~

‘Drinking Buddies’

~

I think I’m drunk.

I can’t be sure; I’m never sure if I’m drunk when I’m drunk. My thought
patterns are only moderately muddled. For the most part, the only thing
alcohol does to me is to lower my inhibitions. Drastically lower my
inhibitions.

Okay, okay, =eliminates= my inhibitions.

Scully discovered that little fact shortly after our adventures in
Kroner. Once we’d gotten the Rainman to shut off the water works, we’d
headed straight for the bar, decidedly underwhelmed by the flood (no pun
intended) of sappiness suffocating the gym. We were happy for Homer,
Sheila and the rest of the hometown inbred freaks (no inhibitions,
remember? No inhibitions means no PC bullshit) but that happiness only
stretched our endurance so far. So we did what any bored, somewhat
normal people would do at a high school reunion.

We’d snuck into the coat closet and fucked like bunnies.

With the exception of a few extra curricular activities with Phoebe,
I’ve never been one for public displays of affection. That has always
suited Scully and I well; we’re not the kind of people to flaunt our
personal relationship. We’d prefer to keep what’s private, private. But
there’s something about Scully that most people don’t pick up on;
something that tempts me to be reckless. Perhaps it’s the wild child
that lurks beneath her oh so calm, cool exterior. Perhaps it’s that I’ve
spent so many years wanting her in silence, I’ve suddenly become free to
show her, so I wish to show EVERYONE. Sometimes I want to shout what we
have together from the rooftops, to proclaim to God and anyone else
who’ll listen that Dana Scully loves me. That by some miracle, some
blessed twist of fate, she’s mine.

I don’t of course. I never really would. But I =want= to, and that’s
where getting drunk gets extremely risky. Without my aforementioned
inhibitions, I could end up doing a hell of a lot of shouting.

The door opens with a slam against the wall. I only notice because it’s
raining and I’ve gotten a little wet in the few seconds that it takes to
close the door again. It’s windy too, apparently. I spare the bar’s
newest occupant only the most perfunctory of glances, determining he’s
no one I know, therefore poses no immediate threat. I signal the
bartender for another drink. She holds up an impatient hand, choosing to
wait on the New Guy first.

Whatever.

“What’ll you have?” she asks, using a =much= nicer tone with him than
she ever has with me.

“Got anything that’ll stop my heart or numb my mind?” New Guy retorts,
taking the seat right next to me.

Christ, there are five empty barstools. Why does he have to sit by me?

“I’d watch out for this one,” the bartender tells him, indicating my
pathetic self. “He’s a bit unstable.”

“Crazy?” he asks, as he turns toward my direction and pins me with steel
gray eyes.

I quirk an imitation of a smile. “Certifiable,” I confirm, hoping
that’ll be the end of it, he’ll move on and I can quietly continue to
drown my sorrows.

“Crazy enough to kill?” he asks, and something in his eyes penetrates my
drunken haze.

“Probably,” I begin slowly. “Although given how badly my motor functions
are impaired at the moment, homicide is going to have to wait for a new
day.”

New Guy snaps his fingers, looking genuinely crestfallen. “Too bad.
Tomorrow I probably won’t be ready to die.”

This gets my attention. The inner psychologist has already begun to take
over. “I take it tonight’s a different story?” I ask, the hurt, raw part
of me trying to shut the rest up so it can drink.

“Tonight’s about as bad as life can get,” he confirms, taking a swig of
a nasty looking drink the bartender’s set up in front of him. A moment
later, a scotch is set in front of me and I drink a healthy gulp before
responding.

“I can relate,” I mumble. “The last couple of days have been a great
little trip through hell, for me.”

Let’s see, discovery of future alien colonization; check. The end of the
world as we know it; check. Finding out one of the people you thought
you could trust is on Their side; check. Fucking over your best friend,
your lover, in one of the most painful ways you can; check.
Systematically attempting to subconsciously destroy the few remaining
good things in your life; double check. Yea, the last couple of days
have been peachy fucking keen.

“My wife is dead and it’s my fault,” New Guy states in a perfectly calm
voice.

I turn to his profile, trying to detect anything but the clear, sure
seriousness in his tone. “I’m sorry,” I mutter lamely, having nothing
else to say at the moment.

