Title: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

Author: J.D. Rush

Series: Big Things; follows 'Out With the Old, In With the New. . .'

Rating: PG for language

Pairing: Byers/Reyes

Summary: A (nervous) first date.

Disclaimer: FOX, 1013, CC. . .I think we know the song by now. 

Author's Note: This story is sort of a break from the Frohike/Scully storyline, but takes place within the Big Things universe. I just couldn't pass up the chance to write it. 

Spoiler: Numerous references to X-F's 'Unusual Suspects' and 'Three of a Kind'. If you don't know these two episodes, one section of this story may be confusing. 

THE STUFF THAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF

Saturday, January 5, 2002

BYERS:

I must've stood looking at her front door for nearly ten minutes, working up the courage to knock. All week long I kept thinking of this moment, what I would say, how I would act. Each time made me more nauseous than the last. What the hell had I been thinking when I asked her out? I couldn't even REMEMBER the last date I had been on. All I know is that George Bush was president.

Papa Bush, that is.

Figuring I couldn't put it off any longer, I finally took a deep breath and rapped twice. I heard a soft, "Be right there," the familiar click of a lock being turned, the faint creak of the door hinges as it opened, and there she was. "Hi, John," she smiled. "Right on time."

"Hi, Monica. You. . .you look great." I hadn't meant to blurt it out like that, but she DID look great. She was wearing a pair of black jeans and a mauve scoop-necked sweater, which had little flecks of silver throughout. It was casual and dressy at the same time, and looked completely natural, almost thrown together. Meanwhile, I had spent nearly two hours picking out the right tie.

"Thanks, you look pretty great yourself. But I seem to be underdressed," she said, gesturing towards my suit.

"No, no--it's fine. Really. Georgio's isn't all that fancy. I mean, not that you don't deserve to go someplace fancy. I just thought. . ."

She chuckled at my obvious nervousness. "John, do you want to come in?"

"Huh? Oh. . .yes. Thank you." I stepped into her foray, stiffly, as if I were walking to my execution. 

"Um, are those for me?" She was pointing to my right hand, which I had firmly pressed against my leg.

I looked down and noticed the bouquet of flowers I had picked up on the spur of the moment on my way to her apartment. I was so jumpy, I had completely forgotten about them.   Holding them out to her (disconcerted to note that my hand was shaking), I stammered, "Ah. . yes. They are."

She took them from me and looked genuinely surprised. "That was so sweet of you, John. I can't remember the last time someone got me flowers. Thank you."

Her response helped me to relax a bit. "You're welcome. I thought. . .I mean. . . nice place you have here," I commented, to keep the conversation alive (and the stutters at bay).

"Thanks. I moved in a couple of months ago when I got assigned to the X-Files. Still don't quite have it the way I want it--the feng shui just isn't coming together," she said, wistfully.

Did I just hear her right? "Feng shui?" I inquired, curiously.

"Yeah--you know, the ancient Chinese art of placement," she started to explain. "It says that there is a relationship between people and their environments. . ."

"And if we make adjustments to those environments we can achieve a harmonious flow and balance in our lives," I finished for her. "I. . .I know what feng shui is."

Her big brown eyes grew even bigger. "Wow! I don't think I've ever met a guy who did. I've been trying to explain it to Doggett for years now, and he STILL thinks I'm crazy."

"Oh, I don't think you're crazy," I assured her.

"That's nice to know," she smirked.

Open mouth, insert foot. "I didn't mean. . .ah. . .that is. . ."

"John, I'm just teasing. Let me put these in some water, okay?"

"Yeah. Ah. . .yeah." <Oh, boy, this wasn't going well at all. I was so flustered I couldn't even talk straight. She's going to think I'm a total buffoon if I don't get my act together, and fast!>

I watched her as she walked over to her kitchen area, and searched through her cupboards for a vase. She settled on a colorful ceramic pitcher, which she filled with water; placing the flowers in it, she carefully arranged them as she asked, "So. . . any idea what movie you want to see?"

"Anything you want is fine with me," I told her.

"Have you seen 'Lord of the Rings' yet?" she suggested as she wiped her wet hands on a towel.

