by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com
 

Date: 26 Apr 2002
Rating: PG-13
Category: SH, crossover with 'Andy Richter Controls
the Universe' (yeah, you heard right)
Keywords: MSR, KET (Keith ego trip)
Timeline: XF S7, throwing ARCTU eps in there at will <g>
Spoilers: Through 'Goldberg Variation'
Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me;
though I'd give my eye teeth for ownership.

Summary: Keith Richards meets his match, on the court
and off.

Quick Note: I figure you don't have to watch ARCTU to
get this little piece of 'sick day madness' - but it's
a funny show.  Check it out sometime. :) More notes at
end.

~~~

Pick-Up Game
by Mish
 

I admit it.  I am one damn good-looking man.  Not that
it takes a rocket scientist to figure that out - I'd
be blind to miss the looks I get from the ladies.
Slim, athletic figure... refined jaw, deep-set eyes...
and a head of hair that won't quit.  Ever.  Believe
me, I will never, ever go bald.  My good looks are the
type that last.

Of course, they do take some maintenance.  Good
eating, proper sleep, and regular exercise - all on
the company's dime, I might add - and it's impossible
for me to ever look bad.  Really.

Take the after work pick-up game I just participated
in with Andy and Byron.  Just by showing my face on
the court with those two I already impressed the women
jogging on the track above us.  How could I not, with
me hardly breaking a sweat while Andy flopped like a
flounder on the floor and Byron screamed like a girl
when the ball touched him.  See?  Piece of cake.

There are very few minutes in the day when I am not
the center of female attention.  Doesn't happen often
and when it does, I just move on to greener pastures.
Why fight for chicks when there are millions more out
there?

Like today.  There I was, strutting my stuff, smiling
a bit through my free throws at a smart little redhead
who strolled the track above the court.  She was a
real prize, all tight in the right places with a
haughty look that just begged to fall before my charm.
 She wasn't ignoring me, I could tell.  A few sneaky
glances on my part now and then, a water break every
so often that just happened to find her leaning over
the railing.  I know these things.  I even managed to
crack that Mona Lisa face into a grin once.  Right
about the time *he* started to take over the game.

Wonderboy.  With his jump shots that found nothing but
net and his thick hair that rivaled my own for sheer
poetry.  I'm nearing forty and he's got to be at least
five years older than me; one good thing about men my
age - ninety percent of them are losing their hair.
Gives me an edge.  But not with him.  I could tell the
moment it was time to give way when she licked her
lips.  While looking behind me and at him.

Oh, well.  Another few minutes in the shower and it's
back to work.  And Wendy.  Cute little thing, and
totally in love with me.  My ego is tremendous, but
fragile, contrary to what most of my friends think.  I
need a warm kiss hello now and then just like the next
guy.

"Good game."

Opening my eyes, I see I've got company.  Great.  Not
only does he have great hair, you could bounce a
quarter off his abs.  A few scars here and there; on
an average guy, they'd be the kiss of death.  But on
men like us?  Women love to hear about your brushes
with death, even though the 'bike accident' you
narrowly survived involved you getting thrown from
your Schwinn at the age of seven.  Except the one on
my arm looks like I tangled with Aunt Mabel's rose
bush - the one on his looks like a bullet hole.
Fresh, too.  Damn.

"Yeah," I reply, wondering where I could get one of
those without actually facing a gun.  Nah.  Too risky.
 Instead, I concentrate on willing him to disappear
down the drain.

After a few seconds, his head turns, flinging shampoo.
 "Know of a good place around here to get some
dinner?"  He eyes the way I'm leaning out of the spray
like I'm some sort of mutant.

"Conditioning," I explain.  What - don't tell me the
guy's never used leave-in conditioner on that hair?
Please.  His mouth forms a comprehending 'o' and I
say, "Try the little Lebanese place... down the street
a couple of blocks."  Too bad they're heavy on the
garlic.  A woman won't come near him for hours.

"Thanks," he says, stooping to rinse out his hair.
Under the spray he continues, "You work around here?"

What is this?  Twenty questions?  Guys don't talk in
gym showers.  Not the straight ones, anyway.  Looks
like I'll have to cut my conditioning short.

