Thursday, May 16, 2002

8: 13 P.M.

Al's Bar and Grill

YVES:

Ignoring all the stares I receive from the questionable patrons of Al's Bar and Grill, (the title being a serious misnomer as there isn't a grill in sight) I make my way towards the back of the room. I take in the train wreck of a man sitting in the booth and purr, "My, my--look what the cat dragged in."

The drunken sot lifts his head off the table and glares at me with one half-opened eye. "Oh dear God, PLEASE tell me this is just a bad alcoholic hallucination," he groans miserably before dropping his head back on the table.

"You wish," I scoff as I lean my left hip against his table.

"What the hell do you want, Yves?" he snarls, not even bothering to look up at me as he speaks.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I sigh wistfully, "I want Orlando Bloom handcuffed to my bed for a fortnight, but since that's not likely to happen anytime soon, I'd be happy just to haul your sorry ass back home."

This time he does look up, his eyes tired and bloodshot behind his cheap Lens Crafters glasses. "I don't have a home, Yves, except for this lovely beer-stained booth. Now, if you would be so kind as to turn on your pretty little high heel and get the fuck out of here, I can get back to my drinking in peace." With that, he picks up his shot glass of rat gut and gulps it down with barely a grimace.

If he only knew how SO not in the mood I am for this right now, he wouldn't be testing me. Lowering my voice, I growl menacingly, "Melvin, I'm slowly losing my patience, and you don't want to see me when I've lost it completely. Now, let's go."

But he behaves as if he hasn't even heard me. Twirling the glass around his less-than-nimble fingers, he ruminates, "Have you ever been in love, Yves? Madly and truly and hopelessly in love. . . only to have your heart ripped out and stomped on?"

I swear to God I'm going to make Jimmy pay DEARLY for this the next time our paths cross. When he asked for my help tracking Toadboy down, I didn't know I'd be expected to play Agony Aunt. "No, I'm the one who does all the stomping," I inform him.

He snorts. "Yeah, that's right. You're a woman. You broads are good at that."

I uncross my arms and put my hands on my hips. "Broads!?" I echo, my timbre going up along with an eyebrow. "I'm going to forgive you for that, as I'm sure you presently have no control over your tongue, however. . ."

My thought is interrupted at that moment by some balding potbellied yahoo in a plaid shirt and stinking of Old Milwaukee, who uses his last sober braincell to leer, "Hey, baby, choo wanna dance with me?" His comment is accompanied by a grab at his crotch, which gets all his tanked brethren laughing uproariously.

You know, it never fails to amaze me how dumb men are. Truly. Like he'd know what to do with me if he ever got me alone. If I weren't on such an important mission, I'd be halfway tempted to take him up on his offer and teach him a lesson in good manners and respecting the fairer sex that he wouldn't soon forget. As it is, I have more pressing issues to deal with, so I simply reach out my right hand, grab him by his unshaven flabby neck, and drop him to his knees with a move I learned watching Jackie Chan movies. Before he can complain, I shove the pearl-handle snub nose .38 I'm holding in my left hand into his fat ugly face, and patiently explain, "I've got PMS and I know how to use this. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, yes, I understand perfectly," he blubbers. Sometimes it's just WAY too easy.

"Apologize," I command, tightening my hold on his sweaty flesh.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please don't kill me!" he's sobbing now, and only my fear that he might wet himself prompts me to let him go. Stumbling to his feet, he runs out of the bar. A simple glare around the room guarantees that I won't be bothered any more that evening, and I return the gun to my hip holster.

Turning back to Frohike, I inquire, "Now, where were we?"

But I'm doubtful if he's heard me, or if he's even aware of the altercation that just took place less than two feet away from him. Instead, he's busy trying to pour another shot of Wild Turkey from the bottle on his table. He's doing a pretty good job of it--only spilling about twice as much as he manages to get into the glass. He sits there for a moment, mesmerized by the amber liquid before he mutters, mournfully, "This is almost the same color as Dana's hair."

Now I know he's totally wasted. "I certainly hope not, Melvin, or I'd get another hairdresser if I were her."

"I had it all, Yves," he continues as if I haven't even spoken. "A beautiful wife, a beautiful baby. And you shoulda seen the house we bought. We were gonna move in a couple of weeks, in fact. It was perfect. I had the perfect life," he stops and sneers, "until HE came back."

"He?" I ask distractedly, strumming my fingers on the table, not able to disguise my boredom any longer.

"Mulder." He practically spits out the name, then throws back his drink, angrily slamming the tiny shot glass on the table."