<Did she just say 'Lord of the Rings'? Oh, God--it could be love. Or Kismet. Or SOMETHING!> "Actually, I did," I admitted. "Opening day. Langly waited overnight for tickets. Wanted to be the first on the block, so to speak."

"Oh, all right," she replied, disappointment in her voice. "I'm sure there's something else good that's playing. . ."

"No, no--we can see 'Lord of the Rings'," I rushed to assuage her.

"But if you've already seen it. . ."

"It was a great film," I interrupted. "I. . .I was hoping to see it again."

I was treated to another of her dazzling grins. "Great. Just let me get my coat and we can go then."

As she grabbed up her leather jacket from the coat rack near the door, I gently took it from her. "Allow me, please," and I held it out to her; she slipped it on, then turned to me, an amused look on her face.

"How gallant," she remarked. "Thanks, John." She scooped up her purse, shut down the lights, locked the door, and we were on our way.

* * * * * * *

"Hey, nice wheels," she noted as we approached the black 2001 Pontiac Trans Am parked outside her building.

"Oh, ah, thanks," I muttered, as I held open the passenger's door to her. When she again gave me that bemused look, I asked bashfully, "Am I over doing it?"

"Well, it IS the 21st Century, John," she informed me. "A lot of women might be offended."

"I don't mean to offend," I promised her. "It's just my upbringing, I guess."

She smiled in understanding. "I know. Personally, I think it's rather sweet." Folding those long shapely legs into the car, she added, "It's nice to be going out with a real gentleman for a change."

Once she was settled, I closed the door and made my way to the driver's seat. <What the hell had I been thinking when I asked to borrow Jimmy's car? Jet airliners don't have such complex instrument panels, for Pete's sake!>   Monica studied me curiously as I took a moment to reacquaint myself with all the unfamiliar equipment before finally starting up the car and pulling into traffic.

"I really wouldn't have taken you for a sports car kind of guy," she reflected.

"Oh, well. . .I saw it on the lot and fell in love with it," I pretended. "Got a pretty good deal, too."

"That's very important," she mused. "Mind if I put on some music?"

Good. She didn't want to talk cars. I would've been in left field with this one. "No, please, go right ahead," I insisted. But instead of reaching over to the radio, she picked up the box of CD's on the floor near her seat. 

"I think you can learn so much about a person by the music they listen to," she commented nonchalantly, as she started flipping through the jewel cases.

"Oh, um, yeah, I guess, but I, ummmm. . ."

"Britney Spears?"

"Huh?"

She held up a CD with a half-naked young girl on it. "Is there something you want to tell me, John?" she asked with a huge smirk.

Luckily I was stopped at a light or I might've driven off the road. <My God, she was just a kid! How could her parents let her dress like that?> "That's ah, that's not my CD," I confessed.

"Thank goodness," she chuckled. "I thought I was going to have to lower my high opinion of you."

Feeling I should come clean (before she found any more incriminating CD's), I admitted, "In fact, this isn't my car."

"Hotwiring is against the law, you know," she teased.

"No hotwiring involved," I promised, then added under my breath, "this time."

She raised her eyebrow at that one. "Cute, John," she tittered.

<Oh, if she only knew the truth.> "Actually, it belongs to Jimmy. I thought, well, it's more impressive than the van."

I felt her hand rest on mine as I downshifted. "John, you don't have to go out of your way to impress me. You've already done that, just by being you." Thankfully it was dark out and she couldn't see me blush. 

She took her hand back and reached into her purse only to mutter, "Oh, damn."

"Something wrong?" I inquired, concerned.

Shaking an obviously empty box, she quietly cursed again; in the light of the dashboard, I could see it said, 'Nicorette'. "I'm ah, I'm out of gum," she admitted, chagrined. "Is there a drug store on the way to the restaurant we can stop at?"

I was glad to see she was sticking by her New Year's resolution. I never smoked, so I could only imagine how hard it was to quit, and I admired her gumption in trying.  "I think so. Does that stuff work?"

"Five days so far and I haven't shot anyone yet," she answered in all seriousness. 

"Congratulations."

"Of course, I've gone through nearly a case of the gum instead," she continued, off-handedly. "Have you ever checked the price of this stuff? It's cheaper to buy the damn cigarettes. Guess that's what I get for being so orally fixated."

