Lucky X in the City
By Lilydale

Classifications: S, Crossover (X-Files/Sex and the City)

Summary: Samantha Jones meets Mulder in a bar.  Fox hunting 
ensues.  It's more serious than it sounds.

Timeline: During Tithonus (X-Files season 6), a few days before 
Mulder visits a hospitalized Scully at the end of the episode, 
and during the corresponding time of Sex and the City, which as 
best I can tell is between seasons 1 and 2.

Archive: Sure, but please let me know where so I can visit.  
Ephemeral: *NO ARCHIVE* - I'll take care of that myself.

Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine.  The 
X-Files folks belong to 1013 Productions, Chris Carter, and Fox, 
and the Sex and the City folks belong to HBO.  The Lucky X Saloon 
is a fictional place and anything resembling it in New York or 
elsewhere is a coincidence.

Contact: Speak to me at lilydale10@yahoo.com and visit me at 
http://home.earthlink.net/~lilydale1/fic

Thanks: Blueswirl and JET deserve buckets of gratitude for their 
spectacular betas.  I'm thankful for you both, as ever.

x-x-x-x-x

Day One
Lucky X Saloon, New York City
11:21pm

"So, is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see 
me?" Samantha purrs to the man sitting a couple stools over.

She's leaning against the bar waiting for her drink order.  Her 
dress's only shoulder strap has fallen almost to her elbow, an 
effect she anticipated when she bought the outfit.  Luckily, the 
fallen strap is on the side closest to the man.

The guy glances down at his tightly buttoned suit jacket before 
looking up at her with eyes that seem more sleepy than drunk.  He 
has no discernable expression.  "I could tell you but then I'd 
have to shoot you."

"Oooh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?"  Her 
smile broadens and she leans closer to the very attractive man.

"I wouldn't know," the man blandly says as he pushes around two 
empty shot glasses.

"Now that I find surprising," Samantha says.  "You look like a 
very...smart man."

It's a line, of course, but she actually means it for once.  He's 
smartly dressed in an expensive tailored black suit, smartly 
groomed and muscled, and smartly composed with a careful, blank 
stare.  This guy's eyes don't wander.  He's looking directly at 
her and apparently thinking, but not like he's undressing her 
with his eyes.  This is not an effect she ever anticipates, 
particularly not when in this hot, sparkly dress.  Strap up or 
down.

"Smart is relative," he quietly huffs.  Not the tone she 
expected but at least it got his mouth to quirk into a sort of 
smile before his eyes shift back to the bar top.

She's a little hesitant to keep pushing this guy into 
conversation, especially since he's obviously carrying a weapon, 
but luckily she's not the one who makes the call as to whether to 
continue talking or not.

"I'm certainly smarter than some," the man says without a drop of 
cockiness and without altering his non-expression.

He stops pushing around the shot glasses and starts tapping their 
rims with his index fingers, his thumbs up and the rest of his 
fingers curled closed so his hands make miniature guns.  His 
actions certainly fit the gunslinger setting of this trendy faux 
Old West saloon, but she doubts he's thinking about that.  He is 
definitely thinking, though.  It is clearly not, however, about 
her even as he looks at her face.

How irritating.

"I don't doubt that, cowboy."

"I'm sure you don't."  That could have sounded patronizing or 
like a snub, but somehow it doesn't.  This guy's gaze is scarily 
knowing and penetrating.

Mmm, penetrating.  Someone with this much intense focus 
definitely has potential.

"So, tell me," she almost whispers, "how hot's that heat you're 
packing?"

The bartender chooses that unfortunate moment to set her drinks 
down in front of her.  The man looks away from Samantha, catches 
the bartender's attention, purposefully taps his glass collection 
with his gun fingers, and asks for another.  He shows more 
enthusiasm during that one-sided conversation than during 
anything she said to him, damn his fine self.

She knows when to leave well enough alone, when to let things 
simmer, so she picks up two margarita mugs in each hand, smiles 
her friendly bad girl smile at the man, and says in a voice that 
sounds as if it should be accompanied by a wink, "Well you just 
let me know if you need to unload any of your heat."  Then she 
turns and saunters away.  As soon as she does, her playful smile 
fades.

