Work Text:
Invitation to the Dance
by JiM
The slip of paper had been placed perfectly in the center of the pale trapezoid of light from the transom. It mocked Mulder with its very innocuousness, the neat lettering on it whispering of mysteries that he did not want to know any more.
No one had ever accused Fox Mulder of being stupid. Or forgetful. He did not bend down to pick it up. He did not turn on the light.
Instead, he closed the door and leaned against it, waiting for the shadows in his apartment to flicker and run like heated oils. A watcher might almost have imagined that he was listening to the silence, testing its depths.
After a moment, he slid a hand into his coat and pulled out his weapon. One slight movement, and the clip dropped out; he did not bother to catch it as it fell to the floor. A sharp motion, and the round in the chamber was spit onto the floor to roll uselessly at his feet. Then he tossed the gun into the darkness; it slid into the sharp-edged frame of light next to the note.
He stood and listened to the shadows again. There was no sound, but he sighed, as if answering a child's whining plaint. Then he reached down and slid the small .25 out of his ankle holster, placed it on the floor and kicked it over to join its mate. When it had skittered to a halt, the apartment was silent again.
After a time, Mulder spoke to the darkness. "What do you want?"
"What I've always wanted, Mulder. Only now I want more of it."
The voice was so low and so close that he wondered why Krycek's breath didn't sear him, why his voice didn't leave him raw and bleeding.
"I don't want to play any more, Krycek. If you have information, I don't care. If you want me to go rescue another alien resistance fighter, I'll pass." He stared straight ahead into the gloom, wishing vaguely that it would take on any other shape than the one that was slowly solidifying before his eyes. "I think," he said reflectively, "that I just don't give a shit anymore."
"That's not true," Krycek said from somewhere beyond the rectangle of light. But his voice rippled with uncertainty.
"What would you know about the truth, Krycek?"
"I know enough, Mulder. I know there is no such thing as the 'Truth.' You've spent your life looking for something that doesn't exist."
"Because you, and people like you, keep murdering it." Said without heat, the words dropped like ice into a dark pool.
"That's one truth," Krycek admitted slowly.
Mulder took a deep breath and let his head fall back against the door. "Just speak your lines and get out, Krycek. I'm tired and not much in the mood to play this scene again."
"Pick up the paper."
Mulder didn't move. "Not this time, Krycek. A few more visits from you and I'll be asking for the name of Muhammad Ali's neurologist."
"I was just evening the account, Mulder." But a pale hand came out of the darkness and picked up the paper, leaving the guns.
"Yeah? So which arm do you want? Or would you rather have a leg? I'm sort of fond of running, but I've been getting shin splints lately anyway." The mordant tone set the shadows to rustling and the darkness became so brittle that Mulder wondered why it did not shatter at the whisper of Krycek's approach.
"That wasn't your fault, Mulder," Krycek sounded bewildered, standing in front of him suddenly, inches away. Mulder just shook his head, eyes focused on nothing.
"Mulder, we don't have time for this."
"I'm not the one on a schedule here, Krycek. If you want to hurry things along, why don't you just hit me a couple of times, shove a gun in my face, mutter something improbable, kiss me and get out?"
"I don't like to be so predictable," Krycek murmured, breath ghosting across Mulder's face.
"Yeah, I can see how that would get to be a big problem in your line of work," Mulder said, just before Krycek's lips touched his. Mulder's head jerked backward, thumping into the door. Krycek's mouth was warm and shockingly gentle as his lips moved over Mulder's. Pulling back a little, Krycek said nothing. Mulder could see nothing but shadows and sparks in his eyes. Then Krycek's hand was on his cheek, the paper crackling a little against his evening beard.
"There's gonna be a party tonight, Mulder. This is your engraved invitation. Dress is... casual, but bring those," he jerked his head back toward the hardware lying on the floor.
"Can I bring a date?"
"Nope. We're both going stag tonight." Krycek tucked the slip of paper into the pocket of Mulder's coat, then looked at him again, for a long moment. He murmured something liquid in Russian. The unknown words flowed across Mulder's face and he licked his lips, trying to capture their meaning. Krycek leaned in again, brushing his lips across Mulder's mouth in a long, slow caress.
Then he was gone.
end