At that, I slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel suddenly, swerving the car towards the curb to the accompaniment of a chorus of angry horns.

"John, are you okay?" she demanded.

I was shaking so hard I could barely respond. "Yeah. . .ahh, a squirrel," I lied, as her words--and the images those words caused--echoed in my head. "It ran into the road."

She took my fib at face value. "Oh, okay."

Once I started breathing again, I eased back into traffic, wondering if I was going to survive this date after all.

+++++++++++++++++

"Anything that you'd recommend?" Monica asked, busy perusing the 'daily specials' sheet that the waitress had left on the table.

"Well, I've tried just about everything on the menu, but my favorite is the Rueben," I told her. "They make it with coleslaw instead of sauerkraut."

"But if they don't use sauerkraut, then it's not really a Rueben, is it?" she pointed out.

"No, I guess it's not, now that you mention it," I agreed. "But it's still pretty good."

She thought about it for a minute then nodded. "Okay, you sold me. I'll give it a try," she said, putting down the sheet. "Wanna split some onion rings?"

When the waitress came back, I repeated our order: two Ruebens and an order of onion rings. She wrote it all down diligently, then asked if we wanted something to drink. I instantly rattled off, "Coke for me, and a Sam Adams for the lady." 

Only after she had left did I realize what I had done.   I just put my head in my hands and moaned pitifully, "I did it again, didn't I? I'm so sorry."

If I was expecting a condemnation, I was in for a disappointment; she simply deadpanned, "At least you remembered my brand."

Things went a bit smoother after the drinks and complimentary breadsticks arrived, and we started the obligatory personal histories. I found out where she went to school: Berkley, Brown, Penn State, William & Mary, and 'a couple others I don't remember'. When I asked her what she was trying to become, she had joked, 'a graduate'. Seems her father had finally put his foot down and told her whatever she was majoring in at that point in time would be it. "I was just lucky it was religious studies and not something heinous, like animal husbandry or something," she laughed.

Sometime during our meal, we got to discussing movies. Her all-time favorite was

'The Maltese Falcon'. ("It's got everything: Humphrey Bogart, intrigue, Humphrey Bogart, mystery, Humphrey Bogart. . .") I was pleased to note that her eyes lit up when I mentioned mine was '2001--A Space Odyssey'. (Even though it DIDN'T have Humphrey Bogart.)

From there we moved on to music. She revealed her favorite musicians were The Eagles, early Stevie Wonder, and Jimmy Buffett. ("I guess it's masochistic to listen to him in the middle of a DC winter though, huh?") I had countered with U2, James Taylor, and 'anything by Mozart', which got an appreciative nod from the young lady.

We ordered another round of drinks and started comparing favorite TV shows. I laughed as she related she enjoyed watching old reruns of 'Columbo' and 'The Great Chefs of Europe' ("Which I usually watch while eating microwaved macaroni and cheese.") I responded to that with "The History Channel twelve hours a day; The Discovery Channel the other twelve."

When the time for dessert rolled around, I got 'the' token argument--"No, I shouldn't. Really, I shouldn't. What do they have?"--before we decided to share a piece of cinnamon crunch cheesecake, and traded favorite authors. She chose Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. ("There's something so charming about those old classic mysteries, don't you agree?") I did indeed agree. . .when I wasn't engrossed in Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov (of course).

I could have spent all night talking to her and finding out all these little insignificant significant tidbits about her, but a quick glance at my watch told me we had to hustle if we wanted to make the movie on time. As I called for the check, I noticed my date pulling her wallet out of her purse. "Monica, what are you doing?" I asked.

"Going dutch?" she answered, as if it were obvious.

"Nonsense, this is my treat," I asserted. "I invited you--it's my obligation to pay."

"But. . ." she started.

"I insist," I interrupted her, palming the check before she had a chance to argue further.

She wasn't deterred. "Fine. But I get the tip." I opened my mouth, but she just put up her hand to silence me. "John--*I* insist."

No doubt about it--this date was going to kill me.

++++++++++

The ride to the theater wasn't half as exciting as the one to the restaurant. Once we got there, I went to buy the tickets while she made her way over to the concession stand and picked up the popcorn and drinks. I thought we were going to get into an argument--she wanted to pay for the snacks--but I finally convinced her to take the $10 bill I had pulled out of my wallet. Her only comment to me was a gentle, "Stop trying so hard, John," before she headed off.

