TITLE: HER STRUT

AUTHOR: Blackwood

E-MAIL: entreamis@yahoo.com

URL: http://members.tripod.com/black.wood/index.html

CATEGORY: MSR, V, A, 3rd Person POV, Fill-in/Post-ep for 'Requiem'

RATING: PG13

SPOILERS: Blink and you miss 'em

FEEDBACK: Sustains, encourages, inspires.

ARCHIVE: With my blessings. Just say where.

SUMMARY: "Oh, they do respect her, but they love to watch her strut."

DISCLAIMER:  Enough already.  As for the song "Her Strut," respects are

paid to Bob Seeger.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my *other* Requiem post-ep, the one I was

writing when blindsided by "Nowhere Special."  It explores another CC

character left high and dry.  It's also the first of a series of

unrelated vignettes that share titles with the songs which, in my

opinion, epitomize the character showcased.  Lyrics at conclusion.

Thank you, fanfic, for providing a way to fill in the blanks.  And

thank you, Musea, for everything else. :)

HER STRUT (1/1)

By Blackwood

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.

Accustomed to getting whatever she set her sights on, Cassidy still

regrets the one that got away.  A brilliant mind housed in a

magnificent body, 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