~ Crush ~

 

 

Awe-inspiring eye candy graphic courtesy of Holmes

Posted 12th August, 2000

I hung onto this story for a while before deciding to post because it's different to the rest of my fanfic. It's an idea I had hanging around in my mind for two years before I decided it really was time to write it. It's the first fanfic I've written from an Original Character's first person viewpoint, and it's very long, and everyday, and gentle. I was intrigued by the idea of viewing the X Files universe from the outside, with all its confusion and darkness, through the eyes of a relative innocent. I wrote this for myself, first and foremost, because I wanted to explore something a little bit different. I hope other people get as much enjoyment from it as I did. 

Many thanks to RAC for great and encouraging advice, and persuading me to post, and to Holmes for excellent beta reading help, and comma patrol.

Crush

By Xanthe

 I’ve never been on the 5th floor before. I try not to look too much like a gawping kid as I push open the door to my new office and survey the Maplewood desk, and plush carpeting; it’s a bit different three floors down in Accounts where grey functionality is the order of the day. I take off my coat, and hang it on the thoughtfully provided hook, and then survey my new territory. The desk is neatly organised – pens arranged in one section of the office tidy; pencils, scissors and so on in another; ruler square to the blotting pad, inbox and outbox empty, virginal, and waiting…just like moi.

There’s a coffee percolator on a desk to the side, and a little sink next to it, which is convenient. No more long trips down the corridor to fill up at the faucet in the bathroom – I won’t drink that sludge the machines churn out. It’s the real thing or nothing for me. I’m good at coffee – my previous boss said nobody made it like me. I think that was a compliment. I set the coffee humming, ready and waiting for him. Oh shit, just thinking about him makes my heart drop several feet to land, panting and gasping for air, in my shoes, and not for the first time I wonder why the hell they chose me for this.

I glance at the door connecting my office with his, and decide that the evil moment can’t be delayed any longer, so, taking a deep breath, I knock. No reply. I take another deep breath, count to ten, and then knock again. Still no reply. Taking my life into my hands, I open the door a fraction and peep inside. Nothing. There’s nobody here. Feeling relieved, I slip into my new boss’s office, and gaze around. If I thought my office was plush, his is out of this world. Huge, long expanses of polished desks, and the most enormous black leather director’s chair that you ever saw. His desk isn’t as neat and tidy as mine – and his in-tray is crammed full and has overflowed onto the floor beside his chair. I tiptoe over and glance at his desk, trying to get some measure of the man who almost single-handedly holds the happiness of my next few months in his hands. That’s not an exaggeration – a good boss can mean the difference between dragging your heels to work each morning, nursing zero self-esteem, or skipping onto the Metro looking forward to the day ahead.

The first thing I always look for are photographs. I like to pick up a few personal details about my boss. Married? Wife? Kids? Mistress? Most of them have all of the former – and a good PA knows the names, birthdays and personalities of the whole bunch, to say nothing of being able to pick up an appropriate gift at a moment’s notice, or the right kind of flowers for the occasion. You know – lilies for “I’m sorry”, and red roses for “I’m coming over tonight so don’t bother with underwear”. The wives usually end up with the lilies, and the mistresses with the roses, needless to say.

This guy doesn’t have any photographs on his desk though. Not one. I glance around furtively, but I’m curious, and there’s nobody in sight, so I creep around the other side of his desk and pull open his desk drawer. Oh, please! Like there’s a PA in the world who hasn’t done this! My sneakiness is wasted though - there’s nothing here except for one rather curious item. A wedding ring. I mean, who keeps a wedding ring in their desk drawer? My new boss does, clearly. I pick it up and glance at it, and the inscription catches my eye; Love forever, Sharon. Aw. Sweet. Maybe there’s a mushy romantic side to my new boss, despite all the rumours I’ve heard about Walter Sergei Skinner, scourge of the 5th floor. Maybe. There aren’t any photographs of this Sharon on the desk though.

It’s only half past seven – I was so worried about being late on my first day that I’m absurdly early. He probably won’t show up for another half hour, so I start to relax. Feeling like a naughty kid, I sink down slowly into his plush leather chair, and giggle to myself. Well, what can I say – the chairs in Accounts don’t feel this good, or look this darn impressive either. I press the button on the phone, and bark a few demands into it, in what I imagine is a good imitation of my new boss. I’ve heard he’s a total hard ass, and boy, it feels good to be the one giving the orders for a change. This gives me an idea, so I pick up the phone and dial Cheryl’s extension. She usually gets in early because she has this thing for Mark in Personnel, and he comes in first thing to work out. Cheryl likes to watch. One of these days I’m going to send Mark an anonymous memo asking if he’s aware there’s a voyeur stalking him.

“Cheryl? It’s me, Geri,” I whisper furtively.

“Geri? Oh my god! Oh shit! How’s it going?” She asks dramatically. “How’s Pops?”

“Pops?” I frown, swinging the chair around so that I can glance out of the window, then doing a full circle around and beneath the phone cord.

“It’s short for Popsicle,” she giggles. “Well, haven’t you always thought that AD Skinner’s buns are so tight he looks as if he’s trying to hold a Popsicle up his ass?”

“You are so bad!” I giggle helplessly. She has a point. I’ve only ever seen the guy from a distance, but he has this way of walking, with his butt tightly clenched, that makes the nickname peculiarly apt. “Oh god you’re right though!” I swing the chair around again, and stick my fingers through the Venetian blinds, trying to catch a glimpse of the occupant of the opposite office. “He does look like he’s got a Popsicle up his ass!”

“You better believe it, honey. Okay, tell me everything. What’s happened? What’s he like? Is he as sexy as Moira told us he was?” Moira was my old boss in Accounts. She used to have these monthly meetings with AD Skinner to discuss his department’s budget requirements, and detail any expense account anomalies. She said that AD Skinner was okay – scary as hell, but basically okay. Apparently he’s got a list of legal qualifications as long as your arm, and he had this way of fixing her with a glare through his spectacles and interrogating her as if they were in court or something. She said he was scrupulously polite but she always felt like a criminal – and she was the one who was supposed to be asking all the questions!

"I don’t know what he’s like,” I whisper theatrically down the phone. “He hasn’t shown up yet.”

“Are you kidding?” Cheryl screeches. “The guy is notorious for never going home. Have you checked the bathroom?”

"Uh, what bathroom?” I hiss.

“The one next to his office – all the AD's have their own private bathroom in their offices,” Cheryl chides. “You did know that – right?”

”No!” I swing the chair around in a panic – just in time to see a door at the far end of the office open, and a tall, imposing figure appear in the door frame. “Oh shit. Gotta go.” I drop the phone, and slide out of his chair, flushing a shade of beetroot red as he stands there, unmoving, just watching me. Shit! He must have been able to hear every word I said while he was in the bathroom. Shit! I think back frantically, trying to remember exactly what I said, and whether any of it was incriminating. Oh god, did I mention him by name when we were giggling over the Popsicle comment? He still hasn’t moved. He’s just looking at me, unsmiling. He’s a big guy close up, broad, and he smells kind of clean, which is how he looks too. I can smell his cologne from here, and I think he was probably shaving in the bathroom. If he doesn’t ever go home then presumably he has to shave here. What nobody told me was how good-looking he is when you see him up close, and my knees do that instant wobbly thing that they always do whenever I meet someone I find attractive. This is a complication I really don’t need. My mind is racing, but my libido is one step ahead, as I take in his square jaw, very dark eyes, and a hard, toned body which is like an unexploded bomb, ticking dangerously. His small nose seems out of place on the rest of his face somehow, and his lips are soft, and fuller than you’d expect judging by the hardness of his body, the forbidding expression on his face, and the way he holds himself. This guy has a sensual side. His cuddly qualities are the last thing on my mind right now though as I face down my angry new boss.

“Do I know you?” He asks after an endless pause. He sounds faintly pissed off, but not actually angry. Yet.

“Uh, yes. I mean no. I mean, that is, I’m your new secretary,” I falter weakly.

"You?” He stands, stock still, his hands on his hips, just looking at me, and I can just see the thoughts going through his head. It’s okay. I’m used to it. I know what people think when they look at me. “You’re my secretary?” He says again, clearly neither convinced nor particularly happy about it.

“Yes, sir. Geri Warner.” I hold out my hand hopefully.

“Geri?” He repeats, as if even my name offends him.

“Yes, Geri,” I say firmly, holding my ground. “With an i.”

He looks faintly appalled by what he clearly views as a pretentious little affectation.

"Excuse me?” He snaps. There’s an aura of barely leashed aggression about him, and it scares the hell out of me. This is clearly a man who has eaten secretaries for breakfast.

“G-E-R-I,” I spell out loud. “Like Geri Halliwell.”

He raises an eyebrow and indicates, with a slight movement of his head, that he hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about.

