HER STRUT by Blackwood entreamis@yahoo.com RATING: PG13 CATEGORY: MSR, V, A, 3rd Person POV, Fill-in for 'Requiem' SPOILERS: Blink and you miss 'em ARCHIVE: Just say where. SUMMARY: "Oh, they do respect her, but they love to watch her strut." DISCLAIMER: Enough already. Respects to Bob Seeger for "Her Strut." *~*~*~* J. Edgar Hoover Building 10:13 p.m. Jana Cassidy steps off Executive Elevator C into the hushed space of the tenth floor. The Great Seal of the United States is hand-painted onto the wall opposite the bank of elevators, the eye of its enormous eagle regarding her with regal bearing while its razored talons clutch the golden arrows of justice. She considers its symbolic suggestion of power and swift response, then drops her eyes. Life, her life, was not so clear-cut as to make justice an easy task to enforce. Or to supervise. She is a handsome woman: tall, slim, blonde-by-choice. She works out twice a week at the gym and goes to the spa. She's unmarried, after all. Her money is her own. A silver beamer is parked on the Executive garage level; a townhouse in Georgetown, filled with antiques, awaits her return each evening: a late evening return, if she's working; an early morning return if she chooses to spend the night in someone else's bed. Yes, the pleasures of the flesh still tug at Cassidy, though she's had to limit her circle of admirers to her peers since the Dressler matter. Lusting after beautiful, younger agents has gotten her into trouble with the Director. It's a weakness she fights on a regular basis. Now, she admires the bright and beautiful men from a distance. Still, the mild spring weather fills her with unspoken yearnings and she reminds herself to keep her feelings in check. It wouldn't be prudent to be viewed as sentimental. Spring also heralds a return to EDT and longer days. Translate that into more hours to attend meetings, accomplish tasks, meet deadlines. More hours to work, period. Her recent promotion to the Organized Crime unit three months prior had triggered a buzz throughout the building. Cassidy ignored the petty sniping and dug in with both hands. Her agents are working overtime processing the paperwork generated by the recent birdsong of one Giancarlo "Johnny Boy" DiPietro. Johnny Boy was airing out a lifetime's worth of dirty "family" laundry and Cassidy planned to be there when the busts went down and the resultant kudos were handed out. Being the only female of three Assistant Directors assigned to cover Organized Crime has garnered her notice already. This case would be a coup and another step towards her goal of being appointed Director of the FBI. Pushing open the heavy glass door at the end of the bay, Cassidy nods at the intimidating agent who waits just within the entry. Without a word, he grants her access with a cool, appraising glance as she enters the inner sanctum of a Level IV Clearance area unchallenged. These are among the most secure conference rooms in one of the most protected buildings in the United States. Here, clandestine meetings of vital importance are held. Here, issues of domestic security are analyzed, tactics developed and outcomes weighed while the futures of millions of unaware Americans are decided. And twice daily, these rooms are swept for any and all evidence of surveillance devices. Cassidy leaves the plush carpeting of the reception area and turns left into a maze of corridors lined with endless conference rooms. She passes by several with glass walls. Showcases, they're called. She likes to reserve those when security requirements aren't stringent and she can flex her executive muscle in plain view. One never knew who might pass by and observe her in action. The Director, the Attorney General, even the President might be found here on any given day. Now, she is only passing through, on her way to retrieve a forgotten folio from a morning meeting. She'd been preoccupied, then. Sheridan called this morning. A junior at Dartmouth, her only child informed her he'd been suspended for participating in a senior revelry night that resulted in several broken windows at the library. Damn. Sheridan's father could not be reached, although he would cover the damages, by all means. Oliver never *was* around when you needed him. Certainly, not when he and Jana were married and less after their divorce. Cassidy sighs as she walks the empty hallways. She likes the Hoover late at night. She often stays past dark, catching up on correspondence, reviewing reports submitted by the agents under her command, taking solace from her solitary life by immersing herself in the work. It has always been so. As a Wellesley grad in the early 70's, Jana Whitman came to Washington to study law at Georgetown. She fell in love with the city, its pristine monuments evoking a sense of duty while its political undercurrent seduced her with its promise of power. Bright, ambitious and appealing, she passed the bar and was snapped up by the Department of the Interior. She was 28 when introduced to Oliver Cassidy, an international banker. They married within a month of their meeting and Sheridan was born a year later. Their societal position and income allowed for an au pair and Jana was soon bored staying at home. Oliver's work took him away from home with more and more frequency. When the chance to join the Bureau came along, she seized it. Her administrative abilities were quickly noted and honors came with regularity. Loneliness propelled her into intimate liaisons with key figures at the Bureau. Her rise from agent to