Idaho Shoes by Mish mish_rose@yahoo.com Classification: S, H, MSR (just a tad), third party POV Rating: PG-13, for language Spoilers: HAD Summary: Who needs glass slippers when there are Idaho shoes? Distribution: Yes, go for it, just let me know where, okay? Disclaimer: The X-Files and the characters used here are the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. Author's notes at end. Idaho Shoes I thought we were finished. Two long, grueling months of therapy, some sessions with Mulder, some without. I've lost track of the nights I've spent dulling myself on wine and sappy movies in an effort to erase the day's events. I like to think that Dana and Mulder took an easier route past the turmoil, going home each night to make love until they obliterated all trace of the ugly world they live in. It ended on a warm spring day a week ago, when Dana walked out of my office for, hopefully, the last time. We looked at each other with a combination of pride and sadness, knowing that our relationship can never really be one of open friendship. "Call me if you ever need to," I'd told her. "I'll always be within reach." It took less than a week for the phone call to come. Not nearly what I was expecting, but a crisis nonetheless. ********** "Los Angeles?" Confused and intrigued, I lean over my desk, trying hard to keep the excitement out of my voice. My elbow grazes my tuna sub and I stifle the urge to curse. "Yes, Los Angeles," Dana replies. "I don't have time to go into it over the phone, Karen." "I understand. It just took me by surprise, that's all." I'd overheard talk of this movie in the cafeteria, but I'd never imagined Dana and Mulder in Los Angeles, doing the pre- release press. And I'd certainly never imagined a scenario like the one she just described. "Go on." "He's acting really weird, Karen. Not himself at all. He's talking about quitting the Bureau." "What? But the job is his life." "We know that. I think he would realize that, too, if he slowed down a minute. But I think all this glitter has gone to his head." "Dana, I can't counsel him without his permission." Besides the fact that I have next to nothing in my checking account. "I'm not asking you to counsel him, just to talk to him. We're really worried, Karen." She pauses, sensing my reluctance over the line. "Besides, it's all expenses paid, four-star hotel, movie premiere *and* post-premiere party. You could say you're here visiting an old friend." Well that takes care of the money problem. "But won't it look strange if I'm in the same hotel as you?" "Karen, at this point, he has his head so far up his own ass I doubt he'd notice if the Director himself knocked on his door." She sighs. "Look, we don't know what else to do. He won't listen to anyone - major case of delusional behavior. You would be doing us a great favor." I sit in silence for a few moments. There are some major ethical issues that need to be addressed, for one thing. There's also the chance that I could lose my job over it, if it's found out I circumvented proper channels. Then again, palm trees and sunshine sound pretty good. I lift my eyes to the dreary skies outside my office window. "I would need to keep a low profile," I murmur, my feet tapping the floor with anticipation. "No problem," comes her quick answer. "He's hardly ever here, anyway. Out 'associate producing' day and night. We figure you can talk to him at the party tomorrow night, if you can't catch him elsewhere." I hear a low mumble in the background. "What's that?" "Mulder says to meet us by the pool at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. We need to talk about this, come up with a plan." Hmm - doesn't leave me with much time, a little over twenty-four hours. But then again, it is the weekend, so I could probably take a half day of leave without too much fuss. "I still need to clear a few things off my desk -" And get my one and only evening dress out of mothballs and to the cleaners. God, I hope the little tag in the back says '16' and not '14.' I can't remember if I still have the shoes that go with it.... "Sure," her answer interrupts my musings. "There's an eleven o'clock flight out of Dulles tonight. Mulder is faxing all the information to you right now. And like I said, the trip is all paid for, courtesy of Wayne Federman." "Wayne Federman?" "Don't ask," she sighs. "I'll explain everything when you get here. Poolside at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Got it?" The ring of the fax machine startles me. Suddenly, I feel like humming the theme from 'Mission Impossible.' Your assignment, Karen, should