CHAPTER ONE:

Lone Glitter bar, Los Angeles
6 March 1985
Wednesday

The loud blaring background music was already ticking in on his brain. He hated new wave. He understood that it was popular with the new generation of "yuppies" that were recently released from their cages just a few years ago; however, he had found the musical arrangements destructive. The suggestive tinkering of cymbals throughout the whole song, the irregular placement of beats, the semi-lonely/semi-lunatic singing voice which was supposedly crooning up front – God, he hated every damn bit of it. Whoever introduced new wave should be shot square on the head.

Maybe he was just truly getting old. Insecurities like these are common to someone who had already surpassed the digits in the calendar … or people like him, who was older than 32 years. He was about as old as 39. Did that make him old enough to hate new wave?

Fox Mulder tapped the tall glass on the kidney-shaped table he was leaning on in front of him. The bartender, who was striking up a flirty conversation with a resident blonde waitress, waved at him. He apparently needed a few minutes before he could attend to Mulder. A few minutes. A few more minutes and that rainbow-haired bartender would have the keys to the blonde's apartment.

Ah, wonderful. A few more minutes and he would be throwing the most expensive piece of furniture in the bar towards that goddamn blaring thing. He had had enough of Duran Duran.

The bartender, named "Sonny" (he did look a little like the real Sonny … but more on the Motley Crew side), sauntered over to Mulder and fancily poured hard gin into his glass. The bartender did not annoy him about getting his ninth glass for the evening or asked him about the way he gazed at the sound system like he was about to butcher it.

Anyway, if Mulder wanted some love and care, he could have gone to the Hilton Hotel and not to a rundown dance bar that had the last three letters of its neon sign hyperventilating.

Or maybe that was because it was named "Lone Glitter." Something had to go wrong with the way you were thinking when you already had three glasses of red wine at home … plus nine glasses of gin in the bar.

Mulder downed his latest drink in one large gulp. He felt the gin scrape into his throat, and at that exact time, the offensive background music faltered. The lights near the stage crisscrossed excitedly. Mulder sighed. The end of the new wave plague did not ease the ticking in his brain; it only worsened when the lights continued to flicker incessantly and he had to close his eyes because he was starting to feel his brain spontaneously combusting.

"Mulder!"

The familiar slurring of the letter L caught his attention. Finally! He was thinking that the asshole would never come. The other alcoholics around him were probably thinking that he was performing an initiation for their club.

He twisted around to face his companion and almost fell off of the chair. He settled himself and took a deep breath. The owner of the club – or one of the three owners of the club – Langley, in all his kung-fu glory, grabbed Mulder for a bear hug. Mulder had no choice but to allow this kind of debauchery, and he sighed further when he found his arguably large nose right into Madonna's face. Langley, a bit older than him, still had a liking for commercially printed shirts which featured the latest album cover of the hottest singer around.

The thin, scraggly man patted his friend's back appreciatively and released him. Mulder sat there in front of Langley, in all his drunken glory, looking a bit too dazed for comprehension.

"My friend! You probably had too much of this, eh?" Langley grabbed his glass and peered into the opaque goblet like it was a test tube. "Sonny should have alerted me. I told him to ring me once you're here." Mulder tried to grab back the glass but was dejected when Langley shoved it into a place where he could not reach. He rolled his eyes and decided that Langley was now his former best friend.

Mulder groggily pointed a shaky finger towards the flirting bartender and the waitress. "I think your Sonny found a new Cher."

Langley adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and squinted at his employees. "That's not Cher, Mulder; her name's Christina."

Mulder groaned. Where the fuck was Frohike's sense of humor when you needed it?

"Wh-why do you want me here, Langley? Where are Athos and Porthos?" He closed his eyes shut tightly, then opened them suddenly. It used to be an effective way of jerking him awake after a drinking session. However, now, after his alcohol intake, it barely had any effect on him.