“Geri Halliwell. Ginger Spice?” I venture, aware that we’re both floundering horribly here. We could be from different universes, he and I. My world is pop culture and dancing to mindless beats at Boom on a Saturday night, while he’s about twenty-five years older, probably with a heavy mortgage, and an equally heavy career in the biggest law enforcement agency in the world. No wonder he has no idea who the hell the Spice Girls are. We stare at each other, aware that we might as well be speaking a foreign language. There’s a look of incomprehension, combined with disapproval, in his eyes. It’s quite clear, without any shadow of a doubt, that he really doesn’t like me – and that kick-starts my temper. Oh, I know what people think of me. I look like an airhead, and that’s how they treat me, but the time has long since passed when I let any man walk all over me.

“Look, I may not be what you were expecting, but I’m here to cover Kim’s maternity leave so at least I’m only temporary,” I snap.

That has an effect. He frowns slightly, and moves into the office. He has a strangely compelling gait – smooth, and restrained, as if there’s all this pent-up something inside. God knows what, but it’s riveting to watch – and a little bit frightening. I take a step back, seeing my career at the Bureau landing with a thud on the sidewalk outside. My tone was just a fraction away from downright insolent. Not a good start.

“I see. You’re right. You weren’t what I was expecting,” he says, in a milder tone than I deserve.

“Oh, I never am,” I reply bitterly.

He purses his lips, and there’s just a faint glimmer of a smile on them. “I can believe that,” he murmurs. “All right…Geri…” he curls his lips around my name as if he’s sure he’ll never get used to it, and fixes me with a dark-eyed stare that freezes me where I stand. “Let me show you something,” he says slowly, as if talking to a very small child. “This,” he waves his hand in the general direction of his desk, “is where I sit, and where I work, and this…” He puts one hand on my shoulder, and turns me around, then guides me firmly into the outer office. “…is your desk. This is where you sit, and where you work, and where you’ll keep your personal telephone calls to a minimum. Understood?” He exerts just the slightest pressure on my shoulder, but it’s enough to sit me very properly at my desk.

"Yes, sir,” I say softly. Well, I did deserve that so I can’t complain.

“Good. Now that we've gotten that straightened out, can I just say that I like my coffee black. No sugar.” And so saying, he disappears back into his office, closing his door firmly and pointedly behind him. Now that the immediate danger has passed, I do exactly what any normal person would do in the circumstances – I collapse back into my chair, and wait for my heart rate to get back to normal. Oh shit. What a start.

Call me superstitious, but I think that you can tell how something is going to work out from how it starts – and our first meeting hardly makes us the poster children for good working relationships. Within three hours, he has my desk piled high with files, and he barely says a word, except to thank me for the endless cups of coffee I bring. I will say this; I’ve worked for a lot of different bosses during my time at the Bureau, and he’s the only one who always, unfailingly, thanks me for bringing him coffee. Every cup, every time, that absent, almost reflexive, “thanks.” It isn’t much, but maybe it’s the only reason I hang in there during those early days, when I'm miserable as hell and floundering around, totally out of my depth. I know I should ask him for help, or talk to someone about the problems I’m having, but I don’t do the former because he scares the shit out of me, and I don’t do the latter because I have my pride. So I bury my head in the sand and the situation goes from bad to worse.  

Cheryl was right about him working all hours. There’s never a time when I’m there and he isn’t, except when he’s in some meeting or other, and boy, does he have to go to a lot of meetings. This doesn’t help my problem – I’ve gone from being a lowly secretary to the deputy head of Accounts, to being PA of the man who’s second only to the Deputy Director in importance – just two rungs down the ladder from the top guy himself. It’s a culture shock, and I really don’t know how to handle it. The work piles up, and I don’t have a clue how to deal with most of it. My first two weeks in the job are a nightmare, as I drown under the deluge of files. I don’t have any time for the hour-long lunch breaks I used to take with Cheryl and I miss being able to chat with her. It’s hardly surprising that on the Thursday of the second week, I totally flip.

Skinner returns from a meeting late in the afternoon, fixes me with that dark, inscrutable gaze of his, and tells me that he doesn’t want to be disturbed, under any circumstances, for the rest of the day.

“I have a meeting with the Deputy Director tomorrow, and I need to prepare for it,” he snaps, shutting the door to his office firmly behind him.

I make a face at the closed door, wondering if not being disturbed means no coffee. It sounds stupid, but I obsess about whether I should take him coffee or not. I want to do my job properly, but the man petrifies me, and I’m scared stiff of doing the wrong thing. As I sit, pondering the weighty “to coffee, or not to coffee” question, a minor whirlwind erupts in my office, in the form of one of the cutest guys I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“Where is he?” The whirlwind demands.

“AD Skinner is in his office. He’s not to be disturbed,” I reply, startled by the utter urgency of his demeanour.

"Who are you?” He frowns, startled out of his mission for just long enough to notice that he’s never met me before.

"His new secretary.” I stand, hesitantly, wondering who the hell this person is, and why he seems in such a goddamn hurry.

“Ah. Right.” He gazes at me thoughtfully for a moment, a faintly amused look in his hazel eyes. “So you’re Skinner’s new secretary,” he muses, as if it’s a damn good joke – and one that’s common knowledge around the Bureau, if his expression is anything to go by. “I bet he just loves that,” I hear cute boy mutter under his breath, and that makes me flush beetroot red. I decide, then and there, that however cute he is, this man and I are not destined to be friends.

“Yes, and he says he’s not to be disturbed so…” I begin, but it’s too late. The whirlwind has clearly got the measure of me, and he ignores me as if I’m nothing, which probably, in the giant scheme of things, and certainly in his universe, that’s exactly what I am. It isn’t a good feeling.

“This is important,” he says, bypassing my desk and making a lunge for my boss’s door.

“AD Skinner said…” I scramble to the door to stop him, but it’s too late – he’s crashed in on my startled boss. “Sorry, sir, I tried to…” I begin abjectly. Skinner fixes me with a look that says it all. He thinks I’m the most useless secretary he’s ever had – and he’s probably right.

“I thought I said that I wasn’t to be disturbed, or maybe I didn’t make that clear, Geri?” He snaps.

“No, sir. It’s just that…” I gaze helplessly at cute boy, but he just shrugs, and looks pretty damn smug about achieving his objective of an audience with the Assistant Director. Skinner exhales loudly, casts a withering glance in my direction, which becomes utterly world-weary as his gaze travels over the Armani clad form of the whirlwind. 

“All right – just get the hell out, Geri. I’ll deal with Mulder,” Skinner growls at me, one tone away from yelling.

“Yes, sir.” I exit, feeling about two feet tall. Mulder. So that’s Spooky Mulder. I’ve heard about him of course, but never seen him before. I can see what all the gossip is about now. He may be cute, but I hate him. I know all about men like him. Been there, done that, have the emotional bruises to prove it. All that charm, and beauty, and sheer wild, unrestrained energy in one package. I know I’m not the first person to have been swept aside by Hurricane Mulder – and I sure as hell won’t be the last either. I give men like him a wide berth – too much like my father. I don’t trust easy charm combined with outrageously good looks – I’ve got reason not to.

 I sit listlessly at my desk, and stare at the pile of files that seem to be reproducing at an alarming rate. Then I listen with half an ear to what sounds like a heated argument going on in the inner office. I can hear his voice repeating over and over in my head: Get the hell out, Geri, and remember the look in his dark eyes as he gave me that withering glance. Finally, too on edge to stay, I run for the door, escape along the corridor, dart head first into the elevator, and down two floors. Back on the familiar ground of the second floor, I dive into Accounts, grab a startled Cheryl by the arm, and hiss: “Coffee break. Now.”

She takes one look at me, and nods, guiding me out of the building, and through the huddle of smokers gathered by the Fire Exit. She sits me down on the wall beside a fountain, and puts a motherly arm around my shoulder.

"What happened, Geri?” She asks as I stare stonily into the water.

“He happened,” I mumble wretchedly.

“Popsicle?” She smiles at me encouragingly.

"No, yes, no…Spooky Mulder. He just pushed his way into Skinner’s office, and I couldn’t have stopped him, and now that bastard blames me. He thinks I’m a total waste of space,” I babble pathetically.

"Okay. By bastard we’re talking about Popsicle right? Not Spooky?” She asks.

“Yeah. Popsicle.” I manage a grin at our pet name for him.

“Okay. Look, honey, this doesn’t sound too bad – it’s not the whole story is it?” She asks gently.

“No. It’s me. I can’t do the job,” I admit miserably. “I don’t understand any of it. Nobody has explained it to me. I’ve never worked for anyone as important as Sk…Popsicle before,” I give her a faded, forced smile, “and I don’t know why they gave me this job. I don’t have the experience.”

"No, you don’t,” Cheryl says softly. “I think that’s the point, Geri.”

"What?” I look at her in surprise.

“I overheard something on the office grapevine,” she tells me carefully. “It seems that Popsicle is out of favour at the top. I don’t know the ins and outs, but it’s got something to do with Spooky. Popsicle is supposed to supervise him, but Spooky runs wild, and gets the Bureau into all kinds of hot water. I think Popsicle isn’t toeing the Bureau line – he’s not doing what they expect, but he’s too important for them to get rid of him. Apparently…” Her voice drops an octave, and she leans forward conspiratorially, “…a couple of years ago Popsicle was investigated on suspicion of murder.”