I'll admit I was starting to feel a little uneasy about her persistence on paying her way. I had done the asking, so it was my duty to pay for the date, right? Then again, as she said, it was the 21st Century. I had to get with the program. If she could tolerate my over-exuberant courtliness, I suppose I had to deal with her obvious independence.

We sat in the semi-darkened theater, waiting for the movie to begin, sharing the huge tub of popcorn she had purchased and answering the trivia questions that kept flashing on the screen. I was really enjoying myself when Monica let go with a deep sigh. "I feel like I'm back in 8th grade and I'm out on my first date with Bobby Thayer."

With those few words, I felt my stomach fall to my shoes and my heart shatter in a thousand pieces. A night that I found perfect, a date that I thought was going so well had been compared to something out of junior high school. If I thought I could have gotten away with it, I would have crawled under my chair and died.

I don't know what got her attention--the stricken look on my face or the startled, sickly whimper that stuck in the back of my throat. All I know is in the next instant, she was quickly amending, "Oh, John, I didn't mean that in a bad way. It's just. . ." She sighed again, trying to find the right words, "It's just that this has been a very refreshing change from the normal dating scene. I'm so used to a guy spending the night sizing me up, trying to find the fastest way to get me into bed. You're just so different from other men."

"So I've been told," I replied drolly, not altogether convinced. 

"I didn't mean THAT in a bad way, either," she explained, patiently. "You're quite a special man, John Byers."

"And how would you know that?" I wondered, dubiously.

"I get these. . .feelings. . ." she revealed, almost shyly.

"And you have. . .a feeling. . .about me," I asked, hesitantly.

She smiled softly. "Uh-huh. A very good feeling. I'm so glad you asked me out tonight." Before I could comment and tell her I thought she was special, too, the lights went down, and the film began. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++

The movie was even more amazing the second time around, when I could lose myself in the story and not just the fantastic special effects and breathtaking scope of it. We waited through the closing credits, listening to the beautiful music, as the rest of the audience shuffled out; Monica still had her hand entangled with mine on the hand rest, something that had occurred somewhere around the middle of the film. Once everyone was gone, I helped Monica on with her coat, and we headed out to the car.

She had been silent the whole time, not even commenting once on the film. I was starting to wonder if she had enjoyed it at all. As I opened the passenger's door, I found myself asking, "So, what did you think of it?" 

I never found out. Instead, she grabbed me by the lapels of my suit jacket and kissed me. On the lips. Both of them. Soft sweet lips pressed against mine for the first time in. . .how long? I couldn't think, couldn't reason. All I knew were her lips on mine and that I desperately wished it could go on forever.

But 'forever' turned out to be less than a few seconds. She pulled away from me, a smile on those wondrous lips, a smile in those sparkling eyes. I stood there, mouth hanging open, trying to process what the hell had just happened. "What was that for?" I asked, breathlessly.

"Just trying to relieve some anxiety, that's all," she replied. "I find that at the end of the night, there's so much apprehension about the goodnight kiss. Should I? Shouldn't I? Will she get upset if I do? If I don't? Now that we've got it out of the way, we can finish the date in peace."

"Finish?" I squeaked. After all, we had eaten dinner, saw the movie. What else was there to do? <Oh. Oh, God. She wasn't thinking--no, it wasn't possible. Did she want to. . .? On the first date???>

"Well, I thought we could go somewhere, get a coffee maybe?" she said, calmly.

Coffee. She only wanted to do coffee. *I* could do coffee. "I'd like that. Any ideas?"

"There's a little bistro right around the corner from my place," she suggested, as she got into the car. "They have great cappuccino and the most decadent French pastries."

"Sounds good to me," I told her as I closed the door. But truth be told, no pastry could ever be as sweet as that kiss.

++++++++++++++++

"Hey, Mo--who's your friend?" the waiter greeted us as he approached our table.

"Hey, Jason," she answered him with a smile. "This is John Byers. John, this is Jason."

"ANOTHER John?" he exclaimed. "Do you have a rule you only date guys named John?"