Samantha brings the drinks to her friends and unceremoniously 
slides them on the barrel top they're sitting around.  The 
barrels are supposed to be atmospheric and rustic but mostly they 
look like giant splinters waiting to injure women's crossed legs.

"That man," she says, flicking her eyes behind her without 
turning her head, "the one with the polished shoes and dark, 
Astroturf hair."

"Cute," says Carrie, to a round of nods from Miranda and 
Charlotte.

"He didn't even look at me!  This strap," Samantha says as she 
plucks it mid-bicep with her opposite hand, "is practically a 
neon arrow guiding the eyes down!"

"A tailor could probably tighten that strap up for you," 
Charlotte offers.

"Or add actual neon to it," Miranda more helpfully suggests.

Samantha raises her eyebrows with interest at Miranda's obvious 
but warm sarcasm.  She considers neon a potentially helpful 
accessory but not on this dress that's already quite loud enough 
thanks to a healthy dose of sequins.  Her mind quickly returns to 
the traumatic matter at hand.

"I mean, what's wrong?  Is it my hair?  My eyes?  Do I look 
pathetic and desperate?"

"Samantha, it's just one guy," Miranda says.  "When has one guy 
ever been your downfall?"

Carrie chimes in, "'Men are like cabs.  One passes by and you  
just hail yourself another one' is what I think you've actually 
advised in the past."

"There's something about that man," Samantha says.

"You just can't stand every man not wanting you.  Maybe he's 
married," says Charlotte with that star-struck dreamy look in her 
eyes that Samantha only knows because she often sees it on 
Charlotte, ever the romantic optimist.  "Loyal to his wife but 
lonely for her when she's away on business, so he comes to a busy 
place where he can feel like he belongs while anonymously 
drowning his sorrows."

"Oh, honey, you really have a lot to learn about men," says 
Samantha.

And Samantha has a lot more to learn about that man.  There's 
something deeply passionate brooding there; he's practically 
oozing it.  She knows it, and she sure as hell will try to make 
sure he knows it too.

By the time she turns back around after gabbing with the girls 
for a good spell about (dis)loyalty and The Manhattan Man, the 
smart, moody man is gone.  She'll keep her eye out for that one.  
Yes she will.

x-x-x-x-x

Day Two
Lucky X Saloon, New York City
10:38pm

The Saloon's on the way to where Samantha's meeting Michael, a 
guy she rounded up late last night.  She's running a bit early 
and who knows who she may chance upon inside, so why not.  
Samantha tells herself all this as she pushes through the 
Saloon's front shutter-style doors and smoothes down her hair.

Her eyes immediately gravitate to the row of faux-weathered 
wooden stools lining the bar.  Two seats on either end of the bar 
are occupied, and she glides over to one like a moth drawn to 
fire.

There's heat in the bar again.

"Hello there," Samantha says as she settles onto the stool next 
to a familiar, expressionless man.

He turns to her and she expects to see surprise, maybe even 
relief or pleasure, but instead she sees nothing.  This guy's 
face certainly offers a lot to look at, but while it's gorgeous 
on the surface she's not getting anything from him underneath.  
Maybe some amusement, but perhaps she only sees that because she 
wants to see something.

"Hello again," he says.  At least he remembers her.

"I'm afraid we didn't get formally introduced yesterday.  I'm 
Samantha," she says as she offers her hand.

That certainly registers with him, his lips curling into a quirky 
grin.  "Mulder," he replies, formally shaking her hand as he 
almost imperceptibly tilts his head as if in disbelief.

The bartender swings by and they both ask for margaritas.

Orders placed and bartender gone, Samantha says, "Mulder.  That's 
an interesting name."

"It's what everybody calls me," he says with a shrug.

"Oh, I like it.  It's interesting," she says with a sexy crinkle 
of her nose.

"Samantha's interesting too."

"You think so?"

"You have no idea."

She raises her eyebrows, looks at him, unsure of his point but 
knowing that there is one.  He does not elaborate despite her 
patient waiting and eyebrow quirking.  This Mulder's a hard nut 
to crack.

Lucky for her she has a lot of experience with many kinds of 
nuts.

She suspects that Mulder needs direct pressure.  He's not going 
to share much of anything if she doesn't ask, and even then she 
may find herself next to silence, likely due to a vacated seat.

