"Scully was surprised."
 

Mulder hadn't been reading the Weekly World News lately, thought Scully,
because he didn't find an X-File to investigate that week. He had sat at his
desk, the picture of a model department head, and gone through a stack of
case files, and  making his comments. The only case he had found of enough
interest to mention was one of a serial killer in New York State with
similarities to an UNSUB from Canada. It wasn't an X-File, he told Scully,
just a little "hinky." That was Tuesday; he spent Wednesday and Thursday in
silent contemplation of the lab reports, while Scully finished entering her
autopsy reports into the FBI database.

It was almost like being a normal agent, back in the bullpen, except Mulder
actually did his assigned work. He was still there in the basement office
when she got in every morning, but he didn't look like he had spent the
night and showered in the gym. These signs of responsible behavior made
Scully feel suspicious.

Maybe the Gunmen have him involved in something off the clock, she thought.
That would explain his placid behavior at work-he was cooking up something
disgusting. Well, she would just get some personal time in, before he
dragged her to: (a) a haunted fish cannery, (b) a restricted government
research area, or (c) Graceland.

"Mulder," she said.

He looked up, blinking owlishly over his reading glasses.

"Since you don't have anything you need me to autopsy, I think I'll take a
half-day tomorrow, and get a head-start on the weekend."

"Sure, Scully," Mulder said, and went back to sorting crime photos. "You don
't take enough time off."

"Oh, this from the man who was forced to go on vacation."

"True, but I never said I was normal," he said, pleasantly enough. He looked
up from a particularly grisly photo. "Take the whole day, if you like.
Skinner will be thrilled and delighted."

She frowned. "Skinner? Why?"

"He said we were building up too much vacation time again or something.
Throwing off the statistical average is apparently the new no-no. So have a
nice weekend." He found the picture he wanted, and bent back over the file.

"Okay, Mulder. I'll see you Monday, then."

He waved goodbye without looking up.

So here she was on a nice Friday evening, after a day shopping at Georgetown
Mall, going into her favorite new restaurant to meet two girlfriends. She
still felt vaguely dissatisfied about her day away from work. You're just
worried Mulder will ruin it, she told herself. It's been so long that you've
had a life, you don't know what to do with yourself.

The restaurant had a large, central bar, surrounded by booths and tables.
Although the bar had the usual television screens, complete with baseball,
the effect wasn't distracting, and the sound wasn't audible where she was
sitting; instead, she could hear Fifties jazz. Scully settled back on the
padded bench with a pleased sigh, and ordered a glass of California Shiraz.
"My friends won't be here for about thirty minutes, "she told the waiter.
"But I'll go ahead and look at the menu."

Scully alternated sips of wine with glances around the room, which was just
beginning to fill up with the happy hour crowd. She thought she saw a
familiar post-modern haircut, and did a double take.

Mulder.

He was at the bar, tieless, but wearing his jacket. So he had left early,
too. There was no way he could have followed her-no, that was too weird,
even for her partner. She leaned back, studying him.

It was odd to watch him while he was unaware of her presence. He was
squinting up at the baseball game, making some comment to another barfly.
She was a little surprised to note that he quite match up to her mental
picture of "Mulder."  She still thought of him as wiry, but he was really a
very solidly built man. Not a young man, any more. He was going to be
thirty-eight next month.  And his haircut exposed a receding hairline and a
lot of facial lines that hadn't been there when they met.  That was
strange-she could compare her new-agent self to the present and feel happy.
She looked the best she had in her life, despite the abductions, Melissa's
death, the cancer, and the New York gunshot wound. Mulder was the one who
looked aged. Don't start feeling sorry for Mulder, of all people, she
thought firmly.

Before she could pursue that idea, the bartender moved, and she realized
that Mulder was not alone. Very much not alone. Some blonde bimbette with
large breasts was leaning on his every word, pointing to the television
screen, and laughing.  Mulder pretended to flick the woman on the nose, and
she swatted his hand. What was this, his pick-up place?

Scully told herself that she was annoyed because Mulder was making a fool of
himself, and that she resented his intrusion into "her" territory. Maybe I
could meet the others at the door and go somewhere else, she was thinking,
when Mulder pulled out his wallet and tossed a bill on the bar. He and his
date stood up, and came towards her. He put his arm around the woman as they
walked out.

Scully didn't know why she leaned back in her booth and pretended to study
the menu, when Mulder didn't even see her. He was laughing at something the
blonde said.  "You are truly twisted," he was saying, still laughing, and
then they were out the front door and walking down the sidewalk.

Oh, God, Scully thought, he's answered a personal ad.