"Mulder? You mean Fox Mulder?" I say, looking for clarification. 

"Is there ANOTHER Mulder you know of?"

"Well, actually there IS a pitcher for the Oakland A's," I elucidate. "He's got a wicked curveball."

He rolls his eyes. "No, you were right the first time. Fox is back in town."

I slide into the booth opposite him, hoping that five-year old Bud Lite won't ruin my leather pants. "What does Mulder have to do with this?"

"Didn't you know? He's Billy's real father. And Scully's true love." He shakes his head ruefully, "I can't believe I lost everything. In one minute. Poof."

"Melvin, what are you talking about?" I demand, quite tired of this nonsense.

"Mulder's back, so now Scully can be with the man she really loves," he proclaims, dejectedly.

For a moment I'm struck speechless--this isn't quite what I expected to hear--but I quickly cover it up and ask, "She told you this?"

He shrugs his shoulders and mumbles, "She didn't have to. I just know, okay?" Looking right at me he adds bitterly, "Why would she want the frog when she can have the prince?" 

Leaning back into the booth, I remark, "Well, I will admit that I don't quite understand the appeal myself, but you must do SOMETHING for her, otherwise she wouldn't have married you in the first place."

"She only married me to have a father for William." At that point, he attempts to pour himself another shot, but before he can, I grab the bottle from him with one hand, the glass with the other. "HEY!" he protests, "give those back!"

"Not until you tell me what the hell is going on here, Mel," I command, "because I don't believe what you're telling me. Not for one minute." According to Jimmy, Dana Scully was at her wit's end over Frohike's disappearance. Why was he under the assumption she didn't give a damn about him anymore? And how the hell did Fox Mulder fit into all this?

"It's true. We haven't even. . .I mean. . .we've never. . ." He pauses in his stammering before finally confessing, "It's a marriage of convenience, that's all." With a mirthless laugh, he grimaces, "My God, I MUST be drunk if I just admitted that to you."

"And you think this is news to me?" I chuckle at his startled look. "Really, Melvin. You boys have GOT to learn how to sweep for bugs more efficiently. I've known about you and Dana since you told Byers back in November, right before you moved out of the Warehouse."

"But. . .but at the New Year's party. . .?" he sputters. "You. . .when Dana told you off. . ."

"Yes, I must admit that really puzzled me at the time. But I just figured you two had finally let nature take its course and. . .well. . .let's just say the picture of you naked put me off my feed for a week."

"Very funny, Yves," he grouses.

"I did lose two pounds, so it wasn't a total disaster," I shoot back.

Dropping his head into his hands, he groans, "No, I can assure you nature never paid a visit to our abode. We're nothing but friends, just as we've always been."

"Friends?" I repeat, disbelievingly. "Are you really that naïve?" I shake my head in amusement. "Oh, Melvin, have you got a lot to learn about women."

"No thank you. I've been trying for half a century now. I give up. Don't wanna know a freaking thing about them."

"Too bad. You're going to get a lesson whether you want one or not." Folding my arms on the table, I lean forward until I'm practically in his face, then announce, "For your information, Dana is frantic right now. She has the Gunmen AND Mulder out looking for you, and she's one step away from calling in reinforcements at the F.B.I. She's desperate for you to come home. Now does that sound like someone who's getting ready to kick you out?"

"But. . ."

I swiftly cut him off, "No buts, Melvin. She loves you, and she wants you back. She thinks she did something wrong, something to drive you away."

"She loves me?" he repeats, in disbelief. "Who told you that?"

"Jimmy. Apparently she made quite a ruckus this morning at Headquarters looking for you."

"But. . .I left so she could be with the man of her dreams," he mutters, miserably.

Leaning back again in the booth, I exhale sharply and propose, "Did you ever stop to think that maybe, as odd as it seems, YOU could be the man of her dreams?"

Tired, wary eyes study me for a moment before he issues a soft, unbelieving, "How. . .?"

"People change, Frohike. Their feelings change, too. Your relationship may have started out as simple friendship, but it's obviously grown since then."

"But. . .Mulder. . .," he utters, clinging to his old argument.

"She didn't marry Mulder," I remind him. "She married you."

"But that's because she COULDN'T marry Mulder," he argues. "He left town."

"And you stayed," I quickly point out. "You were there when she needed you, Melvin. You came to her when she had nowhere else to turn. You've been by her side, helping her, keeping her company, bringing her happiness. You've been a wonderful companion for her and an excellent father to her child. How can you think she would just throw you over for Mulder now?"