"Yeah, which I guess leaves you out, huh, Jay?"

He clutched at his chest dramatically and groaned, "Mo, you wound me."

"You'll get over it," she informed him.

Leaning down towards me he motioned to Monica and said, conspiratorially, "Watch out, John--this girl's a heartbreaker."

"I'd be more worried about my thumbs if I were you, Jay."

"Oooh, yeah--hurt me, baby," he cooed, playfully.

I just sat there watching their verbal exchange, not quite sure what to make of this unprofessional behavior. "Are you going to take our order or just annoy us all night?" Monica demanded.

"Are you giving me a choice, Mo?" he shot back.

"Nope. We'll have two cappuccinos and two Napoleons."

He flashed her a sincere smile. "You got it, hon. Be right back." And he hurried off.

She smiled over at me, which quickly turned into a look of horror. "Oh, oh John. I'm so sorry!"

"What for?" I asked, puzzled.

"I ordered for both of us and I didn't even ask what you wanted first," she clarified, clearly upset by her actions.

I just laughed. "Guess that means we're even now, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess it does," she said sheepishly, the cutest hint of blush hitting her cheeks.

"So I take it you and this Jason are well acquainted?" I observed.

She nodded. "Uh-huh. I started coming here shortly after I moved in. Jason owns the place and I guess we've struck up a weird kind of friendship."

"I'm not so sure about that, Monica," I told her confidentially. "I think he's interested in you as more than a friend."

"Actually, John, he's probably more interested in *you*," she replied, emphasizing the word meaningfully.

"Me? Why would he be interested in me?" And then it hit me what she was implying. "Oh. OH!"

"Don't worry--he's harmless," she assured me. "His boyfriend would kill him if he strayed. He's just really nosy about other people's love lives, and he thoroughly enjoys teasing me and my companions."

"And that would be the 'John' he mentioned?" Did I sound jealous, or was it my imagination?

"Yeah--the other John in my life. Agent Doggett. . .John. Whatever." She giggled, "I think I'm going to have to start calling him Jack, like his mother does."

"I didn't know you two. . .?" I let the sentence die. What was she doing out with me if she was involved with her partner?

"We don't. We haven't. I mean--we tried dating many years ago, shortly after his divorce. But it didn't work out. It was like dating my older brother. We're just friends. Honest."

Jay came back with our coffees and pastries at that point. Monica hadn't been lying--decadent was an apt description for the Napoleon that practically spilled over the edges of the plate. Once we were alone again, I picked up the conversation where we had left off. "Agent Doggett seems like a good guy--the few times I've met up with him."

"He's one of the best," she readily agreed. "And a great friend, too. Actually, it's too bad it never worked out between us. He certainly would've been a step up from most of the men I've dated."

"That bad?" I sympathized.

"Let's just say there have been a lot of frogs but no princes so far. And after this last one, I've just avoided the dating scene all together."

"Real winner, huh?"

"Well, he wasn't a bad guy, but the breakup was pretty nasty. That's what I get for getting involved with a fellow fibbie, huh?"

I broke off a bite of the pastry--ultra flaky and loaded with creamy custard. Perfect. Monica gave me a smirk that clearly said 'I told you so' before digging into her own delicacy. "He's an agent? I thought that. . ." I hesitated for a second, trying to pick out the right word, "fraternizing. . .was off-limits?"

"Well, it's looked down upon, that's for sure. But I was rather young and naïve--still a wide-eyed rookie. And Brad was quite persuasive."

"Brad?"

"Hmmmm," she hummed, sipping her coffee. "Brad Follmer."

I almost choked on my own coffee. "Brad Follm. . .Assistant Director Brad Follmer?"

"You know him?"

"I know OF him," I corrected her. "He rose through the ranks pretty quickly. Something like that doesn't go unnoticed."

"Yeah, Brad was always on the fast track in everything he did--including me." She shook her head ruefully, "You didn't need to know that, did you?"

I cringed inwardly. "Probably not. So, what happened? Did someone find out about you two. . .?"

"Nah--the romance just soured. Then again, 'romance' isn't quite the word I'd use to describe what we had. It was more hormonal than anything else."

"And now we've definitely entered the realm of too much information, Monica," I notified her.

"Sorry," she apologized. "That was rather tactless."