Their margaritas arrive and Mulder takes a tiny sip.  There's one 
empty shot glass in front of him, and she senses that he only 
ordered something different because she did first.  He definitely 
has the same look he had last night, the forlorn one that only 
shots can chase away.

Samantha points down, waves her finger around the bar, "Drowning 
something here, Mulder?"

"Myself, mostly."

"Why?"

"Why does anybody?"

"Because some things are easier to cover than to confront."

"There you go," he says, taking another tiny sip from his cold 
mug.

"Things always have a way of resurfacing, though."  Since when 
did she become a therapist to imbibing strangers?

"I hope so."

Suddenly he's lost her.  Sitting alone at a bar on back to back 
nights, she's seen it.  Drinking to avoid something, seen that 
too.  Hoping that whatever you're chasing away with alcohol will 
come back, that's not so New York sane.  Sounds like he's already 
drunk even though she strongly suspects he's not.

So, confused, she asks, "What?"

"I said I hope so."

"No," she clarifies, "I heard you, but it doesn't make sense.  
You want whatever it is to resurface?"

"Whoever.  And yes, I do."

Mulder isn't exactly distancing himself from the nutty image she 
earlier concocted for him.  Although maybe that doesn't matter 
too much since she suddenly feels the presence of someone.  A 
woman someone.  While that should maybe make her feel threatened 
or like she's hit a brick wall, it actually reenergizes her -- it 
starts to explain yesterday's strap neglect and why tonight 
Mulder hasn't even glanced at her bare legs practically crossed 
in his lap.

He's missing a lost girlfriend.

Samantha fancies herself an excellent cure for such things.

"Ah, sometimes it's better if they're gone," she says with a 
knowing smile that's cheered up many a man.  "Believe me, nobody 
is worth drowning yourself over."

Mulder's been looking down at his drink but at that he raises his 
eyes to her.  There's profound sadness there, enough to make her 
shift away from him a little bit.  He doesn't even say anything, 
just looks at her for a moment with shiny, wide eyes and tight, 
thin lips.  It's a quick assessing glance, not so much of 
annoyance and pity, which she's reluctant to admit she's seen 
enough to know, but of curiosity and depth.

Samantha's left still, smile erased, not knowing what to say.  
This does not happen very often.

"She's not gone," Mulder breaks into the silence.  "Not yet."  He 
pauses, no doubt thinking, as seems his default state.  Looking 
up with that blank face of his he says, "She's a couple blocks 
down, at NYU Medical."

Suddenly Samantha wishes she'd worn a huge coat with a giant hood 
that she could pull up and over herself.  Of course something 
like that should've occurred to her.  'Better if they're gone.'  
She couldn't feel more like an awful bitch.

"I'm sorry," she gently says.  "I am."

"She's strong, my friend.  I know she'll be awake soon, pull 
through."

"Mm-hmm," she reassures even though she imagines he doesn't need 
it.

Mulder doesn't offer any more information and Samantha doesn't 
ask for any.  Not now, not tonight.

She looks at her watch.  She should leave soon if she doesn't 
want to be horribly late for her 11:00 rendezvous with Michael.

"I'm sorry, Mulder, I know this will seem like I'm running, but I 
really do have to go.  People to go, people to see," she says 
rocking her head side to side and speaking in her usual 
light-hearted tone that sounds so very fake right now.

He looks at her and softly smiles.

The walk from the bar to those stupid swinging doors seems 
unusually long, and she feels Mulder's eyes on her back the whole 
way there.

x-x-x-x-x

Day Three
Lucky X Saloon, New York City
12:54am

Samantha knows that she should probably have just gone home after 
dinner (with the girls) and dessert (in Michael's bed), but she's 
really in the mood for a nice cold margarita.  Yes, a margarita.  
That's why she told the cab driver to take her here.

She's arriving so much later than on the previous two nights that 
she won't probably know anybody here.  The bar will no doubt hold 
a bevy of unfamiliar faces.  A row of prowling singles, each 
wondering if it's time to finally give up on the night or if that 
just right person will suddenly push through these gaudy shutter 
doors.

Actually, the Lucky X is sounding like a better and better idea.

Inside, the main room is fairly empty, but many people mill 
around the bar.  She can't see but half the seats, so she cuts 
her way through the crowd.  Of course, she can't get that 
margarita and properly scope out her prospects without 
immediately going up to the bar.