He thinks for a minute, then two. "Because. . ." he begins, then just as quickly goes quiet. "Because. . ." he tries again, and once more falls silent.

"Because. . .you don't have an answer, do you, Frohike?" I declare, triumphantly. "Because you know I'm right. Because you let your insecurity and fear of commitment get in the way of the best thing that's ever happened to you." 

"Please, Yves, the last thing I need right now is rehashed Oprah, okay?" he jeers, disgustedly.

 "Actually, it was Star Jones, but we won't go into that. The fact is, the greatest, most enduring loves are the ones that grow from friendship."

"Exactly my point," he contends. "Mulder and Scully have been friends for nearly a decade now. They have a baby together. They BELONG together. And he'll be able to provide for her better than I ever could." He takes a deep breath and exhales, "My God, the guy's loaded. His bank account has more zeroes than in Bush's cabinet."

"So now's she's a gold digger? I don't think you give Dana much credit."

"It's not that--it's just. . ."

"It's just you've decided to run away like a coward with your tail between your legs? You're just going to let Mulder step in and take over your territory?" I tut-tut in my most condescending manner, "I expected more from you, Melvin. If you love Dana half as much as you claim to, you'd fight to the death for her."

"Look at me, Yves," he implores. "Look at Mulder. The war was won before it began."

"There's more to a man besides his looks." I pause, not able to stop the smirk I know is crossing my face, "Although in your case, I can see your point."

"Thanks, Yves," he snarls. "I can always rely on you to kick me when I'm down."

"Just doing my job, Melvin," I reply, smugly.

He scowls. "I really hate that name."

"I know, but it fits you so well."

"Why are you so anxious to get me to stay anyway?" he asks, curiously. "I woulda thought you'd be thrilled to get rid of me."

"Nonsense. I enjoy having you around, Frohike. Who else would I have to torture?"

"Langly?" he volunteers.

I just laugh at that. "He's too easy a mark. I prefer a challenge. And YOU, my dear boy, are as challenging at they come."

"I'm glad I keep you entertained," he grumbles.

"Like you wouldn't believe," I coo. "And as for why I'm trying to keep your marriage together, I'm doing it for Dana and the child. She's a good woman--she doesn't deserve what you're putting her through right now."

"Yves, you haven't been listening to me," he exclaims, exasperated. "I'm doing this FOR Dana, for her happiness. With me gone, she can marry the man she loves."

No question about it--Melvin Frohike is going to be the death of me, of that I'm sure. I give him my best stare-down as I divulge, "I've got news for you, Melvin. I saw that kiss you two shared at that party, remember? And I'm here to tell you that I don't care what kind of act you two were pulling New Year's Eve, that kiss was not part of it. There is no way Dana was faking that. She loves you, deeply, not as a friend or a companion or a substitute father for her child. I don't know why you can't see that, or won't see it, but it's the truth."

His eyes get as big as saucers behind his glasses. "But. . ." he starts, until I quickly silence him.

"No more buts, Frohike," I huff. "I'm sick of this game." Sensing the time was right to drag out the heavy artillery, I dig an envelope out of my jacket pocket.   I remove the photos it contains and slap them on the table in front of him. "What kind of man can just walk away from this?" I taunt.
 
I watch as he picks up the photos one by one, staring at them in stunned disbelief. They're copies of the pictures Maggie Scully took at the New Year's party, pictures showing Frohike and Scully laughing and dancing and just basking in each other's company. There's even a picture of 'The Kiss'. 

But it's the last photo that catches his attention--the one she took of William, dressed in his little Star Trek uniform, sleeping on Langly's stomach. Running his stubby thumb over the face of his precious child, tears start to roll down his cheeks. "Damn you, Yves," he curses, his voice husky with raw emotion, as he clutches the photo in his hand. "Why'd you have to show me this?"

"I fight dirty. You should know that about me by now." I scoop up the pictures and place them back in the envelope, then hand it to him.

"Thanks," he sniffles, wiping the tears away with the back of his black-gloved hand.

"You're quite welcome." With that, I stand up and say to him in my most compassionate voice (yes, I am capable of it when I want to), "Come on, I'll take you home."

Sitting there, staring at his packet of photos, he sighs dejectedly, "How can I go home and face Dana after what I've done? After I've hurt her so much?"

"A real man owns up to his mistakes. And that's all this was, Frohike--a mistake, made with the best of intentions. You'll apologize. She'll forgive you. And you'll both be okay."