you choose to accept it.... Hell, I always wanted to be an agent. "Got it." I hang up the phone, wondering how the hell I'm going to get Walter Skinner to wake up and smell the roses. Quite the challenge. Even better, I'm trying to picture myself in Hollywood. May not be too bad, actually. It's not Jamaica, but it's heaven compared to where I am now. In a fit of foolish fancy, I squeeze my eyes shut and raise my fists into the air. "Yes!" ********** I've died and gone to hell. That's what this is - God is getting me back for not going to church since I left home at eighteen. It all started when I had to spend two hundred dollars on the cheapest formal I could find - the tag *did* say fourteen on the one in my closet - then another seventy-five on barely there shoes that I'll only wear once. The saleslady looked at me like I'd sprouted straight from a time machine when I asked her if she had anything with a little less heel. "For a formal? My dear, where have you been? This is *the* look!" Instead of cutting her off at the knees, I'd just smiled and allowed myself to be talked into what my brother's kids would call 'ho' shoes. Serves me right for not speaking up when I had the chance. Now they're killing me. But I just *had* to go Hollywood. Speaking of which, Mr. Hollywood, aka Wayne Federman, wasn't very accommodating after all. Stuck in between two snoring businessmen on the red-eye out of D. C. last night doesn't qualify, in my opinion, as 'accommodating.' That horrendous flight made me think of reason number two for God's vengeance - my potty mouth, though I've tried hard to overcome my addiction to cursing. The bad luck should have ended when I stepped off the plane. But no... my 'ho' shoes ended up somewhere in Idaho. Ha - 'I da ho.' Nah. Not by a long shot. Had to take a cab to the hotel because the limousine never showed up. By the time I got there it was four a.m. and I was dead on my feet. Slept through my alarm and barely made it to the pool on time. The hotel is nice, though. More than nice, actually. Elegant and tranquil. Too bad I blew all my tip money on the cab. Well, that and poolside margaritas. Apparently Mr. Federman only gave me a twenty dollar hotel bar tab. I'm not one of the consultants on the film, so he doesn't have to kiss my ass. Now the employees duck and run when they see me approach. Shit! - it's the cheapskate! Quick! Run before she asks you for more towels! Did I mention I was out of money? Well worth it though, from the fantastic 'Associate Producer Skinner' story I got out of Dana while I drank myself silly. Even more worth it for the sight of her partner swimming laps in nothing but a skimpy Speedo. When the suit slipped as he was getting out of the pool... only to have him feel it and quickly pull it back up.... I knew God hated me. Especially when my shoes showed up and I was forced to wear them - just when I'd made up my mind to max out my credit cards getting something I'd be comfortable in. A quick bit of reconnaissance after my meeting with Dana and Mulder had revealed that there was the most incredible pair of Grace Kelly- ish pumps in the window of a shop down the street from the hotel. Along with the size sixteen royal blue frock in the shop next door - seventeen hundred dollars worth of Cinderella dreams. But alas - I tripped over my luggage when I went back to my room to phone Visa for a credit limit extension. Sanity reared its ugly head in a flash, bursting my pumpkin carriage into smithereens. And now? I sit here in wallflower loneliness, surrounded by plastic people crooning "Dahling" and sipping on Dom Perignon as they ignore me. Could this trip get any worse? "Doctor Kosseff?" Shit. God knows about my vibrator, too. I'm not ready for this. What was the plan again? Shit, shit. I'm no agent, I'm a social worker. Why the hell did I ever agree to this? I lift my eyes from the plate of Lazarus Bowl-shaped shrimp puffs and chocolates molded into blasphemous images of Jesus Christ flanked by Mulder and Dana. "Mr. Skinner." "Scully told me she'd given you her extra ticket," he says incredulously. "Nice to see you took her up on the offer." Good. He bought the 'visiting friends' story. "It's a once-in-a- lifetime experience, Mr. Skinner. I would have been a fool to pass it up." If you only knew how I wished I had, I add silently. "Do you mind if I join you?" "Please," I reply, nodding at the chair next to mine. Much as I've never had a problem dealing with any agent, this man unnerves me. It's not fear... just discomfort. How do you make small talk with Walter Skinner? Better