As she maneuvers around a woman with a huge and obviously 
extension-aided ponytail atop her head, she sees him about a 
third of the way down the bar.  He's alone; the seats on either 
side of him are turned away and their occupants are talking to 
other people.  He's again in a suit, though this time the 
jacket's draped on his lap, his shirt is white not blue, and the 
shirt's sleeves are rolled up his forearms.  He's still favoring 
shots and has amassed quite a collection of empties.

Mulder's friend is obviously still not awake.

Samantha flushes knowing that she should probably feel much worse 
about that than she does.

She purposely sidles up next to Mulder, puts her hand on his 
shoulder, and says, "Long time no see, cowboy."

He turns to her.  "Howdy there, Sam-an-tha."

Tonight his eyes droop not just from exhaustion but from alcohol, 
and they're definitely a little too red.

"Whoa partner, been busy tonight?"

"Partner?  Hmpf!"

She doesn't particularly understand his reaction, but for some 
people, alcohol makes everything hilarious.

"You can't call me partner," he continues through gentle 
laughter.  "You're not my partner.  Even Scully's only sort of my 
partner now that we're on back-ground duty and Rit-ter's around."

Samantha reminds herself that alcohol makes some people a little 
rambling and nonsensical.

"How about I buy you a drink, Mulder?"  She can probably order a 
Coke and get him to drink the same thing.  If that's how it 
worked last night sober, tonight should more than easily follow 
suit.

She's hardly one to critique anyone's behavior, especially in a 
bar at 1am, but this guy's clearly on some kind of downward 
spiral that can't end anywhere good.  It occurs to her that maybe 
everything's already ended the worst way possible.  But maybe 
he's still so drained from waiting for a change in his friend's 
condition that he's spending the late night trying to forget why 
he's even here.

"Yes, a drink," he says as his laughter trickles away.  "Yes, a 
shot for the partner."

Now his red eyes look like they might cry.  She wasn't sure he 
was capable of such naked emotion, but she knows that alcohol is 
good for making that happen too.

He continues, "A shot for the partner with the partner who's been 
shot."

Mulder tightly smiles, and it looks like it hurts.

"Two Cokes," she calls to the bartender.  Maybe after the drinks 
arrive she'll leave.  Mulder's clearly in an inebriated funk, and 
abruptly she's not sure why she came to the Saloon in the first 
place.

"Coke, Samantha?  That's not a shot!"  He purses his eyebrows 
together and seems to come to a hard fought realization.  "But 
you're not really Samantha, so I guess it's okay for you to lie."

It's a good thing she didn't meet Mulder for the first time like 
this because his pretty face wouldn't have been enough for even 
her to stick around him for any reportable period of time.  Now 
she's somehow involved.

Oh, that's rich.  The day she's involved with a man.  Although, 
she is used to being so-called involved with guys who don't 
always know her name.

"No, Mulder, I'm quite sure I'm Samantha.  There's nobody else 
who's me, I guarantee you that."

"Not my Samantha," Mulder mumbles, staring over the bar.  "My 
Samantha got taken when we were just kids, and now she's grown up 
and cloned and bleeding green blood and she has dark hair like 
mine and Dad's but your hair is light and isn't anything like my 
Samantha's.  Or maybe that's part of the cover-up conspiracy and 
you are her."  He finally looks up at Samantha.  "Have you ever 
been abducted by aliens?"

Samantha initially thought that Mulder's Samantha was his 
hospitalized friend, but now she's half wondering if there even 
is a hospitalized friend.  And if there is if Mulder should be 
locked down in a bed beside her.

"No," she simply says.

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure.  Aliens don't exist, Mulder," she says in as 
care-giving a tone she can muster, "even though the streets of 
New York may sometimes make you think otherwise."

"Ha!  You sound just like Scully!"

Samantha noncommittally murmurs assent.

"Except Scully can't talk at all right now.  I hate Ritter."

The bartender sets their drinks on the bar in front of them.  
Mulder grabs a mug and takes a big swig.  Samantha follows suit, 
not so much out of thirst or solidarity but because it gives her 
an excuse not to speak.

