MJ

Morris the Man in Black, now more conveniently known as Fox Mulder, reviewed his past two days. Not bad, he reflected; not bad at all. One day, a job he couldn't admit he had, a wife he couldn't get rid of, two kids he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, fifty years old and fifty pounds overweight. Next day, Washington, D.C. and a new life. Being on a first-name basis with George Bush meant not nearly so much to Morris Fletcher now as did this seemingly miraculous escape from his prior existence.

In one moment, there outside Area 51, he had somehow become single, good-looking, attractive to hot broads, slim, muscular, and under forty. Better yet, all of this body's equipment worked—the old one's didn't, as his wife liked to remind him every day. And he had gone careerwise from the all-important but undiscussable job of being an MIB to the awe-inducing job of FBI Special Agent. Not that the work was that hot, but it sure impressed people when they heard it. Maybe it would impress a few broads. Not that there was a shortage of hot women around the office—that little blonde working for AD Kersh was a prime example. Then, there was Dana—why did she look at him like that when he addressed her?—his partner. Now, she was hot-looking, but talk about your Grade A Prime bitch. Probably frigid. Why couldn't his wife be frigid? But he didn't have to worry about her anymore, now did he? After all, he wasn't Morris Fletcher any more, and the other guy could have her, poor bastard.

Yeah, this Mulder dude sure had it made if he watched the smart mouth, and Morris was good at keeping his mouth shut and pleasing the Administration. It would be a snap to make Morris/Mulder a new agent, sent to work on high-profile cases, loved by all, and transferred to another supervisor.

Yeah…another supervisor. He'd scouted around the building; he'd listened in the men's room. This AD, Kersh, was a ball buster. Probably trying to prove something—like that Affirmative Action types could make it in the Bureau. Hey, everyone had rights and all that, he thought, but…your supervisor? That wasn't what he'd been fighting for helping the government all these years, was it? No way. Kersh was there to supervise the deadbeats with bad evaluations and the Affirmative Action agents; that's how the system worked, or it should. He'd put his ear to the wall, and he'd formed a plan.

Morris/Mulder would redeem himself in a blaze of glory and good behavior -simple enough for someone of Morris's talents for playing along and Doing the Right Thing—and get himself transferred to the supervision of a REAL Assistant Director. Someone respected. Admired. Feared. An AD you could look up to, a role model. Someone who'd come up the ranks the hard way doing undercover field work. Someone brave. Strong. Heroic. Someone whose own glory would reflect off onto his best behaved, most superlative, most talented "yes, Sir!" agent, Morris/Mulder. And that someone, he'd established from the office grapevine, was Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Now, there was someone Morris wished he could be himself. Football star, war hero, law school, FBI Academy…Mafia busting…yeah. Walter Skinner.

He snapped out of his reverie just long enough to establish that Claire from the secretarial pool would love to have dinner with him that night, Fox baby, when he was paged. To—wonder of wonders—Walter Skinner's office. Skinner's administrative assistant directed him into Skinner's office. Skinner looked up from his desk and grinned. "Fox, I'm mad at you. You were supposed to let me know when you got back into town, damn it. Can you come over for dinner tonight?"

Morris pondered for only a second. A woman is only a woman, Kipling had written, but dinner with an AD who seems to be pretty chummy with you already, is a good deal. (Morris had added the second part of that line himself.) Claire was desperate enough for the Mulder body to take a raincheck, Morris estimated. Oh yeah, Morrie, with your genius and Mulder's name and body, we're going places. "Absolutely, Sir."

Skinner raised an eyebrow. "There's nobody in here but us, Fox."

Morris figured he had the message. Buddies. Right. "Oh, yeah; sorry, Walter."

Skinner looked more relaxed. Morris sighed inwardly with relief; another problem solved. "Well, then," Skinner told him, "seven's good for me. Come on over, and if you can pick up a bottle of something red…"

"All yours, Walter," Morris/Mulder pronounced cheerfully.

Skinner grinned broadly. "All mine, huh? We'll see about that later. Get back to work before Kersh finds out I kidnapped you."

Morris exited Skinner's office happily. This was getting off to one damn fine start.

»»»

Morris, shirt changed, shoes shined, two bottles of Mouton-Cadet tucked neatly under his arm, rang the doorbell at Skinner's condo. He looked forward to a night of hearing the AD recite stories of Mafia-busting and Un-American activities infiltration—as if those rugged, macho All-American looks could possibly be disguised while infiltrating those Commie louses. Skinner opened the door, to Morris/Mulder's surprise, in a faded gray henley and old blue jeans, heavily worn and slightly ragged at the hem. Skinner was holding a tumbler of what smelled like Scotch on the rocks in his free hand, and something Italian was wafting in the air around the door. "Thought you'd never get here," Skinner groused.

"Traffic was bad. And parking, you know?"

"You didn't park in my second space? Is Mrs. Daley's BMW in it again? I'm calling the condo association about that woman." Skinner relieved Morris/Mulder of the wine bottles and began uncorking them. "You're still in a suit? I thought you'd change and bring a suit along for tomorrow like usual. You weren't planning to wear that to the office again tomorrow, were you? Not with Scully's powers of observation?"

Morris shook his head. Of course, back in Roswell, Morris had a closet full of identical suits and shirts; he ALWAYS wore the same thing to the office. Didn't everyone…oh…wait…Skinner obviously figured Mulder wasn't going to drink and drive; Mulder must crash here at Skinner's when he came over for dinner. Not a bad idea if Scotch and two bottles of wine were getting killed, at that. "Sorry, Walter. I stayed late at the office. I ran out for wine and came straight over. I'll just have to get up early in the morning, I guess."

