Dream's Ending
by Krysia Korsakova
Spoilers: Big ol' Existence spoilers.
Disclaimer: Forget it. These guys are actually well-written
Rated: T for implied M/K
Warning: Don Giovanni lives here. Deathfic
Author's Notes: I had to give the assassin a decent sendoff. This is Alex at his vintage best. And Sue, I do write stories where people survive...sometimes. Thanks go to my VC sib, Angel for quick and dirty beta. Up against the wall with Krycek, the girl is a saint ;) May 21st, 2001
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Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
Dylan Thomas
The pain seemed to tear at his stomach, convulsions forcing partly digested doughnut across raw throat.
Droplets of black contaminated the ceramic bowl and Alex Krycek's eyes widened in shocked realisation.
Jarring the prosthetic on the slow to open cubicle door, he staggered to the mirror.
A part of him was screaming denial, reminding him that he had vomited every last trace of that being long before. The other part of him had already registered that it was too late.
Too late even before he saw oil film across pinegreen eyes. Before he saw the realisation that dreams cherished long years in a secret room of his soul were now so much broken glass.
Tears caught the light, suspended on spiked lashes and the reflected emeralds blazed ever more brightly. Looking into his own eyes, Alex whispered, "What more is there left? I gave everything."
But he hadn't. There was still one more thing to lose. "I won't do it. Whatever it is, I won't." Defiantly, he spat at his image, "I quit."
Nothing. Only the haunted echoes of a song. A female singer and not one he could recognise, although he felt sure the song ought to be familiar.
I follow the night. Can't stand the light
In the mirror, he saw his hand grasping the knife he had not willed it to unsheathe. Frowning, he made to replace it only to find that he could not move his hand.
"What the fuck do you want?" he whispered, perspiration misting his forehead in an icy wave. He was still fighting whatever it was that held his hand immobile, the fine tremor evidence of the massive forces working upon it.
"I'll find out, you know." he remarked pleasantly to himself, watching his lips move. "You might as well just tell me. Or is the operation of vocal chords beyond you?"
Don't think. Don't think. Taunting the uninvited guest. Concentrate on the song.
When will I begin
To live again?
Without warning, the unfeeling and feeling hand shot forwards in frustration. Krycek's image bent crazily, seeming to grin knowingly before peeling away to lurch into the washstand.
Speaking to the now departed reflection, he hissed viciously, "I win."
But there came a knocking at the door, reminiscent of one attempting to gain entry without the bother of keys or lockpicks. "Krycek, are you going to spend all day in there?"
Mulder. Dumping the scattered mirrorshards into the wastepaper bin, Alex glared into eyes that now showed no hint of oil and splashed water over his face.
Satisfied that he now resembled Mulder's arch nemesis again, Alex left the restroom.
"Satisfied?" Sarcasm dripped from Mulder's word to bounce off the impervious shield of Krycek's indifference.
"Like a new man, Mulder." Please get the reference, Mulder. I can't be any clearer. Please understand that they've come for me at last.
"You said you had something to tell me."
"I know." With well-concealed fear, he placed his hand in his pocket. Curiously, he asked, "Do you trust me, Mulder?"
"You're a lying, backstabbing murderer, Krycek. There's no reason I should."
Krycek allowed the laughter to well up pure and natural. "Then why do you always believe me?"
"What are you talking about, Krycek?"
"I turn up out of the blue from you don't know where, telling you anything and everything. And you swallow it every time. Why is that, Mulder?"
Why will you never admit what you feel for me? Just say the words, Mulder. I've waited years to hear them and heard only silence. I can'tI need some signsome indication that I've not been waiting in vain.
Mulder merely glanced back disdainfully and stood, arms folded. "You have something to tell me. Apparently."
"Before I tell you anything, Mulder, I want you to know I may do something I don't want to."
"What's that, Krycek, tell the truth?" Mulder demanded, sighing in exaggerated boredom.
"I'm hurt you think I'd lie to you." Alex said, biting the words off in crisp sarcasm. Shrugging, he continued in all sobriety. "But I don't know what will happen any more than you do. It's a warning, nothing more."
"Warnings can be false. You're wasting time, Krycek. I told you I don't want to be here with you." Mulder's hazel eyes met Alex's, the indifference in them clearly visible even to the one who loved him.
Deep in a soul long thought non-existent, Alex wept for choices made and chances not taken. Mulder had loved him once, of that he was sure. But he had thought the man capable of loving him still, even if it was drowned in hatred.
There had been hatred for so long that Alex had very nearly come to accept it as love. In the blows and poisoned words, he could believe that Mulder still cared. Every great love harbours hatred, and God knew there had been times when he had hated. Oh yes, he had hated.
Chained and helpless in Mulder's car at the airport, Alex had prayed that Mulder would hate him no more. There is none so unhappy as he who sees his prayers answered.
Mulder no longer hated Alex. But neither did he love him. Alex could read only indifference in the once welcoming eyes because that was all Mulder felt for him. He no longer merited a savage beating. The weapon levelled at him now was the impatient scrutiny of a watch. And now the words of the song seemed to hold a mocking truth.
One day I'll fly away Leave all this to yesterday What more could your love do for me; When will love be through with me?
He could have laughed from the sheer absurdity of the realisation. Perhaps he did - the near hysterical laughter of one trying to conceal his tears. For the truth he had drawn Mulder aside to confess was his love for the man.
When would love be through with the fool indeed? Wouldn't that have made Mulder's day? Pathetic that he had wasted seven or so years of his life loving a man he could never win. Absurd that he should have aspired to being loved by Fox Mulder, Fox Mulder the man perfect in every way
The trouble was that was the truth. Mulder was perfect and he deserved someone worthy of his own perfection. Not one who had lived in the shadows so long they stained his every cell, proclaiming his unworthiness. He had been living in a dreamworld, and now must face reality.
