“Rest Stop”
by Allronix
Companion: “Luck be a Lady Tonight” by Jennifer Maurer
S POV

"Here's a little legend for the legend for the never-believer.
Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah
Here's a little ghost for the offering.
Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah
Here's a truck stop instead of St. Peter's..."

-REM "Man on the Moon" 
 
 

I was going to kick their asses.

I’ve come to expect this garbage out of Mulder, and that’s why I played
right into the Stooges’ hands. After prying out the sordid story out of
Frohike by threatening to put their files in Computer Terrorism’s inbox, I
stormed out of the room to find the mastermind of this little scheme and
strangle him with his own tie.

I wove my way through the casino, taking the long way so that I can at least
demand a more coherent explanation than Frohike and Langly were able to give
me. I’m still a little light-headed, too. It’s an aftereffect of the AH, I’m
guessing. I don’t even want to think of what I did while under its
influence. I think it might be right next to spending a night with Ed Jerse
in terms of brilliance.

I rub my back. I still have that souvenir from that. I have the reputation
as being rational, cool-headed, an ice queen. If only then knew that
somewhere in here lurks one of the most air-headed bimbos to ever walk the
planet. Just add chemical stupidity, and out comes someone who gets a large
tattoo on her back for the fun of it, listens to her Bee Gees albums, and
offered half of the male population of Los Vegas to light her cigarette,
re-staring a habit it took half of med school to quit completely.

By the time I get there, the rage has extinguished itself mostly. I’m just
tired. The casino bar is still open and serving. Los Vegas has no sense of
time. Apparently, neither does the man who’s sitting at the bar, nursing
what is far from his first drink of the evening.

One look at his face says it all. I can’t kick Byers’s ass any more than
it’s already been kicked. Funny, I never pictured he’d be getting plastered
in a casino bar, but then again the Stooges saw a side of me I’d rather not
let anyone see, either.

"*There* you are."

He turns to me and blinks. He’s a mess. His eyes are dull and unfocused. I’m
used to that intense blue-eyed stare reflecting the light of a computer. His
jacket is slung over the back of a chair, his shirt’s unbuttoned and his
tie’s undone. He’s not bothering to look pulled-together, either.

He turns back to the concoction he was nursing. "Come to kick my ass?”

I put one hand on my hip and another on his wrist to block him from picking
up that drink. You may be a mess, Byers, but you’re not getting out of this.
"Something like that.  I've spoken to your associates and they assure me
that dragging me along on this little jaunt was *your* idea, Byers."

He huffs in contempt. "Weasels. Langly'd sell his own mother if the price
was right."

If only he knew. When those boys close ranks, it would take an entire
department of the Bureau to get a word from them.

"Actually, it was Frohike who 'fessed up," I say, sitting on the stool next
to his. This could take a while.

"What'd you do,” he asks, slurring his words a bit. “Bat your eyelashes at
him?"

“Something like that,” I answer.

He chuckles and downs the rest of his drink, gesturing for another. The
bartender takes the glass and quietly complies.

"So, do I get an explanation,” I ask. “Or should I wait until you're sober?"

He has the sense to wince a little and try to pull himself together enough
to manage a coherent excuse. "We needed your forensic expertise. You're the
best pathologist I know."

"I'm the *only* pathologist you know."

"Well, yeah, that too.  I know we tricked you, Scully, and I'm sorry. But if
*I* had called you, would you have come out to Las Vegas?"

He’s right. Damn it, he’s right. It doesn’t always take alcohol or dubious
mind-control drugs to bring out Scully the Bimbo. One call from Mulder and I
drop it all and run. It’s saved my life a couple times, but also imperiled
it…too many times to even think of counting. And I lost the good sense to
ask him why most of the time.

"No, the Pavlov response only works with Mulder," I say bitterly, and catch
the bartender's eye. "Scotch rocks."

At least I know Byers is halfway sane when sober. I couldn’t say that about
Ed Jerse. So, I don’t mind the idea of joining him in the self-pity.

Honestly, it’s odd seeing him without the other two. I tend to think of them
as a unit, not individuals, and even then they’re Mulder’s friends. They
don’t really know me and probably aren’t interested. From what I can tell,
they didn’t want to know Diana, either.

He’s looking at me strangely. I stare back. Look, I’m the one who’s sober
here. I won’t be by the end of the night, but I am there now.

"Think you should be drinking after that...stuff they zapped you with?" he
asks.

"We're in *Las Vegas*, Byers," I say by means of an excuse. Truth is,
joining him in a stupor seems like a good idea. "If I can't cut loose
*here*, what hope is there for me?"