I watch his brow shoot up as I quickly give him the
name of the company, and a short explanation of what
we do.  Well, what Andy does, anyway.  Good-looking
guys like me tend to just smile at the boss and take
very long coffee breaks.

"Technical manuals for the government, huh?"  His
interest ratchets up a notch.  "Jets, ships, that sort
of thing?"

"Yes," I say warily, wondering if I'd still smell if I
skipped soaping my armpits.

He chuckles and extends a hand.  "Don't worry - we
share the same employer, sort of.  Fox Mulder, FBI."

Fox?  Yet another one he has up on me.  Ten bucks says
he had it legally changed from something like
'Albert'.  And the 'FBI' explains the bullet hole,
damn it.  But the Feds hire homosexuals, don't they?
No matter how much he outstruts me, if he's gay, I
come out on top.  Wait a minute.  Bad choice of
thoughts.

I shake off my disquiet; simple courtesy demands I
answer his greeting.  But I'm still not convinced the
guy isn't interested in my fabulous body *or* the pile
of unread manuals on my desk.  I extend a tentative
hand, waiting for the inevitable.  "Keith Richards."

Again with the eyebrow.  "Seen Mick lately?"  And yes,
he has a million-dollar smile.  If I didn't want to
ruin my manicure, I'd slap it right off his face.

Instead, I give him a snarky grin, thankfully spying
Andy and Byron out of the corner of my eye. *They* can
occupy Mr. Chatterbox now.  I pick up my bottle of
aloe vera body wash and get busy.  Maybe the redhead
stopped at the juice bar on the way out.  With *Fox*
here in the shower, I'd have her all to myself.

Andy sets up to his left and Byron to my right.  A
regular Twix bar of stale cookies and sugary layers
inside.  I hurry, sensing my ego in dire need of a
pick-me-up... especially when I hang my head to rinse
and spy his... well, let's just say he's got me beat
there, too.

"Keith?"  Andy calls over the din of running water.

"Yeah?"

"Are you sure it's okay if I take Wendy to see 'The
Sound of Music' tomorrow night?" he asks yet again, in
his nasally voice.

Poor guy, he's got it bad for Wendy.  I know it, and
he knows that I know it.  "Sure, big guy," I purr.  "I
trust you.  Besides, it's not like we're engaged or
anything."  Like Andy would *ever* have a chance in
hell with Wendy when she could have me.

"Be funny," the Fox butts in.

"Huh?"  Is there an echo in here?  I could have sworn
only Andy said that.

The Fox is facing Andy now.  "Be funny," he repeats.
"You wanna impress Wendy?  Just be yourself.  I saw
you out on the court there - you're a pretty funny
guy.  Women love men who make them laugh."

Good God.  A few more seconds and he'll be hanging up
his 'The Therapist is In' sign on that... whoa.  Don't
go there.  I bet he's got a million laughs tucked
under that huge package of his, too.

Shit, shit.  Quick, Keith.  Think of something else,
anything else.  Ahh... the redhead.  Must hurry.
She's out there waiting, I know it.

Andy falls for it - hook, line and sinker.  "Hey,
thanks," he smiles, holding out his hand.  "Andy
Richter."

"Fox Mulder."

The name doesn't make a ripple on Andy's face as he
nods at Byron.  "And that's Byron Togler.  We work
with Keith."

The Fox brushes way too close to me to shake Byron's
hand.  That's it.  Enough is enough.  I've decided
they're all gay.  And this is rapidly deteriorating
into a game of 'Oops, I dropped the soap!'

As I gather my toiletries and make a quick exit, I
hear them carry on.

"FBI?  Really?"  That's Byron, his squirrely voice
breathless.

"Yeah.  My partner and I are in town on a case."

"Wow," Andy breathes.  "Like what?  A serial killer?"

The Fox laughs.  "Nah.  Just the luckiest guy in
Chicago."

Takes one to know one, I concede, then mentally kick
myself.  He's close, but not perfect.  Not like me.
He might be an ace on the court and have a dick like
John Holmes, but no one gets chicks with a nose like
that.  I know.  I spent enough on mine.

Their conversation fades as I round the corner into
the locker room.

"A foo fighter?" Andy asks.  "Nope, can't say that
I've written a manual for that."