Setting the mug back down, Mulder speaks gravely to Samantha, 
"Taking a shot to the stomach is very painful, you know.  
Painkillers make you sleep a lot.  Scully's been asleep a lot."  
He frowns.

"Maybe she needs you anyway, Mulder."

"Right, the day Scully really needs me."

"Maybe you should go to her," she says hoping it doesn't sound 
like she's trying to get rid of Mulder.  She is, though, which 
disturbs her in a way she can't quite discern.  There's something 
there about her getting rid of him because if she can't have him 
nobody can, but there's also something there about how she's 
already had more from him than she usually gets out of men at 
bars and about how somebody already has him.  It's a messy mix 
past the witching hour.

She continues speaking, "Or go home, wherever.  Rest."

"Mmm...sleep."

"You're not helping anybody except the bartender by holing up at 
the Lucky X," Samantha says.  'Least of all me,' she thinks in 
what she knows is an inappropriate way, but at least it's helping 
her prompt Mulder to leave.  Whoever his Scully is, and assuming 
she does actually exist, he should probably be with her.

"Lucky X...Lucky X...I thought that with a name like that this 
place would've been more lucky for us," he mumbles to himself.

He has the wherewithal to pull out some money before he stands up 
and starts to walk away.  He only moves a few feet before he 
stops, looks over his shoulder at her with dark, melancholic 
eyes, and says, "You'd be a good Samantha."

Mulder's plainly sincere and appears more boyish than she's ever 
seen him.  This moment is important.

Samantha tilts her head and smiles.  "Thank you."

He smiles back, the gesture tempered only by the sadness still 
set deep in his eyes.  He turns around, and continues to leave.

She watches him push through the crowd and the shutter doors, 
which he punches open with more vigor than necessary.  Out the 
fogged window she can make out his form, arm up to hail a cab.  
She hopes he finds home okay and that his Samantha or Scully is 
there.

x-x-x-x-x

Day Four
Lucky X Saloon, New York City
10:13pm

"After three nights of Michael, I'm definitely ready for 
something that won't leave me hanging.  So to speak," Samantha 
tells Carrie as they walk into the Saloon.

It's a little too early for the bar to be packed with wannabe 
urban cowboys, so Samantha has a clear view of the bar.  Mulder's 
in the same seat he was in last night, but this time he's not 
alone.

Not alone, that is, if you count someone on the other end of a 
cell phone as company, which she does.  A cell phone is the token 
friend you go out with to start a night you want to end with 
someone else.  God bless technology.

She's pretty sure, however, that Mulder isn't out on that kind of 
bar crawl.

"Sitting at the bar okay?" Samantha asks as she leads them there 
pre-answer.

"The closer I am to getting a Cosmo, the better," Carrie says.

Samantha sits a half dozen stools away from Mulder.  Carrie takes 
the seat next to her and one seat closer to him.  Carrie may be 
little, but she's acting as a fairly effective buffer.  She 
shields Samantha from Mulder's view while providing her 
occasional sneaking glances and a clear line of sight if Samantha 
inconspicuously leans just a tad to the right.

She feels like she's on stakeout.  It's incredibly exciting, and 
she ridiculously hopes that Mulder's still packing heat tonight 
because that would be so apropos.

Carrie's yapping on about something to do with Cosmos, The 
Hamptons, Big, and Prada.  Maybe it's multiple somethings.  She 
doesn't really know.  Carrie's a very good talker.  Samantha's a 
good listener - she knows how to be quiet and offer pithy if not 
soothing advice at the end of it all whether the advice is 
directly on topic or not.

Unfortunately, it's Carrie who will no doubt want those words of 
hers while it's Mulder that she's listening to.

Almost as soon as she spotted Mulder at the bar he started 
talking on his cell phone, but she has an approximate idea what 
he's talking about even catching the conversation midstream.

"How sure about that are you, Ritter?" Mulder clips into the 
phone.  A short pause later he continues in that same sharp tone.  
"Uh-huh.  I'm sure you do feel that way."  A slightly longer 
pause.  "I'm not sure that I'm the one who needs to hear your 
apologies.  Let's hope you can make the right ones soon.  Not 
that Scully will give them any more weight than they're worth."

Samantha's not sure what Mulder's talking about, but she does 
know that she's glad he never spoke to her in that icy, 
condescending tone.