"What?” I sit back, stunned. Okay, so I don’t particularly like the guy, but murder? Somehow I can’t see it. Not that he doesn’t scare the hell out of me, but the thought of those big, blunt fingers pulling a gun on someone, or fastening around a helpless throat just doesn’t seem right. He’s a desk jockey. It’s hard to think of him ever losing that iron-hard self-control for long enough to murder anyone. He’s too restrained.

"The charges were dropped, but apparently that was thanks to Spooky – so Popsicle owes Spooky and can’t get rid of him.” Cheryl shrugs. “Anyhow, the truth is, darling, and I don’t mean this the wrong way, but you were sent to work for him because you’re caught up in a giant game of office politics.”

“You mean…they assigned me to him because they wanted to give him grief?” I stammer. “They think I’m crap, and they want me to make his life harder?”

"Well, they certainly don’t want to make it any easier,” she grins. “But you’re not crap, Geri – just young, and you know, you’ve got sort of a reputation…”

"Because of how I look!” I explode. “For god’s sake – I never damn well do anything. Not any more anyway. You know that.”

"I know, sweetie. I know you’re saving yourself for the right man.” She gives a wry shrug, this concept being beyond her comprehension.

"It’s not that. It’s just…I’ve been hurt. I don’t want to take any risks,” I mutter.

"Life’s a risk, hon.” She flicks a strand of my hair away from my face. “Look – you’re not a bad P.A. Moira never had any complaints, did she?”

"No.” I shrug listlessly but the only thing going around in my head is the fact that they think I’m crap at my job.

“They assigned you because they thought he wouldn’t like you, and that you were too young for this kind of responsibility – but they wouldn’t be able to get away with giving him anyone really crappy,” she says, trying to nudge me out of my funk. “Skinner wouldn’t have gone for it for one thing. You do look damn good on paper, Geri! You have a degree, you can type, do shorthand. You’re not just some dumb, empty-headed bimbo…”

"No, but that’s what they think.” I make a face at her. “And it’s exactly what he thinks. I can see it in his eyes. He hates me.”

"Nobody could hate you, hon. You’re too easy on the eye.” She strokes my hair and smiles. “Look, this job is only until Kim Cook gets back, right?” I nod listlessly. “Well, just do it the best you can until then. Either that, or you just march right back in there, and tell Skinner to reach into his ass, and pull out that damn Popsicle he’s got clenched up there!”

I have to laugh at that, and before long we’re both giggling helplessly. When we finally subside, Cheryl smiles at me, and grabs my shoulders. “You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, Geri. You’re the sweetest, kindest person I know, and if Popsicle doesn’t appreciate you, that’s his loss. Now go back in there with your head held high.”

"All right.” I square my shoulders and sit up straight. “I will. Thanks, Cheryl.” I give her a heartfelt kiss on the cheek, and we both stand up, and push our way through the smokers to return to the building.

Spooky has gone when I return – or at least I can’t hear him in Skinner’s office. I sit at my desk, and survey the huge piles of paperwork building up, wondering what to do next. I really don’t know where to start, and he’s always too busy to show me. While I’m sitting there, contemplating whether or not to resign, the door opens and Skinner looms over me.

“Where have you been?” He demands tersely. He looks angry, and still keyed up after his argument with Agent Mulder.

“The bathroom.” I stand up, and face him. I’m tall – not as tall as he is, but tall enough to be able to look him in the eye. “I want a word with you, sir. Look, I know we got off to a bad start, but I refuse to allow you to intimidate me. I don’t work well like that, and…”

"What the hell…?” He interrupts me, his forehead creasing into a frown, but I put up my hand.

"Give me the courtesy of allowing me to finish,” I tell him firmly. He looks startled, but backs down, and folds his arms across his chest, indicating that he’s going to hear me out.

“I know I’m not what you want here – and there’s no way I’m going to be as good as Kim, but I’m a fast learner, and I’m prepared to learn. That’s the important thing, isn’t it? If you don’t like me because of the way I do my job, then that’s fine, but at least treat me with respect. I know they assigned me to you deliberately to make your life harder, and I can see why that would piss you off, but that’s not my fault and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t take it out on me. I can’t work for someone who obviously despises me so much, and if you have a problem with me, or the fact that you’re more used to a female secretary, or because I’m gay, or whatever, then I’d prefer it if you'd request a different secretary, and allow me to return to my old job, because I sure as hell can’t continue like this.” I run out of steam, and stop. I’m breathing heavily, but I’ll be damned if I let him see how upset I am. It must be obvious from the way my chest is heaving up and down, but I’m proud of myself all the same. I've said my piece and, even if I end up losing my job, at least I’ll hang on to my self-respect.

He blinks behind his spectacles, and for a moment I have no idea what his reaction is…but when it comes, suffice it to say that it’s not what I’m expecting. He slowly removes his glasses, and rubs a weary hand over his eyes.

“Geri, it’s been a long day in an even longer week. You clearly have some issues with me so why don’t we take this into my office where we can discuss it.” He opens his office door, and gestures me inside. I go, nervously, and hover in front of his desk. He doesn’t follow, and I wonder what the hell he’s doing as I stand there, anxiously awaiting my fate. He’s probably phoning security to get them to take me away. A few moments later, I hear the door shut softly behind me.

"Take a seat, Geri,” he says in a polite, almost friendly tone. I sit down in front of the desk, and he walks over and hands me a cup of coffee, which at least explains the delay. “Not as good as the way you make it, I’m sure,” he says with an apologetic shrug. “White – one sugar, right?”

"Yes.” I’m surprised that he’s noticed the way I take my coffee. He sits down, not behind his desk, but in the chair next to mine, nursing his own cup of coffee. This close up, and without his glasses, he looks…tired. I suddenly wonder about his lifestyle. The endless cups of coffee, the long hours, the fights with Spooky, and the vicious office politics, and pressure from above.

“You shouldn’t work so hard,” I say, before I can stop myself.

He gives a strange, barking laugh. “That’s what my wife used to say,” he mutters.

“She was right.” I feel a sudden empathy for the mysterious Sharon, and remember the romantic inscription she had engraved inside his wedding ring. What kind of man would inspire such unashamed devotion, I wonder? “Your health is the most important thing,” I tell him vacuously. “What does any of this matter at the end of the day?” I gesture to his files.

“It’s my job.” He shrugs. “All these files are cases, Geri – they relate to real, criminal activities, and for most of these files, there’s a victim. That’s why it matters.”

“Sorry. I was…look, it isn’t my place to tell you what to do.” I shrug, feeling embarrassed.

“No need to apologise. It’s been a long time since anyone cared enough to tell me to take it easy,” he says in a wistful tone, and we both smile at each other uncertainly. “Geri, I’m really sorry that you haven’t been happy working for me. I had no idea,” he says. “I’m a busy man – I can’t nursemaid my PA. I suppose I just thought you knew what you had to do and that you’d get on with it.”

“I really want to be useful but I don’t know anything about this job,” I confide. “I know you’re busy, but if you could just spare a few hours to explain some things to me then I could go from there. I find you so…” I hesitate, and he frowns.

“Unapproachable? Forbidding? Distant?” He suggests, raising an eyebrow. I think he’s laughing at himself – he knows how he comes across.

I give an embarrassed half laugh. “Well, yes,” I admit.

He sighs, and rubs his hand over his wide forehead. “Okay. I’ll admit I was surprised when they assigned you to replace Kim.” At least that’s out in the open. “I was used to Kim – she’d worked with me for years, and I liked her. To be honest, I didn’t know what the hell to think about you.” Guys like him never do. God knows why it’s always the big, macho men who find me a threat. “That has nothing to do with you though, Geri, and more to do with…look, you said it yourself: this is all about politics.  I wasn’t sure if I could trust you.”

I stare at him, open-mouthed. It never occurred to me that he might think I’d been sent here to spy on him. I know his work is sensitive, but I had no idea it was this hush-hush.

“Sir, you have to believe that I would never, ever, betray your trust. I know I gave you the wrong impression at the beginning, but I don’t gossip – none of what goes on here will leave these four walls. I have a very professional attitude towards my job and I take it extremely seriously.”

"All right. I believe you,” he says, and to be honest, I don’t think he’s got much choice. He’s stuck with me unless he wants to make a big fuss with Personnel, which he could – but then again, he could end up with someone even worse. “And, Geri – let’s make one thing clear,” he continues, in a determined tone, only the red tinge of his ears betraying the fact that he’s embarrassed as hell, “your sexuality is your own affair. I don’t discriminate, and I don’t judge. Ever.” His expression is profoundly solemn, and I don’t doubt for a moment that he is completely sincere. I swallow hard, feeling ashamed of myself for throwing the bigotry card at him. “Shall we agree to start again?” He suggests, and I nod, feeling relieved beyond belief. “I might not always be the easiest person to work with, but I have the utmost respect for you,” he says, and I notice that, without his glasses, his eyes are the warmest, deepest shade of chocolate brown. They’re also totally sincere. He is, I realise suddenly, and in a moment of profound revelation, a genuinely good man. “Let’s shake on it.” He holds out his hand, and I take it, and I don’t know if he feels it too, but to me it’s like an electric shock zooming up my arm and straight into my heart. He looks faintly startled, and smiles to cover the moment. His fingers are broad, and blunt and so warm, his tanned flesh dark against my pale, slim fingers.