Langley was oblivious to his drunkenness. His friend sat down with his eyes glued to the catwalk stage in the middle of club. That stage was where the three musketeers got their new dancers to perform and where those new dancers got their little break or their end of the road. Truth be told, the three stooges could actually afford a better and bigger place than this dump. But the last time he tried to coax them to opening one closer to his mansion in Beverly Hills, the guys gave him an affirmative "NO." The reason behind it was also an affirmative mystery.

His blonde friend motioned a finger towards the stage. "Watch, my good friend and see what I have for you."

The stage was nothing but darkness. Mulder was not really in the mood for a guessing game. "Look, I don't have time for this –"

Langley placed a finger on his thin lips: a stern indication for him to keep his mouth shut. Mulder was also not in the mood for an argument, so he did was his friend asked him to. He was free for the rest of the damn evening, anyway.

The lights blinked in shades of purple, blue, yellow, and green. These lights crowded around the stage and into the dark corners of the bar until a big flash of white light tore through all the small circles. Then the dancer appeared.

The unsettling melodies of Michael Jackson's "Thriller" tore through the bar's hollow walls and through the high-pitched chatter of the alcoholics a few steps from them. Every single bit of attention was now directed on the stage. For Mulder, it was already the night's highlight. IF ever he chanced upon the bar for purely enjoyment purposes, this was the only reason he would stay around.

The bar's motif of dancing women who wanted their break was a copycat of Flashdance. It so happened that the three guys enjoyed the movie so damn much that they decided for pool all their resources together to open this club. It was not classy, but wannabe dancers found it good enough for a little break in different stages of their careers.

A petite redhead appeared on the center of the stage, clad only in black fishnet stockings and a sequin-studded green one-piece suit. Inadequate lighting made it hard for Mulder to look at the woman's face, but he saw her body gyrating to the beat. He saw how every single bit of her muscle was radiating the music. How she swayed in perfect synch to the tune. How she became the music. She had the moves of Michael Jackson and the grace of a ballerina – and it worked. Strangely, it worked.

When her final move came, the intoxicated crowd broke into a sweaty standing ovation. Even Mulder, who a few minutes ago was nearing his alcohol threshold, was on his feet and clapping his hands like crazy. The dancer bowed, her red hair covering the rest of her face, and then ran off the stage.

Mulder stood there for a few seconds, dazed, and suddenly took Langley by the collar. His friend had a smug grin plastered on his lips. It took all of Mulder's will power to not punch it right out of his damn long chin.

"Damn you! Damn you, Ringgo! You bastard! You shithead! You should have gotten me prepared for that!" he shouted into Langley's face. The blonde kung-fu master still had the smug grin intact.

"You want her?"

Mulder tightened his hold on Langley's collar. "Fuck. You."

"I'll take that as a yes." The slurring of his L made Mulder grimace. Langley's grin now became triumphant. "She's new, young, fresh … and get this, she's British."

He loosened his hold on his friend's collar. "Okay… what's the catch?"

Langley brushed away invisible specks of dust where Mulder previously held him. "Well, she's the pill … a real, deal pill. Pop her in and all your headaches will come back at you. She's very headstrong … just a warning."

"You should've warned me before I saw her dance. She was, wow, amazing."

"We call her Spunk here."

The nickname caught Mulder's curiosity. "Uhh, Spunk?"

"She has more spunk than a roaring blaze. She takes no bitches, no assholes, no bullshit. That's her, oh yes, that's her all right!" Langley rolled his eyes. They almost fell right back into his head. "Don't ask me about it! I'm also scared of her! Frohike thinks she's a glam, though."

"I didn't see much of her on that stage." Mulder waved towards the darkened stage. "I do want to see all of her." He winced, thinking that his last statement sounded crass, so he rephrased it. "I do want to see her. See how she looks like. See if she fits who I'm looking for."

Langley handed Mulder a rusty key. In response, Mulder stared at it on his palm quizzically.

