On The Run
by Livia
10/24/00

Pushing my hands through damp, dye-darkened hair, I stare into the dingy mirror of the gas station bathroom. I stashed the prison jumpsuit, found new clothes-- they're a little small, but at least they don't mark me as a convicted felon.

Convicted. Conviction. That's all I have now. My own conviction that I'm innocent, and my belief that the truth will someday be heard. I have to believe that. I want to believe.

I just have to survive, till then. Survive and hunt. I should begin at home, but it's a dead end. With all their technology, the police found no forensic evidence-- no DNA, no fibers, nothing-- to prove there was a stranger in my house that night.

A stranger who killed my wife...

I walk till my feet ache in my cheap prison-issue shoes. Red and blue lights spin as a patrol car rounds the corner and I turn into the first doorway I see. The music slams at me, a counterpoint to my heart pounding. A club is as good a place to hide out as any. Who would look for me here?

Absolutely nobody. I grin helplessly, realizing there's only men at the bar, only men on the dance floor. Circling casually around the floor, I lean up against a wall, not close enough for anyone to engage me in conversation. I probably look like hell, anyway.

"Buy you a drink?" I look up into a too-pretty face. Green devil eyes with dark eyelashes flicker appraisingly over the T-shirt that stretches across my chest.

"Uh. I'm waiting for someone."

He places a hand on the wall above my shoulder. "I've got a hotel room. We could have a good time."

I'm tempted. I'd sell my soul for a hot shower, a bed, and breakfast... And then his hand is cupping my face, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. Broken just that easily, I lean into the comfort, the warmth. He lays a lingering kiss on my cheek; his mouth is hot but startlingly soft, or maybe it's just that I haven't been touched gently in so long...

I follow him outside, but can't stop spinning wild theories. Maybe someone in the forensics department is covering for the man I fought, whose face I didn't see. Maybe the conspiracy goes further. But that's crazy. I've had some strange cases over the years, some inexplicable oddities, but I'm just a doctor. Who'd want to assassinate me?

"What are you thinking, Richard?"

"Nothing--" I gasp. "Who are you?"

"That's unimportant, Dr. Kimble." he says. "But there's a man you should meet. You have information. Small pieces of the puzzle, but things he should know." He pulls a wallet from his right pocket with his right hand and tosses it to me. I catch it automatically, struck by the stiff oddness of the motion, like he's accustomed to awkwardness-- almost like--

"Oh God." I've wanted nothing but this moment, but I can't move.

"Talk to Agent Mulder." The one-armed man smiles. "Tell him I sent you."

[end]