deus ex machina ;;

      She flashed him a glance out of the corner of her eyes at       the word important.  The last time someone had told her       something of that nature the events that followed had been       complicated at best.  But those people were gone.  She’d       seen it with her own eyes.  She’d done it with her own hands.         Door wasn’t sure she wanted to be considered important       again if that’s what it meant.

             “ It uses you?  You’ve got no say in it whatsoever?                  What happens if you don’t want to?  What happens                if they don’t want to? “

      Now she could see why he’d had his fair share of odd looks.         Most people would have chocked him up to just being one       of those people and left him standing there.  But something       kept her there.  Sympathy?  Curiosity?  She wasn’t even sure.

            “ Die?  Wait – hang on.  You die for them?  Strangers?                 You’re saying that’s going to happen with me?                 Because of me? “

                  He has one hand lifted still, fingers entangled within                   his own hair in a lack of anything better to do with it.                    Or in a lack of anything to do, really. His eyes don't                   quite fit up to meet hers, and he just waits for her to                   laugh and tell him how ridiculous such a statement                   is. It wouldn't be the first time, thus why he usually                   keeps this whole fate-talk to himself.

                  Had been hard enough to accept for himself, living                   through all this all over again anyway.

      "Oh, they? You don't do anything. Not anything you        wouldn't normally, that is. It's just like I'm forced to        tag along. Hard to explain. And it — I can get away.        Sometimes. If the pull is weak, I can move away,         but it's like... magnetic, you know? It doesn't matter        what I want to do, if it's too much, it takes control of        my actions. So it's better to play along and keep as        much master of my own actions as I can."

                  Not for the first time, he's doubting his own sanity. It's                   sort of hard not to, not with all this, and how casual he                   talks about it makes it just the worse.

                  Hand still braced against the gun - careful to make                   sure that she can draw it at a moment’s notice if                   need be - she pushes open the door, climbing out                   of the car with her eyes still fixed on the stranger.                   He doesn’t look threatening, per say, but she’s                   simply taking precautions to protect herself. It’s                   foolish to trust anyone staggering about the roads                   at night. Drunkenness turns far too many men                   violent. 

                  "Do you need help? I’m a medical doctor."

                  The words find him in surprise — and nearly as much as                   shock, as he certainly did not notice anyone around. It's                   partly still the aftermath of dying — never a pleasant thing,                   and it always leaves him disorientated — and partly of his                   faulty vision, and partly of the fact that a few years ago,                    there was no need to pay attention to anyone other than                   his small son sneaking up on him. 

                  Not that she was sneaking. Same thing, though.

                  He blinks up, and he takes a couple of moments to reply,                   mostly because he does not trust his voice to produce                    anything but unusable noises. The burning of your throat                   being cut — and, even worse, it healing in fast forward —                   is no feeling he can recommend.

      "I think I'm fine."

                  Words come, when they finally do, slowly, carefully                    pronounced. He is. Physically, that is. His mind? Long                   lost, probably.

                  He wants to go home. He wants to go back four years in                   time and go home and curl up with a woman that's no                    longer his wife and that does no longer allow him to see                   his own son. Can't blame her.

                  What did he thought, anyway? It's hard to tell,                    even to himself at times — when everything's                   a bit off and too much and the world moved on                   with or without him again, when he lost days                   over shattered bones repairing themselves of                   a deadly impact — but those are things not for                   now. Those are to worry about at another time                   again. 

      "Just how it's a thing of almost tragedy how such        a nice lady's alone on such a day." 

        ❝ She hates the suits I normally         wear. Says they’re too formal. ❞

      "So you're getting from one extreme to the other."

They crinkle their nose and smile. He’s got a fair point.

                  ” Insane?  Why?  Look — I’ve seen people carry on full                     conversations with adverts in these cars.  You’re not                     anywhere near that. “

        Door simply wanted to know why — how.  Normal, regular,         ( boring ) people couldn’t see her without her making the         first move.  If he had be able to just walk up and strike up         a conversation — whatever it could be that was so hard to         explain was at least worth a listen.

        The car lurched forward again, the voice over the speaker         announcing the name of the stop.  Door shifted to let a few         other passengers pass by, eyes still fixed on her mystery         man.  

                  It does not matter that much, does it? However long                   it lasts this time — he is used by now to only ever                    have weeks, maybe months until it happens just                    again, and it's horrible, and he knows he shouldn't                   be talking about it, probably some sort of law of the                   universe, bad things always happen when he does                   attempt telling others, or shortly afterwards — either                   way, he hasn't got that long.

                  And she seemed genuinely surprised about him                    talking to her, anyway.

                  Hair pushed back as Nathan shook his head, more                   to cut the thoughts running than anything else. He                    was a man of science, goddamn. Give him numbers                   and laws of physic any day. Not that.