yet, how do you counsel him without pissing him off? He sips at his champagne and looks out over the crowd. "So... having a good time?" "Oh, wonderful," I lie. "I'm glad I had the opportunity. It's not everyday you get an inside look at the glamour of Hollywood." Wonder if he can see my tongue in my cheek in the fractured glitz of the disco lighting? "Interesting, isn't it?" Nope, sailed right over his head. Lord save me, he actually looks thrilled to be here. They were right. Walter Skinner, sucker for Hollywood ass-kissers like Wayne Federman. "Definitely," I lie again. Nibbling on Christ's beard, I fully expect lightning to strike me at any moment. "You look like you're having a good time, Mr. Skinner." He falls back against the velvet cushioned chair and eyes me suspiciously. "Why do you say that?" "No reason, really. I did notice that you laughed a lot during the film, so you must have enjoyed it." There was nothing else to do but watch the audience - a more asinine, convoluted, totally *wrong* movie I've never seen. Grimacing, he empties his glass. "I had no choice. It was the best way to ignore my date's hand on my thigh," he mumbles, well on his way to getting buzzed. Speaking of buzzed... that familiar purr creeps up on me, right up my spine. Rather like the way my neighbor's cat Luna creeps up to the squirrels that play in the courtyard of my apartment building. I know what it is, recognize it immediately. It sweeps my fear under the rug in a heartbeat, replacing it with the scent of the hunt. I'm such a 'ho' after all... for figuring out complex men, that is. "Your date? The willowy redhead?" He nods at my question. "Beautiful girl, Mr. Skinner." "Yeah, lovely. Wayne knows what I like all right." So it was a rent-a-date. And I think *I'm* a 'ho?' "Walter - may I call you Walter?" At his nod, I continue, a combination of excitement and dread making me tense my hand around my champagne flute. "Did I understand correctly that Wayne Federman is a friend of yours?" I've never had the pleasure of *not* knowing a more obnoxious man. My partners in 'Project Skinner' filled me in on Mr. Federman's personality in our planning session by the pool earlier today. But I need to know Walter's connection in all of this, aside from the explanation I received from Dana and Mulder. "Yeah, we go way back," he says. "I couldn't tell him no when he wanted to do the film. And Mulder and Scully were perfect for the story, don't you think?" He beams with Associate Producer pride. "Yes, they were," I answer, though the choice of leads left much to be desired, in my opinion. Can't say that I'm getting tired of Richard Gere sauntering around the room, though. "Where are they, anyway?" "Dunno," he replies, gesturing for another round. In seconds a zombie waiter appears - please! - and we're both enjoying fresh glasses of the expensive bubbly, though he's guzzling it like it's water. "I felt bad about the way Mulder stormed out at the end like that...." No you didn't Walter, I want to tell him. I saw that pleased smile. "...so I gave Scully the Bureau credit card and told her to take him out on the town. My treat. Well, my expense report anyway," he finishes. "And if you tell anyone I said that, I'll -" "Walter, my lips are sealed," I whisper. "It's our secret, okay?" I smile at his tipsy grin. God, I hope he remembers this conversation. I should be ashamed of myself for feeling this way, but whenever I meet him next in the hallways of the Bureau, I want to see him blush. Just a little red on the tips of his ears would be nice. I don't ask for much, do I God? "Okay," he smiles, transforming his face into a handsome, boyish moon. Wow. I certainly didn't ask for that. But his mood is perfect for a little digging on my part. I sigh, looking about the room. "Certainly different from our lives, isn't it Walter?" "Yeah, I could get used to this." He savors the taste of decadence on his tongue as he brings the glass to his lips. "Rather false though, don't you think?" His smile fades and his eyes narrow, but he doesn't reply. "I mean, these people," I wave my hand at the crowd, "don't know the difference between real and make-believe. Kind of sad, actually. Always living your life in a fantasy world. I much prefer the reality of my life, the joy of helping others." "You sound like a Goddamned academy training film," he growls. "I do? Sorry." I look away with a smug grin. "No you're not. You've been talking with Mulder and Scully, haven't you?" Even with a few drinks under his belt, he's still quick on the uptake. "About what?" "About me." No use