Skinner nodded. "Well, could you shed the jacket and tie? You're making me nervous. Want a Scotch? The lasagna's got to sit a little while before I cut it." Morris acknowledged the wisdom of a drink, and Skinner poured a heavy-handed Glenlivet on the rocks, handing it over to Morris as Morris finished folding his cuffs back from his wrists. "There. Now you look better. Drink up."

Morris raised his glass to Skinner. "Prosit." He downed a good third of the Scotch in his first gulp, enjoying the burn as it ran down his throat. Yeah, this was the life. Armani suit, new car, dinner with an FBI Assistant Director, drinking the AD's liquor, planning an organizational takeover, and figuring out whether that little chippy Claire was going to need to be taken out for dinner before he got her in the sack or whether he could just call out for food after the fact. Life didn't get much better than this, especially after goddamned Roswell. He'd be damned if he ever set a foot anywhere within a hundred miles of Area 51 again, or within a hundred miles of Chris, Terence, and Joanne, villain of "Godzilla Versus the Mega-Shrew".

"By the way, Fox," Skinner purred, coming up behind him, "haven't we forgotten something?"

What could Morris have forgotten? He felt his deodorant stop working as he thought about it. He brought the wine, Skinner hadn't asked him to bring anything else…should he have brought files? Notes on Kersh? What could it be? And what was Skinner doing with his arm there…ulp…make that, what was he doing with his tongue half way down Morris's throat? Er, that was Mulder's throat…uh…duh…Morris squirmed in Skinner's embrace, but was too surprised to fight. Just as the surprise ended, Skinner was breaking off the kiss. "God, I missed you," Skinner whispered.

The God-fearing Christian mind of Morris Fletcher reeled momentarily at his discovery, once it was able to put the event into words. He had just been kissed within an inch of his life by Walter Skinner. Mr. America was queer? Jesus Christ, what else was he going to find out about the FBI? J. Edgar Hoover wouldn't have—oh, holy Mother of God, if Walter Skinner's queer…and if he's kissing Fox Mulder…and if he missed Fox Mulder…who stays here overnight…and if Morris Fletcher is in Fox Mulder's body…oh, Jesus H. fucking Christ, Morris, guess what that makes you? Shit, you wound up in a faggot…

Morris took a deep breath. There had to be a way out of this…but there had to be one that wasn't going to compromise his plans, and he couldn't afford to let anyone know yet that he wasn't the real Fox Mulder; he had to try to fake it for a while, gradually shifting the personality so people had a chance to get used to the "new" Mulder…what was it? How did he handle this one? Play along, follow Skinner's cues…get a headache? Or better, the tried and true method he already knew well—not getting it up. Mulder was just gonna be too tired tonight, Walter, honey. After a couple of glasses of wine, he'd be ready to fall asleep on the sofa, naturally. There; the Morris Fletcher self-preservation instinct had solved another problem quickly and efficiently. "Same here," Morris replied. "And I missed your lasagna, too. It smells delicious, and I'm starving. Is it ready yet?"

Deflection. Throwing a curve into the other's path. A typical MIB move. And really, that lasagna did smell delicious. Morris loved food; that was the downfall of his formerly decent physique—the new physique could hold a few servings of lasagna, though. And he could keep Skinner occupied the rest of the evening by ratting on Kersh; if only he could keep Skinner occupied until one or both were too tired to get to what appears to be on Skinner's mind…

»»»

"Look, Walter…I'm really tired tonight…and we just killed two bottles of wine…you know, I'm really beat; I don't know…what do you say we call it a night?"

Skinner pursed his lips, eyeing Mulder's body. It did look tired, though Skinner had no idea that most of the current exhaustion was from Morris reviewing an entire host of "what ifs" and contingency plans for the rest of the evening. Mulder might not be a virgin as far as this business went, but there was a big difference to Morris between what Mulder's body might usually do after dinner at Walter Skinner's, and what Morris's mind was prepared to have happen to anything attached to it. Morris suddenly had the sinking feeling that he was reconnecting to his belief in the power of prayer. A hand went down on Morris/Mulder's shoulder. "C'mon, Fox, let's go to bed." The other hand, down on the other shoulder, with Skinner standing over him. A nuzzle in Morris/Mulder's hair. "I've got an idea. You just relax when we get up there, and you let me do all the work, hmmm?"

»»»

Walter Skinner pulled the covers up over himself with a decided smirk of satisfaction. Mulder might not have been up to anything himself tonight, but damn if that wasn't the most excited Mulder had been in a while once they got started; that herbal formula Skinner had started taking must be working. Pleased with his own performance and Mulder's evident satisfaction, Skinner turned on his side and contemplated dreams of other activities to try with Mulder before his thirty-day supply of capsules needed restocking.

»»»

Morris Fletcher stared at the ceiling. Maybe he ought to thank God that you couldn't see who was doing you in a dark bedroom…but he had to admit, that sure as hell was the best blowjob he'd had in his entire life. Fox Mulder had been one undeservingly lucky bastard if he'd been having those happen on a regular basis for the past few years. Hell, if he'd been able to stand having sex with Joanne over the past few years, Morris Fletcher might be able to tolerate putting out for Walter Skinner, especially if he could worm any kind of job advantage out of it. Shit, he'd done worse things to himself for his country, hadn't he? Morris took a deep breath. He was, after all, a survivor at heart. He knew how to claw his way to the top. He slid over, closer to Skinner. "Gee, Walter…have I ever told you how much I love you?"