“You’re a lot younger than Kim, and of course you don’t have her experience. You’re right – I should have put some time aside to show you the way I like to work. I had no idea how swamped you were. I know it’s late, and you probably want to get home, but if you’d like to stay late tonight then I’m happy to go through the work with you,” he offers, and that’s the precise minute I fall in love. Yup, it’s that easy. If this were a movie, a swelling orchestra would rise around us, and play something suitably sappy - as it is the moment is frozen forever in my mind. Him, offering to help, his fingers still wrapped around my hand; me drowning in the moment, holding on just a bit too long. I find my voice from somewhere, and, when I finally speak, it’s as if it’s someone else. I barely recognise myself.

“Sure. That would be fine. I don’t mind staying late. I just want to do a good job. I told you – I’m a fast learner.” It’s not as if I’ll be missing out on a hot date either. My life isn’t exactly filled with eager guys queuing around the block. Oh, I could always get a date if I wanted, but the fact is I don’t. I’m not unaware of the way I look, but sadly, the guys who are attracted to me aren’t usually the kind of guys you want to get involved with. I gave up men last year – I always fall for the wrong type, and it was starting to get painful. They were either total bastards who treated me like shit, or unobtainable - just like Walter Skinner. The number of married, straight, or otherwise out of my league guys I’ve fallen for is a joke, and I hate myself for making the same mistake all over again. I have a weakness for guys who offer to help me too – maybe because my father never offered me anything but money. I remember going skiing two years ago, and falling crazily in love with the instructor because he kept plucking me out of the snow when I fell over. That’s all there was to it. He wasn’t good looking or charming, but he was just…nice. No judgements, no ulterior motives – he was my knight in shining armour who came swishing up to me every time I fell over, and helped me get back on my feet again. No wonder I fell for him. He was straight too as it turned out. It’s the story of my life. Unobtainable men or complete bastards – and now there’s Walter Skinner, who I thought was the latter but who, it turns out, is merely the former. That’s no help to me though.

We spend the next three hours going through the work. I manage to ask some intelligent questions, and I can see myself visibly going up in his estimation. I take notes, dreamily enjoying his deep, attractive voice, and wry, self-deprecating humour. I don’t know why I never saw it before – too busy painting him as the big, bad wolf, I suppose. Who needs a hot date when they can be locked up all evening in an office with a man this drop-dead gorgeous? Not me. I’m hopelessly, utterly, and completely head over heels in love.

“Geri – what made you think you were assigned here to make my life harder?” He asks unexpectedly as the tuition session draws to a close.

“Something a friend of mine said,” I shrug.

“Ah. The all-knowing Cheryl.” He nods sagely, and I almost choke. “The Popsicle lady,” he adds, a wry glint in his eye.

“Oh god. You know about that?” I stammer, flushing what I’m sure is an extremely unattractive shade of bright purple. God, I hate this pale skin sometimes.

“What can I say?” He shrugs. “The bathroom walls are thin – and your voice carries. Oh, on that subject, I’ve been meaning to ask about your accent.”

“My mother was English – I have dual nationality,” I reply, happy to change the subject away from the dangerous Popsicle area. “Mum brought me up, and whenever I go back to the UK everyone tells me I sound American, but over here, I sound English.” There’s a whole story behind that but I have no intention of boring him with all the details. Besides, I much prefer the sound of his voice.

“It’s nice,” he says, and the compliment almost makes my heart stop. “Look, Geri, I don’t know what exactly Cheryl said to you, but so long as you work hard, and give this job your best shot, then I’ll back you all the way. That’s the speech I usually give to my agents,” he adds, with a little grin. “I think that it’s just as appropriate in this situation though.”

“Cheryl thinks they assigned me to you because they know I’m not up to the job – they want to inconvenience you,” I tell him honestly. There’s silence for a moment, and a profound sadness creeps into his eyes. I wish I hadn’t just said that.

“Maybe Cheryl is right.” He shrugs. “I don’t imagine I’m very popular in some areas, but I’d be lousy at my job if I hadn’t made a few enemies along the way.” He looks dejected, and I realise that Cheryl was indeed right – and he knows it. I can’t imagine what it must be like coming into work each day knowing that there are people who hate your guts, and want you gone. Suddenly my own work problems seem like a walk in the park compared to this kind of nightmare workplace scenario. I wonder how he keeps going in the face of such hostility.

“Fuck them,” I say, throwing propriety to the four winds. “Look, sir, if that was their plan it’s going to backfire because I have no intention of being their stooge – I’m worth a damn sight more than that, so if they sent me here hoping I’d screw up, they can take a running jump because I’m not damn well going to.”

He has a stunned look on his face after this little outburst, and I realise that now might not have been the best time and place to show him my grasp of the more colloquial expressions in the English language. I close my eyes, kicking myself mentally, but I open them again when I hear a sound I’ve never heard before; it’s his laugh, and it’s a deep, bass sound that ripples like sheets drying in a strong wind. I love it.

“Geri – you’re right. Fuck ‘em,” he snorts. “You know…I think that you and I are going to get along just fine,” he adds, still chuckling away to himself, shaking his head slightly.

“I hope so, sir, and uh, thanks for taking the time for this,” I manage to mutter as I back out of the door. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.” He waves his hand at me, and then returns to his work, burying himself in his files again. I watch him for just a few seconds longer, knowing that because he took the time to show me what to do, he’ll end up having to stay half the night to finish his own work, and I resolve then and there that I’ll be the best damn secretary he could have.  

It's late by the time I get home. I'm too hyped up to sleep, and too tired to eat, if that makes any sense. God, what a day! I feel as if I've been hit by a truck, and given the best gift in the world, at one and the same time. I pull off my tie, and gaze at myself in the full length mirror in the corner, wondering if there's anything about this person that someone like Walter Skinner would find interesting. To him, I'm a cliché. A male secretary in a job that's largely the province of women. A male secretary who looks like this. I undo my shirt and survey myself critically in the mirror; I'm about five feet ten, very slender, hard, toned body, flat waist. My pale blond hair is worn maybe a bit too long but I slick it back with gel at work and I always look neat. I try to dress conservatively too - at work anyway. Maybe there's something about the cut of my suits, the style of my shirts...maybe I'm too obviously a fashion victim. I study my face intently, wondering how it could ever appeal to a man like him. Truth is, it's too perfect. Pronounced cheekbones, wide set blue eyes, clear skin, firm jaw...kind of plasticky. Like one of those stupid, flawless men in those really bad daytime soaps. There's no character, nothing to imply that I'm anything other than the airhead people generally take me for. I am though. I'm much more than that if only people would give me a chance. I've led a life that's interesting, if nothing else, and I've seen more than most in my time on this earth. None of that shines through. I can't blame him for not seeing the real me underneath. Why should he? All I can do is to try and win his respect by keeping my promise to be the best PA I can be. At least that way he might see something of the person underneath. Someone who isn't a quitter. Someone hardworking, punctual, and, above all, loyal.

Of course, in a movie we’d be able to skip forward six months to show me fulfilling that promise to myself, but hell, this is real life, and it’s damn hard work trying to fill Kim’s shoes. She’s a classy act to follow. I stay late every night, and work my socks off, but there are times when I just stare at those damn files, and want to scream. I’m not saying it’s always a hardship - hell, working late means spending more time with him after all. Just knowing he’s next door gives me a thrill, and I love listening to the deep rumblings of his voice as he conducts meetings and briefs his agents. I fall more deeply, hopelessly, and unrequitedly in love with him each passing day. I look forward to work so much that I’m in by 7 am every morning. I don’t even feel tired - all this unrequited love puts me on a total high, and I’m overflowing with excess energy. I live for the time, first thing in the morning, when he goes over all the day’s work with me, because that’s when we get a few, uninterrupted minutes together before the phone starts ringing and all the meetings begin. I run up the stairs to the office every morning, unable to wait the extra seconds for the elevator, sling my coat onto the hook, put the coffee on, then poke my head around his door with a shy “hi.” He’s always busy working, just as he was when I left the previous night, almost as if he hasn’t even moved, but he always smiles when he looks up to greet me  – and for a man who doesn’t smile easily, or often, each one is like gold dust, believe me.