pretending. This could work to my advantage. "Yes, I have. They're worried about you." Sighing, he says, "They think I'm making a fool out of myself." "And you aren't?" He leans across the table, piercing me with his gaze. "Is it foolish to want a little attention, Doctor? Foolish to want to walk away from the 'reality' of our jobs? Am I being a fool for wanting to get as far away as I can from the bureaucracy and manipulation, not to mention dealing with the dregs of humanity on a daily basis?" His sad words echo a sentiment I feel sometimes in my worst moments of depression. I know how it is; there are times when I want to just chuck it all and find the most mindless occupation in the universe. My hand reaches for his automatically; when I realize what I'm doing, I pull away. Something tells me he wouldn't appreciate the gesture. "You're not a fool, Walter. I didn't mean to imply that you were. But surely you know that this is not the place for you. If you're doubting your place in the world, you should step back and re- evaluate. Give yourself some time." "Save it, Doctor. I'm not going to leave my job." I feel myself do a double-take. "You're not?" I know I'm not *that* good. "Of course not," he snorts. "Though I'd make a pretty good actor, don't you think?" I should be angry, but I'm not. Just really amazed. "Then why the talk about leaving?" "Just immersing myself in the part, so to speak. It was nice to be someone totally different for a few days. It's not against the law, is it?" My surprise fades into a slow smile. I know exactly what he's talking about. My hopes for this trip included being swept off my feet by Sean Connery. A girl can dream, can't she? His smirk dies just a bit. "I never thought Mulder and Scully would call you. They should know me better than that." "It's easy to understand their concern. This kind of lifestyle has been known to turn many a level head." He nods in agreement, then says, "I'm sorry you came out here for nothing." "That's okay, Walter. Didn't cost me a cent." Except for this blasted dress, but that's going back to the department store as soon as I get home. Good thing the tag tucked into the armhole. The shoes however, have been scuffed. Pity I'll never have the chance to go to another ball. "My buddy Wayne," he sighs. "Good for something, isn't he?" "That he is, Walter. That he is." I raise my glass to his. After I lower my glass, I see a shift in the crowd out of the corner of my eye. Walter sees it too, and gives me a puzzled look. "What are they doing here?" Dana and Mulder move through the well-wishers with less than enthusiastic smiles. "Rendezvous and debriefing," I reply, downing the remainder of my champagne in one gulp. They both look like they were born to be in the movies, Mulder quite the dapper gentleman in his tuxedo and Dana in her little black dress. She removes her coat and I feel an unwelcome twinge of jealousy. God, I love Dana to pieces and I hate myself for being envious of her petite form. The dress hugs her in all the right places and despite the demure collar, dips provocatively low in the back, almost to her waist in a wide see. I have to sit still here or risk popping the seams of my silver grey sheath. Thank goodness it came with a matching shawl, my only protection against a disaster waiting to happen. So I was wrong; sixteen was pushing it a bit. But I'll be damned if I'll ever buy a size eighteen. I feel the irrational jealousy leave me in an instant. Dana is so indifferent to her looks and I'm a... well, a bitch for even entertaining a moment's worth of envy. A 'ho' *and* a bitch. Lovely. "Rendezvous, my ass," Walter mutters. "How dare you three treat me like a case? A *nut* case." "Oh be quiet, Walt. You started this." Yeah, that's right. I called you Walt. He clamps his jaw shut, seething at my comeback. Got you on that one, didn't I? The band begins to play, a jazzy, upbeat version of 'The Monster Mash'. Oh, please. Can we stop already with the in- jokes? Dana approaches the table at last, Mulder having gotten waylaid by one of the guests some ten feet behind her. "Dr. Kosseff," she says slowly, her eyes searching mine. "Sir. Having a good time?" Retreat! I tell her with my eyes, but it's too late. "Agent Scully." Walter rises from his chair. God, I hope he keeps his cool about this fiasco. "I'm only going to say this once, so listen up. I am not leaving the Bureau. I am not moving to Hollywood. So you and Mulder can stop worrying about me. That's an order, Agent." She blanches for a second, confusion lining her face. "But - but what -" "But nothing," he