Scully
Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "feminine protection".
But, god, this place... I want to be with Mulder so that we can
laugh at it together and I can feel like myself again, myself-the-
FBI-agent, not that gawky teenager with braces on her teeth and
no breasts who made a fool of herself at the summer dance. It's
stupid. We're here—well, I'm here—to meet Alex Krycek, a
murderer and a liar, who may be willing to help us with a
problem so vast that it needs us to set aside some of our
scruples about dealing with him. And what am I thinking about?
The way I look in green? Christ, my priorities are screwed.
I need a drink.
I walk to the bar and order a vodka. I feel like saying "vodka
martini, shaken not stirred", but the barman is this elegant and
superior creature with burgundy fingernails and cheekbones sharp
as razors, and the sight of him shatters my nerve. I find myself
blushing and stammering, and when I pass him the money my hand is
damp with sweat.
I was nervous enough before I came here. A meeting with Krycek,
hell, that's enough to make anyone with half a brain at least a
little jumpy. But why did he have to choose this of all places?
A sip of the hard stuff calms me down a little, even as Dr Scully
notes that it's probably just the placebo effect. And I begin to
see the point of this meeting place, if not this meeting. The
music is loud enough to make bugging difficult, the lights dim
and variable enough to confuse cameras; maybe not enough to fool
someone who knew you, but enough to make a stranger hesitate.
Say what you like about Krycek, you can't call him stupid.
Mulder comes in, looking twitchy and suspicious. I catch his eye,
briefly, then look away. It won't be long now, surely?
The song changes to something loud and fast and then the crowd
parts ever-so-slightly and he is there.
He looks—well, I hate to admit it, but he looks amazing. He
takes the floor as if he was born to it, winks and smiles at the
other patrons... dances. Oh, how he dances. I'd say he could give
lessons except I don't think that kind of grace can be taught. He
makes me think of animals; panthers and diamondbacks, the kind of
animal you would thank for eating you alive.
I take another sip and watch him closely. Oh, but he's so into
it—Did he look like this when he killed Mulder's father? Did
he have the same elegance, the same knife-edge focus, when he
watched my sister fall? But I'm just trying to distract myself,
and it isn't working. He's beautiful. That's all there is to it.
He turns, briefly, in the quiet moment when one song overlaps the
next and the dancers are getting their breath back, and—maybe
I'm imagining it, maybe—it's dark, I could be mistaken, but—
I could swear he winks at me.
My throat goes dry, my eyes wide. I glance at Mulder and he gives
me the shadow of a nod. He sees that Krycek's here, but I can't
tell if he sees what I see. I want to signal him somehow. Warn
him. Tread softly; here be monsters!
They are dancing now, the two of them, arms around each other. I
hold in my head the image of Melissa, an inch away from death;
and of Emily being consumed from the inside, nothing I could do
for her but let her die; I think of all the pain and death and
destruction this man has caused; and just now, it doesn't matter.
Because it's right that they should dance like this, close and
slow and just a little bit awkward, it's right and it's beautiful.
When they kiss it doesn't even surprise me that I'm not
surprised. I have to bite down to keep from crying at the wonder
of it. When the kiss breaks I let out a breath I didn't realise I
was holding.
I finish my drink and breathe deeply, composing myself. Mulder
looks dazed. I form my face into a mask. He doesn't know. He
doesn't understand. Oh, Mulder...
I'm going to have to tell him. I don't know how but I need to let
him know just what it is he's done here, maybe without even
realising it. You want to feast with panthers, Mulder? You'd
better sup with a gun in your hand. Alex Krycek is a dangerous
enemy but just think how much more dangerous he'd be as a friend.
Or more.
Oh, Mulder. Would there be any point in warning you, or is your
head already in the panther's mouth?
The End
Slow Dance II
by Katherine F
Krycek advised us to arrive separately, so here I am, all alone
in this Godforsaken hellhole trying not to think about how fat I
feel. I haven't worn this dress in months. I don't even remember
why I bought it; some official function, no doubt, a conference
or a dinner which required that I be formal. I don't have my
badge, and I feel naked without it. I do, however, have my gun,
neatly stowed in a purse specifically designed to store weapons.