He's actually trembling he's so nervous, and for not the first time, my heart goes out to him. With all of his faults, he really is a good person. After all, it's not every man who would simply give up the family he loves more than anything just because he thinks his wife might be happier with someone else. It's quite sweet in its own twisted way. "I'm scared, Yves," he whispers, as more tears roll down his face. "I don't want to lose her. She's my life."

"And she's waiting for you." Holding out my hand, I ask gently, "Are you ready to go, Mel?"

He slowly nods once as he reaches into his pants pocket and throws some bills on the table to cover his binge. Then, after retrieving his knapsacks from underneath the table, he attempts to stand up on whiskey-soaked legs. He's less than successful and falls back into the booth. Heaving an annoyed sigh, I grasp him by the arm, ease him up, and help escort him out of the charming establishment. With some difficulty, I finally get him seated in the passenger side of my car, hoping like hell that he won't ralph all over the upholstery. As I fire up the engine, I can't help smiling to myself.

<Yves, old girl, you did it again!>

Thursday, May 16, 2002

10: 42 P.M.

Scully Residence

SCULLY

*Knock, Knock*

The knocking at the front door startles me out of a very restless nap. I'm not even sure when I fell asleep, but I'm curled up on the couch and slightly groggy, so I must've dropped off sometime during the last hour or so. Another knock brings me fully awake and I stumble to the door, not even caring that all I'm wearing is a nightshirt, flannel boxers, and a pair of fuzzy socks. Only one thought is running through my head in those brief seconds: Please God, let it be Frohike.

Well, I guess God's not taking requests today because as I peer through the peephole, I'm surprised by who is standing in the hallway--it sure as hell is not Frohike. I unlock the door and open it cautiously. "Yves? What are you doing here?" 

She smiles that all-knowing, condescending smirk that I remember so well from the New Year's party and purrs, "I found a stray pet and I thought you might want him." With that, she reaches out with her left hand and yanks Frohike towards her into the doorframe. "Or do you want me to call the pound instead?"

I'm too stunned to respond to her insults. All day long I've been wondering what I would do when--if--WHEN Mel walked through the door. 'Kiss him' or 'kill him' were the two at the top of my list. But when I see his face, all I can do is charge him and crush him in a huge bear hug, figuring he strangulation can wait for later. "Oh, God, Frohike!" I sob in relief. "Are you okay? Where have you been? I've been so worried about. . ."

I never get to finish. He breaks out of my grasp and groans, "Dana. . .gonna be sick!" Pushing past me, he runs for the bathroom; moments later, the sounds of someone kissing the porcelain god can be heard. Even Yves looks away, seemingly embarrassed by the display.

The two of us stand there for a few moments, not saying anything, which only amplifies the sounds Frohike is making. Wherever she found him, it's obvious he spent some time drowning his sorrows. I haven't seen him so drunk since we thought Mulder was dead. Well, the FIRST time we thought he was dead. 

The silence stretches on between Yves and myself, and since it's apparent she's not going to volunteer any information, I finally ask, "Where did you find him?"

She looks up at me, most of her smug attitude gone. "In a little bar outside Philadelphia," she responds, softly.

"Philadelphia?" I repeat. "What was he doing there? How you'd find him?"

"I don't know what he was doing there," she replies, then adds with some of her former bravado, "as for how I found him. . .I have my ways."

"I. . .I don't understand," I stammer. "Why were you out looking for Frohike, anyway?"

"Jimmy called me in," she explains. "He said the boys were in over their heads--again--and they needed my unique expertise." The arrogant smirk and tone had returned full force. "Once again, he was right. And they call HIM the stupid one."

It was all too much for me to take. After the long hours of waiting, not being able to eat, the worrying, the helplessness. . .to my dismay, I find myself starting to tremble. "I. . .I don't know what to do," I whisper, even more disturbed to hear the shaking in my voice.

She places a comforting hand on my shoulder and says, "It's just the adrenaline rush, Dana. It'll pass."

"I know that!" I snap back. "I AM a doctor, you know!" Her hand flies off my shoulder and I'm instantly ashamed at my behavior. "I'm sorry, Yves," I quickly apologize, "I'm just not myself right now."

"Completely understandable," she says, unfazed by my over-reaction. "You've been through an emotional wringer today."

"You don't know the half of it," I chuckle nervously. "I'm still not sure whether to hug him or slug him."

"Do both--he deserves it."

That gets a real laugh from me. "I may just do that, especially once I find out why he ran away." I pause and look the young woman in the eye before asking hopefully, "He didn't happen to tell you why, by any chance?"