“So am I,” he mutters, running a hand down his face. “It happened a few
hours ago. I didn’t kill her,” he adds, almost as an after thought.
“Just wanted to clear that up, so you didn’t think you were drinking
with some kind of psycho.”

Were we drinking together? I wonder absently. I suppose we were. We both
had drinks. He’s telling me what’s going to amount to a gut-wrenching
account of his wife’s death. If we’re not drinking now, a few more
minutes down the road and we sure as hell will be.

“We’ve always been friends, me and my wife,” he continues before I can
even formulate a response. “Best friends. She was always someone I could
turn to; someone I could trust.” He sighs deeply, emptying his drink,
signaling for another. “She’s always hated my chosen career,” he
mutters. “Said it was always taking me away from her and the kids; that
I didn’t have enough time for them.”

“You have children?” I ask softly, after he grows quiet. I don’t want to
spook him, but something in me screams that he needs to keep talking.

For the first time since I’ve met him, he smiles slightly. “Yea,” he
murmurs, his voice sounding raw to my ears. “I’ve got two of the
greatest kids on the face of the earth.” His face falls right before my
eyes. “And tomorrow morning, when I pick them up from their
grandmother’s, I have to tell them that their mother’s dead.”

“How old are your kids?” I ask, knowing this man is in as dark a place
as I’ve ever been.

He looks up at me, really =looks= at me for the first time since he sat
down. I am floored by the naked vulnerability, the gratitude I see
there. “Mark’s six,” he whispers, “and Kelly’s four.” His lower lip
quivers, and through some unknown storage of control, he stills it.
“They’re going to forget her,” he mumbles numbly. “Someday, they’re
going to grow up and they’ll forget who their mother was.”

“That won’t happen,” I hear myself tell him, the conviction in my voice
much stronger than what reason and experience deem truth. “You can’t
forget your Mom,” I continue, even as I know the opposite; kids do
forget. Especially when the loss of a parent occurs before adolescence.
“You won’t let them forget.”

He gives me a pained smile then. “Damn right I won’t,” he mutters
fiercely.  “We had a fight,” he continues after a moment. “Probably the
biggest we’ve ever had. We both said a lot of things we didn’t mean. She
was nagging at me to quit again; to get some desk job, something that’d
keep me with her and the kids on a regular basis. I told her she knew
who and what I was when she married me. She said she thought she had.”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, wiping at the corners
of his eyes, the alcohol having worn down his system enough for him to
let his control slip. “The only thing that matters is the last thing I
said to her.”

“What’d you say to her?” I ask, using the softest voice I have, the one
I reserve for Scully, after I’ve found her nearly dead, held hostage by
some madman.

“I said if that’s how she really felt, that maybe she shouldn’t bother
coming back,” he whispers, his face a mask of grief and guilt. He looks
to me with eyes so haunted, I’ve only seen their equal in the mirror
each day. “How could I say that to her?” he asks me, his voice pleading
for an answer. “She died thinking I didn’t want her enough – that I
didn’t love her enough – to ask her to stay.” His face crumples and he
rests his head in his hands. “What if she didn’t know?”

“She knew,” I tell him, placing a hand on his shoulder, figuring he
needs the human contact about now. “Of course she knew. She was your
wife. People fight. We hurt the ones we love the most. But she knew,” I
whisper, hoping to God I’m making sense.

After a moment of breathing, he lifts his head from his hands, pinning
me with those eyes of his again. “This was supposed to be like a second
honeymoon for us,” he confesses. “The kids were at grandma’s and we were
going to have a nice romantic getaway in DC.  My wife is . . .” he
trails off, his entire body stilling. “My wife was,” he continues again,
his voice wavering only slightly, “a journalist. DC held a very special
place in her heart,” he remarks, an almost wry tone entering his voice.
“We were staying at the Plaza.” He smiles. “That’s a nice place, isn’t
it?” he asks, almost conversationally.

I nod. “A very nice place,” I confirm, giving him an answer he needs.
Sometimes, in the face of crisis, normalcy – even inane small talk – is
like a lifeline.  “Great food.”