He nods. Maybe he understands, but I doubt it. A few seconds of silence
later, I collect my nerve.

"So who is she, really?"

He chokes on his drink. After a coughing fit, he stares at me with as much
offended dignity I think the man can muster.

"Excuse me?"

"Suzanne Modeski.  Who is she?"

“Mulder didn’t tell you?”

I shook my head. “He told me it was a long story. That I’d have to wait
until I got back to DC for him to tell it. Actually, Frohike and Langly
weren’t much help when I tried to ask them the question about her. So, I’m
asking you.”

He swirls the drink around a little and takes a gulp. “Dutch courage” as my
father would have called it.

“Once upon a time, a fool dropped out of law school to join the FCC. He
loved his country, and believed in the American Dream, the American
government…he believed that the dream was real. That the government was
fairly elected and worked for the best interest of the people, so going into
government service seemed to be where he could do the most good.”

I nod. The story sounds familiar. Change a few words, and I could be telling
it.

“Then, a beautiful woman comes up to his booth. She needed help. She was on
the run from someone and needed a friend.” He sighs and swirls the drink a
little. “I’m not sure why I did what I did, but before I knew it, I had
hacked into the DOD - Scully, before this, I was so law-abiding I didn’t
even double park, and here I was hacking into government computers and even
lying to the FBI. Did Mulder tell you his role in this?”

I shake my head. All I got was a long silence after mentioning that Modeski
was there.

“He was trying to arrest her. At the time, he was just a normal FBI agent,
doing his job.”

Now that throws me. I’ve seen many shades of Mulder in the passing years -
Mulder the Sweet, Mulder the Asshole, and Mulder the Hell-Bent, but Mulder
the Normal?

“Before I knew it, I had dragged the two men selling black market cable into
it - these would be the other two ‘Stooges’ - and we’re in it even deeper.
Susanne had defected trying to stop her former bosses from testing this -“
he spits the word out. “Poison on innocent people! We stopped it, sort of.
Mulder accidentally got dosed. I think the paranoia-inducing properties of
the gas caused him to recall his sister’s abduction. The three of us spent
the night in jail. He spent the night in five-point restraints.”

Suddenly, flirting with half the hotel and getting rescued by Frohike looks
tame in comparison. It also explains why got the regression therapy and
opened the X-Files. It must have been shortly after this.

“After that,” Byers says, twirling his now-empty glass in his hands. “Right
into hell with no looking back. Everything I believed in turned out to be a
sick joke! For every scheme we manage to uncover, there are a dozen more
that succeed under our noses. Our elected officials don’t hold the real
power or know what’s going on most of the time - most of the deals are being
made by these people who manipulate and do these perverted things because
they can. They poison and spy on innocent people, play games with our minds,
and laugh when idiots like me still believe that it can be a free country.”
Another bitter laugh. “It hasn’t been the same, I guess, since those type of
people found out they could murder a president and get away scot-free. It’s
not a question of if there’s a plan - it’s who’s next and how many will>
die?”

He slumps over the bar again. “You must think I’m a joke - working in a
basement with a pair of lunatics, looking over my shoulder all the time,
chasing shadows and shouting in the dark…”

No, Byers. Apparently, we’re living similar lives.

He puts the glass down and readjusts his position in the barstool. “I get so
tired of it sometimes, Scully. I can’t admit it to Frohike or Langly.” He
sighs. “It sounds rotten, but sometimes I just want to say ‘to hell with it’
and -“

“Get out of the car,” I say, taking a sip of scotch afterward.

He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “You understand.”  It’s not a
question.

“I understand.” I take another drink before asking. "All that doesn't
explain why you've spent the last ten years hoping to see her again."

All he does is gape at me like he’s been hit, his unfocused eyes giving me a
deer-in-the-headlights stare.

“Frohike...kind of mentioned it." I say, feeling a little sheepish.

He turns away with a groan, and stares into the rest of his drink. I feel
sad for him, and a little sad for myself.

I don’t know them very well as individuals, but I’m getting to a lot more
about one of them than I expected. I understand the feelings - I have them
myself, especially not being able to talk to Mulder about them. When I
tried, I got an argument, and it wasn’t worth it.

I put a hand on his wrist. He needs to know he’s not alone in this.

He doesn’t respond, just stiffens a little. I pull back. Maybe he was right
about it not being a good idea to mix scotch and AH. I fiddle with the
swizzle stick in my drink.

"You know, Byers, I never thanked you for coming to the hospital that day."

He stares at me blankly.