She hesitates for a moment, and even though I barely know her, I realize that's not something she usually does. Yves is not a person who acknowledges insecurity or uncertainty. Clearing her throat she finally answers, "Yes, he did."

"And. . .?"

"And. . .I think it would be better if he told you himself," she finishes, not unkindly. "Just know that he did it because he loves you."

Her words throw me for a loop. What can she possibly mean by that statement? "What?"

"He was trying to make you happy," she clarifies.

Okay. Now I'm thoroughly confused. "He was trying to make me happy--by ditching me?" I repeat incredulously.

Leaning her left shoulder against the doorframe, she sighs, "Dana, he loves you more than you could ever know. Your happiness is paramount to him--even at the expense of his own happiness. So, just be easy on him." Her mouth curls into an evil grin, "But not TOO easy."

We come to an awkward silent pause in the conversation as I try to process everything she's revealed. I still may not know what has been going on in my husband's head for the last 24 hours, but I do know one thing--we're going to have a talk. A LONG talk. 

As these thoughts are going through my mind, Yves pipes up with, "Well, if everything is settled here, I'm going to head out."

"Don't you want to come in for a cup of coffee or something?" I offer.

She gives me a real smile, not one of her cocky smart-ass ones, and I'm struck by how pretty she is without the arrogant facade. "No, thank you. I really have to run. I'm late for a business meeting. It was kind of you to offer, though." Something tells me I don't even want to know what kind of business meeting is held at 11:00 P.M. on a Thursday night.

"I don't know how to thank you, Yves. I wish there was some way to show you my gratitude for what you've done."

That little comment draws a raised eyebrow and a hearty laugh from the young lady. "You think I did this for YOU? Please! I'm not that altruistic, Agent Scully. I did it for myself."

I blink in confusion. "I. . .I don't quite follow you."

"Melvin and I have been friendly rivals for many years now," she explains. "I'd miss the little twerp terribly if he went away." And with that she tosses her head, sending her long cascading raven tresses over her shoulder, turns on her heel, and sashays down the corridor like Jayne Mansfield in 'The Girl Can't Help It', leaving me to wonder how the hell she can walk like that without breaking anything.

Shaking my head to clear away the surrealness of the last five minutes, I make my way over to the now silent bathroom. Mel has left the door partly open in his earlier haste, and with a single knock, I push my way inside. 

I find him still kneeling in front of the toilet, groaning pitifully. It seems like the worst is behind him, but he's still quite pale and sweaty. I want to be angry. I want to throttle him. But all I feel inside is compassion and concern. And confusion. And relief. So much relief. Stepping over to the linen closet, I take down a facecloth and run it under cold water in the sink. Squatting down next to Mel, I wrap my right arm around his waist; with my left hand, I wipe the cool wet cloth over his face. 

It's quiet between us for a minute or two before he finally speaks up. "Dana. . .?"

"Yes?"

"I'd like to be alone for a little while," he mutters miserably. 

A dismissal. I know one when I hear one. I understand his embarrassment at my seeing him like this, but I still fell like I've been slapped in the face. Handing him the cloth, I say simply, "You know where to find me when you're ready." With a chaste kiss to the cheek, I stand up and walk out of the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

I wander back into the living room and plop myself down on the couch, grabbing my phone at the same time. First call I make is to Mom to let her know Mel's safe and back home. She's quite relieved, of course, and just a TAD bent out of shape. She tells me to notify Mel that she wants to have a 'talk' with him Sunday at the party. I have a feeling she's going to give him a piece of her mind, and I almost pity him.

Almost.

I'm about to call Mulder when I hear Mel gargling in the next room; soon after that the shower goes on. Not wanting him to be stuck without any clean clothes, I go over to his backpacks, which he dropped by the front door. Digging around in one of them, I find a pair of cotton pajamas for him to change into. I also find the towel-wrapped framed picture of the three of us we had posed for back in February. I hadn't noticed it missing when I inspected his room earlier. I feel a sob catch in my throat as Yves words come back to me:

"He did it because he loves you."

Whatever motives he had for leaving, something tells me that he was acting against his will. For some reason, he felt he had to leave, but he truly didn't want to. He may have left us, but we weren't leaving him. With just two bags of possessions to his name, he had found space for that picture, and took special care of it to ensure it wouldn't be damaged. In that way, we would always be with him, no matter where he went. I find myself more determined now to get to the bottom of this incident, and learn just why Frohike felt he had to abandon us.