“Some of the best I’ve ever eaten,” he adds. “Jenny – that’s my wife –
Jenny loved a good plate of fried shrimp.” His face falls again, a
ragged breath escaping his lungs. “She never got to try the Plaza’s
fried shrimp,” he mumbles, swiping angrily at a tear that’s running down
his cheek. “We were going to tonight, but then we fought, and . . .” His
forehead lands in his hands again and this time, he can’t stop the
tears. “The roads are so slippery tonight. No matter how mad I was, I
shouldn’t have just let her leave like that. I should’ve locked her in
the room, or tied her to the bed, or something. I should’ve kept her
safe, like I was supposed to, like I promised in front of God and our
families I would.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say, once again when he’s fallen silent too
long. “It was an accident. What happened to your wife is tragic, but
it’s not your--”

“It damn well is!” he explodes, yelling. “It is,” he repeats, his voice
an angry whisper now. “It’s my fault because I should’ve just quit when
she asked me to. If I had, she’d still be here.” He swallows deeply.
“The crash was so bad, they had to identify her by her ID and wedding
ring.” He smiles again. “It was a gold band, with four stones, and two
empty places. I had her birthstone in it, my birthstone, Mark’s and
Kelly’s – the two empty spots were reserved for the two more kids we’d
been planning one of these days, when things weren’t so crazy.” He looks
to me, straight into my eyes and I feel a connection, some kind of two
guys trapped in hell bond. “I feel like it’s never going to stop being
crazy without her.”

“It will stop,” I tell him gently. “In time, it’ll stop. And I won’t kid
you – it won’t be overnight and it won’t be easy. But it will happen.”

“What’s the point?” he mutters apathetically. “I might as well get drunk
and drive straight off a cliff.”

“Your kids need you,” I counter.

He shrugs. “They’d probably be better off without me. My Mom could take
‘em; or my brother and his wife. Their God mother maybe.” He shakes his
head.

“As much as those people would love them, not one of them would be their
father,” I tell him calmly. “They don’t just need =someome= - they need
=you=.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters hotly, turning to look me in the eye. “That is
such bullshit. They don’t need me. They just need love, and my family’ll
love ‘em better than I ever could.” He looks at me, his eyes dead. “Give
me one good reason why I shouldn’t drive off a cliff, or sit in a
bathtub with a toaster, back at the Plaza.”

I think for a moment, gauging what I need to see to keep this guy alive,
at least for a few more days. At least long enough for him to realize
his kids do need him. A small smile curves my lips. “If you killed
yourself tonight,” I begin quietly, “you might be really pissed off
tomorrow, if you didn’t feel like dying anymore.”

And then he’s laughing; a semi-hysterical, loud booming laugh. Tears are
rolling down his cheeks and he’s holding onto the bar for support. One
hand reaches up and claps me on the back firmly. “That is a damn good
reason,” he tells me, once his emotions are once again under control. He
looks at me seriously. “You got someone in your life? Someone you love?”

I nod slowly. “Yea,” I mumble, uncomfortable now that the spotlight’s
apparently been turned on me. “I love her a lot.

“Does it go beyond love though?” he asks. “Do you live her and breathe
her? Is she everything to you?”

I bite my lower lip, considering how best to answer this. I look down
for a moment, then back to him, considering how best to word it.
Finally, I settle on something that he’ll understand, given his current
state of mind. “A day would never come that I felt like being alive, for
as long as I lived,” I tell him in a quietly intense voice.

He nods, understanding. “Does she know that?” he asks. “Because I think
Jenny did; I think.” He looks at me, a look of intense sadness moving
over his eyes. “I’d damn sure like to know right about now.”

I nod slowly. “I think she knows,” I murmur slowly. “But I’m not sure,”
I admit.

“Be sure,” he all but orders me.

“I will,” I answer, giving him a small smile.

He takes a breath, glancing around the bar. “I should get going. I’ve
got an early morning tomorrow.”

Leaning over the bar, I signal the bartender. “Would you please call
this guy a cab?” I ask as nicely as I can.

“Only if you share it with me,” he counters, looking at me. “I think you
have someplace to be tonight.”

I shake my head, an immediate denial coming to my lips. “Tonight isn’t a
good night; we’ve had some . . . troubles over the last few days and she
needs to cool off.”

“That’s the same thought I had about Jenny. It’s the reason I didn’t go
after her tonight,” he tells me flatly.

Licking my lips, I nod slowly. “So we’ll share the cab,” I agree.

~

END