It’s the stupid, mundane things that I notice; the way he holds his coffee in both his hands, staring into the black depths as if searching for answers to some unfathomable question. The way his broad shoulders hold the weight of the world so effortlessly, and yet he still finds time to deal with the concerns of one unimportant secretary. The way those same broad shoulders fill out every last inch of his shirt, stretching the fabric impossibly over that broad chest, and revealing the faintest hint of nipple. Yes, I noticed. Sue me. I love the way the corners of his mouth quirk up when he doesn’t want me to know he’s amused by some hopelessly innocent, or naïve comment I’ve made. I’m pretty streetwise, but all the same, I’m only 24 – and he’s older, and wiser, but he never once makes me feel patronised. Then there’s the way he stands, looking out of the window, when he’s dictating a letter to me, and the way the late afternoon sun shines into the office, backlighting him as if in a movie, washing away the worry lines and tiredness, and illuminating his wide jaw, and the endless sweeping plains of his head. I love the way he’s so still and concentrated in his work, the way he frowns when he’s reading a report, and the way his index finger gently strokes the side of his face when he’s deep in thought… It’s all mesmerising, and I could just sit and watch him forever. Sometimes I do just that, and he doesn’t even know. I imagine planting a kiss on that naked scalp while he’s sitting poring over papers. I daydream about tiptoeing up behind him, leaning over, and pressing my lips very softly, very gently, against that smooth expanse of skin. Then reality kicks in, and I wonder what the hell his reaction would be if I did that. It doesn’t bear thinking about, and really, I’m not that brave. So, I’m consigned to my delicious little prison of unrequited love, and it’s safe, and it’s comfortable, and it hurts, damn it. It hurts.

A couple of weeks after our big discussion, I receive a phone call in the middle of the day. He’s busy going over a case file, and has asked not to be disturbed, but I know him well enough by now to be sure that he’ll want to hear this news as soon as possible, so I knock on the door with a wide grin on my face. He looks up, surprised.

“Boy. 10 pounds 3 ounces. Born at 9:14 this morning,” I tell him. “So, I think that’s 5 dollars you owe me,” I add with a grin. He gives a shout of laughter, and stands up, looking genuinely delighted for the first time since I’ve known him. I add this new expression to my list, a snapshot of straight white teeth standing out against tan skin, with little crinkles at the corners of his mouth.

“Is she on the phone now?” He asks, reaching for the receiver.

“No – that was Martin. He says it was a pretty tough labour so she’s sleeping, but the baby is doing fine. They’re calling him…” I pause because this is the good bit, “James Walter,” I finish. I’m not sure what the word is for how he looks at this moment in time. Startled seems too mild – he’s completely and utterly taken by surprise, and it’s a full minute before he regains his composure.

“James Walter?” He repeats, as if he didn’t hear it right first time.

“Yup. Martin said to tell you that Kim's blaming you for the baby being so big because you kept buying her those fudge brownies she had a craving for. They felt it was only fair in the circumstances that the kid got saddled with your name for giving his mom such a hard time during labour!”

“James Walter!” He gives a smile that stretches from ear to ear, and I wonder why he and Sharon never had kids, and whether he’s sad about that. He’d make a great father. Yes, of course I found out he hasn’t got kids, and yes, I do know that he and Sharon are divorced. I’m in the throes of passion here – I’ve found out everything I can.

“D’you want me to go out and buy a gift?” I ask.

“No…I’ll get it. Um…should I send flowers? Or baby clothes? Uh…” He looks endearingly out of his depth.

”I think it’s nice if you buy a gift for mom, as well as baby,” I tell him. “She’s done all the hard work after all!”

”True…what kind of gift?” He asks with endearing helplessness.

“I’ll go and find something.” I’m good at this kind of thing – it’s my forte in life. I might not know Kim, but I have a fair idea what kind of presents girls like. I’ve always had dozens of girlfriends. My father once remarked that it was a waste – all these pretty girls around me and I make no attempt to get into their panties. I think he missed the point. That’s precisely why they like hanging out with me.

“No…I mean…I think it should be something personal,” he says, calling me back. I’m astonished – every boss I’ve ever worked for has been happy to let me choose and buy even the most intimate of gifts in the past. This is a novelty. “Look, it’s nearly lunch time.” He glances at his watch. “Why don’t I come with you to the mall, and we could have something to eat while we’re out? How does that sound?”

It sounds like heaven. I smile, wondering if my knees are going to turn to jelly, and make a swift exit. Okay, so it isn’t a date, but I can pretend can’t I? I’ll be eating out. In a restaurant. With a man I am hopelessly, crazily in love with. I think this might be as good as it gets.

“It’ll be a good opportunity to find out how you’re coping with the job,” he adds. Okay, so that spoiled it a little, but not much – I’m walking on air right now. One part of me has jumped ahead to the bit where he tells me what a completely fascinating and bewitching creature I am, and how he longs to take me in his arms and make passionate love to me, while another part is wondering what the hell I’m going to say to him during lunch. I just know that I’ll sit there like a dumb klutz, and end up being a huge disappointment.

It is so weird being with him outside the office. I sit nervously in his car, casting glances at him as he drives. I am now at the totally sappy stage of infatuation where I find even the sight of his hands on the wheel almost blindingly erotic. He has such nice hands; very blunt, square fingers, immaculate nails, and golden-hued flesh. I can just imagine these beautiful hands touching my body, those big, capable thumbs resting on each of my nipples and sweeping possessively over my naked skin, claiming and loving me, making me his. I open the window, and take a deep breath of air – being so close to him, thighs nearly touching, is killing me.

There’s an awkward silence hanging between us. This is the first time we’ve been together without the buffer zone of work to talk about. Maybe he doesn’t feel it. Maybe it’s just me. I rack my brain trying to think of something to say but nothing comes to mind except work stuff, and I really don’t want to talk about that right now. Luckily the mall isn’t far, and he parks the car, and we both get out. We’re walking side by side, and I wonder how we look together, and whether people will think we’re a couple. I hope they will. I wish I could grab his hand, and show the world he’s mine, but that’s just my fantasy. As it is, I feel like a kid trotting along behind Dad. He’s got these long, purposeful strides, as if he can’t waste even a fraction of energy – it all has to be directed towards his ultimate goal - even if that's only shopping for baby clothes. I struggle to keep up without actually running, having to do an absurd hop and skip every few strides just to stay abreast with him. I catch a glimpse of us in a store window, and my heart leaps. We look so good together, walking along, shoulder to shoulder, me a few inches shorter than him, my blond hair contrasting with the small fringe of grey around the back of his head. I have expensive tastes in clothing, so we both look impeccably tailored and elegant, with our starched shirts, and exquisitely cut dress pants and suit jackets. I’m wearing a soft-toned  grey, that complements my colouring, while he’s in dark navy blue. We look like we’ve stepped from the pages of GQ magazine and we turn a few heads as we walk. I’m used to turning heads – either because of the way I look, or the fact that people are making assumptions about my sexuality, so I’m surprised and delighted to find that this time not all the looks are directed at me. He receives several admiring glances, from men as well as women, and this makes my heart glow. I even find myself on the receiving end of a few envious glances as a couple of men clearly make an assumption that we’re together. Maybe we look like a cliché – boy toy out with his sugar daddy. I don’t mind fitting their stereotype. It isn’t true, but just the thought of being mistaken for a couple makes my heart skip a beat.

We get inside the mall, and he stops, and looks at me for guidance.

“Victoria’s Secret,” I tell him, grabbing his arm, and pulling him in the right direction.

“Are you sure?” He looks as if he’d rather walk into a drug den than brave being seen next to racks of women’s underwear in public.

“Yes – they do these really nice bath products – totally pampering stuff.”

“Oh. Right,” he nods, still looking as if he’s about to sink through the floor and I can’t help smiling. Shopping is my thing in life. I could shop for America, and frequently try to do just that. Well, I have to find some way of spending Daddy’s allowance after all. Now, at last, I have my usually hardass boss helpless and terrified on my territory. A small, evil part of me can’t help being delighted that the roles have been reversed. I push him into Victoria’s Secret and straight into a rack of bras. He fumbles around pathetically trying to extricate himself, flushing an ever more gorgeous shade of russet. It’s so good to know that I’m not the only one who can blush effusively. I abandon him to the double D cups, and slip easily towards the bath products, waiting for him to follow. He’s such a big guy that he has trouble navigating the tiny aisles between the underwear, and I swear it’s like watching a comedy show seeing him alternately bumping into rows of panties and amused female shoppers. He finally, and much to his obvious relief, finds his way over to my side, and takes out a handkerchief to mop his brow.

“Shopping is hot work,” I grin, and he smiles feebly. “I suggest we get her these.” I gesture to the little gift assortment I’ve selected, and he nods without even looking at it, clearly just wanting to pay and get out of here. “This stuff is delicious,” I croon, holding up some strawberry body mist, and spraying it in the air for him to smell. He looks faintly ill.

"Good. Yes, that’s great, Geri. Can we go now?” He hisses urgently.

“Wait! They have a new vanilla range. Hang on. I love vanilla.” I grab a bottle of bubble bath and thrust it into the shopping basket. “Have you tried any of their bubble baths?” I ask him. He looks as if I’ve asked if  he’s ever walked on the moon.

"No,” the poor hard ass mutters.