Ah, Andy.  Much as I get you to write the occasional
'collapsible field toilet' guide, you'll never see the
stuff in Jessica's safe, will you?  Not that I
understand totally what I'm looking at when I snoop in
there, but I know enough to realize the supervisors
have their fingers on more than manuals that explain
how to dispose of bodily waste.

It dawns on me as I'm drying my hair... I'm now one up
on the Fox in there.  It puts *my* billion-dollar
smile back on my face.  I know something he doesn't.
Or at least I could, if I'd bother to stop flossing my
teeth at my desk long enough to look at the government
specs that Jessica sends my way now and then.

Should I drop a hint on the way out?  Nah.  Not worth
the trouble.  Something tells me I'd never get rid of
the guy then.  Besides, a lobby full of flushed,
adrenaline-laced women awaits me.

Ten minutes later, I'm adjusting my tie, sporting my
best Armani as I stroll to the juice bar.  One, two...
yes, three, from the brunette at the corner table...
pairs of eyes follow my progress.  It's good to be the
king.

But wait - be still my heart.  News flash, Mr. Fox
Mulder.  Whoever it is you're here to put the screws
on, he's not the luckiest guy in Chicago.  Neither are
you.  *I* am.

Because she's standing just where I predicted she'd
be.  At the juice bar in elegant profile, from the
strong, no-nonsense heels that peek out from beneath
her designer black pants to the pouty, raspberry-red
lips that are wrapped around a straw.  A ripe plum
waiting to be picked by my nimble, callous-free
fingers.

Piece of cake.

Sidling up to the bar, I tell Joey, "The usual," and
turn to flash her a brilliant smile.  "You like
basketball?"

She looks up, all confidence and sensuality as she
murmurs, "Baseball's more my game."

Like a snake, I ease closer, reaching out to toy with
the sleeve of her jacket.  Close, but not too
encroaching.  Slow and sure, that's the ticket.  The
Fox was dead wrong back there.  Women like this
obviously professional beauty have no use for humor.
Suave sophistication rules the day in the eyes of this
babe.

"Let me guess - you're a Cubs fan."

"Actually, no.  I'm rather partial to the Yankees."
Her tongue darts out to flick at the tip of her straw,
wiping an errant drop of red ice that threatens to
slide into the melted abyss.  Oooh... playful.  I like
it.

"New York?  I get up there quite a bit on business."
Which is a bald-faced lie, but I wrote the manual on
LaGuardia's air traffic system, so I know my way
around.  Well, I took credit for writing it, anyway.
"Nice town.  You in Chicago for long?"

Leaning against the bar, she looks at me through
slumberous baby blues.  "Hopefully not," she replies.
"Should be wrapping up the case soon."

"A case?  You're a lawyer then?  A doctor?"  Visions
of living in comfort the rest of my life crowd my mind
with exhilarating ease.

"Actually, I am a doctor."  Ha!  I knew it.  A face, a
body, *and* a bread-winning mind.  Her gaze drops to
my fingers, then back up, narrowing to pinpoints.
Yeah, baby, those aren't contacts.  They're all mine -
and now, they can be yours.  "I'm very adept at
splinting broken fingers," she says, slowly and
deliberately.

Okay.  From the sudden hardening of her lovely face,
something tells me she's damn good at dishing them
out, too.  I straighten, reaching for my wallet as
Joey approaches with my drink.  "Well, uh... it was
nice meeting you, Ms. -?"  Hey, I can take one last
chance.  Jessica may be hard as nails, too, but I
cracked that nut a long time ago.  I may be above
doing actual work, but I'm not above working for sex.

"Hey, Scully.  Nice outfit."

Aw, shit.  No way.  That Armani puts mine to shame.
He drops a bag next to her feet and poses, hands on
hips, like a model.  I can do that, too, buddy.  See?

"Mulder, I didn't know a pick-up game of basketball
was required before a shower."

The Fox gives her an innocent look worthy of an Oscar.
 Damn.  No matter how hard I practice in the mirror, I
can never get that look down.  Maybe the nose job
pulled my skin a tad too tight.

"Keith!"  Damn, and I was just about to escape, too.
"Scully, this is Keith Richards.  Plays a helluva game
of basketball."

