Weft - Confrontation
by Amirin
I'd bet the Ferrari that Alex knew this would happen. Which was another
reason Skinner was there. To keep me from being stupid.
Not fatally stupid. Just stupid.
I think Alex knew that without the constant distraction he'd been providing,
I'd crash into reality. And I did.
Skinner just listened. And refilled my wine glass repeatedly.
And got an earful. Jesus. I'm glad no one was recording it. I'd never live
it down.
I knew I had too damned much wine when I found myself wishing that Alex was
there.
Halfway through desert, Skinner became Walter. We were sharing a piece of
tortoufo, seven kinds of chocolate with custard and raspberries. I'm not sure
when he started calling me Fox. I hope I didn't flinch too much the first time
he said it.
I kept checking my pocket for the cell, just to make sure I had it. He
noticed. Decided it was time for us to leave. Tried to pick up the check, but
it'd been paid for, in advance. Big surprise, there. Oh, yeah.
He asked the waiter to call us a cab back to the Plaza. I offered him the
use of the smaller bedroom or the sofa bed, whichever he wanted, and he agreed,
said he could pick up his car later.
It was late when we staggered into the room. Actually, I was staggering,
Walter was doing an admirable job of keeping my feet under me.
He mentioned that the suite was bigger than my apartment. Possibly even
his.
I told him about the pattern I'd found in Alex's choice of hotel rooms. He
asked me if I thought it was an x-file. I don't think he got it.
He checked out the itinerary still on the table and snorted a little. Alex
had arranged for brunch around ten. Bet he knew we wouldn't be up before then.
Yeah, he knew, all right.
Bastard.
Shit, the cell was quiet.
Walter had taken Monday off; told Kim he didn't want to drive back so late
after the game. We were both going to be sleeping in. And sleeping it off.
I went headfirst into bed, barely kicking my shoes off. Almost gave Walter a
fight when he took the leather jacket, but he put it where I could see it and I
relaxed into a wine-red haze. I was mostly asleep before he even left the
room.
I surfaced a few hours later, downed a couple of glasses of water and some
aspirin, and shucked the rest of my clothes.
The bed was huge, but I was using most of it. I'd never be able to sleep on
my couch after this. I was getting too used to beds.
Too used to a lot of things. The cell remained ominously silent on the
nightstand. I tried to tell myself I wasn't worried. Neither of us believed
me.
Why was I working myself into knots about this? Hell, at one time, you'd've
had to shoot me to keep me from killing him. What was so different?
When had it all changed?
Was it when he'd told me not to shoot Kersh because I wasn't a murderer?
Or when he'd covered Scully with his jacket?
Maybe when he covered my ass?
How 'bout when he got me the hell out of Dodge and away from them?
When?
Why?
I crawled back into bed and lay there for the longest time. Reached over to
the nightstand and picked up the cell, like I could will it to ring. And
that's when I noticed.
It wasn't my cell.
I took a quick look around the room. The leather jacket had been tossed into
the chair last night when I'd gone to bed. Now, it was hanging over the back.
I was up and going through the pockets before the sheets settled behind me.
Christ. I'd never even heard him.
A couple hundred dollars, small bills, again. New watch, a Patek Phillipe,
major piece of time-keeping, there. Classier than a Rolex. Understated. Where
the hell...? Tiffany's.
Jesus.
Folded piece of paper. Hurriedly scrawled. Barely readable. This from the
man with fucking perfect handwriting?
Be a tourist tomorrow. Tuesday morning - Enjoy breakfast; it'll be
brought up. Leave after nine. Check the glove box in the 'Rosa.
A
PS. Say 'hi' to Bald Mountain. Tell him he snores.
Word of advice. Do not have fits of hysterics while hung over. Hurts like a
son-of-a-bitch.
I crawled back into bed and just lay there for the longest time, grinning.
Wondering why I was grinning.
Wondering if next time I should leave milk and cookies out for him. Or
vodka.
Wondering if there'd be a next time. And hoping so.
Wondering why I was hoping so.
And realizing that I wanted to see him.
Shit.
I turned the cell over and over in my hand and thought. And thought. And
thought some more.
And kicked myself for being an idiot.
And wished I knew Russian, because English didn't seem to adequately convey
just how much of an idiot I actually was.
I hit speed dial one and banged my head on the wall when I heard it ring.
Which was even less smart than the earlier fit of hysterics.
I was in rare form, wasn't I?
"You don't call, you don't write..."
"Alex." I settled back against the headboard and grinned. "I'm an idiot."
"S'okay. You're smiling."
"Yeah."
"Tell me I didn't wake you."
"You didn't. But, why the hell didn't you?"
"I didn't know what kind of reception I'd get. Skinner wasn't exactly
thrilled, yesterday."
"The arena?"
"Yeah. I see he caught up with you."
"You sound funny."
"I'm fine. Just tired."
"Can you tell me where you are?"
"No."
"Alex?"
"What?"
"What's wrong?"
"Why do you care?"
I was silent for a second too long and he was gone. Shit. I hit speed dial
one again and it rang. And rang. And rang. And I told myself I wasn't going to
turn it off. That I could be just as stubborn...
"What!?"
"Hello, again."
"Mulder, what do you want?"
"I want you to talk to me."
An exasperated sigh, then, softly, "About what?"
"About whatever's wrong."
"Who the fuck are you, my therapist?"
"If you like."
"Shit, I hate it when you get all analytical on me."
"Talk to me."
"I didn't want to leave."
"When?"
"Earlier. In your room."
"You could've stayed."
A disbelieving snort, then, "Yeah, right. With Skinner in the other bedroom.
He's a light sleeper. And he's carrying. And he hates me."
"All true. But you still could've stayed. I want to talk to you."
"You are talking to me."
"In person."
"Someday, Mulder."
"What happened to Fox?"
"You hate being called Fox."
"It didn't stop you, before. And I think I'm getting used to it. Walter's
been calling me Fox since dinner last night and I haven't shot him yet."
"Walter?"
"Alex..."
"Never mind, I don't want to know."
"Dammit, there's nothing to know."
"Really."
"Yes, really! Shit, what are you thinking, that I'm fucking my boss?"
And then I heard the choked sound from the door and looked up, right into
the stunned eyes of the boss I wasn't fucking.
Hysterics or head-banging?
I closed my eyes and debated. Fortunately, Skinner took pity on me and
left, shutting the door quietly. I only hoped he wasn't going to get his gun.
"I wish I didn't have a hangover."
"What? Fox, what the hell...?"
"I'm not fucking my boss."
"Are you sure?"
"Am I sure? Jesus, Alex!"
"I wondered."
"Wondered what?"
"If you and Skinner..."
"There is no 'me and Skinner'. We aren't! And we won't. Ever.
Christ."
"Would you?"
"With Skinner? No!"
"Not with Skinner."
"Who...? Alex?"
"I'm hanging up."
Dinner was somber. Delicious, but somber. Skinner indulged my trip down
memory lane to revisit my and Scully's old haunts. I needed it. I'd been
ignoring the sadness, the grief. The anger. The guilt.
