From: msnsc21@yahoo.com   
      
   ok to send to newsgroup, I'll send to Ephemeral and Gossamer. Thanks!   
      
   Dead Romantic - Part Two   
   by ML msnsc21@yahoo.com   
      
   Disclaimers, etc. in Part One   
      
   ===   
      
   The car park was empty, and no one along the road seemed   
   inclined to pick up a pair dressed as they were.  It took   
   a while to get somewhere to call a cab to pick them up, and   
   even then Mulder had to show the cabby that he had money   
   before he'd let them in.   
      
   The cab let them off on a busy corner back in Crowborough.   
   It was late afternoon, but there were still plenty of people   
   on the streets.  There were none that looked like Phoebe and   
   him, though.  They were definitely on the wrong side of the   
   tracks.  He'd never felt so out of place anywhere in his   
   life.  He turned and stared back at some of the gawkers,   
   amazed when they backed off.  He hadn't even had to show   
   his snarl.   
      
   "This looks like a good place," Phoebe said gaily, and   
   pulled him into The Sherlock Holmes Pub.  "Not a very   
   original name, but I suppose that's to be expected," she   
   said, nibbling on his ear.   
      
   Mulder noticed the stares of disapproval over their public   
   display of affection, but their eyes slid away from him   
   as they passed.  Stan would probably have cussed them out,   
   said "What are you starin' at, you old cow?" or worse, but   
   the most Mulder did was look at them.  The outfit, he   
   supposed, did the rest.   
      
   He tried to be as oblivious to the stir they caused as   
   Phoebe appeared to be.  He'd been stared at and whispered   
   over in the past, though for vastly different reasons.   
   It was no more comfortable now to be suspected of something   
   because of his appearance than it had been to be suspected   
   because of who he was when he was twelve.   
      
   He felt other patrons pull away slightly as he approached   
   the bar.  He felt, rather than saw, one older man nudge   
   another.  He heard the man say, just loud enough, "Looks   
   like one o'them crows escaped again."   
      
   "Yair," the other man said, very quietly into his beer,   
   and Mulder turned to look at them.  He caught a glimpse   
   of fear in Beer Guy's face.   
      
   Afraid of him?  What a novelty.   
      
   He took the beers back to the table where Phoebe waited.   
      
   "Isn't this fun?"  she asked, eyes sparkling.   
      
   "Fun for whom?"  he asked.  The bar was filled with   
   people, many of them sneaking glances at their table.   
      
   "Are we done with your little experiment?"  he asked.   
   Niall's boots were a bit too small, and his feet were   
   sore after the long walk.   
      
   "Where's your sense of adventure?"  Phoebe asked.   
      
   "I think I left it in my other pants," Mulder said.   
   "Niall is probably having the time of his life."   
      
   "You just have to ignore them," Phoebe said, gesturing   
   toward the pub at large.  "We've as much right to be   
   here as they."   
      
   "This isn't us," he said with a hiss.  "No one would   
   care if we didn't look this way."   
      
   "Exactly," Phoebe said.  "Do you dislike being the   
   center of attention so much?  At a guess I'd say that   
   plenty of people notice you, all the time.  You just   
   don't respond to them.  *I* noticed you.  You'd stand   
   out in a crowd no matter how you dressed.  This is just   
   a different kind of attention than you're used to, a kind   
   you can't ignore, really.  Isn't that it?"   
      
   "I didn't ask to be psychoanalyzed by you," he said.   
      
   "You're just proving my point," she said.   
      
   "And what point would that be?"  he asked.  "That I   
   don't like making an ass of myself?"   
      
   "That you're too comfortable in your own narrow little   
   world," Phoebe answered.  "That you're suspicious of   
   change, or of anything that's not your own idea.  You   
   Americans are all alike."   
      
   "If I'd known I was representing my whole country, maybe   
   I would have tried harder," Mulder retorted.  "I apologize   
   on behalf of my countrymen and will take defeat gracefully.   
   Let's get out of here."   
      
   "And go where?  We can't go back to Stan's.  He has to cool   
   off.  And besides, you haven't gotten your money's worth yet.   
   I thought you Americans knew the value of a dollar -- or a   
   pound, in this case."   
      
   "You can stop referring to me as `you Americans' any time   
   now," Mulder said.  "In case you've forgotten, my name is   
   Fox Mulder.  I'm here for my own reasons, not to further   
   British-American relations."   
      
   Phoebe changed tack.  "But you're doing such a good job,"   
   she pressed her breasts against his arm and whispered in   
   his ear.  "And I haven't given you your surprise yet."   
   She licked his earlobe.   
      
   "Has it got something to do with Sherlock Holmes?"  he asked.   
      
   "Maybe," Phoebe said.  "You'll see.  Have another beer first.   
   We've plenty of time."   
      
   It was full dark when they left the pub.  The air was much   
   chillier, with more than a hint of rain in the air.   
      
   Mulder stood back a little as Phoebe hailed a cab.  The   
   driver stopped for her, though he blanched a bit at Mulder's   
   appearance.   
      
   "Windlesham Manor," Phoebe told the driver.   
      
   The diver looked her up and down.  "Are you sure?"  he asked.   
      
   Phoebe nodded and let her eyes go wide.  "I'm going to visit my   
   gran," she said.   
      
   "Right you are," the cabby said, with another glance at Mulder.   
      
   Windlesham was in an area of nice, estate-like homes.  It may   
   have been in the country in Sir Arthur's day, but no longer.   
   A sign on the gate said, "Windlesham Manor Home for the Aged."   
   It was locked, but there was a call button.   
      
   "Your grandmother is here?"  Mulder asked.   
      
   "Don't be dense, Fox.  This was Sir Arthur's home."  She   
   lowered her voice.  "He's buried in the rose garden."   
      
   "Really?  Well, it looks like visiting hours are over.   
   Let's go."  He'd had one too many beers and just wanted to   
   find some place to lie down.  As long as it wasn't Stan's   
   place.   
      
   "I just wanted to get the lay of the land," she said.  "We'll   
   come back later."   
      
   "Later, as in tomorrow?"  he asked hopefully.   
      
   "No, later tonight.  When we're sure everyone's gone to bed."   
      
   "Why?"  he asked.   
      
   "Aren't you curious?"  she asked.   
      
   "I could be just as curious in the light of day, and I'll bet   
   they'd even let us in through the gate," he said.   
      
   "What's the fun in that?" she asked.   
      
   It had stopped being fun for him a while ago, but he couldn't   
   say that to Phoebe.  She just got more stubborn as he   
   objected more.  He gave up.   
      
   x-x-x   
      
   Back in the business district they found a movie house to go   
   to, to kill a little time.  Phoebe enjoyed the looks they got   
   when they asked for two tickets to a family film.  They sat   
   in the back of the theater, away from the rest of the audience,   
   and kissed and fondled each other until Mulder was in such a   
   high state of arousal he could hardly walk.  He hoped that   
   Phoebe was in the same state and would just forget about   
   the nocturnal visit to Windlesham.   
      
   The town clock chimed ten as they left the theater.   
      
   "Time for a nightcap," Phoebe decided.  "Then we can go pay   
   our respects to Sir Arthur."   
      
   They went to a different pub, one with a more eclectic mix   
   of clientele.  Neither of them got so much as a glance.   
   Mulder went to the men's room.  A beer and a shot glass of   
   whiskey awaited him at the table when he came out.  Phoebe   
   waited until he sat down, then tossed back her shot,   
   following with a swallow of beer.   
      
   He eyed his drink.   
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)