"But honest," I pointed out.

"I'll always be honest with you, John," she said sincerely.

I paused to take another bite of my pastry, which also gave some time to process all this new information. "Okay. So if we're being honest, is there any chance Brad's going to come after me? Should I start wearing a bullet-proof vest or something?"

She laughed. I had made her laugh. Could life get any better? "I don't think you have anything to worry about, John. Brad's a lot of things, but vengeful ex-lover isn't one of them. He's far too cool a customer for that. And besides I have your back."

"Thanks. That's encouraging," I returned, sarcastically.  

We both concentrated on our dessert for a minute or two. When Monica next spoke it was to ask me, "What about you? Any dangerous women in your past I should be concerned about?"

I almost couldn't answer her--she had a small dollop of custard on her upper lip that she was casually licking away. It was so unintentionally erotic, and it only served as a painful reminder how long between dates it had been for me. "Only one," I was finally able to get out. "But it's a long story. . .and I'm not sure a first date is the right time to discuss it."

"John, I've been doing almost all the talking tonight. I'd like to hear about her."

It was such a simple request. And she HAD been honest about Brad. Taking a deep breath I started, "Her name is Susanne. Or rather, it was."

Her eyes grew large. "Was?"

"I told you, it's a long story."

"Is this story going to end with her becoming 'Steve'?" 

"Not quite THAT drastic," I assured her. "Although I do know a Carl who became a Carol."

She did a perfect imitation of Scully's quirked eyebrow. "Sounds interesting, but let's save that one for another time. I want to hear about this Susanne." So after she motioned Jay over for a refill, I began to tell her my tale.

I told her about the beautiful, desperate blonde who walked into my life in 1989, bringing enough intrigue and mystery for a dozen Bogart films. I went on to explain how in a span of less than 24 hours she had captured my heart before she was captured herself, by forces of evil, right in front of my eyes.

I described my years of searching for her, a cross-country crusade to find her, my all-consuming need to discover one scrap of concrete evidence that she was still alive. I felt it deep inside that she was, but I wanted proof. . .NEEDED proof!

And then how, one day nine years later, I got my proof, and so much more.

Another trade show, one last gamble in the gambling capital of the world. And there she was, as beautiful and as mysterious as the day she had been taken away from me. I found out she had moved on with her life while I was wallowing in despair and paranoid government conspiracies. She had been forced to work for the evil bastards that had kidnapped her, and somewhere along the way she had fallen in love and gotten engaged to someone else.

I had no time to grieve my loss. She was in danger again--this time from the very man she had planned to spend her life with. She didn't know he was part of the conspiracy or that he planned to kill her to save his own life. We almost didn't figure it out in time, but once we did, wheels were quickly set in motion--and my future along with it.

She had one chance to break away, a dangerous act that put all our lives at risk, but one we had no choice except to try. If the Black Ops wanted Susanne dead, we'd give them their wish. As far as they are concerned, Susanne Modeski was shot to death in a bloody attack in a Las Vegas casino in 1998. Only a handful of people know that while Susanne ceased to be that day, Holly Coleman was born.

I should have stopped the narrative there, but I confessed it all to Monica--how we created the false identity for Susanne, and forged the death certificate to make everything neat and legal. Then, when all the dust had settled, Susanne--ahh, Holly--had asked me to go with her. I revealed that for one brief moment I considered it, seeing all my hopes and dreams come true before I sadly, and regretfully, turned her down. How to do this day I could still see her in the cab as she drove away. How to this day I still carried around the ring she had given me.

When there was nothing left to say, I heard Monica's soft voice ask, "If you loved her so much, why did you let her go?"

"Actually, I like to think I had a momentary attack of sanity. The thought of being on the run for the rest of my life wasn't very appealing no matter how much I loved her. Besides, she's probably safer this way. It's easier for one person to disappear than two."

"But you still love her," she stated simply.

"Yeah. I think I always will," I acknowledged.

"And you haven't seen her since Vegas?"

"No. I've had no contact with her." I felt my shoulders sag sadly. "It's just safer for everyone."

"John, that was a very brave and courageous thing you did."

"What? Changing her identity?" I scoffed. "That was just a simple computer hack."

