by Poi Lass
Epilogue: Getting Used to It
Bobby Drake sat at the bar of a New York nightclub, nursing a couple
of beers. Thinking about getting drunk. Wondering if it would help
make sense of things. Deciding, no, it probably wouldn't, but then
thinking was helping much either.
He hadn't wanted to come in the first place. Well, he had -- and
yet -- maybe it had been a bad idea. The whole thing. A stupid, drug
induced, idea. Even though he didn't actually take drugs.
But maybe Sid had slipped something in his food. That would explain
an awful lot...
A woman slid into the seat next to him and ordered a drink. She turned
and looked him over carefully before she spoke.
"Hi." She said brightly, smiling.
"Uh. Hi." He managed a weak grin.
Go away. Leave me alone. I'm busy angsting over my confused sexuality
"I saw you come in. " she offered, apparently not hearing
his thoughts. "You know, your boyfriend looks an awful lot like
We are going to ruin that man's marriage..., a part
of his mind thought absently as his mouth opened and started talking
of its own accord.
"He's not my b-- uh - I mean - he's not. David Duchovny."
He cursed the slip silently, wondering when he was going to start
getting used to the situation.
'The situation.' What does that mean? You dick, Drake. Can't you
even say it in your head yet? 'Getting used to being gay.'
There now, was that so hard? ... Why does it still sound so wierd?
... And is it gay, or is it supposed to be bi-sexual or what? What
the fuck do you call a man who may or may not be in love with a shapeshifter
who used to be a woman -- only wasn't really -- and -- and -- God,
I am never going to get used to this...
"You were going to say 'he's not my boyfriend', weren't you?"
The woman looked amused, but understanding.
Shit. It shows.
"Habit." Bobby admitted sheepishly.
"You haven't been together long then?" Her easy-going,
friendly manner drew Bobby out of himself, and he began to feel ridiculous
about being so self-conscious -- and so rude.
"2 weeks, 4 days, 8 hours, and --" he made a show of checking
his watch, "- 4 minutes. Not that I'm counting." She laughed.
She had a nice laugh, he thought. And she was very pretty. 2 weeks,
4 days, 8 hours, and 5 minutes ago, he might have considered making
a pass at her. Now -- he turned on his stool and watched Sidney dancing
his inelegant way over to the bar.
I swear to God, I'm never going to get used to this. Am I?
But he found himself smiling at the other man, who for some reason
did look extraordinarily like David Duchovny tonight, and felt almost
at ease as he was pulled out onto the dance floor.
And, he realised, entirely happy.
Which was something he thought he could get used to, after all.
Feedback of any kind would be awfully nice. Send
it to email@example.com.
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