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This FanFics were inspired by Futurama, but for no reason that means that TFP wants you to stop watching the show. Please, if you wanna use these at your website, as permission from the respective authors.

The Evening

Author: Red_Line
Email: red_line@sbcglobal.net
Website: Red_Line's Futurama Fan Fic Stash

futurama point . fan fics . red_line . the evening

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0RL03 The Evening 17 March 2007

The fiction was inspired by Colangel's fiction The Morning. I am grateful to him for permitting me to develop and publish this admittedly highly derivative work.

Disclaimer: The Futurama name, characters, and settings belong to their respective copyright owners. This is a work of fan fiction which has no commercial intent or value and was created soley for my own amusement and for that of other Futurama fans. The author would appreciate it if this work is not placed on websites or reproduced in any form without his express consent.

I don't know why I ever thought I could succeed. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but so did all those other things I tried. But in the end, they were all the same. All for nothing. I didn't have what it takes to go the last mile. Nothing left to do now but ... what? I don't know what. Go home. Go to bed. Worry about it in the morning.

"Please don't stop playing, Fry. I wanna hear how it ends."

I stop.


I turn around, squinting through the lights of the empty Opera House. But it's not empty. She is there! She stayed! She wants me to play.

In a flash the pain, the sadness, the despair that filled me a second ago are gone, replaced with new emotions that threaten to overwhelm me - replaced with a warm glow that I've rarely known - it feels good - hell, it feels great. It's hope and love and joy and all manner of good things all rolled into one.

She stayed!

Ok, Fry, concentrate. You can do this. Go back to your seat.

I sweep the tails of my coat behind me with a flourish, the joy I'm feeling makes me want to show off a little. But I try to control myself. I can't afford to screw up now.

I play. In my mind's eye I see us, together, holding hands. A kiss, symbolizing a love and a commitment that could move the stars – that has moved the stars. And then we turn and begin the walk of life, together, toward a far off sunset.

I'm not conscious of time - it could have been hours or it could have been seconds - I just don't know. But I know I'm done. I lower the holophoner to my lap. It takes a moment for my mind to clear - to focus on the present, the here and now, that dreaded world of reality.

I'm almost afraid to come back, worried that it'll be a dream, or that something will blow up and suck it all down a black hole.

I force my eyes open. Everything is at is was. The stage, the Opera House, Leela, they're all still there.

But wait a sec. Not everything is as it was. She has her hands clasped together, pressed to her lips. A look on her face that I can't decipher.

We are walking down the street, hand in hand. I can't believe it. She's actually holding my hand. My heart is on fire, pounding in my chest.

I steal a glance.

She is smiling. A happy smile. Something you don't often see on her lips.

We stop.

She is speaking. A softness in her voice I don't think I've ever heard before. And she's still smiling. I've seen that smile somewhere before. Where? It comes to me - a picture in a book, a picture of some famous painting. Enigmatic. That's how they described it. I never knew what it meant - until now.

I stumble out some response. My mouth is on autopilot. I hope it's not doing anything stupid - my mind is still racing, trying to catch up, trying to process the overload of stimuli.

She's fussing with my bow tie. Loosening it and unbuttoning my collar. I can breath again. I smile. Her smile broadens.

She has my hand again. She's leading us towards a door. We enter. It's a bar. An unpretentious little place, quiet at this time of the evening.

The bar is nearly empty. We have no trouble finding a table away of the other denizens. We order drinks. Not beer this time, we're celebrating, so we get something with a fancy name that fills a glass that's half as big and costs twice as much.

A toast. To the Opera. A success by a great virtuoso she says. I smile, embarrassed. But I raise my glass, clink it against hers, and take a sip, our eyes locked together as we do.

We talk. About little things. Things that happened – a week, a month, a year ago. Just things – in her life, in my life, in our lives.

Our drinks are empty. The waiter unobtrusively removes our glasses, replacing them with fresh ones. My turn to toast. I raise my glass.

"To the most wonderful person in the whole Universe, and my best friend in the whole universe."

"Is that for Bender?" she asks, almost giggling.

"No. It's for you." I say, sounding too serious, but there's nothing I can do. I can't help how I feel.

She glances down, a slight flush of red in her face. What's the matter I wonder, worried that's I've offended her.

Her eye is back, looking intently into mine as if she's trying to to perceive something in their depths. But I have no depths to plumb. I know that. Some people hide their feelings, you never know what they are thinking or doing. I can't do that. I wonder if she knows that?

The moment is interrupted by the waiter inquiring if we'd like another round, which we do.

We are walking again, still hand in hand. I'm not sure where we're going, but she seems to have some definite destination in mind. I follow. I would follow her anywhere.

She leads us to her apartment. I've only been here once before. It's exactly as I remember it, except I notice she'd had the window installed.

We are standing in the same spot where I played the holophoner sonnet when I had the worms. It's dark. We never turned the lights on when we entered, and when the door closed the only illumination is the lights of the city filtering through the window.

We are drawn together like the poles of a magnet. Our arms are intertwined, our eyes closing as the distance between our lips closes.

We've been here before, and I brace for the inevitable interruption. But, for once, it doesn't come. There are no moronic Captains or murderous robots around this time. And no clueless coworkers to show up just at the wrong moment.

This time it all works. Our lips meet, softly at first, then with more intensity. I can hardly believe what is happening. My brain, my whole body, every fiber of my being is on fire.

Her hands are on my chest. She pushes them under my jacket, over my shoulders, pushes it off me and lets it drop to the floor.

Next comes my tie, hanging loosely from my collar, pulled out and tossed aside.

Her hands are behind me again, one in my hair, one in the small of my back pulling me against her. I hold her just as tightly. The feel of her body pressed against mine, the smell of her hair, that taste of her lips, it's the most incredible thing I've ever experienced.

Suddenly we're apart. For a moment I wonder what's going on. Then my still overloaded mind catches on. We're heading for the bedroom. And, for a moment, I'm worried. Are we moving too fast? Will we regret this later? And I realize that, for once, I'm thinking about the future. It is a strange feeling for me. I've never worried about tomorrow before, but now everything is different. I want her forever. I want to spend the rest of our lives together.

I hope what I think we're about to do won't ruin our chances. I don't think I could take loosing her again. But I don't have the will to stop. This is what she wants, and I only want to make her happy.

I guess we'll sort it all out in The Morning.

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