Special Agent to SAC was not unearned, but it was clear early on that Jana Cassidy played by her own rules. By the time she made Assistant Director, Cassidy was divorced and Sheridan was boarding at Andover. Work now consumes her, a haven wherein she feels in control of herself and her life. It's more than that, however. Cassidy likes her job, relishes the power. She enjoys making men tremble without ever laying a hand on them. Men like Walter Skinner and Avery Dressler. No, Skinner was better. Her equal. It has been a few years since she and Walter Skinner have shared more than professional notes, but she still remembers their time together. His interest in her had been obvious for years, while he and Sharon played footsie with divorce attorneys. The day his decree was final, he showed up at her office and asked her to dinner. Sweet, really, to be courted like a virginal prom queen. Over double shots of bourbon at The Oak Room, Cassidy watched his hands as they talked: strong, square, practical hands that could break her in two, if they chose. She decided long before the buzz of the alcohol took effect that she wanted Skinner lucid and able to perform. Sliding off the bar stool, she leaned into him where he stood beside her and pressed her car keys into his hand. Sharp man, Skinner. He didn't say a word all the way home. That was good. Cassidy hated men who chatted her up. Too adolescent. Actions, not words, defined a man and Skinner's actions, that night, were anything but boyish. A brief, but torrid affair in the Summer of '98 followed. A few weeks of domestic bliss cured her of Walter Sergei Skinner forever, but not before she'd learned all about his idiosyncrasies, including an affinity for the odd, little division under his overview called The X- Files. Most personnel shunned the division like the Ebola virus, but Cassidy was curious, given her interest in its supervisor. Skinner shared his grudging admiration for Agents Dana Scully and Fox Mulder, and she took note of the pair after that whenever she had the opportunity to observe them. Or, more to the point, to observe Mulder. Fox Mulder. The memory of the melancholy man makes her pause. Of all the agents in the Hoover Building, he is the most enigmatic. Used to getting whatever she set her sights on, Cassidy still regrets the one that got away. Mulder had caught her eye early on in his Bureau career. Cassidy had actually been his superior for two weeks, during which time she promised him a leg up the executive ladder, if he would play nice. Damn Mulder. Not only wouldn't he play, he managed to get himself reassigned into Violent Crimes. His notorious plummet into the basement was old news. What a waste. Cassidy's expensive, leather pumps echo softly on the polished floor as she makes her way through the darkened maze. She expects to see nothing and no one at this time of night. She's surprised to see ambient light spill from around a bend. Her stride widens as she approaches the corner to see what’s going on. She rounds the turn at the service elevator and pauses mid-step as the doorway to Conference Room 3 swings open. She is unprepared to see Agent Dana Scully exit. Cassidy beats a hasty retreat behind the corner, peering from behind her cover with a small bit of guilt and a good deal of curiosity. Scully is upset. Cassidy can tell by the way the woman presses her hands together at the bridge of her nose in an unconscious gesture of prayer. A heartbeat later comes Mulder, who pulls the door to the conference room closed behind them. Cassidy's eyes narrow and her tongue darts out to wet her lips in a visceral response to his presence. Mulder may have rebuffed her advances a long time ago; but he is still beautiful and in her fantasies, he's a bit more willing. With some reluctance, she pushes the thoughts aside to better concentrate on the action playing before her. She can't discern their words, but Cassidy is perceptive at reading body language. The impatient toss of an auburn head reveals Scully's discomfort with what her counterpart is saying, though she listens nonetheless. Skinner once told her this is typical. Some after-hours digging revealed more Scully-support, including lying under oath on Mulder's behalf. Risky business for a woman seeking advancement in the masculine venue of the FBI. The question remains: why? Cassidy dislikes gossip, but staying "in the loop" is a necessity in her position. She's heard the rumors about these two. Physical intimacy, while suspected, has never been substantiated. She prides herself on her liberal attitude regarding unwritten Bureau policy. Romantic relationships are not encouraged between mixed gender teams, but she's always given her agents latitude in their personal lives. Sex happens; at least it should when it's right. She isn't about to judge the nature of a successful partnering, as long as the work gets done. She wonders if Skinner is as understanding, but doubts it. Marines, even ex-Marines, tend to grow fond of the stick stuck up their ass as a recruit, leading to a rigid view of the world and a no-nonsense approach to things. It has a place. Such dominance in bed is a turn- on, but in the end, such men assume her subservience in the bedroom should be matched in the board room. Fuck that, she thinks to herself. As for Mulder and Scully...they're interesting. Somehow, Cassidy can envision Scully-as-Dominatrix. The woman is ice, for Chrissakes; dices corpses for a living. Mulder, though. The man is pure heat and doesn't even know it. Jesus. The only