Afternoon Weirdness XII: Again
A Burnt!Te Production 
10/98

Disclaimers: Still not mine, and even after I double dog
dared CC and *everything*.

Spoilers: Not a one.

Ratings Note: S for Sillyheads doing Silly things.

Summary: Oy! Again with the hurting...

Author's Note: Happy Birthday, Holmes! This just sort of 
whapped me on the head when I thought about what I 
might give you for a birthday present...

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Afternoon Weirdness XII: Again
by Te
Daddy793@aol.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was wearing a dress. 

*Again*.

My heart burned. My soul ached with the force of a 
thousand impacted teeth. I was *sooo* mad. 

I said:

"Jesus Christ, Mulder, what the hell is wrong with you? 
Haven't we been *over* this?"

He only gazed at me with that flat, really flat stare he 
does so well, smoothed the crinoline. I thought of all 
those other nights. It hadn't always been like this. I 
could live with the kilts, and those sarong things we 
picked up on the trip to Samoa really brought out his eyes.

Those eyes, changeable as a summer's day and twice as 
deadly. I'd seen them from across a crowded bullpen and 
known, right then and there, that it would all end as badly 
as a party at Chuck E. Cheese.

I said:

"How many times do we have to do this thing we do? You 
with the dresses, me with the knives and the scarring and 
the hey hey hey?"

He rolled on his belly  but continued to stare, and I 
marveled at the power of his eyedrops for him to be able to 
go so long without blinking like he did. I mean, the 
regular eyedrops only do so much, you know? And then people 
start thinking you're a pothead and *no* one wants to hire 
you for the really important assassinations and your career 
is, like, *sooo* dead. Like his eyes.

I said:

"Mulder?"

Because I really wasn't sure he could hear me, what with 
those big tufted taffeta shoulder things blocking his ears. 
But he only blinked, slowly and provocatively. A dog with a 
bright green flea collar. 

So I took out my knife.

He said:

"Why don't we talk about this, Alex? I mean, really, what 
*is* your problem with the dresses and the knives and the 
scarring and the hey hey hey? We're two consenting adults, 
after all. See, I've got the blue hanky and everything."

He taunted me with a slow stretch, tugging at the rainbow 
leg warmers before sprawling out again. A real winner of a 
Muldersprawl it was, too, all sprawling-like.

I said:

"This isn't about *my* problems, Mulder."

And then I did that snarl thing like I was the big bad wolf 
and he was the fat, sassy doe, but it just didn't work. 
There was no frolic forthcoming. No gambol of sprawly 
limbs. No, that wasn't what I was in for. 

He said: 

"Let's talk about your father."

And it was always the same, this was just the way it went.
Whine and counterwhine, a bad wine, like Ripple, or even 
Night Train, and I remembered the way it would flow, fast 
and dirty like the mighty Monongahela. Flow, like tears.
In rain. Dirty rain.

I shook my fist at him, railed at the very heavens above. 
And then he did the thing that undid me, spoiled me like a 
metaphor of milk left too long, oh so long, in the nasty, 
awful, evil, naughty summer sun. He grabbed my fist in his 
own, and I lost myself in the glitter of his nail polish 
for a fleeting moment of...

He said:

"Alex, inside every fist is five individual fingers, 
yearning to be free. Let your fingers go free. Free."

I stared at him, blinking back the dirty, rain-like tears 
moistening my sprawled lashes.

And when he pulled out the assortment of tube tops, I did 
not fight.

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End.
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