"When I was in Allentown," I say. I can’t say the rest. That whole year was
a nightmare. All of it was a nightmare.

"Oh.  That.” Now it’s his turn to look at me with pity. "You don't have to
thank me."

"No, I do.  You helped Mulder save my life."

"We were worried about you," he says. "Not just because you're Mulder's
partner.  Because we like you."

I didn’t expect this. Frohike’s comments aside, I thought I was just
“Mulder’s partner” to them. I’m “Mrs. Spooky” at the Bureau. “Mulder’s
partner” to those mysterious informants and evil men we see in our line of
work. It would stand to reason that even the Gunmen saw me as just another
accessory of his. I hang my head and try to hide the smile that comes to my
face. "Thanks, Byers.  That's nice to know."

Silence passes as we drink together. Occasionally, we look at each other and
smile. He has a nice smile - his whole face lights up. I finish my drink and
chew on ice cubes. The bartender brings each of us a fresh drink, and we go
back to silence. I’m trying to think of something to say, and so is he. I
had given up on trying to think of something to say when he blurts it out.

"I wanted to tell you, I'm sorry about that thing with Diana."

I almost choke on my mouthful of scotch as I look over. Byers smacks his
forehead and cringes. He tries to salvage it. "What I mean is...when we,
uh..."

Part saving him, part understanding, I stop him. "I know what you mean," I
close my eyes. They’re stinging.  Damn Mulder. Not only was he ignoring me
when I had proof laid out before him, but he pretty much took at the things
he had said about trusting me and needing my judgment and slapped them in
the face. Worse, even when the Gunmen tried to back me up, he started
accusing them, too. "I wasn't entirely surprised that Mulder questioned my
motives, but I never expected him to do that to you guys."

He takes a deep breath and stares off into space.

"You're thinking about her, aren't you?" I ask.

He almost jumps out of his barstool, but is quickly deflated. His shoulders
slump. "There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about Susanne.  I
dream about her almost every night.
The guys think I'm nuts," he confesses.

I cover his hand with mine and squeeze. Believe me, I understand. I just
didn’t think you were going through the same thing.

"I don't think you're nuts at all," I say.

He’s got his glass in a death-grip, but the rest of him shakes. I’m seeing
tears in his eyes. I pull back my hand and think of a better topic.

"You know, I think this is the first time I've ever seen you without a tie,"
I say. Truth is, he looks a lot better out of the tie and suit jacket. In
fact, he’s not bad looking at all. Maybe I noticed before and just put the
thought out of my mind, or it just didn’t cross my mind at all.

He spins around his bar stool and props up an elbow on the bar. Chin in
hand, he chortles. "Casual Byers.  A rare and elusive creature.  Fear him."

I can’t help smiling and downing my second scotch. "No, I kind of like it.
It makes you seem..."

"Less anal?"

"More approachable, I was going to say.” I push the empty glass away. “I've
always thought of you as the parental guidance of the group."

"Does that make me Larry, Curly or Moe?" There’s a little acid in the
question.

Remembering my nickname I used on the phone, I grimace.  "Sorry about that.
It was late.”

“How about Bashful, Dopey and Sneezy," Byers says, an ear-to ear grin
lighting up his face.  "Mulder can be Grumpy."

I bite back a laugh. "Does that make me Doc?"

"No,” he says with near-reverence. “You get to be Snow White."

That soured my mood. Some Snow White I would turn out to be, Byers. To mix
metaphors, I’ve kissed a lot of frogs - some of them not so bad. Some of
them were like Daniel - perilous to my mental health. Then, there were the
mutated ones like Eddie Van Bluhnt and Ed Jerse. Then, there’s
Mulder…"Great.  All I need now is a Prince Charming."

I pick up the glass and get an ice cube, chewing on it thoughtfully as
silence reigns again. Byers is just…watching. Not staring, but watching. He
has a strange look on his face, too. Occasionally, he looks up at the
ceiling, the intense blue eyes tracing some pattern that only he’s seeing.
He goes back to watching me chew my ice.

Nope. Not bad-looking at all. Dr. Modeski, there was one spot where you did
luck out. It’s just the two of us in a Los Vegas bar, somewhere around 4AM.
Both of us are tired of the life we’re leading. I get the feeling he
understands that we’re in the same boat. Our eyes meet again.

"I don't think Mulder appreciates you," He announces. Does he always blurt
out things like this when he’s drunk?

I sigh. Suddenly, I’m craving another drink. "Not nearly enough."

He looks like he just figured out the secret of the universe. "He's an
idiot."

I shrug. "On occasion."