barks. "The subject is closed, is that clear?" He could have done any number of things. Chewed them royally, kept up the ruse, had me canned... God, he could still do that. "Yes sir," Dana mutters, then her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip. "Does this mean you're going to take back the card?" Walter sighs. "Of course not. But next time, you two think before you act, okay?" He shuffles his feet and puts his hands in his pockets. "On second thought, we're talking about Mulder here. You do the thinking for the both of you, okay?" A smile flirts with the corners of his mouth. Dana laughs, a lovely, full giggle of relief that alerts Mulder from ten feet away. He comes up behind her and breathes into her neck, "What's so funny?" in a tone that makes *me* shiver. God knows what it does to Dana. But he straightens immediately at the sight of Walter, a look of absolute panic making him pale for a second. Will Walter catch Mulder's greeting to Dana? There's a definite moment of anxiety in the air; Dana looks at me with wide eyes. "Agent Scully will explain it to you, Mulder." From his terse reply... no, once again it flew right over his shiny head. Dana looks up at Mulder with a smile. "Correction, Mulder... I want you to know that I'm in love with *Assistant Director* Walter Skinner." She laughs again. Mulder chuckles too, with shaky relief. Hell, even Walter laughs. I didn't know he could do that. Maybe that awful line in the movie was good for something, huh? Shrugging, I join in. After a few seconds, our laughter dwindles and Mulder says sheepishly, "Sir -" Walter's face becomes still. "Not now, Mulder. We'll talk about it when we get back to Washington. And we will *all* be going back to Washington in the morning, understand?" That's my cue; my business here is finished. My dress groans when I stand, but mercifully stays intact. The band has relaxed into a mellow version of 'Spooky.' "They're playing your song," I quip, giving them both my silent condolences on the sure reaming they'll get back in D. C. "I think I'll call it a night. There's a hot tub back at the hotel with my name on it." "I'll see you back to the hotel, Doctor," Walter says, taking hold of my elbow in a firm grip. What did I do now? Panic takes hold and I try to dissuade him. "No, that's not necessary, really -" "I insist." Whenever Walter Skinner insists, you have no choice but to follow his lead. He nods at the couple. "Good night, Agents." We turn away from their bemused smiles, Walter steering me in the direction of the door. Hopefully, he'll leave me to my own devices at the hotel. My Cinderella story has come to an abrupt end. My Prince Charming, though, has other ideas, stopping at the sight of his friend Wayne. "Wayne - my man!" he yells, letting go of me to give the smarmy man a bear hug. I roll my eyes at the exchange. Good actor, my ass. "Skin Man!" Wayne returns the empty gesture. Skin Man? "Where's your date, buddy?" he asks. "Not the right shade of red?" What an asshole. "Not my type," Walter says. "Not enough brains." His mouth opens stupidly with his attempt at a sly wink. "Oh - Wayne, this is Karen Kosseff. Also with the Bureau. She's with the EAP." He sidles up to me like a weasel. "The EAP, huh? Bet you've got a file cabinet full of interesting stories, huh baby?" Baby? Did he just call me baby? "Wayne," I nod. No way am I going to be polite and tell him "nice to meet you." My arms cross in front of me; I feel an overwhelming urge to puke. "Can I take a peek sometime?" "No. My files are confidential." "Aw, come on. You could get an A. P. credit like my good pal Walter here. Isn't that right, Walter?" Walter eases up on the insider routine. "She's right, Wayne. Doctor-patient thing, you know." "But you can fix that, right Walter? I mean, you owe me one, bud." Walter's face flushes and I gape at him, anger coloring my voice. "You *owe* him one?" "Relax, babe," Wayne interrupts. "Skin Man here has always been the shy type, you know what I mean? I could tell right away he had a thing for the lovely Agent Scully. I was just helping things along a bit." He smiles, and I shiver with revulsion. "The 'I'm in love with yadda, yadda, yadda...'