"That's Spunk's dressing room key. She leaves in fifteen."

Mulder shrugged and raised the key to their eye level. Langley shrugged back. "She tends to lock her dressing room. Spunk doesn't open even if you puke your voice box out."

Mulder took that as an exciting challenged. He pressed the key into his palm, feeling the cool exterior of the smooth metal surface. He had never backed out of a challenge.

"GO FUCKING AWAY!"

Those were the first words Spunk shouted at him when he knocked on the sad dressing room door. Not exactly a good start, if he wanted a healthy working relationship with her. A healthy probable working relationship, that was.

"Umm, Spunk," he tentatively started. Hell to Langley for not telling him the woman's real name. Hell to himself for being too drunk to find out. "Hi, I'm Fox Mulder. I-I want to talk about you about something important."

"I AM NOT INTERESTED! GO FUCK SOMEBODY ELSE!"

Mulder deeply sighed. Oh God. This was going to be a long night – a lot longer than he expected it to be. "Look, Miss – whatever your name is – I'm sorry if I have to barge in on you like this, but I just want to talk. I don't want to f-" he paused. He was not going to say that. He was NOT going to say that especially when he was still drunk. "- harm you. I saw you dance. I want, no, I think, I find you … you were spectacular out there, Spunk."

The voice inside suddenly quieted down. "Thank you, Sir." It was not as inviting as he wanted it to sound, though.

"Can you … could you please-" His grammar chose not to cooperate at exactly the worst moment. Goddammitt the red girl were there, he need to saw her! "Please, open the door? I don't want to barge in there. I want to talk to you, diplomatically."

There were a few tense seconds involving him, the rotting wooden door, his liquor-smelling breath, and the woman at the opposite side of this all.

Latches were unlocked. He wanted to dance: he did not even have to use the key! Mulder was about to throw his hands in triump when he remembered that he had better things to do with them: he opened the door.

A strikingly beautiful redhead was staring up at him cautiously from the dressing room's burgundy couch. The first thing he noticed about her, now that she's in full view, was her blue eyes. They captivated him, a kind of senseless captivation that just overtook him. It was like looking at a book's front cover and knowing immediately that there were more mysteries in that damn book that you could ever imagine. That was her – a great vast mystery.

Or he really was that drunk.

"What do you need from me?" The thick British accent was now more audible than when she was barking at him through the door. Her accent was kind of cute, actually. Not at all annoying like Langley's slurring of all his L's. Hers was British – street-smart, gritting, and needed no other introduction.

"I'm Fox Mulder." He did this with as much composure he could muster. He held a hand out towards the young lady. She stared at it as if it was a ten-inch knife.

"I'm Dana Scully." Dana shifted her gaze away from his large hand and started tying her rubber shoes. She already has changed from the shiny green costume and changed into something more streetwise: plain neon yellow cotton shirt, denim jumpers, and white sneakers. Did anyone ever tell her never to wear white shoes after Labor Day? Anyway …

"Call me Scully," she said through her knees. Ah, the unmistakable Spunk.

Mulder couldn't help himself – he suddenly was grinning like an idiot. She didn't appear as feral as Langley and the conversation behind the door indicated. Maybe this would work out to his advantage. That were his thoughts until the next words he uttered were out of his mouth before he could even think about them …

"What about Spunk?"

Or, maybe not.

Scully lifted her gaze from her feet and glared sharply at him. It could have melted him into a semi-gelatinous membrane within three seconds. Thank God she only held that glare for two. Unfortunately, though, that look was not enough punishment for his jive.

"Call me Spunk and I'll tie your balls behind your waist."

That almost rendered him speechless. Almost.

"Fine. So I won't call you Spunk. And to be fair, call me Mulder. That's how I like being called, anyway." He did not even dare move in his place. He finally was allowed to breathe when Scully went back to tying her shoes. "I saw you dance out there," he continued, "I want … I think I can offer you something you couldn't resist."