“Then you must. Let me buy you the vanilla one. I insist.” I put another one in the basket and smile at him sweetly, just daring him to argue. He looks as if he wants to protest that big, hard, strong Assistant Directors don’t take bubble baths, but that tough guy act doesn’t fool me. He’s just a guy underneath the suit – oh boy - that’s not a good thought. Now is not the time to fantasise about undressing him. He opens his mouth, and then caves in before my eyes which is so cute. He has the last laugh though – he raises a knowing eyebrow and I realise that he knows exactly what I’m doing. The corners of his mouth are twitching suspiciously and we share a moment that I wish could last forever. I’m aware that some of the female shoppers are casting fond glances in our direction – they all think we make a good couple too. If only.

After Victoria’s Secret, I drag him to various children’s stores, looking for just the right outfit for his namesake. Walter selects a pastel blue jumpsuit which I firmly replace.

“We don’t want to gender stereotype baby James Walter Cook, do we?” I grin maliciously. “I mean, just because he’s a boy there’s no reason why we should buy blue. He might grow up to hate pastels!” I give that announcement a degree of degree of camp theatricality that almost makes him laugh. I often overdo the camp act around really macho guys like him. It's not really me inside, but for some reason it makes them feel easier around me -  less a threat, and more a harmless, amusing eccentric.

“You surely aren’t suggesting pink?” He ripostes, looking appalled.

“Honestly this whole blue/pink thing is absurd. If baby James is going to end up gay, it won’t be because his Mom dressed him in a pink jumpsuit when he was a baby. Trust me on this. I know what I’m talking about.”

“I didn’t mean…” He looks so endearing when he’s embarrassed that I take pity on him.

“I suggest red!” I announce, holding up the cutest pair of baby dungarees, in a manly shade of dark red. Walter looks relieved and immediately gets out his wallet, anxious to leave both the shop and the discussion behind.

The shopping over, we finish up at a small Italian restaurant in the mall, and he orders a glass of white wine, while I opt for a sparkling mineral water.

“You don’t drink?” He looks surprised.

“No.” I shrug. “I don’t like the taste – or what it does to people.” I shrug again. He looks interested, and I kick myself for giving way too much information. “Well, that’s not quite true – I can usually manage a few margaritas on a Saturday night,” I grin, trying to deflect his interest.

“Drink’s fine – so long as you control it, and you don’t allow it to control you,” he murmurs.

“Well, maybe I’m worried that I have an addictive personality,” I smile. “I’m a bit of a control freak so the whole being drunk on your ass thing doesn’t appeal.”

"You’re far too young to be thinking like that,” he chides.

“Oh, my generation are all born again stick-in-the-muds. How else can we rebel against the generation who gave us the Sixties?” I laugh, and he gives a wry grunt. “Seriously, I sometimes wonder what it must have been like growing up in the Sixties. All that great music, all those mind-altering substances – it was all new then too. It must have been so exciting.” I look at him expectantly, and he gives a sad shrug, and shakes his head slightly.

“No. It wasn’t that exciting. I grew up in a small town so the Sixties more or less passed me by.”

“Why did you decide to leave?” I sip my water and gaze at him intently, drinking in every detail, hungering to understand him, and find out all there is to know about him. “Was it the lure of the bright lights, and big city?” I prompt, when there’s no reply.

“No.” He grunts again, as if the very idea is ridiculous. “I was a naïve kid, with the stars and stripes in my eyes. I left to fight in ‘Nam.” There’s an uncomfortable look in his eye as if he’s surprised he just shared that with me.

“Oh god. I’m sorry. I had no idea. The whole idea of being drafted…” I shiver.

“I wasn’t drafted,” he says quietly. “I enlisted on my eighteenth birthday. I always wanted to believe in something, I guess.” He gives another of those wry grunts, as if he’s laughing at some private joke. “Unfortunately that war wasn’t it,” he adds softly, in a tone of regret.

"You didn’t go back home after though? Back to the small town?” I hold my breath, feeling sure that I’m pushing my luck with this strand of conversation. It’s obvious he isn’t comfortable talking about himself, and I keep expecting him to change the subject.

“No, I didn’t go back home. I didn’t have a choice,” he shrugs. “I was a year in a VA hospital – and there wasn’t one anywhere near my home. By the time I got out, well, I tried going back.” There’s such sadness in those dark eyes as he talks, and I long to put my hand over his, and encourage him to share that sadness with me. I want all of him, the sad stuff as well as the rest. Yeah, I know, I'm a total sap.

"What happened? Had everything changed?” My tone is barely more than a whisper. He looks up, straight at me, and gives a strained smile.

“No. On the contrary. Everything was exactly as I’d left it. I, however, was not.” He clenches his jaw, in that famous Walter Skinner expression of emotional unease. I know all his expressions – I live for them, and turn them over in my mind every night, analysing each and every last one. “I’d changed. Maybe you can never go back,” he says softly. Then, as if aware of the mood of melancholy that’s settled over us like a cloud, he lifts his glass to mine. “You don’t want to hear all this ancient history!” He growls. “We’re here to have one for the baby. Here’s to James Walter.”

I smile, and chink my glass against his. He is so damn pleased with himself about Kim naming the baby after him. I’m pleased for him too. Kim must have seen the same man I’m seeing now, and not the surly, scary ogre of FBI folklore. Not that he still can’t scare the shit out of me on occasions, and I sure as hell feel sorry for some of the agents he reams out in his office, but underneath the hard assed AD image, in private, he’s this man, and I love him for it. Oh god, listen to me. I’m like that girl in the film Jerry Maguire. Any minute now I’ll be standing on the table shouting: “I love him. I love him for the man he wants to be, and the man he almost is. I love him!” Not. I do have some instinct for self-preservation.

“Why did you decide to leave England and live over here?” He asks, clearly trying to change the subject away from his life story. I shrug. Now it’s my turn to feel uncomfortable.

“I didn’t decide. My mother died, and I came to live with my dad.”

”Oh, I’m sorry. It must have hit you hard for your mom to die when you were just a kid.” His dark eyes are full of sympathy.

“It wasn’t a good time, no,” I tell him honestly enough.

“It must have been a culture shock coming over here.”

“Not really. I had quite a cosmopolitan upbringing. Mum dragged me all over the world when I was growing up. She hated standing still. She and Dad didn’t make it beyond my first birthday. I think it was more of a culture shock for him, suddenly having this fifteen year old kid descending on him.” Not that he changed his lifestyle appreciably to accommodate me, but I can’t complain really. He did his best, totally inadequate though it was.

“It must have been hard for both of you,” he says, and I swallow hard, because it was. It so fucking was, and it’s a time I really don’t like thinking about too much, let alone talking about. His sympathetic interest is almost more than I can bear.

“You don’t have kids?” I ask, although I already know the answer, but I just have to say something, anything to change the subject.

“No. My wife and I weren’t…lucky enough.” He gives a strained smile. Shit, now it’s my turn to dredge up his painful memories. There must be some safe subject we can talk about.

“I’m sorry.” We stare glumly at the table for several minutes.

“I did think it might happen,” he adds as an after thought. “We’re divorced now though, so I guess not. Besides, I think my time for raising the little monsters is fast disappearing.”

“Are you seeing anyone?” I wish I could have stopped myself asking him that. Trust me, I’m kicking myself soundly under the table. A strange look creeps into his eyes and there’s something there I don’t understand. Something complex, dark, and powerful – and painful.

“No. You?” He deflects quickly.

“No.” I take a deep breath and wade on, knowing I’m probably making a big mistake. “I always fall for the wrong guys so I gave up on relationships awhile back.” He flushes, and glances around for the waiter, his face screaming out his confusion. That was probably way too much information, but what the hell do I care? Okay, so maybe he’ll guess that the “wrong guys” comment includes him, but most men are pretty dense so maybe not. A part of me wants to just tell him, but another part knows that I’ll probably be out of a job if I do, to say nothing of the pain and heartache of the inevitable rejection.

“Oh.” The poor bastard looks like a frightened rabbit caught in my headlamps. I hope that didn’t sound too much like a come-on. It’s a total nightmare. There are things you say when you’re crazily in love that you’d say in just the same way if you weren’t – but somehow they have a depth of meaning when you know you have a hidden agenda. We’re both shifting uncomfortably in our chairs now, and, thank god, the waiter chooses this moment to arrive with our meal.

 We eat, and, to his credit, he tries to get the conversation back on track.

“I've been wondering - is Geri short for something?" he asks, which is at least a safe topic of conversation.

"Yes," is my only reply.

He gazes at me quizzically for a moment. "Okay, let me guess, it's short for something so horrendous that you won't tell me what it is?" he hazards.

"Got it in one." I grin.

"I could find out." His mouth is doing that twitching thing at the corners again.

"I bet you could. You're an AD at the FBI. If you really wanted to find out it'd probably take you about ten minutes."

"I won't, of course. I can't believe it's that bad though." His eyes have crinkled up at the edges, and he's teasing me. It feels…good.