I have no choice but to take her hand.  To her credit,
she gives me a small smile and forgoes the usual
Rolling Stones joke.  "I know," she muses.  "Almost
kicked your ass out there."  To me she directs, "Dana
Scully -"

"FBI.  I know."  So this is the Fox's partner.  Wonder
if she knows he's gay?  "You two in town long?  I can
recommend a good hotel."  Slim hope, I know.  But
there just the same.  I won't know unless I hint
around, will I?

She gives him a sly look before answering me. "Flight
out tonight.  Mulder had a slight mishap and needed to
find a shower.  This place was the closest.  Now we
can get back to DC... I hope."

"No can do, Scully.  Just got a call from the Chicago
PD.  Followup paperwork, sorry.  Looks like we're
stuck here for the night."  He leans closer, a sure
grin on his face as he adds, "One-on-one games aren't
required before *hotel* showers.  Though I understand
they're optional."

Nope.  Not gay.  The way his eyes sweep over her face
with subtle possession tells me she was right in
making him stop at the Y.  They'd *still* be in that
hotel room if they'd gone that route, and she knows
it.

Time to cut this short.  "Well, it was nice meeting
you both," I say with a smile, handing Joey a few
bills.

"Yeah, we gotta get going," the Fox nods, picking up
his bag.  "See ya around, Keith."

God, I hope not.  She deposits her cup in the trash
can nearby and gives me a lift of her chin in
dismissal.  I nod as they leave, the Fox gently
guiding her with a hand high on her back.  Yep.  Some
guys have all the luck.

"Hey Scully, remember that little Lebanese place we
passed on the way here?" he asks as they walk away.

So I'm a sucker for punishment.  I keep a few steps
behind, hoping for a bit of satisfaction on the
horizon, in the form of womanly disdain for garlic.

Off her nod, he adds, "I hear it's really good - wanna
get some dinner after we leave the station?"

"Garlic breath?" she says with disbelief.  Ha.  The
Fox has stumbled.

As he holds the front door open for her, he murmurs,
"I'm game if you are."

Just outside, he waves for a cab.  They stand facing
one another, he with a smug grin, she with her hands
on her hips, looking up at him with just a hint of a
smile.  And total capitulation.

"Mulder, I didn't even bring a toothbrush."

Christ, does this guy *ever* lose?

"That's what hotel gift shops are for, Scully."

Damn, just go ahead and lay one on her, already, for
God's sake!  Make your victory over me complete.

She straightens his tie as the cab pulls up.
"Whatever will I sleep in?"

The Fox gives her a look that would melt steel as he
opens the cab door.  Her eyes never leave his as she
slides into the back seat.  He follows her like a
predator on the hunt, closing the door on my
open-mouthed stare.

Clearing my throat, I straighten my tie and roll my
shoulders.  There.  Back in the saddle again.

Thank God he's gone.  I don't think I could stomach
another second of his preening.  Some guys are just
too vain, you know?  I wave for my own cab... and the
skies open up.

All right, I concede, damn it.  It's just not my day.
I'm getting soaked, I just got shot down by the
hottest thing to grace Chicago since Sammy Sosa, and
the Fox outfoxed me.  Me!  Keith Richards, Mr. 'I've
never lost in my life'.  My chin drips water as I
succumb to misery.

"Keith!"

Lifting my head, I spy Wendy down the block.  Waving
at me in her pert little raincoat, takeout bag held in
the same hand as her umbrella.

One consolation - at least we'll share the garlic
breath.

Yep.  I'm the man.
 
 

END
 

This little ditty was the result of fifth-hand
information passed to Musea concerning one very
handsome fellow and his shower habits.  A challenge
was issued, the gauntlet taken up, and voila!  My
Benadryl-fuzzled mind could not resist. LOL

Many thanks to Musea for telling me to post this.  Or
blame them, if that's your inclination. <g> To
mountainphile, for the inspiration; to Forte for the
title and save-my-ass ending.  To Audrey Roget for
slapping me with the glove!  To all my sisters - you
rock!

Really, if you've never watched ARCTU, you're missing
out on a funny show.  Chances are, FOX will probably
cancel it, but at least I've done my part to preserve
it in fanfic. :)

Feedback cherished at:
mish_rose@yahoo.com
 
 
 
 
 

=====
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Musea, A Collection of Beauty:
http://www.geocities.com/museans/