Fair and Dark

She had held out that smooth, fair hand in supplication or greeting for more than sixty years now.  No two viewers had ever agreed on what she watched for, or reached for, or what her half-smile meant.  It was part of her charm.

The passing of years had done nothing but burnish her beauty.  The lines of her dress hinted at long, slender curves and quickness restrained within, and the one long uncoiling curl of hair that had escaped her coiffure did nothing to contradict that impression.  Black dress, fair skin, hair that would be called straw blond but for the faint red hints to it, sparkling eyes... she stood as she had for years, as if she belonged on a pedestal.

Tonight she waited patiently, framed in ebony and glass, and her admirer wasted a long, valuable minute simply looking.

"Such lines.  Such beauty," he murmured softly.  "Bella donna, we simply cannot leave you here.  It's not sufficient tribute to your smile, and no one who sees you appreciates you properly."

He moved across the room in a swirl of blond curls and black cloth.  When he left, equally swiftly, the room stood empty except for a slowly-fading trace of rose scent and a white card with black lettering which lay behind the ebony and glass where the white woman in the black dress had been standing.

# # #

The service alley behind the hotel was untenanted for the moment, although in another hour or two the first trucks of fresh produce would begin arriving from the outlying farms and the silence would change to engine noise rumbling redoubled off brick.  Clouds obscured the moon, walls blocked much of the street lights, and the rain had let up for the moment.  The light from the service entry was still enough to reflect off metal, however.

Eroica was used to being chased after a theft, but usually when a dark haired, green-eyed man pulled a gun on him and demanded the return of some reallocated artwork, said man was German and worked for NATO intelligence.  Eroica had never seen this man before.

"You're working for the FBI?" he asked incredulously, stalling for time as a fine mist of rain began to fall again, shading the air between them.

"Yes," was the husky reply.  The gun pointed at Eroica wasn't as big as the Magnum Iron Klaus favored, but it was more than large enough to hurt him badly.  Kevlar made it more difficult to climb walls or slip through passageways.  It also made Eroica look like he'd put on twenty pounds.

"This is Paris," Eroica pointed out.  "You don't have jurisdiction here."  The intent eyes watching him made him reconsider a leap for the nearest wall.  Pity.  He knew he could scale it, if there were no sudden additions to his weight.  Such as a small slug burying itself somewhere in him.

"Really?"  The street lights reflected off the gun barrel, but the line of light never shifted.

Eroica suppressed a wince.  This was not going to plan.  The bag strapped to his back was becoming increasingly heavy as he stood there.  It wouldn't be an impediment if he got a chance to run, but the possibility that he'd been well and truly caught annoyed him.  "I still haven't seen a badge."

"No," the husky voice agreed, "you haven't.  I have one, though."  His tone stayed level as he added, "And you have the Long Cool Woman."

Those sharp eyes held Eroica motionless and left him admiring the agent's dark trench coat and sleek dark hair.  Far shorter than Klaus's, but thicker, too, and the face was almost as lovely in its own way as the one he'd admired earlier from his perch on the wall of the German embassy.

"I think you have the advantage of me.  You are...?"

"Special Agent Fox Mulder."

"Fox.  How perfect.  You're wasted in a bureaucracy."  Eroica moved closer, slowly.  "Works of art don't belong in the hands of a bunch of paper-filers.  Bureaucrats are drab, colorless little men who don't understand about beauty."

Mulder's smile bloomed slowly.  "I suppose that's one way of looking at it.  Hand her over anyway."

"Ah," Eroica warned softly.  "You have me at a disadvantage, I agree.  But I don't give away those things that are mine."

"You stole her," Fox pointed out, quiet voice whisky-rough against the misty late night air.  "She's not exactly yours."

"Why haven't you read me my rights?" Eroica countered, suddenly sure something was subtly askew.  He might not know where, but he was as sure as if someone had tried to sell him a forgery.

"We're in France.  The laws here are a little different from the Miranda warning," Mulder said lazily.  "And I don't feel like filling out paperwork six times, anyway."

"Six?"

"Triplicate in English, triplicate in French, and complaints about my handwriting scribbled on every copy," Mulder said in a lazy tone that didn't match the sharp gaze and still steady aim.  "Hand her over and I'll let you go."  He shrugged slightly, and Eroica watched him more closely; something had been off there.  "Just stay out of the States and I may not even regret it too much."

"Really.  How obliging of you."  Eroica considered the gun, the night, his opponent... and his chances of stealing back the Lady In Black another time.  (He preferred that name for her to the one the American insisted on using; what did Christie's know?)

"Very well.  I value beautiful things, but very well."  He watched Mulder's face, wondering if he'd correctly interpreted his earlier smile.  "One beautiful thing for another -- a kiss from you and she's yours."