"Oh yeah. It is," I tell him with a heartfelt sigh. There's another silence, and I rack my brain for something else to say because I can't bear the thought of my dream date turning awkward. We both open our mouths to say something at the same time, and we laugh, and he gestures for me to continue, but as I really wasn't about to say anything very interesting, I demur, and he goes first.

"So, you travelled a lot as a kid. That must have been interesting.”

“I’d like it say it was, and maybe it was. I’m probably being ungrateful, but sometimes I just longed for a regular home you know? I wanted a house and two parents who were there for me. Mum’s parents died when I was a baby and she inherited a lot of money, but she blew most of it on drink, travel, and hotels.” That about sums it up. My childhood was an endless succession of planes, hotels - and her boyfriends. I’d have to put her to bed when she went on one of her binges – usually when she was “between” men. She always needed someone in her life to make her complete. I guess I wasn't enough for her, and I can understand that really. We all dream of the big love affair after all, and loneliness can be a powerful emotion. It was sad to watch her throwing herself into one doomed relationship after another, but I did love her. In fact I adored her. When she wasn’t drunk, she was the best mother in the whole world: witty, vibrant, full of amazing stories - and so beautiful. I miss her.

“Maybe the grass is always greener,” he smiles. “I know that I would have loved to have travelled as a kid. Maybe, deep down, that’s partly the reason why I enlisted. I just wanted to get out of that small town, and see a different country.”

"I can understand that.” I smile at him, and we seem to have found a connection, some common ground in our respective experiences. It’s a good moment.

“What does your father do?” He asks.

“He’s Jackson Warner – head of Warner Technologies. You’ve probably heard of him.” I shrug. Most people have. He’s been on the cover of Time magazine.

“I have. Well damn - I had no idea.” He looks at me with a new respect in his eyes, and I almost hate him for that. I’m not an extension of my father’s goddamn rags-to-riches success story. I’m me. This is my life. I have nothing to do with him and his stupid company.

“Didn’t you want to go and work with him?” Walter asks, all unawares. I can’t help laughing out loud.

“Hell, no. Dad didn’t even ask, and I couldn’t stand working in that place. I’m happy making my own way.” I probably sound more acerbic than I mean to, but that’s what talking about my father does to me. I think he’d have a heart attack at the very idea of me taking over at Warnertech. He credits me with having the same kind of concentration span as my mother, and he’s more than happy to pay me a huge allowance every month just to keep me away. Let’s face it, I’ve always been a disappointment to him – from the minute I climbed off that plane as a world-weary, sophisticated, and most of all gay 15 year old, and he saw what the little kid he remembered had turned into. I was precocious, no doubt about it – I’d seen too much, done too much. I think he knew that despite my tender years, I’d already had boyfriends. The idea of me being promiscuous scared the hell out of him, even back then. I was this strange, exotic, uncontrollable creature who had showed up to rock his carefully controlled boat. He’s always so damn scared I’ll get into the papers and show him up. As if I would – but then he never took the time to really get to know me. I take his money, though. I figure he owes me that at least.

“His loss is our gain,” Skinner comments. “I’ve been meaning to say how pleased I am with your work since our, uh, initial misunderstanding.”

The sun shines over my world as I bask in this unexpected praise. ”Thanks.” I duck my head. I’ve never been very good at accepting compliments.

“I mean it. Keep it up, and I’ll be sorry when Kim gets back,” he grins.

“Nah. You won’t.” I shrug. “But thanks anyway.”

“Aren’t you hungry?” He gestures with his head in the direction of my virtually untouched Cannelloni. I shrug. How the hell can I tell him that losing your appetite is one of the symptoms of hopeless infatuation?

“Too much talking I guess,” I mutter instead.

He calls for the check, and I devour him with my eyes. This might be the last time we ever eat in a restaurant together. Our first and last “date.” I want to savour every detail of how he looks now, sitting opposite me at the table. He’s wearing a navy-striped shirt, looking as crisp and cool as ever. His ties are always ever so slightly surprising – they’re never as conservative as you think they should be. Today, he’s wearing one with a bold navy, red and white pattern on it, swirling dramatically. On someone else it might clash with the shirt, but I’ve never known him make a fashion mistake yet. He’s wearing cuff links, in the shape of two tiny gold boxing gloves, which intrigue me, and I can’t help reaching out a finger to touch one. It’s too intimate a gesture, but they’re so beautiful, so perfect, so him.

“Gift from my wife,” he says, seeing my interest.

“You box?”

“Yes. Not as much now as I used to, but I belong to a gym across the block. I like keeping in shape – it helps me blow off my negative energy as well – in a safe place.” He says that last sentence with a kind of grim intent, and I’m aware then that the way he holds himself, with that endless sense of physical energy restrained, is exactly what’s going on inside. Having seen the kind of crap he has to put up with at work, I’m not surprised he sometimes has to go and slug the living daylights out of a punch bag. He’s a big man who is totally aware of his own strength, and how, if it’s misdirected, it could hurt those around him. My heart goes out to him. There really is something of the gentle giant about him, although I’m sure he has a ruthless streak too. There’s no way he got to be an Assistant Director of the FBI without having some raw steel in his make up.

I wish lunch could last forever, but all too soon we’re driving back to the office, then he’s knee deep in meetings and firmly back in AD mode, distracted, and distant, and there’s no trace of the off-duty man I glimpsed back at the restaurant. It’s been a good day though. I wander home on a high of total infatuation, and throw myself down on my couch, gazing dreamily at the ceiling as I relive every single last comment, gesture, and look. I’m so caught up in this delightful pastime, that the sound of the door buzzer takes me totally by surprise. I open it, fantasising that I’ll find a tall, bald, handsome prince on the other side, to find Cheryl standing there. She takes one look at me and sighs.

“Oh god. You’re in love!”

“How did you know?” I smile dreamily, letting her in.

“Because we’re supposed to be going out tonight and you haven't even changed. You forgot all about it, didn’t you?”

“No,” I lie guiltily.

She laughs. ”You are the worst liar I ever knew, Geri. Now come on, tell me all about it while I find you something to wear.” She shoos me into my bedroom like a mother hen, and rifles through my wardrobe pulling out clothes, and putting them back, while I shrug myself out of my work suit and take a quick shower. When I come back, she’s sitting on the bed expectantly, beside the ripped, stonewash jeans, and white tee-shirt she's decided I should wear.

“Come on. Gossip, Geri. Talk,” she commands as I pull on the jeans. “Who, when, where, how. I want the full story. I mean you’ve been working all hours recently, when on earth did you meet anyone?”

"Ah. Well, you see…” I begin apologetically, and she opens her mouth wide in total astonishment, one jump ahead of me in affairs of the heart, as always.

"Oh no. Please god, tell me it isn’t Popsicle? Oh shit, I don’t believe this, Geri! The man is so totally not…”

"I know.” I shimmy into the tee shirt, and survey myself critically in the mirror. “He’s so totally not anyone I should get involved with. Totally out of my league. Totally not gay. I know that.” I think. I mean, he’s divorced so in my rich fantasy life there’s a possibility that he's gay but I don’t get a vibe off him, and he’s never once checked out my ass which seems to be pretty conclusive evidence against.

"Does he know? You’ve lost weight.” She pokes my ribs critically. “Oh god. It must be bad if you’ve stopped eating over him.”

“No, he doesn’t know. Do you think I have a death wish?” I growl, swatting her fingers away from my ribcage. “Look, it’s just a little crush, that’s all.”

"It’s just, a little crush, not like everything I do, depends on you,” she croons, mangling Jennifer Paige horribly in the process.

“I think you missed a line.”

“Whatever.” She grins. “So come on, what’s so special about an old, bald guy who wears glasses?”

"You’ve obviously never been up close to him,” I sigh, lying face down on the bed, and cupping my jaw in my hands. “He’s just so…gorgeous. He has these amazing eyes, and this deep voice, and when he talks to me…it’s like the world just stops, you know? It’s like I’m the only one who exists for him at that moment in time. He’s so…intense.”

”Yeah. Right,” she mutters, unconvinced.

“No, really – you have to get to know him. I know I hated him to start with, but I think we just got off on the wrong foot. The man is a total god.”

"Oookay.” She’s obviously determined to remain unconvinced.

“He boxes, he was in the Vietnam war, he likes white wine, and grew up in a small town,” I babble.

“And he’s married!” She points out.

"And divorced,” I parry back.

“Yes, but…” She begins, but I wave my hand to shut her up.

“Cheryl, just let me have this okay? I’m not going to do anything about it. I’m just enjoying now. I haven’t felt this high since that fiasco with Richard, and that was two years ago. I deserve some fun don’t I?”

"Fun, yes, but this is just you falling for one more totally unobtainable guy.” Cheryl points out like the good friend she is. “When I think of all the totally available guys out there who fall over themselves to flirt with you whenever we go out, why did you have to fall for him for god’s sake?”

"I didn’t do it on purpose! It just happened!” I protest.