"So why do you put up with him?"  He shakes his head.

If you knew the amount of times I’ve asked myself that. I know why. I
haven’t told Mulder, but the fact that he still went after Diana answered my
question there. But, there’s always the other things - going literally to
the end of the Earth to save my life, the confessions he made before the bee
sting, the marriage proposal over the phone that I knew was only
half-joking. Mulder pulled me into this life, complete with living out of a
basement and having to constantly watch my back, but when it comes down to
it, I can’t stop the car.

I answer Byers the only way I can. "I guess for the same reason you never
gave up on Susanne Modeski."

It shuts him up, and he stares at me strangely again. "I'm sorry," he says,
"I guess I've had too many of these."

"I think we both have,” I admit.  “Ready to go?"

I slide off my stool and pull out a few bills from my wallet to pay for the
bar tab. Byers scoops them up, and folds them back in my hand.

"I got it."

"Frohike said you lost all your money playing poker."

"Frohike talks too damn much," he grumbles. "I lost all of *our* money.  I
didn't lose all of *mine*."

I turn my head to one side, processing this. So, he has a few secrets. I
watch him as he puts a few bills on the table and picks up his jacket,
slinging it over his shoulder.

"Want to play some slots?" I offer.

-------

The blur of light and noise that is the casino hardly bothers us in our
drunken state. Strangely enough, I’m feeling safe. We’re laughing like
idiots after we hit a winning one, and turn around and lose it all at
another machine.

Stopping the car feels good. Between the diversion and the alcohol, we’re
feeling relaxed and actually in good spirits. We could just be two old
friends on vacation, or people who just met - I think a little of both is
appropriate for us.

Sometimes, I see him looking at me out the corner of his eye, and sometimes
I smile and pat his back. I’ve almost forgotten that I came down here to
kick his ass.

By the time we’re down to our last roll of quarters, I see the haunted look
back on his face. Little wonder Langly told me he couldn’t play poker. With
a face that shows everything, it would be very hard to bluff effectively. It
rubs off on me, too. After tonight, we leave this rest stop, get back in our
separate cars, and keep driving to hell on parallel highways. Even if we
want to get off the road and live normal lives, we keep going mostly because
it’s the right thing to do.

We’re also thinking of other people that we’d rather be with, but can’t. I’m
sure he’s thinking of Susanne as the night drags on. He even points out
where he saw her on the casino floor. I’m thinking a lot about Mulder. I
wonder about what he has to say, and what he’d be doing if he was here at my
side - no case, no bee, no emergency. Just stopping the car. Would he even
know how?

The last quarter goes in. Cherry. Lemon. Lemon. Nope. I sigh and look over
at Byers.

"I'm tapped out," I say.  "How'd you do?"

"About as I expected, the way my luck's been going," he says, a hint of
defeat in his voice that goes a lot further past the slot machines and we
both know it.

We are still a little wobbly as we go to the elevators. I put my hand on his
shoulder as we go in.

"You'll be with Susanne again someday, Byers," I say quietly.

He looks down and smiles sadly. “Anyone but you, Scully, and I wouldn’t
believe it. Thanks.”

Byers insists on walking me to my hotel room door. I let him. He’s a little
overt with the displays of chivalry, and it could annoy me under any other
circumstances. Tonight, I don’t mind being the lady.

We get to the hotel room door. There’s an awkward silence. He’s looking at
me in the strangest way - like we’re both waiting for something.
 

"This was...nice," I say, words feeling unwieldy. Truth is, between the
scotch, the AH, and tonight’s reminder that I’m still human, I could kiss
the man.

"Thanks, Scully.  For being there,” he says.

I’m about to answer, but he’s got another idea. He leans in slowly, and I
meet him halfway by standing on my toes.

It’s been a long time since I kissed someone with a beard. He’s probably
thinking of Susanne, and that’s fine. I’m halfway wondering what Mulder
might be like if he let the stubble he has after three days on a case grow
out a little. Mulder’s kisses usually taste of sunflower seeds and iced tea.
Right now, Byers is tasting like whiskey and I’m tasting like scotch.

It’s odd, but it doesn’t feel wrong. This won’t change anything. We’re going
to get on different planes, go back to our partners and our basements, and
continue to be in love with other people. We’re going to continue the drive
not because we want to, but because it’s what our consciences will allow.

I get the feeling he’s not going to tell the other two about this. They
aren’t really a unit - just partners, after all. And who says I’m going to
tell anyone about this, either?

Breaking the kiss, I smile shyly and wave to him as I duck in the door,
wishing him good night.

30