Mulder's smile changed to something darker and more dangerous, but then it bloomed again.  "Beautiful.  An art thief who looks like a rock star thinks a kiss from me would be beautiful."

"Some of my best antiquities are scuffed and scratched," Eroica pointed out.  "They're still beautiful."  He smiled slowly.  "Do we have a deal?"

Mulder chuckled.  "Why not?"

# # #

Settling the gun against Eroica's ribs let Alex shift it to his prosthetic; he could pull a trigger fast enough from here if he needed to.  It also left his good hand free to tease and tantalize, paying off the statue while keeping the art thief's hand away from his gun.  His coat pocket was free game as far as Alex was concerned.  He didn't give a damn if Eroica stole the FBI badge, after all.  It would only inconvenience Mulder, and Alex had paid for three, just in case Mulder's name gave him Mulder's luck at losing things.  It would be worth losing one to have Skinner's temper erupt through the Hoover Building's top floors, and if Eroica mailed in a badge that had Mulder's name and badge number but Alex Krycek's photograph, it would happen.  Especially an FBI ID badge that had been made from the correct paper stock....

Eroica had clearly expected some chaste peck that would only be partial payment.  Alex laughed against his mouth and tugged the man closer, one leg shifted between the thief's (easily done, wool sliding over the silky cat suit), pressing against him to savor hard muscle and sleek fabric that wasn't here to hurt him, a friendly contact for him, not an attempt to bribe the Brit's right hand or appease the Smoker's least favorite assassin....

Rose perfume spilled across the air, almost masking the scent of a man who'd been climbing walls and walking steadily through the night air.  His mouth tasted faintly of lemons, and the skin of his throat was soft under Alex's hand.  Not as soft as a woman's, more like the inside of a wrist, or a thigh.  Muscle shifted against his chest as Eroica's hands shifted up and away from Alex's waist to his back and shoulder, kneading as they went.

Now Eroica was participating just as actively, and Alex had no doubt he could tie cherry stems in knots with that tongue.  He was certainly tying parts of Alex into knots.  A warm, interested body, eager hands and skilled lips, hard, smooth and wanting -- Eroica was tempting.  Far too tempting.  Alex wanted the statue, not a lover.  Friendly contact had simply been a fringe benefit, he reminded himself.

Ending the kiss was slower than starting it had been:  an easy pressure from Alex's hand against his chest backing Eroica away a bare inch or two; a precise, partial withdrawal of his leg from between the thief's; and last, a reluctant retreat from that very tempting mouth.

The thief caught his breath slowly, watching Alex from eyes dilated as much from passion as from the dimness of the alley.  He licked his lips before he pressed that mass of blond curls back from his face.  "Mm.  You do pay in full, Agent."  Reluctantly, Eroica tugged at the shoulder strap of his bag while Alex watched in careful, aroused, paranoia.  "Here."  He handed over the entire bag.  "She's in there.  I redesigned the bag to cradle her, in case I had to run for it."

"Unzip it, please," Alex said, huskier than usual.  "I didn't mind chasing you once, but twice would annoy me.  Despite the view," he added, as placation and bribe.

Eroica only chuckled.  "You're a very polite paranoid, at least."  He muttered something that sounded like, "Unlike the Major," but Alex wasn't sure of that.

"The Lady," Eroica said regretfully, angling the bag to let Alex see the intact statue before he slipped the foam around her again and zipped it back up.  "So few like her anymore, human or art... my father always loved this statue.  He told me he knew the woman who posed for it, but he did love his stories."

Maybe he did, but I'm still not letting you keep it.  Alex held his good hand out for the bag.  His smile was briefly less than professional, but his voice made up for it.  "You did a beautiful job going past the alarms.  Consider it a practice run."

Eroica nodded sadly as Alex slipped the bag over his shoulder, traded the gun to his good hand, and backed up a step.  "I'll do that."  He smiled faintly.  "At least I stole a spectacular kiss from another work of art.  Good luck, Agent."

Alex grinned at him.  "And to you, Eroica.  Thanks for not making me do paperwork."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Eroica said lightly.  "Do take good care of her.  I'd hate to find her enamel scraped when I nick her again."

Alex laughed at that.  "You won't."  He backed away a few paces, unsurprised when Eroica leapt for the fire-escape ladder and headed for the heights.

Once the thief was gone, Alex headed for the transit system, to lose the man and make his way to the airport.  Eroica's father might or might not have known the model for the statue; Alex definitely did.  He'd spent a week in her house last winter, recovering from a concussion made worse by drugs and a ghost with erratic aim.

Alex had been looking for a way to repay Rebecca Horne.  This might do nicely.