She sighs and strokes my hair. “Honey, I just don’t want to see you get hurt again. You are too trusting, and sweet natured for your own good. You either fall for total bastards like Richard, or unobtainable guys like Skinner. Oh god.” She holds up the writing pad she’s found on my nightstand. It contains my shopping list, and is decorated around the edge with his name. “Oh. My. God.” She holds up the damning evidence. “Just a little crush?” She raises an eyebrow at me.

“Okay, I love him. I’m totally crazy about him. Is that what you wanted to hear?” I ask.

“No. We are going to go out tonight, and we are going to get you laid,” she insists.

“I don’t think so. I don’t do casual sex, remember?” I grin. Well, we all have to rebel somehow, and my mother and father practically made one-night-stands their life’s work, so this is probably my protest, or something.

“I think it’s about time you did,” Cheryl says ominously.

Needless to say I don’t. Every guy who chats me up looks like nothing compared to Walter. They’re all too young, or too short, and they definitely all have too much hair. I gyrate in time to the beat at Boom, dreaming about dancing with him, although the very idea of Assistant Director Skinner hanging out at a place like this is absurd. I’m not one to let reality get in the way of a good fantasy though.

The weekend is a nightmare. Two whole days without seeing him! I’m tempted to go in to work but that’s just too obvious, so I dutifully call my father, and he grudgingly issues an invitation for Sunday lunch, which is the usual disaster. Dad is one of the best looking men I’ve ever known. When I was a kid I thought he was  some kind of god, because he’d show up every year or so, bearing gifts, spoil me rotten, and take me out, showing me off, and people just couldn’t take their eyes off him. He packs a lot of charm and charisma along with the looks, so it’s hardly surprising he’s never been short of female admirers – and he’s taken advantage of every single one of them, believe me. I’ll never forget him taking me to a restaurant in Saint Tropez when I was ten years old, and the waitress drooling all over him. He flirted with her outrageously, and, after dessert, made his excuses to go to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, just as I was wondering whether I should report him missing, he emerged, his hair all mussed up, and smelling of sex. It was obvious he’d just had a quickie with the waitress, and it made me want to be sick. I was jealous as well – this was our time together, and he just had to go and ruin it because he couldn’t pass up a piece of skirt. I hated him. And, of course, I loved him too. That’s the way it’s always been between us. You know, sometimes I think it would be easier if I could just hate him, but I don’t. When he turns the charm on me, I melt, just like everyone else. He can be such good fun, and so entertaining, and he’s always been incredibly generous – with his money, if not with his time.

He lives in an enormous house, with a swimming pool, tennis courts – the whole deal. He’s looking as good as ever too, his silver hair gleaming against his tanned skin, his blue eyes glittering affectionately. I know he does love me. I’m just not what he wanted. Oh well. He’s not what I want either so I guess that cuts both ways.

“Geri.” He puts an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. He’s in charm offensive mode today, which bodes well. “You’re looking good,” he comments. 

"I’m in love,” I tell him bluntly. “With my boss.”

"Moira?” He looks startled. “Is there something I should know? Have you changed your sexual orientation?” He's joking, but there's just a hint of hope in his eyes.

“Not Moira, no.” I glare at him. “Walter Skinner. I’m working for the Assistant Director now – remember. I told you. It’s a very important job. He’s an important man.” I will him to remember, and he pretends he does but his eyes are totally blank.

“So, who is this Skinner person?” He asks, picking up his paper, and glancing at it, the charm offensive clearly over.

“He’s 49, bald, and lives in Crystal City.”

"Uh-huh. And what? You’re getting married, or something?” He laughs, making fun of me.

“No. Oh god, what’s the point? You aren’t interested.”

"Aw, Geri, what do you expect? Look, I don’t pry into your love life, and you don’t pry into mine. That’s just the way we like it, isn’t it? Let’s face it, you don’t really like the idea of me having a succession of girlfriends, and I really don’t like the idea of you sleeping with men period, so it’s a subject that we’re better off avoiding.”

"Whatever,” I snap, sullenly.

“Oh come on, Geri!” he explodes, in typical fashion, those blue eyes suddenly turning deadly cold. I’m reminded of his reputation for ruthlessness at Warnertech. I wouldn’t like to be his PA, that’s for fucking sure. “Look – why make such a point of this guy’s age and looks? Is this just another of the legendary Geri guilt trips you like to throw at me? What are you saying? I’ve been a bad father? You’re looking for a better one? Well fine. Whatever. I know I don’t measure up to your exacting standards. I know you think I totally screwed up your childhood…”

"You left me alone with a fucking alcoholic!” I yell at him. “You have no idea what it was like following Mum around from pillar to post. I was never settled! I just wanted to fucking belong!”

“Well you don’t, and you never will. Live with it.” He shrugs. “Who the hell wants to run with the herd anyway? I never have, and look what it got me.” He waves his hand expansively around the wood-panelled dining room. “Look, Geri, go with this Walter whatsit if he’s what you want, but don’t damn well try and make me feel guilty about not being there for you. I did my best. I always sent money.”

"Yes, Dad. You always sent money.” My tone drips with studied insolence.

“I still do,” he points out, glaring at me. “I’d like to see you indulge your expensive tastes on the peanuts you bring home from the FBI. Just remember whose damn money keeps you in that expensive condo, and pays for all the goddamn clothes you buy.”

"Fine. You’re right,” I snap. “At the end of the day our relationship comes down to dollars. Thanks for reminding me.” And I storm out. Just another typical Sunday lunch.

I go from the frying pan into the fire. Monday is the day from hell. It starts off at 9 am when the Deputy Director descends, unannounced, and looking mad as hell. He sweeps into Walter’s office, abruptly declines my offer of coffee, and for the next hour I hear him giving my boss a grilling. Walter’s voice is never raised, but there are moments when the Deputy Director’s tones are clearly audible, and from what I can gather he’s taking my boss to task over something to do with Agent Mulder. I have no idea why Walter always defends that guy, but he’s at it again. I catch small snippets of the conversation, and it’s always Walter on the back foot, making excuses, taking the flak that as far as I can see, should rest firmly on the shoulders of Agent Spooky. God, I hate that guy! He reminds me so much of my father. They let nothing and nobody stand in the way of what they want. They think one charming little smile, a self-deprecating shrug of the shoulders, and a few minutes of sweet talk will make up for everything. I wish Walter would tell Spooky to take a running jump. I’m not sure what the upshot of the meeting with the Deputy Director is, but he finally sweeps out, looking as grim-faced as when he went in. I hesitate for a moment, unsure what to do, but my heart is aching for my boss so I finally decide to risk any fall-out from the meeting, and edge hesitantly into the office clutching a cup of coffee. Walter is sitting tapping his pen on his pad, over and over again, looking thoughtfully into space.

“I thought you could use this,” I murmur, leaving the coffee on his desk.

"Thanks,” he mutters absently. He continues staring into space, and I want to put my arms around him and hold him, because he looks so lost.

“That didn’t sound too good,” I offer, fully expecting him to tell me that it’s none of my business. He doesn’t. He winces slightly, his jaw clenching involuntarily, then nods at me.

“Not good, no. Necessary, but not good.” His whole face is closed, completely blank, as if he’s shut down in order to protect himself. “It’s all part of my job though. It’s why they pay me the big bucks,” he tells me, trying to make light of it.

“Yeah. I guess.” I shrug. He doesn’t say anything else, but turns back to his work, clearly signalling that I should leave. I take the hint, but as I go out I notice that he’s just staring at the file in front of him, not reading it.

Half an hour later, he leaves his office at a half run, grabbing his coat as he passes my desk.

“Sir? Where are you going?” I run after him. He has four meetings scheduled today so where the hell is off to?

"Agent Mulder has been taken to the hospital. I have to go,” he says, struggling to get his arm into his raincoat and fumbling with the sleeve, which is turned the wrong way.

"Here.” I grab his coat and guide his arm into the sleeve. It feels so good to be touching that muscled flesh, and I savour the moment. “Do you want me to re-schedule your meetings?”

"Yes. Thanks, Geri.” He looks completely and utterly distracted, and I wonder why the hell he’s so worried about Spooky Mulder. I mean, I know he’s visited other agents who’ve been wounded in the line of duty, but never like this, taking off as if it’s his own mother in the hospital, and looking so upset too.

There’s nothing I can do except return to the office, and make a few calls to rearrange his meetings. There’s no word from Walter, and I start to wonder whether Agent Mulder might have died or something, but then, just before 7 pm, when I’m wondering whether to stay or go home, Walter returns.

He looks so tired, and dejected that all I do is press the proverbial cup of coffee into his hand, and gaze at him sympathetically.

“Is Agent Mulder going to be okay?” I ask gently, as he plops down into his chair, still wearing his coat.

“I don’t know.” He grips his cup tight, his knuckles turning white. “I hope so,” he mutters, and his voice is choked with worry.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say, and he’s not in a talkative mood, so after a silent couple of minutes, I tiptoe out of his office. I don’t think he even notices I’ve gone.

I’m just packing up to go home, when the door to my office from the corridor opens silently. I have my back to the door, but I stiffen, sensing danger. I swing around quickly, to come face to face with one of the prettiest men I’ve ever seen. “