  "Next Friday?"  

I nod again.  Next Friday.  The thirteenth vigil.  Maybe she'll be lucky next 
time. . .

I watch her walk up to her building, carefully moving along the pavement and 
up the steps to her door.  Keys in hand, she turns and waves to me before 
entering.  I sit there, waiting until I see the light flash on in her 
apartment.  Then, putting the van in gear, I pull away.

See you next week, Scully.

********

End

Diana Battis
Feedback is appreciated -- All4Mulder@aol.com