Pick-Up Game
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com
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



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