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Title: A Chance Encounter Summary: The writer meets the famous duo at the end of their trek. Note: This is my Eulogy to the series. I am sad to see it end (at least what I consider the end, when Mr. Duchovny left the show and the writing. . . . Well, we won't get into that.) "What's that?" he asks with fascination, a long delicate finger coming into my vision and pointing at my e-book. I glance over the upper rim of my glasses into the beautifully handsome face of a man dressed in sweater and jeans and looking oh so gorgeous. I know this man. I've seen him numerous times over the last several years. Perhaps he does not know I know he is an agent with the FBI. I will feign. . .ignorance. I bat my eyes and announce, "It's an e-book. . .an electronic book." He scoots into the seat across from me in the booth, oblivious to whether he is welcomed or not. Of course he is. . .welcomed that is, but I must remember I am trying to ignore his impudence. "I've heard of these, but have never actually seen one. May I?" He extends his hand silently asking if he can look at my device. I place the e-book in his outstretched palm, suppressing my desire to instruct him how to use this and what the little buttons are for, and simultaneously groaning silently because he will now see what I read is about him. "Didn't Steven King publish his most recent novel on one of these? Drove the hard press nuts." "The last two," I correct him casually. "It was his last two books." I watch as his eyebrow quirks, obviously coming to his name among the words appearing on the small screen. He looks back at me, blinking as a small smile tugs at his lips, a smile of. . .understanding and amusement. The grin blossoms once he returns his gaze to the book and starts flipping through the s I have there, as well as opening a few of the ones I myself have written. I try hard to hide my corresponding embarrassment, which wants to show itself as a smile in return. "What do you do?" he asks quietly, his eyes mesmerized by the e-book. I pause before answering. What do I do. . .when? "Professionally?" I croak out around the humility begging expulsion from my insides. He nods. . .slowly, eyes still down turned on the small screen. I swallow and inhale deeply. "I'm a lawyer." That snaps his head up quickly enough. Not the response he was expecting. "A lawyer?" I nod in return. Gotcha. "What's your name?" "Alyn." "What kind of law do you practice?" I now have his full attention as my little book lies neglected in his hands. And what gorgeous hands they are. "Criminal defense." "Where?" "D.C." He blinks rapidly again. "D.C.? My neck of the woods." I nod again, allowing him to lead this conversation. "And this?" he asks, pointing down at the e-book. I shrug. "I also write. . .a little. . .for myself." I take another deep breath and wait for his response. "For yourself," he repeats, staring at the book. Slowly he hands it back, watching our hands as they meet in the center of the formica table, the book slipping back to me. Withdrawing his palm, he folds it quickly in front of him, crossing his chest with his arms as he leans back in the booth and looks at me smugly. "So. . .Alyn. . .what brings you to the desert southwest?" I find myself relaxing a little, thankful for the change in subject. "Vacation." "And writing?" "A little." He nods, this time it's a mark of his understanding. "Why here?" I shrug slightly. "I've always liked this area of the country. . .especially in the Spring when the desert is in bloom, and less tourists are in residence." "So why do you write?" This I know he will understand, perhaps too well. "Stress relief." The sparkle lights his eyes as his grin broadens. Yeah, he's been there too. "Is it any good?" "What? My writing?" Nod. I shrug again. "I think so. At least I'm drawn back to things I've written when I need a break. . .when I need decent grammar and intelligence." "And others? What do they think?" Others. My boyfriend has placated me repeatedly with expressions of a disinterested desire to read what I write, and I have for years denied him the privilege. . .or burden. Depends upon whom you ask. "I don't publish," I respond, my voice taking on an edge of steel. That gets another raise of the eyebrows. "Publish? What about distribution on the net? Isn't that where fan fiction is found? All those. . .Websites?" My foot is beating a furious rhythm in my shoe. Nervous habit when I get agitated. "Publish. . .as in the legal definition, to disseminate to another party. Anyone. I don't let anyone read what I have written." Off his quirked brow, I admit quietly, "I guess I'm just shy." The knowing smile returns to his face. "There you are," the redheaded woman observes as she approaches my table, bouncing an alert and cherubic child on her hip. My guess, he's (or maybe she's -- hard to tell) about ten months old. "I've been looking all over for you, Mulder." "I've been here," he answers, reaching up to relieve her of the child. In her other hand she grips a booster seat, which she sets next to Mulder as he scoots closer to the windowed side of my booth. ". . .Talking to Alyn about her writing. Do you know she writes about us? *And* she's from D.C. . .and she's a lawyer," he informs the woman whom I assume is his wife, although she wears no ring on her finger. He tucks the child into the seat next to him, keeping a protective arm around the baby's shoulder so as to prevent the child from being misplaced. The woman slides in next to me. "Well, I've been looking for you. Junior is getting hungry." She announces this as she withdraws a packet of saltine crackers from her small purse and passes it to Mulder to open for the child. Turning to me, the woman regards me suspiciously with those big blue eyes. "A writer, huh?" Her tongue sticks in her teeth as she considers the implications of this. "Not just a writer, Scully," Mulder interjects. "A lawyer." "What do you write about us?" Her question to me is direct and to the point, and I feel I am stuck between a rock and a hard place, even though it is only a booth in a local diner near Zion National Park. "Oh, Scully," Mulder answers before I can even formulate a response. "She's good. . .and grammatical. . .and she doesn't publish." These little tidbits of information bring a nod from Scully in my direction. She's still awaiting my answer, which I still don't have because of Mulder's interruption. "Stories," I manage to squeak out a few seconds later. I quickly add so she will not believe she is my only focus, "I also write about other people and events I've known. . .or would like to." She raises a brow, begging me continue, which