Why live life from dream to dream And dread the day when dreaming ends
The crescendo of strings and trumpets swept him into a maelstrom of unexpected bitterness. It all began and ended with Mulder. With that one act of betrayal, the words of a hurt and confused young man. But there had been more than one act of betrayal, hadn't there, Mulder?
He had been so jealous of her, of Scully, that he could taste it. She had never fallen for him, she had never been seduced by softly whispered words and pouting lips savouring her name and she had never been told that she had been very good, almost professional, and now it was time for her to leave. Scully's a problem. A much larger problem than you described.
That was the one act he felt remorse for. That he had ruined the life of an innocent. Scully could not have dreamt that her Mulder could be capable of such cruelty as virtually to pay him for the one night they had slept together. The night he had offered himself up, body and soul, on the altar of Mulderworship, and had felt the knife tear at his insides.
"Krycek, I'd appreciate it if you could avoid the dramatic silences. Just say what you have to say so that I can go."
One day I'll fly away Leave all this to yesterday
If Mulder wanted truth, Krycek would give him truth. Force it down his throat until he choked on his precious truth. , "Nessun maggior dolor che recordasi del tempo felice nella miseria. And this I know." Tears stood in his eyes, the blood had drained from his face and bitterness tightened his throat, altering his voice.
"There is no greater sorrow in this eternal woe than to remember in pain, our moment of happiness. Dante interesting choice of opening gambits but I don't see what it has to with anything." Mulder said, casually examining his fingernails. Did his voice crack just a little, or was it Alex's cursed imagination?
"I wanted to tell you that I'm getting out, Mulder. After today, you won't see me again."
"You dragged me over here to tell me that? I'm touched, I really am. And now, if you'll excuse me"
"I will not. I'm not the Antichrist, Mulder, for all you seem to want me to be. I'm just a man the man you made me."
Mulder turned on the leather-clad assassin, murderous anger lighting his eyes. "What are you talking about? You were working for the smoking bastard long before you met me."
A smile twisted Krycek's lips in a flowering of bitterness. "My first assignment. And I was ready to tell the cancerous son of a bitch where to stick it. But then you paid me fifty dollars for myservices and I knew this was the bigtime."
Mulder seemed about to speak, but Krycek cut him off, extracting a crumpled fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. "Here it is, Mulder. Your fifty dollars." Throwing it to the floor before Mulder's feet, he raised his voice, "I don't need you or what you made of me. I'm going away from you, away from this life and away from this whole damned war! Dosvedanya, Mulder."
Mulder's expression had not so much changed as frozen and Krycek, blinking useless tears from his eyes, looked down to see the reason. The Sig was in his hand, though he had no memory of drawing it. "I don't want to have to do this." he told Mulder, and his tone had changed almost to that of a plea.
There was the sound of running footsteps outside the door and the not yet running to fat figure of Skinner appeared, face coated in drying blood. "Mulder, what on earth's going on?"
Sarcastically, sweat beading his upper lip and his finger still not depressing the trigger, Krycek said, "Parla. Parla. Ascoltandoti sto."
"What are you talking about, Krycek? Just put the gun down." Skinner raised his own weapon, sighting along the barrel at the visibly trembling traitor.
"Il Commendatore has arrived to take Don Giovanni back to hell. Well, send me to hell. Now, one of you." Krycek's arm was now wavering from side to side and still the trigger remained unpressed. "For Christ's sake, I can't put the gun down."
"Mulder, what's going on here?"
"Skinner, you don't have time to jerk around. I have a Sig Sauer aimed at Mulder. The equation is really very simple. Both of you have guns aimed at me, both guns are loaded. Therefore one or both of you can shoot me." Krycek's voice held a ragged edge not unexpected in a man fighting with an apparently invincible foe. The trigger moved fractionally.
"Skinner, just shoot me. I can't hold this much longer and when I give, Mulder dies. After all you went through getting him back, I don't think that's something you want to have happen. Ho fermo il cuore in petto. Non ho timor; verro."
Still Skinner and Mulder hesitated and the trigger slipped closer towards Mulder's death. Near tears again with sheer frustration, Krycek spoke through clenched teeth. "Skinner, I swear if you don't shoot me now, it will take you three weeks to die!"
Three shots rang out and Krycek crumpled to the floor, his gun still unfired. A triumphant glow suffused his features now and his eyelashes fluttered in a manner strangely reminiscent of a dying butterfly's wingbeat.
Mulder knelt beside him, jarring his knee on a chair in a way that would be painful when he bothered to notice. "Why?"
"Can't you hear her singing?" Mulder frowned, obviously unable to hear the song now almost deafening the dying assassin. In a surprisingly strong, though breathy baritone, Alex sang the last lines of the song.
"Why live life from dream to dream
And dread the day when dreaming ends
One day I'll fly away
Fly fly.away."
Having finished the song, he took a breath and smiled. "Ljubljim te, Fox." His eyes wandered back in his head, and he died. Mulder had always thought people like Krycek made more of an exit than that simple vacating of the body. He had justhis eyes had suddenlywhatever part of Krycek that was immortal had quietly slipped away into the night.
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Nobody claimed the body. Mulder never found out whether Krycek even had any relatives. In the end, the man remained what he had always been, a cipher. And always after that, Mulder kept a crumpled fifty-dollar note with a smudge of what might have been blood on the corner in his wallet. It served to remind him of a night when, drunk and terrified for what remained of his career, he had sent a young man from his room with what he thought were kindly reassurances and money to cover the pizza he had bought.
The hardest thing of all is to see the world through another's eyes.
End
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