These characters and their environs on the X-Files belong to 1013
Productions and Chris Carter.  No infringement is intended.  I 
just want to play with the boys for a while before I let them go 
back to the lives they don't have on the show.  This is just for 
fun, no money is being made from this.  

This story will eventually involve sex between two men, aka: slash.
If that is *not* your cup of tea, sweet as it is, then don't read 
it!  (simple, ain't it??)

Feedback is *very* much appreciated, and always answered.  Flames 
will be passed around to friends and chuckled over.  :)

Seventh in the Tapestry Series.  You might want to read the others
first, just so we're all on the same page, here.

For Sickleweed, who wanted a story with a happy ending for the boys. 
This will be about as close as I can get.  And for Desiree, who 
wanted a story where Krycek doesn't die.  And for Toddie, for 
every other reason.

More to come...

Weft - Confrontation  by Amirin <groh@iquest.net>  #120


***********************

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.

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 sofabed, 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 glovebox in the 'Rosa.

A

PS. Say 'hi' to Bald Mountain.  Tell him he snores.
//


Word of advice.  Do not have fits of hysterics while hungover. 
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."


*******************end