💾 Archived View for spam.works › mirrors › textfiles › sf › birdsofa captured on 2023-06-16 at 20:28:57.
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This is just an short "excerpt" of a story (which I may or may not ever write). It really is just one of those momentary inspirations which you want to write down. Anyway, if you feel like it, let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is welcomed. WARNING: There is no real storyline or plot here. It's just a fun "scene," if you will. Just a couple of minor crossovers. "Birds of a Feather" by Cliff Chen, August 1994 -------------------------------------------------------------------------- She had made the run so many times before that they all blended into a countless jumble of memories. In her life, she had definitely logged more miles than any stewardess in history. Acting as a first class attendant on a fine craft like the SST had its benefits. She had met famous actors, politicians, and just a number of "normal" people who were remarkable in their own private ways. But she had never before been quite so attracted to anyone as the man in seat 3C. Oh, she had definitely met men who were close to absolute perfection physically as well as those who fulfilled her tastes mentally as well. But this guy was something else entirely. It wasn't the fact that he was handsome (and he certainly was!) or the polite tone of his requests that drew her attention back to him again and again. It was the expression on his face, or rather, non-expression. His brown hair remained neatly combed atop his head as he didn't read the paperback in his lap. His physique was unremarkable, clearly a fit man in his twenties or thirties. But that look! She knew it well. The way he stared off into space as if waiting for some revelation to strut in, saying "Sorry, I was late, but I was in the loo." He seemed to have the weight of the world...no, the universe on his shoulders. He reminded her very much of someone in her past. Knowing she found someone who would probably understand her, she set her shoulders and moved down the aisle towards him. Fox Mulder sat aboard the Concorde with a preternatural stillness. He reviewed the situation over and over in his head. "Deep Throat" was gone as was the X-Files division. Scully transferred to the forensic science department, maybe she'll be happier there. And himself, ordered to take a indefinite vacation (expenses paid) until he felt ready to return to work, "normal" work, that is. So, he chose to see some old friends from his days in England. The fact that some of those old friends were with the Talamasca was just "coincidence." The book in his lap didn't interest him tonight, not much did, except for finding a way to continue his work on the X-Files. It was sent to him by one of the friends he was going to visit. _The Vampire Lestat_. A good read, but his friend wondered just how fictitious it was. No doubt, Scully would have gotten in a good jab over that one. His FBI training had cause him to notice the flight attendant's approach long before she arrived, but he thought nothing of it until she stopped before him and sat down in the seat opposite the aisle. He appraised her quickly. Not unattractive. Brown hair with a slight hint of red. "Hi," she started, "is there anything I can do for you, Mr....?" Mulder was pleasantly surprised to hear a British accent in her voice. He always did have an affinity for it since Phoe...his Oxford days. "Mulder," he responded. "No first name?" she smiled. "There is one, but I don't use it." he answered. "Very well, Mr. Mulder, was there anything you wished?" "Many things, but I suppose I can only make three?" he grinned, somewhat relieved for the break in his thoughtful silence. "Oh, and please, just Mulder," he added quickly. She laughed. "Ok, Mulder. What I meant was, you looked like someone who needed to get something off his chest. And these nighttime flights tend to drag without conversation." He sighed, reminded once more of the cause of his brooding. "It would be nice, but I doubt you'd believe a word of it, if I told you." "I think you'd be surprised at what I would believe," she replied, with a glimmer in her eye. "Trust me. My partner doesn't believe what she's seen with her own eyes. Ms....?" She visibly relaxed, as if suddenly deciding she could be comfortable around him. "Miss. Jovanka. Tegan Jovanka. Well, let me tell you an outrageous story, and then we'll see if you feel like telling me yours. It all began on my first day of work, when my aunt's car got a flat next to a police call box..." ------------ The character Tegan Jovanka is the property of the BBC and is used here without permission. References to the "Talamasca" are also made without the consent of Anne Rice.