thing she can imagine between them is a case of unrequited lust on Mulder's part. She snorts her disgust. Dana Scully is pretty in a Rossetti sort of way -- bright, blue eyes and flaming hair. Do men really think redheads are sexier? Maybe she's a lesbian. It's plausible. Scully has a hot, little body and there isn't a hint of a man in her life besides her partner. Cassidy finds herself intrigued. That Mulder loves Scully is obvious. She's known it since the OPR hearings she was party to a few years back. The reports she read about corn fields and virus-carrying bees defied imagination. It was Skinner's confidential recounting of Mulder stumbling out of a hospital with a fresh bullet wound to travel to the ends of the earth to save Scully from certain death that captivated Cassidy. There were men who did such things? It was heroic and seductive in the extreme. What woman could resist? The agents engage in muffled conversation, oblivious to her or anyone else's discerning eyes. Even at this distance, she sees the way Mulder looks at Scully -- his intensity tempered by tenderness. All at once, it feels intimate and Cassidy wonders if the rumors are no longer speculation. Conversation stops. She watches Scully step into Mulder's embrace without hesitation, his arms coming up around her, enfolding her smallness like a cocoon of protection. So. Cassidy is mesmerized, unable to turn away, her breath quickening. A pulse of heat twitches between her legs and jealousy burns as she watches their tender embrace. It's been a while since she's felt a man's arms around her. Mulder pulls away, seeking Scully's eyes. Even with heels, she stands below him, her face tilted upwards. They are so close. So...close. For a moment, Cassidy holds her breath, thinking they will kiss. They do not. Instead, Mulder lifts his head and turns it towards the doorway of the conference room, listening. Cassidy isn't certain who else waits within those secure walls, but knows it will be a simple matter to find out in the morning. Scully, meanwhile, fumbles with something at the back of her collar. Mulder looks back at her with a startled glance, then sighs with a shake of his head and a rueful smile. Scully reaches up with her hands and Mulder stoops to lower his head towards her. His manner is unstudied, his guard down. Cassidy knows she will never forget the image of his bending, both figuratively and literally, to the petite agent's will. Scully appears to place something round his neck and he straightens, but only a bit. Her hands finish their task, then come around to frame his face. They stand in silence. A triangle of light spills onto the floor behind them as the conference room door opens. Scully drops her hands, stepping back and away from Mulder, who turns to address the unidentified person at the open door. He nods his head, then turns back to Scully who precedes him as they re-enter the conference room, the door snicking shut behind them. Cassidy heads back the way she came, forgetful of the reason that brought her to this place. At the entry, she checks the roster. Three signatures are listed for Conference Room 3: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and Walter S. Skinner. Curious. Quiet marks her way to the door that reads "Assistant Director, Jana Cassidy." She doesn't flick on the lights as she enters. Opening the camouflaged closet door beside her secretary’s desk, she grabs her Burberry trench off a thick, wooden hanger. She shrugs it on and enters the inner office. The elements of her work meet her eye: Bureau- issue executive desk and chair; a bank of windows; file cabinets that contain files not on investigations, but on the agents under her supervision. The size of the room boasts of her position and her responsibilities. Walking to the window, Cassidy looks out over the sporadic traffic below, manicured hands shoved deep into her pockets. She's shattered the glass ceiling of the good old boys club of the FBI by all means at her disposal. She's toiled endless hours, taken shit from incompetent male supervisors, endured the envy of less ambitious women. She's sacrificed a marriage, a family and all hope of a normal relationship in her quest for power. And if rising to the top meant sleeping with lecherous old men, she did it. It might explain her appetite for younger partners now. At any rate, she'd earned her place among the big boys. And yet... She stands in the dark without sound, absorbing the heaviness of night. Minutes pass without incident or effort. She likes that. It gives her a chance to just be. To think. For some odd reason, the words of her mother come to mind: "you live, you learn, Jana. That’s just the way it is." Well, she wonders, what have I learned tonight? But she already knows the answer before the question is formed. Mulder and Scully. They are so different in style, in temperament, in every way you could imagine two agents to be. They should have parted company years ago. Cassidy knows Scully was sent to dog Mulder as a plum assignment. It was, in essence, her access code to the next rung of an ever-rising ladder. It would have been easy pickings and a joy to fuck the man for a while, then leave him in the dust. Instead, Scully disregarded her instructions, becoming Mulder's staunchest supporter. They transcended their differences to become a crack investigative team, despite dubious cases. Their partnership was solid. They'd even survived reassignment to that horse's ass, Kersh. She's glad she wasn't in on that decision. Now, they were