I uncharacteristically do. "About actors and that spy the FBI arrested in D.C. not too long ago. . .and people I know from the courthouses. . .my colleagues." Even I wince at acknowledging that. What would I ever do. . .how could I ever face them if they knew what I wrote about them. . .intimately? "So. . .you intrude upon other people's lives," she concludes succinctly. Yeah, I guess I do. The man across from me in the booth looks sufficiently embarrassed by her direct and concise accusation, trying to hide himself by amusing the baby with the cellophane from the crackers. "I. . .make them up," I try to recover. "It's fiction. . .fan *fiction*." She's not buying it. "Where does the legal angle come in?" "It doesn't. That's my job. . .my career. Writing I do on the side." "So what are you doing in Utah?" What are *they* doing in Utah? Why is it I feel I have to justify myself to these two? Good cop, bad cop? I can see through that in a heartbeat. Been there. Done that. "Vacation," Mulder again interjects into the silence. "Why are *you* here?" I ask curiously. "Vacation," he repeats. "We just wanted to see some of this part of the country. . .in the daylight. . .when we weren't on a case or being chased by aliens. After all, we've spent enough time here during our careers, we thought we'd see the countryside before. . .well, y'know. . . ." "Retirement? Are you retiring?" Scully throws him a glare as if he's divulged the last remaining secret of mankind. Like I couldn't figure this out. I mean: Mulder gets abducted, returns; Scully's pregnant and has their child; Mulder feels lost in his job at the Bureau; the conspiracy is over, his sister is dead, the X-Files are gone. What more is there to say? Besides, the show has become trite, trivial and poorly written. They've run out of material. How can this couple *not* retire? Mulder avoids both my questioning look and his wife's stare. He's become very successful at this behavior over the last eight years. He's searching for a defense which does not exist. "We haven't decided," Scully answers coolly, her eyes still on her husband. These two make a great pair. "So," she heaves a breath and turns back to me. "Retirement or no, as a lawyer, tell me what you think about the legal angle of our work." I raise my eyebrows in surprise. No one has asked my opinion of the law behind the X-Files before, although I certainly have one. I clear my throat. "Well, . . .you haven't exactly interjected law into the show since the second season. . .y'know, that show about the girl and the cop who was drowned in his own fish tank. I think you asked Mulder," I cock my head towards him, not taking my eyes off her, "if a grand jury would indict on his evidence. Since then, there hasn't been much real law. Other than the continual violations of civil rights and the Constitution, the lack of Miranda in your interrogations, the failure of probable cause and reasonable articulable suspicion, warrantless searches which defy any exception, other than the Law According to Louis Freeh, and the mere fact you don't ever seem to go to court well, not since Phoebe Green -- and never seem to testify, I don't think law has much to do with your work. Do you?" Gotcha. . .again. I force myself not to smile. Red infuses Dana Scully's neck and inches its way up to her face. Flushed. I think other writers of fan fiction would say she's flushed. And angry. But she should be more angry at herself and the show's writers than at me for pointing out the obvious. Mulder's back to his avoidance games and the baby. She turns slowly to her husband. "Mulder, I think we're done here." He just chuckles. "C'mon, Scully. She's right and you know it. We haven't had a real consultant on the set in a long, long time. I mean, who're you going to consult about aliens and shape shifters and government conspiracies? And the writing. . .well, no wonder Duchovny wants to leave. Who can blame him? I certainly don't, and with him going, I get to retire, take my family far away from those blasted bureaucrats, and enjoy my beautiful wife and child for the rest of my life. And if I'm lucky, Alyn and her fan fiction cohorts will write us into blissful oblivion. . .with lots of children. Isn't that what you want?" She lowers her eyes, not able to deny the truth of his statements. Turning back to me she asks, her voice gentle but serious, "Could you do me one favor. . .in your writing?" I remain silent, knowing she will continue regardless of any response I make. "Could you stop writing torture for my husband? Or about his demise? I really would like to keep him around for a long, long time. And I do love him, y'know." I smile at her, my grin equally as soft. "I'll make you a deal," I offer. "You take care of this man. . .this beautiful, gorgeous hunk of male-dom. . .and I promise not to write about the death of your family, or bringing *significant* physical or emotional pain to either of you, or separation, and I will *try* to give you a little more privacy in the bedroom. How 'bout that?" She blushes as Mulder coughs his surprise. Scully offers me one of those broad smiles she has saved so far for her husband and a few intimate friends. "Deal," she confirms. Rising she takes the baby out of his/her seat. "C'mon, Mulder. I want to go back to see where you. . .or that alien shape shifter who looked like you. . .jumped off the cliff in the beginning of Season Eight. And I told you I'd show you where Gibson Praise hid underground with his little friend." Mulder scoots out of the booth, taking the child seat with him to return to the front of the diner. "It was nice meeting you, Alyn. And don't worry about Scully; she gets annoyed at fiction writers. I mean. . .after the loss of her dad and Melissa, Emily, her ova, and cancer and repeated attacks by the evil and mutants in our series, I really can't blame her. And it really bothers her when you all write about the two of us. . .umm. . .well, y'know. . .making love. Invasion of privacy, and all that." I smile up at him. "Thanks. It was nice meeting you, too. Say 'Hi' to Duchovny for me. I look forward to seeing him in anything else. And I wish he would write more. . .y'know. . .for public consumption. Uhh. . .Mulder. . .thanks for a pleasant eight years. I'll miss you." "I'll miss you, too, Alyn. Keep up the good work." With that he turns, then steps back and runs a finger quickly down my cheek. "Just thought you'd like to know how it feels." He's right, of course. I would like to know. Now I think I do. I smile broadly and watch the little family disappear through the door of the diner. The End. . .and it is.
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