She was not satisfied with her first knot. She untied it and began the process all over again. "Try me," she replied. Mulder could not help rubbing his palms together. She was a challenge indeed.

"I want you for my next movie. It involves a lot of dancing and you, my dear, are perfect for it!"

There was no further reply. Scully twisted her laces into their final knot.

"I'll give you what you want. I'll get you … umm, your own apartment. I know a beautiful house in Beverly Hills. If you want a career, I can get you a career. This is a big movie – a sure-fire hit. I want you in it." He tucked his hands inside the pockets of his jeans. Skim-leged females and pencil-figured guys danced around his eyes. Ah, the perfect movie. "Just tell me yes, and I'll give you your break."

The redhead sighed as she undid her knot again and tied it back up. Even the way she sighed was feisty. "I don't want a career, Mr. Mulder. I'm fine as I am."

More lithe adult-children were pirouetting around Mulder's head, passing through his ears, squeezing their graceful bodies in and out of his brain, giggling at him. He relaxed. "But you'll be a star! You don't need to dance in joints like these anymore! You'll be a big, big star!"

Scully stared at him. Her face was a cross between a woman who was about to get mugged and a woman who was about to shoot the mugger. Mulder, oblivious to this, did not stop talking as she tied the final knot of her dirty white shoelaces. "I'll get you everything you want! Money? Husband? What kind do you want? A cowboy? Preppy? A rock star? I can do that for yah!"

"SNAP THE FUCK OUT OF IT, MULDER!"

His smug smile disappeared and he paled in shock. The giggling dancers disappeared from his eyes and all that was now before him was this small redhead who was arranging her crimped hair in front of the vanity table. She was eyeing him warily, then she shook her head. The way she did made Mulder shrink. It made him feel like he was the biggest bastard/asshole in the whole world.

It took all his will to stop the flush that was starting to spread on his cheeks. Spunk would not want to see a grown man blush.

"Stop jabbering and tell me what you really want." The sharpness of her accent punched Mulder dead in his gut. He cleared his throat and turned around, scratching his nose to hide the embarrassment.

"Here's my deal: I'll make you the lead in my movie and I'll give you the career you have been dreaming about."

"And what, pray tell, do you think is the career I am dreaming about?" Scully said through the four pins that were sticking out of her mouth. She plucked one from her dry, chapping lips and pushed it into her frizzy hair's bun. Mulder turned around, then watched his reflection from the mirror. Scully stuck another pin into the middle of the bun.

"Well, someone like you usually would want a great mansion that overlooks the rest of Beverly Hills. Someone like you would want a highly publicized relationship with someone that's also highly publicized. Someone like you wants jewelry – to be the envy of Elizabeth Taylor herself –"

"You keep saying someone, Mr. Mulder." She yanked strands of her from the front of her face. They dropped on her cheeks like heavenly vines. The crimping made these look like tender stems from the Amazon.

Actually, everything about Scully reminded him of an Amazon woman.

"Mr, Mulder," Scully repeated, louder. "What do you think am I dreaming about?"

That was a tough one. What kind of career did an Amazonian want? A rich one? To be famous? A career that did not involve men?

Mulder took in all of Scully's features. She was really pretty, he realized. Her paleness was a sharp contrast to the crown of auburn that protected that wild brain of hers. Her lips were naturally crimson – chapped or not, and her eyes … those eyes again. Mulder was almost too scared to look into them; it was akin to looking at a cliff without a ground to fall onto. Even the rocky ground was safe enough. Her eyes just went on and on.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. What did she ask him? Was that even a question? Jesus Christ.

"I'm not an easy woman to decipher, Mr. Mulder. When I say I don't want a career – I don't need one." Those crimson lips curled up a little at the sides. He did not know if she was smiling or frowning at him.

Scully did not allow him to say anything further. She snatched her green costume from the dresser near Mulder, stuffed it into her backpack, and began to head for the door.