back on the X-Files under Skinner again. Partners. But they were more than that. They were friends. And, without question, lovers. She admits only to herself that she yearns to have someone look at *her* the way she saw Mulder look at Scully tonight. She feels the sting of tears in her eyes and blinks them back. "Really, Jana," she scolds herself, "Don't be maudlin." She inhales a deep, purging breath and releases it with some force. She has what she wants, doesn't she? Pulling a small, sterling key chain from her coat pocket, she grabs the leather briefcase from her desk and locks the office. She remembers her forgotten folio and leaves a note for Marilyn to retrieve it in the morning. Faithful Marilyn, her secretary, whose limited ambitions gall Cassidy. She takes the elevator to the garage and looks around as she approaches the BMW, lights flashing as she presses the keyless entry. Leaning her leather bag against the driver's side window, she searches the inside pocket for a pair of kidskin driving gloves. As she pulls them out, keys and bag slip from her grasp, papers fluttering onto the pavement. Cassidy swears under her breath and bends to pick up the items. As she gathers them together, her hand is intercepted by a larger one. She glances up. "Let me help you," says the dark-haired, young man. Cassidy's annoyance at her clumsiness is offset by a sudden tweak of interest. "Thank you. It's nice to know gentlemen still exist," she says, casting a subtle, but unmistakable flirtatious glance at him. He says nothing, just picks up the bag with his right hand as they stand together. Cassidy observes his handsome features and takes note of the left arm that hangs with an odd stiffness at his side. Prosthesis. Military? Not likely. Agent? Yes, perhaps. "You look familiar." "I know my way around the Hoover Building." "And more than that, I'm sure." Ahh. A beautiful smile graces his features. "Do you know who I am?" "Should I?" Smart-ass. Nice. "I'm Assistant Director Jana Cassidy. I belong here. What are you doing on this level?" Yes, she's definitely seen him before. "I'm waiting for an Assistant Director." Her brows arch in question. "Skinner," he replies. Her chin lifts. "So, you *are* an agent." "It's an accurate enough statement." Secretive. Better yet. "Do you have a name?" "Krycek." She remembers that name. In connection with Mulder. The details are fuzzy, but if he's here, there must be reason. She allows the lead to lie fallow as she pursues a more personal line of thought. "Russian? I like Russian men. They're so... passionate." He regards her, then looks away. "Look, I'm just waiting for Skinner to arrive." "Big meeting tonight?" His eyes snap back to hers. "Yeah. Why do you care?" "I don't. I just find it interesting that we're standing here exchanging pleasantries instead of having a drink somewhere." He tilts his head towards her. "Are you always so direct?" "Works wonders. I haven't eaten. Care to join me for supper?" He chuckles at that and the sound trips up her spine like tiny fingers. "I can't," he rejoins, his amusement masking his disappointment. "Pity." Cassidy pulls open the car door and tosses her briefcase into the front seat. She slides into the front seat, her skirt pulling upwards as she does so, revealing a smooth expanse of creamy thigh. She glances up to find Krycek's eyes on her, as planned. "Sure you won't change your mind?" Krycek chuffs, "You don't even know me." "I'm a quick study," she says, the invitation in her eyes clear. She observes the intake of his breath, the flare in his eyes as he considers her offer. He smiles, then steps away from the car. "Maybe another time," he says and pushes the door closed. She rues his response, dwelling on the soft purse of his mouth and the unkempt lock of black hair that falls over his forehead. Even with one arm, he's a peach ready to be plucked, the juice to be savored before the sweet flesh is devoured. She starts the engine and he steps back until he's clear of the car. The driver's side window hums open and she's about to leave when he calls to her, "Hey, do you always pick up strange men in parking garages?" "Only the good-looking ones," she tosses back at him before hitting the gas, leaving him behind. Cassidy closes the window, turns on the a/c and slips a CD into the car's player. A Chopin nocturne fills the darkened interior with its soft and haunted melody. She dwells on the things she's seen and heard tonight. As usual, her powers of observation have served her well. Devotion such as exists between Mulder and Scully is desirable, but not altogether necessary. Cassidy knows she'd be wearied inside a month. Oh well. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, and while she isn't old, she isn't about to roll over and play dead just because Mr. Krycek decided to play coy. She can find out about him. She can and she will. It's all in a day's work. END June 2000 *~*~*~* Lyrics for "Her Strut" by Bob Seeger She´s totally committed to major independence. She´s a lady through and through. She gives them quite a battle, all that they can handle. She´ll bruise some. She´ll hurt some, too. But, oh, they love to watch her strut. Oh, they do respect her but, they love to watch her strut. Sometimes they´ll want to leave her, just give up and leave her; But they would never play that scene. In spite of all her talking, once she starts in walking, The lady will be all they ever dreamed. Oh, they all love to watch her strut. Oh, they´ll kill to make the cut. They love to watch her strut.