Casey's never got much of a crowd on a week-night. A few regulars, government employ-ees who wandered over from the Mall to knock back a few before catching the last Metro back to Falls Church or Silver Spring or Bethesda. Mulder had been here since late afternoon, and the bartender was wondering if he was ever going to leave. "I'd say this just about exceeds your mini-mum daily requirement," she said, pouring a jolt of tequila into a shot glass in front of him. She smiled, brushing back a strand of faded blonde hair, and replaced the bottle. In front of her, Fox Mulder sat by himself on a stool. He stared at the sticky rings on the bar's dark wood surface, the dull light gilding the edges of four empty shot glasses. When the bartender placed the full glass in front of him he spun it thoughtfully, licking his finger where a drop of tequila had spilled, before tossing back the shot. When he put it back down, he drunkenly knocked over the other glasses. "Gotta train for this kind of heavy lifting," she went on, eyeing him with some concern— this guy definitely did not seem like he'd been practicing much before tonight.
