From: audrey_roget@yahoo.com   
      
   ***I originally posted this to All-XF in May of this year, but it must   
   have gotten lost on its way to atxc. Apologies for littering your   
   inbox. Happy New Year!***   
      
   The Tale of Captain Kirk's Cabin Boy   
   by Audrey Roget   
      
   Spoilers: Um? General?   
   Rating: PG, if that   
   Summary: Some tales can only be told after midnight.   
   Keywords: AU/post-series, MS married, OC POV   
   Feedback: audrey_roget@yahoo.com   
   Archive: Ephemeral and Gossamer auto-archives; please   
   contact the author for other archive requests.   
   Author's Prologue: This story was begun in early 1999 and   
   finished in late 2003. The following contains characters and   
   elements of post-S7 X-Files canon, but the reader should not   
   assume that any plot development occurring after the   
   episode "Je Souhaite" has taken place within the universe of   
   this story.   
      
   Thanks to the gals at Musea for beta assistance, especially   
   Forte's smart-quote-seeking missile (TM)!   
      
   For Patti   
      
   ###   
      
   "Garcon!"  I pound a fist on the dark wood. "'Nother round   
   here for me and my /petite croissant/."  The guy at the other   
   end of the bar rolls his eyes at the sound of my slightly-   
   drunken command. In no rush, he lopes over to pull a couple   
   of fresh drafts. He sets them down in front of us along with   
   the tab, leaning in to meet me eye-to-eye.   
      
   "That's it for tonight, son - get your girlfriend here to pour you   
   into a cab, huh?"  he says gesturing to Lori. Then to her he   
   stage whispers, "I'd make sure to keep the windows down on   
   the ride home, know what I mean?"   
      
   She nods. Been there, done that. Just once, actually, after   
   the Army-Navy game. And, I swear to God, if she brings that   
   up, I'll start telling stories about her 21st birthday party a few   
   years back, most of which she doesn't even remember.   
      
   "Hey -" I call after the barkeep, who doesn't bother to turn   
   around, "she's not my /girlfriend/."  People make that mistake   
   all the time 'cause Lori and I have been best friends for the   
   last, oh, I dunno. Five years or so. Her mom keeps trying to   
   get us together, and we keep telling her we're just buddies.   
   Classmates. There's no romantic spark between us. At all.   
      
   Not even a blip on the radar screen-o-love. I swear.   
      
   /Nada/. Or rather,  /rien/.   
      
   Lori looks at me evenly, just a twinge of something in her   
   eye which says, 'Take the nice man's advice. Finish your   
   beer and go home.'   
      
   She's right, and I will, but not before asserting my right to   
   pound a few. I raise my glass. "Grades in, first draft of the   
   dissertation done, data crunched for my research team...all   
   in all, an excellent semester. One more, baby, and I am   
   outta here."  Lori tips her glass in salute and takes another   
   swallow, betraying only a hint of a sad smile. She's jealous   
   'cause she's got two more years in her program before   
   anybody will be calling her 'Dr. Joh.'   
      
   "Oh, come on, Raul, you make it sound like you're getting   
   paroled in six months rather than graduating," she mutters.   
      
   "Hey," I counter wobbily, "if I could serve the next six months   
   in some nice minimum-security lock-up, instead of working   
   as Captain Kirk's cabin boy, I'd seriously consider it."  I'm   
   exaggerating heavily, and Lori knows it. The truth is, I admire   
   the guy. He's kinda grown on me. Helluva a lot cooler than I   
   ever expected a former Fed could be. He must have   
   something going for him; you should see his wife. Hot little   
   redheaded minxy.   
      
   "All right," Lori asserts, "Time for lights out, Cabin Boy."  She   
   tugs on my sleeve, which in my condition nearly throws me   
   off balance and into her arms. Not that that's a bad thing.   
      
   "I love it when you're bossy," I slur. "Can we play prison   
   matron and naughty inmate?"  She doesn't take kindly to this   
   particular remark. Can't expect a six-footer like her to   
   respond well to butch jokes. And whatever you do, don't ask   
   her if she plays basketball. She slips an arm around my   
   waist as I gingerly slide a toe off the footrest to touch the   
   floor. "Okay, we're gonna take a nice little ride now and then   
   you can sleep for the next eighteen hours or so," she says,   
   as if to a toddler.   
      
   "Can't, Mom. Field trip tomorrow."   
      
   We reach the door, and the stinging December air nudges   
   me toward sobriety.   
      
   "What do you mean, field trip?" she asks distractedly, waving   
   her arms around to attract a cab.   
      
   "With Doc," I answer.   
      
   ###   
      
   I just can't call him 'Mulder.'  I respect his request to avoid   
   using his first name, but since I heard his wife purring it into   
   his ear that time, in a tone so intimate it made me blush, I   
   started calling him 'Doc.'   
      
   I've fantasized about Lori murmuring my name that way. But   
   not even such a raven-haired, almond-eyed Amazon as she   
   could make 'Strughold' sound sexy. And anyway, we're not   
   likely to ever end up in the position I found Doc and the minx   
   in just a few weeks after the term started. Before I'd learned   
   to always knock when the office door was closed.   
      
   She was in his lap and they were necking like high-school   
   seniors in the cafeteria at lunchtime, the forgotten remains of   
   egg salad on sourdough and an iced tea on the desk. She   
   saw me first and froze up.   
      
   "Mulder," his name an alarm this time. She tried to get to her   
   feet, but he held her fast, assuring her with a subtle nod of   
   his head.   
      
   "Raul, this is my wife, Dr. Dana Scully."  He gestured toward   
   me with a death-ray look in his eyes. "Scully, this is my   
   teaching assistant, Raul Strughold."   
      
   "Pleased to meet you," she offered her hand politely. She   
   gave it a firm shake. "I've heard so much about you."   
      
   "Same here, though I can't say I've had the pleasure of   
   hearing much about you."  A split-second of wariness shot   
   through her eyes, making me nervous all of a sudden. For   
   such a petite flower, she had a hell of a grip and a manner   
   that said she didn't take shit from anybody. Way too much   
   going on and not enough being said there, for sure. So I   
   scraped up all the boyish charm I could muster, made an   
   excuse about leaving something in my library carrel, and   
   beat it the hell out of there.   
      
   ###   
      
   Lori manages to flag a taxi. We pile in and ride a little while   
   in soothing silence.   
      
   "So where's you're field trip to?" she asks belatedly.   
      
   "Cumberland Penitentiary, down in West Virginia."  I answer.   
   "Doc wants me to meet some guy he put away for serial rape   
   a few years back. Says he'd make an interesting case   
   study."   
      
   "Serial rapist," she snorts, "what fun. You criminal psych   
   specialists really get to mix with the creme de la creme."   
      
   "Says the poli-sci major," I retort. "Besides, this guy isn't just   
   any serial rapist. Apparently, he pretty much targeted only   
   married women, and got them to sleep with him willingly."   
   Lori's forehead creases, like I'm just making this shit up.   
   "Seriously. Doc said the guy impersonated the women's   
   husbands."   
      
   "Yeah, right, like they couldn't tell the difference," she   
   dismisses me.   
      
   "That's not even the half of it. The loser also impersonated   
   Doc."   
      
   "No way," she chuffs again.   
      
   "/Way/," I insist. "And that doesn't even come close to some   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)