Mulder
I wish I knew when I became so proficient at these mind-games.
I haven't been to a club like this for years; haven't ever been
for my own recreation. Not my style, really. It's all hard edges
and irony and fashionable skeletons in the latest from Comme
Des Garcons. In my jeans and leather jacket, I feel like a geek
for the first time since high school.
I ignore the stares of the other patrons—didn't their mothers
tell them it's rude?—and scope out the dance floor. Scully is
on the other side, looking elegant and uncomfortable in green
silk. She's sipping something which looks like mineral water from
here. It might be vodka. It might be gin.
She's not happy about this. Well, that's all right. Neither am I.
The music changes from incomprehensible electronica to
incomprehensible death metal. My feet are getting itchy. Where is
he? He'd better show up damn soon.
Just to keep from smashing things, I order a drink; mineral
water, which is served with kumquat slices. Whatever. The lights
are multicoloured and unpredictable, and dim enough that I can't
be sure I haven't missed him.
Christ, I hate waiting.
At that he appears, as if he could read my mind.
He fits in perfectly here, dressed in skintight leather pants and
a clingy shirt that looks like silk from here. Black, of course.
Black is never out of fashion.
He writhes and twists and pounds the floor with the best of them,
his movements sinuous and utterly compelling. Despite everything
I find myself admiring him, the way he moves, the way his dance
and the clothes he wears show off his body to the best possible
effect. Even here, in a club full of beautiful bodies
beautifully clothed, he attracts the attention of the crowd.
Nothing too obvious, of course. Enthusiasm is so passe. But
heads turn and muted gazes shift towards him. Away, back, away,
back. In this crowd, that's like a standing ovation.
I tear my gaze away and catch Scully's eye. She's seen him. Time
to make a move.
The music changes again. For a moment I think it's David Bowie,
but then the vocal kicks in and I hear it for what it is: some
third rate no-talent imitator. Krycek seems to like it, though.
There's something wrong with the way he's moving —
But I don't have time to figure it out before he's grabbed my hand
and pulled me onto the floor. He drapes his right arm around my
waist and whispers,
"Dance!"
and I dance.
It's nothing like as elegant as his dancing. I can't dance like
that, much as I like to pretend when there's nobody else in the
room. But hey, this is slow dancing, and all you need to do in a
slow dance is face your partner and sway, right?
Slow dance. Shit. What does this look like? What the hell is he
doing?
He shifts a little, his left hand at the back of my neck, and I
realise what was wrong with his movements before; this arm and
hand are new, the skin too soft...he isn't used to it. And before
I can even begin to speculate as to how he came across a brand
shiny new arm, he's whispering again, his mouth close to my ear.
I can feel his breath. I can hear him. That shouldn't be
possible.
"In a minute, I'm going to kiss you," he says. "Just thought I'd
let you know."
I move my head back an inch or two and whisper back, "What is this
about, Krycek? What the hell is going on?"
"You'll see." And he begins to dance again, swaying against me,
never moving far enough away to let me regain my composure. There
is a riot of sensations assaulting me: the faint pressure of his
hand on my waist, the smell of his hair, the heat of his body and
the bodies around us, the pounding of the music...
The music. Yes, focus on the music. Whiny vocals and relentless
guitar...
filmstar
Krycek pulls away from me and strikes a pose, mouthing to the
lyrics.
what to believe in? it's impossible to say
There's a glitter in his eyes, a faint curve to his mouth. If the
lyrics of the song weren't so weirdly apposite, I'd think he was
making fun of me. I'm willing to bet that the DJ here takes
requests.
And then he's all over me like a cheap suit, both arms around my
waist, his mouth licking and nibbling a path from my left ear to
my chin. I want this, oh yes, I want it, but not now, not here,
not with Scully and these children of Warhol watching us. What
the hell is he —
A tongue slips in between my lips. I'd like to stand firm and keep
them glued together, but I've been thinking about this for far
too long and I can't even pretend I'm not enjoying it. Lips and
teeth and a tongue winding around mine and his hands creeping
under my jacket to rest at the small of my back, and ohgod I want
to say go lower, I want him to do it without being told, I want
to grind myself up against him as if there was nobody watching.
His hand slides down into my back pocket and out again, the
movement too quick and purposeful to be mistaken for a caress. Is
that all this is, then, a simple exchange of information, a name
or a date on a piece of cardboard? I can't tell if I'm glad or
disappointed.
And he's still kissing me. The bastard is still kissing me.
His tongue withdraws briefly, then comes back; only this time
there's something on it, something small and round and hard. He
pushes it deep into my mouth and breaks the kiss. I'm breathing
hard, but so is he.
He leans forward, his mouth on my ear again. "Swallow," he says,
his voice a soft buzz under the whine of the music, and I do.
"Now get out of here," he says, "and take Scully with you. Back
exit. And talk in the alley; your car's bugged." He flicks the
lobe once with his tongue and withdraws as the music changes. I
can't stop myself from reaching for him, for another dance or
another kiss or some explanation of what just happened; but he
melts into the crowd as easily as a vampire dissolving into mist.
I shake myself and turn towards Scully. Her face is blank and her
eyes are cold. I can tell that she wants some kind of explanation
of what's just happened.
I just wish I could give it to her.
The End
Slow Dance I
by Katherine F
Why here, and why now, and why under these circumstances? I'd
like to know. I really would. But to ask the question—
that would be to admit that I don't understand him, and that I
want to understand him. I could talk about profiles and
learning the mind of a killer, but I can't risk him hearing the
lie in my voice. I can't risk him believing me either.
an elegant sir in a terylene shirt
tonight
what to believe in when they change your name
wash your brain
play the game again