? *My* creation. Made quite a splash." Walter groans miserably. "Wayne, I told you there was nothing between Agent Scully and myself." He rubs his forehead like it's pounding. Serves him right for scaring us like that. "Are you sure? Because Agent Mulder kept insisting they weren't an item...." He trails off, his attention grabbed by the movement of the well-dressed bodies on the dance floor. "Well, guess I was wrong. Take a look." As if in slow motion, my furious face turns in the direction of Wayne's nod, already knowing what I'm going to see. Dana and Mulder are dancing. Oblivious to the swarm of party- goers around them, they sway to the music, Dana's head resting lightly upon his chest, as his hand is at home on the small of her back. They're not that close to one another; by all appearances, a dance between friends. I hold my breath. Although Walter deserves a little embarrassment, he doesn't deserve to find out this way. Don't do it, I want to scream. Not in front of your boss. But once again, God is laughing at me. Naturally, Mulder looks around first, but doesn't see us in the shadows by the door. Secure in the knowledge that they're relatively safe in the anonymous crowd, he brushes his mouth against her ear, his lips moving with unknown murmurings. Dana responds slowly, raising her face to his. Oh, goodness. She's looking at him with such warmth. It's the look one lover gives another, full of unmistakable desire. She nods and moves closer, her lips brushing his cheek before her head settles back on his chest. Mulder's hand, once innocuous in the curve above her hips, begins a slow ascent, skimming the zipper of her dress. His fingers play with the zipper clasp and for an agonizing moment I think he's going to pull it down. He doesn't, though and I curse my foolishness. Instead, he does something far more telling. His hand moves above the line of the dress and tentatively touches skin. Dana twitches, but manages to remain still in his arms. Their feet are barely moving now and Dana parts her lips in a sure sigh. Meandering, feather-like fingers move up her spine, stopping now and then to draw a slow circle over one of her vertebrae, or slip over the line of her shoulder blade. They take their time, those besotted fingers, always making contact with her skin. Even from this far away, I can feel the impatient desire radiating from her. Her arms tighten around Mulder; she knows better than to actually kiss him in front of all these people, but I'm shocked when she does something just as intimate. She turns her face into his neck. Her back expands with her deep inhale of breath, filling her lungs with the scent of her mate. "Jesus!" Dear God, I forgot all about Walter. "Slam!" Wayne pipes in. "Nothing like a slap in the face, eh Skin Man?" "Shut up, you fool," I hiss and grab Walter's arm, pulling him toward the door. To Walter I say, "Let's go." "Wait a minute, babe," Wayne calls after me. "What about those files?" I leave Walter for an instant and storm back to Wayne, five feet and six inches - gotta love those 'ho' shoes - of pulsating fury. "Fuck off, Wayne." "Whoa, baby -" "And don't 'baby' me, or you'll have a three inch heel rammed up your ass. Do I make myself clear?" God, that felt good. Funny, but my feet feel the best of all. Wayne's hands rise defensively. "Okay, okay. I think I've got a new story now anyway." He winks at Walter and turns to watch the couple on the floor. In a second, Walter has swung him around and is towering over him like a grizzly. "You say a fucking word about this to *anyone,* Wayne," he growls, "and I'll take great pleasure in ramming the other heel down your throat. Am I understood?" Gulping, Wayne nods, speechless at last. Walter backs away, takes my arm and together we exit like royalty. You know... in this lighting, he rather resembles Sean Connery. ********** Champagne is *so* nice. As a matter of fact, sipping champagne in a hot tub at midnight is even nicer. And sipping champagne in a hot tub at midnight with a bare-chested Walter Skinner? Hollywood heaven. "So Karen," he says, more inebriated now than he was at the party, though I'm not far behind. "How long have you known?" "Known what?" Coyness is not my thing, but I'm not above the attempt. "Don't give me that shit," he growls from across the hot tub. "How long have they -" he breaks off, setting his jaw. "I don't know what you're talking about, Walter." I avoid his eyes and refill my glass from the almost empty bottle. He smiles. "Oh, I get it. 