      "The universe — or fate, or a god, or whatever you        want to call it — something thinks you're one of the        important ones. There are quite a few of those, you'd        be surprised — but anyway, there are people that        are apparently more important than others, so there        is someone like me who feels the — I call it the pull        in lack of a better word. It drags me to those people,        and it uses me to make sure they'll reach their goal,        whatever that is."

                  He already sounds ridiculous, and it will get worse.

            She can’t fault someone for wanting to be a good             samaritan — there seemed to be a shortage of them             these days as it was. But her brow slanted for a brief             moment at the notion that he didn’t seem to know what             had made him approach her either.  

            Door clicked her tongue before laughing out of sympathy             for the stranger.  

                 " A magnet? That’s a new angle.  No —- believe me                    though, I’ve heard loads worse than that. Don’t be                    sorry.  I’m not offended. ”  

            It’s hard to explain was a worn out phrase in her own             vocabulary.  She couldn’t even think how many times             those same words had trickled out of her mouth.  Now             of course, she was curious.  If anyone could understand             hard to explain, it would be her.  Maybe that was the              magnet he was talking about.

                  It's said almost amused, as if this was nothing                   but a joke, and he wished it was — too many                   doubt his mind, including himself, and more                   than once was he close to have himself                    sectioned — but ah. It's not like he'd have to                   spend forever with her. It's still early on and                   the pull is weak; maybe weak enough. He                    wouldn't know.

                  One hand comes to run through his hair, sigh                   dying silently on his lips and eyes closed for                    just a brief moment.

                   His grin never faltered, even kicking                    up a notch at the skeptical expression.                    He had never claimed to be fashion                    forward, he usually had the same thing                    in multiple colours.

                   But this shirt was special.

      " — ah."

                  He's been a married man for long enough                   to know one shouldn't disagree with the                   wife in those terms — but that doesn't look                    too... oh, well.

            Lost in a crowd.  It’s one of her favorite things to be.               People walk by her without so much as a passing             glance — she’s a shadow to them, a haze just there             in the corner of their eyes.  

            Up here, there isn’t the familiarity of her face, or the             instant recognition of her name.  Up here, she’s just             another passenger.  Faceless.  Nameless.  Hidden.

            There’s the expected squeal of breaks, the partially             robotic voice reminding those coming and going to             ’mind the gap' while they pass as the car begins to             lurch slowly forwards.  It’s all like clockwork, timed             and precise, something she’s reminded off as the             suited man standing across from her checks his             wrist for the tenth time.

            What she didn’t expect was a new voice in her ear.               Door turned her head slightly, just enough to access             if the person could be trouble for her.  People didn’t             usually approach her.  

                  He doesn't, for the people his inner compass leads                   him to are all very different from each other, and                   all special in another way. He never had any idea                   what it'll be this time — all he does know is, each                    of them is important in their own way, and what-                   ever it is they must do, or will do by chance — a                    thing, something one'd call fate or a god if they'd                   believe in such, wants to happen and makes sure                   they'll reach their goal. He's less aid than shield. 

                  Not a fate he asked for, or would have chosen.

                  Dana’s feet are up on the dashboard of Mulder’s car                   as she flips through the pages of a book, looking up                   at the door across the street whenever she turns a                   page. Thus far, the sakeout has been markedly un-                   eventful, rendering one of her least favorite parts of                   her job even more mind-numbingly trite. For all they                   know, there might not even be anyone in the house                   and they’re wasting their time. It certainly wouldn’t                   be a first, but she and Mulder are seen as dispos-                   able. When no one else wants to do a job and the                   x-files agents find themselves in trouble, they get                   it. It’s almost like being a trainee, except without                   the ambitious hope of climbing the ladder - a quest                   that renders even the brightest young individuals                   insufferable kiss asses.

                  Scully has no such desire to enthusiastically pretend                   to do this job well. No one’s watching her. No lives                    hang in the balance. There’s nothing to be gained                   from it. Hence the novel abd the bag of cookies (and                    a notable amount of resentment towards Mulder for                   claiming the earlier shift and leaving her the 2am                   duty) stashed in the glove compartment.

                  But the next time she looks up, there’s a man stand-                   ing in the middle of the street with his hands pressed                   to his face. Unsure from where he came and what he                   was doing, she slowly set the book down on the pas-                   senger seat, straightening her posture and letting her                   hand trace the grip of her gun.

                  Of course, that'd be ridiculous, but so is the thought                   of dying over and over again just so another can live                   — whoever the universe thought to be more important                   than him. What's a teacher to fate, anyway? 

                  Heavens, he loses his mind, slowly descending into                   madness. Just like Emily said, nothing of this could                    possibly really happen — and he's rational enough to                   know this, and still feels the pain of shattered bones                   often enough to be torn between two believes. Going                   insane is just the only explanation that makes sense.

                  His own smile, mirroring the action of the woman                   in front of him, is an almost weak one, thin like                   paper and just as easy to shine through. Not that                   he doesn't mean it, it's just a general feeling of                    being tired that lingers in it.

      "Oh, no. You're — welcome. Just thought — "