Five minutes must have had already passed when Mulder realized that he was like a big dork standing there in the dim dressing room. The woman had officially rendered him speechless. No one in his book had ever done that. No one.

And he was bound to keep it that way.

Mulder skipped through and about the overturned seats, skidded out of the door, and ran towards Scully. The taxis were rare at that hour, so thankfully, she was still standing there. In surprise, she stared at him with those unnerving blue eyes. Mulder took time to catch his breath before walking to face her.

When he stood in front of her, it was the first time he noticed the extremely large height difference between them. Christ, the woman was small. She barely reached his forehead and she was settled there, right below his chin. Her attitude gave her at least five inches more, and not that he wanted to forget that ever, but he wanted to have her submit to his offer. So if it meant using his height to tower over her, that was what he was going to damn do.

His fingers found his hips. "Ms. Scully, I have the utmost respect for immigrants. However, it is to the best of my knowledge that people like you do not come to America for no reason at all. If you don't want a career, you must be here to fulfill a dream."

Scully opened her mouth, and then closed it. She seemed to be bothered. He wondered if it was due to his question, until he caught her looking up at the top of his head. Of course! She was bothered by his intimidating height.

He was the consummate gentleman, even if he really wanted to make her stop spinning on her own top, so he backed away a step from her.

That did help her cringing expression change into something softer.

She adjusted the backpack to better fit her thin arm. He noticed that she wore it on one shoulder only, like most people do nowadays. "I – I always wanted to dance in Las Vegas."

Mulder could not help the sound of relief that he gurgled out. Spunk was human, after all! Hallelujah! "Great! Wonderful! I'll get you Vegas. When do you want to dance in it?"

A look of pure confusion crossed her face. "I don't want anyone's help, OK? I'm dancing in Vegas by myself."

"No one gets around town without a little help, Ms. Scully."

"If there's anyone who can – it's me," she answered defiantly, licking her dry lips. Mulder rolled his eyes. Fine. So he would let it hang for a while. Byers once told him that he never knew how to quit while he was ahead. He would prove them wrong this time.

Mulder stared around them, seeing the dark alleys surrounding the backyard of the club. He thought about where someone as dainty – and dare he said it – pretty as Scully would live. She shouldn't even be going home alone in this hour.

"Do you want me to drive you home, Ms. Scully?"

She shook her head, releasing some auburn fluffs of hair from her bun.

"It's already –" He glanced at his wristwatch. "11:26, Scully. I should drive you home. It's not advisable for you to take a cab in this part of town."

"I've been taking a cab ever since I arrived here, Mr. Mulder." The feistiness of her voice was suddenly gone, only to be replaced by exhaustion. Mulder did not even want to know the reason behind it. "I've been coming home from 11 PM to 2 AM. No one has ever dared to harm me."

"They might dare today."

She let out a small laugh. A nervous yet still sarcastic laugh. "I appreciate your concern, Mulder, but if this is your way of luring me to star in your movie, I'm going to tell you in advance – it won't work."

"You kno-"

"Quit while you're ahead, Mr. Mulder," she cut in before he could even finish his sentence. That struck him … in a good way. Quit while he's ahead? Is that a good or a bad thing? Damn Byers. Damn Byers and his know-it-all observations. And damn this redhead for readhing him like a kindergarten picture book.

He did not say anything more. They stood beside each other until a cab approached and Mulder hailed it.

He opened the door for Spunk and she stepped in the backseat without any qualms. He was surprised that she did not mention anything about him opening the door for her.

Before Mulder closed the door, he held onto the handle and looked right into those blue eyes.

"When you mean that I should quit while I'm ahead, does that mean I'm already ahead?"

Scully bit her lip, as if she was stopping herself from grinning. "I'll think about your offer, Mr. Mulder."

He closed the door and the taxi whizzed away. He could not help but smile at himself.

End of Chapter One