'Doctor-patient confidentiality,' huh? Well, I'm their boss and I have a right to know." "Well, I'm their therapist and what they tell me is none of your business." "True," he concedes. "That's okay. I know what I saw." "Well, if you're sure of what you saw, then you know enough to keep your mouth shut." Jesus, I can't believe I just said that to this man. Nothing like alcohol for false courage. That, and 'ho' shoes. "I would never say anything to anyone about this." "Good, because we're not on the clock now, Walter. Wonder how many people would kill for the revelation that 'Skin Man' likes to dip half-drunk in the hot tub wearing nothing but tuxedo pants?" My face gets hot at the thought of how those pants will cling when he gets out of the hot tub... nah, I'm just overheated. Champagne does that to you. Besides, old Walt here just isn't my type. A bit too... burly. Or is that *bear*-ly? I snort into my glass, the bubbles tickling my nose. I tried to ditch him, really I did. But the bottle we downed in the limousine made us... well, not *friends* per se, more like allies. Amazing, really. We both know we'll have huge hangovers in the morning and we're probably saying and doing things that, while not indiscreet - far from it - are certainly not the type of things we'll ever do again. When I told him I was headed for the hot tub, he insisted on joining me. At least he took off his jacket and shirt before he settled in. That and ordered the champagne, tipping the waiter generously. Not that I'm in possession of my full faculties, either. The original plan called for just dipping my sore feet into the water. My two hundred dollar dress is going to suffocate me when I finally get out of this hot water, giving 'shrink-to-fit' a whole new meaning. So I can't return it - so what? Maybe I can get my sewing machine out of the closet and make sachets, or some such nonsense. "Are you threatening me, Karen?" Thunderclouds approach from across the Gulf of Hot Tub. I give him my best 'who, me?' look. "Not at all, Walter. Just making an observation. After all, it is my job." "Who appointed you their protector?" "The same people that gave you the job, apparently." "Touche'," he murmurs, draining his glass. "Anything else, sir?" The waiter's voice breaks into our game of Battleship. Walter reaches for his wallet and gives the man a hundred dollar bill. Wow. "Another bottle of champagne." "You know, sir, you and the lady really shouldn't be in the hot tub with your street clothes on -" Another hundred materializes from the depths of his wallet. "We have on swimsuits, got that?" A. D. Skinner commands. "Now get moving, pal." The waiter pockets the Ben Franklin with glee and stammers, "Y-yes sir. Right away sir," before disappearing into the hotel. The 'I love powerful men' line springs immediately to my lips and dies just as quickly. My 'Idaho shoes' don't inspire *that* much confidence. Like I said, he's too barely. I mean... *bear*ly.... Shit, whatever. "Told you it was fun being someone else for a change," he tells me with a grin. "That wasn't someone else, Walter. That was all you." "What? I'm crushed... I thought that was a superb James Cagney." He takes off his fogged glasses and curls his lips into a 'you dirty rat' sneer. I lift my right leg, exposing the now ruined shoe to the night air. Its silver straps twinkle in the muted light from the pool. "Walter, your Cagney leaves a lot to be desired," I drawl. "My *foot* does a better Marlene Dietrich than your 'whole body' Cagney will ever be." Once, twice he tries, his hand moving in drunken slow motion. Finally, he grasps the heel of my shoe between his thumb and forefinger and gives it a shake. "Miss Dietrich, pleased to meet you." My voice becomes breathy, though my German accent is truly awful. "Ze pleasure is all mine, Mr. Cagney." We dissolve into laughter, splashing champagne in a sparkling spray. Cinderella I will never be. Walter is far from being Prince Charming. And tomorrow, we'll all return to Washington and ignore one another in the bland hallways of the Bureau. But for one night, I am the proud owner of a pair of Idaho shoes. "Walter?" "Yeah?" "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." His cheeks twitch like a chipmunk's. "Whatever you shay, shweetheart." Actually, his Bogey is not half bad. END Author's notes: I hadn't planned on writing another Karen Kosseff story, but this one was impossible to resist. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Feedback is deeply appreciated and will always be answered: mish_rose@yahoo.com. I'll even answer as Zsa Zsa Gabor if you give me your best movie star impression.... daaahhhling.... My deepest thanks once again to Galia, my very dear friend that puts up with quite a lot from me. I don't know what I'd do without you my dear. Lots of love! :-) And to Musea - like Karen, I jumped in, dress and all. Lots of beta hands kept me from drowning. This fic would be vastly different if not for their gracious help. Any mistakes here are truly my own. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.