"No--letting her go like that," she said tenderly.

"Well, you know the old saying--if you love something, set it free." I tried to chuckle, but it sounded strained. 

"I wish I could say something to make it better, John, but for what it's worth--thank you for sharing with me. It took a lot of trust to do that."

I thought about what she said for a moment before responding. "You know, Mulder used to say, 'Trust no one.' Susanne used to say, 'No matter how paranoid you are, you're not paranoid enough.' I'm tired of feeling that way, of living my life always looking over my shoulder, sleeping with one eye open. I WANT to trust you. I think I need to. . ."

"Wow, when you start talking, you're just full of surprises," she marveled.

"I'm sorry--I shouldn't have. . ." I mumbled, embarrassed at my outburst.

"No, John, I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me." With that, she reached across the table and took my hand in hers.  

I was busy staring into those velvet-soft eyes of hers when we were rudely interrupted. "Hey guys, I hate to break in like this, but we're closing up."

"Just a few more minutes, Jay? Please?" she all but pleaded.

"Mo--we locked up over a half-hour ago," he practically apologized. We both instantly looked around the café. . .he was right. We were the only two customers left in the place. "If you stick around much longer, I'm going to have to put you to work washing dishes or mopping floors."

"In that case, maybe we should be going," I said diplomatically, sliding my wallet from my back pocket.

It got no further than that, however. Monica waved me off with a menacing, "Oh no you don't. You just put that right back where you found it."

"But. . ." I tried to argue.

"But nothing. You got dinner and the movie. THIS is my treat," she announced decisively, already pulling the money from her purse. "Since *I* did the inviting, it's my duty to pay, right?"

Well, she certainly had me there, didn't she?

<Welcome to the 21st Century, John.>

+++++++++++++++++

I sadly watched as she put her key in the lock of her front door, knowing the date was coming to a close. It had turned out to be one of the best nights I could ever remember, and I was sorry to see it end.   Once the door was opened, she turned to me and enthused, "I had a such a good time tonight, John. I might've gained five pounds, but I had a lot of fun.

"Me, too. In fact. . .I. . .I'd really like to see you again sometime."

She gave me one of her special smiles, the ones that make her eyes shine like diamonds. "I'd like that a lot. How do you feel about the symphony?"

"The symphony?" I repeated stupidly.

"Yeah--I have a contact. He can get me tickets to the Baltimore Symphony for next Saturday, if you want. It's Mostly Mozart night," she added, mischievously.

"That sounds wonderful," I eagerly agreed. "Um. . .who pays for what?"

She sighed dramatically, "John. . ." but it quickly turned into a huge smile she saw that I was just teasing her. "Let's play it by ear, okay? I'll give you a call."

"Great." I shuffled nervously, not really wanting to leave, but not sure how to delay the inevitable. Finally, I managed to stammer, "Ah, since you already gave me a good night kiss back at the cinema, does that mean I have to wait until next Saturday to. . .?"

She laughed, even as she reached over, cupped my face in her surprisingly strong yet elegant hands, and kissed me again. This time it was more gentle, and I got to savor the sweetness of her mouth and the softness of her lips. As she pulled back, her long fingers swept through my beard. "Night, John," she whispered.

"Night, Monica." She stepped into her apartment, the door closing on her beautiful face.

My feet barely touched the ground as I made my way out to the car.

++++++++

ONE WEEK LATER:

"7 o'clock, right on the dot," she greeted me at the door with a kiss on the cheek. She had dressed up for the evening in a little black cocktail dress and a pair of strapped black heels; a pearl choker and earrings completed the ensemble. She looked absolutely beautiful. "Just let me grab the tickets and we'll be ready to go. . ."

"Wait," I called out to her. "I have a gift for you."

She gave an exasperated sigh as she turned back to me and scolded, "John, you have to stop doing that. You don't need to bring me something every time we go out on a. . ." Her words were cut off as I handed her the box with the color ribbon attached. "Nicorette?" she gaped.

"Well, I didn't want you to get half-way through the concert and realize you were out again," I smiled, cheekily.

She laughed. Oh, her laugh was musical--I could listen to it all night long. "You know, Johnny--I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," she chuckled, as she looped her arm in mine.

Bogie couldn't have said it any better.

THE END