"What?!" Mulder almost yells into the phone as he stands up, 
fumbling for his wallet.  "Why didn't you immediately say she's 
awake?  I'm on my way."  He clicks off the phone, sparing Ritter 
no goodbye, and mutters something to himself just quietly and 
angrily enough that she's sure it's a curse of some sort.

As he turns to leave his eyes catch Samantha's.  She's pleased to 
note they don't reflect as much irritation as they did just a few 
moments before.

"Good luck," she says to him, thoroughly interrupting Carrie, who 
stops talking mid-sentence.

"Thanks," he says with a very slight grin that nevertheless seems 
to transform his face.  "Though it's not me who probably needs it 
most right now," he says, gesturing to the door.

"Right," she says smiling.  "She's awake."

There's a couple seconds of silence between them.  Mulder seems a 
little dazed, stuck in his tracks.  It's oddly disconcerting 
because she knows she's not the one stunning him.

"What are you waiting for?  Go," she gently admonishes with a 
devastating smile.

"Right.  Thanks.  Goodnight, Samantha."

His mouth curves into a little more of a grin before he turns and 
darts away.  She watches the shutters wave behind him.

Samantha shifts her gaze back to Carrie, who's staring at her 
with one eyebrow raised high in that ultra-questioning way she 
has.

"What?" Samantha snipes, knowing full well What.

Eyebrow still on full tilt, Carrie says, "We came here for him, 
didn't we?  And by we I mean you."  Her finger points accusingly 
at Samantha.

"No," Samantha says with absolute authority and indignation.  
It's true, she didn't come here for him, at least not in the way 
Carrie thinks she came for him.  Even though Michael really has 
become tiresome after three consecutive nights.

"You know," Carrie says with a finally relaxed brow and finger, 
"I believe you."  Samantha feels vindicated until Carrie 
continues with, "Because you clearly already knew he was 
otherwise occupied."

"I did not."

"You knew something," Carrie continues to challenge.

"No I didn't," Samantha continues to deny for no real reason 
other than trying to maintain her air of indifference to specific 
men.  It's not like she knows anything for sure about Mulder 
except that he adores someone named Samantha and someone named 
Scully.  But adoring someone else doesn't necessarily make a man 
off limits in Samantha's book of rules, and both she and Carrie 
know that.

"You didn't know anything like how he didn't know anything.  
Samantha."  Carrie emphasizes her name, remindful of the way 
Mulder said it.

Damn.

"Yes, like that," Samantha musters.

Carrie hauls out the eyebrow again.

Damn.

"I may have run into him again since that night here with you."

More eyebrow.

"And I may have briefly spoken with him.  But that's all."

"But that's all," Carrie mimics as if she doesn't believe her.

"Not every conquest is a sexual conquest, or needs to be."

"Whoa," Carrie says, throwing her hands up like she would at a 
church revival.  "Do my ears deceive me?"

"Sometimes," Samantha continues speaking in a solid and 
authoritative tone, "it is just about getting to know a man, 
learning a little about his life.  Sex isn't the be-all-end-all 
all the time."

Carrie boggles.  "I can't believe you just said that.  You!"

Considering the potential, similar shock on the masses, Samantha 
says, "This doesn't leave the Saloon."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Carrie promises as she marks an 
X on her chest with her finger.  Samantha hopes that X is a lucky 
one.  There's very little telling what Carrie will blurt into 
conversations, much less what will work its way into her 
newspaper column.

"It's just that I have a reputation to protect."

Carrie shakes her head back and forth as she says, "Some women 
spend their lives trying to look and act pure while some, well, 
some do not."  She briefly pauses and stares into space before 
resuming.  "Is being loose the strength of modern women?"

"It certainly is for some," Samantha says, beaming.

Carrie nods and smiles, taking Samantha's cue that a prime 
example of a loose yet strong woman is in her very midst.

It's funny that not just Samantha but Carrie learned a little 
something about Samantha that they didn't realize was under her 
hyper-sexualized surface.

The Lucky X turned out to be quite lucky after all.  As long as 
nobody stops seeing that hyper-sexualized surface.

"So, Carrie, know any tailors who work well with neon?"

x-x-x-x-x

lilydale10@yahoo.com
July 2, 2004