"Alex," comes a voice from the door, and I refuse to look. I won't. I know the
voice, and even though it's not permitted in this hospital, I
can smell the cigarette smoke that comes with it.
"Feeling any better?"
I still don't look, and he comes around to the side I'm facing. I have no choice
but to quickly look him in the eyes, and the sight repulses me. Fucking sack of
cancer. Ironic, to say the least. In response to his question, I shake my head
slightly.
The bastard picks up my chart. I feel like telling him to drop it, not wanting
him to know every detail of me, but don't. I can't. I guess it has something to
do with fear. I never used to be afraid of anything. Nothing could touch me.
Knowing you're going to die anytime kind of changes a lot.
I simply watch him, eyes hollow, as he sets the chart back down. He looks at me,
then speaks again. It's unnerving to see him without a cigarette in hand or
mouth. Hard to get used to. Not that I'll have to.
"We'll miss you when you go, Alex."
Sounds so positive. Not at all sorry. Not at all like he's going to miss me.
What will he miss, having a pet rat he can order around? Not Like I have any
other qualities. I guess I used to be good-looking. Hell, I used to be whole.
I don't reply to that. I hate the way everyone says "when you go". "When you
pass on", "no longer with us", "Is no more". Say it. I'm going to be fucking
dead. Six feet under. Dead. Buried.
Maybe I'm avoiding it, too. It's hard. Everything I do is tainted with the
thought that it might be the last time I do it. Death doesn't have much meaning.
I can't think about the fact there won't be anything left. Can't imagine what it
will be like.
Wishing it was different. There are a lot of things I think I would have done
differently. My choice in careers, for one. I'd be a gynaecologist.
I guess I must have looked spaced out, because he simply walks out. I'm not sad
to see him go. Although I don't get many visitors in here, I'd be happy to have
some friends come.
Not that I have any. Don't fool yourself, Alex. You're a lonely,
one-armed assassin. No one likes you, they haven't for a long time.
The door slams, and the sound echos through the room. Probably my
imagination. I don't know, it's hard to keep reality straight these
days. So much is hallucination at the moment. The drugs may have
something to do with it, but I don't really know. Wish I did.
I wish he would come. Well, in more ways than one, but I just want him
to come here and see me. I need to see him. When I called him 'Comrade'
that night, I meant it. He's the closest thing to a friend I have, now.
Now, ever. He used to consider me a friend, too. At least, I think he
did. Called me "Alex". Now it's always "Krycek", spat out angrily,
meant as an insult.
I miss the days we were partners. It wasn't supposed to be like it was.
I was supposed to stay detached, to just spy on him. I wasn't supposed
to fall in love with him. I wasn't supposed to jerk off thinking about
him. Neither was in my job description.
But of course, when they told me about him, they failed to mention all
his finer points. And are there ever a lot of them.
I hope he does come to see me. I sent him a message, by way of the FBI.
Don't ask how, but I do have connections there. If he has anything
remotely close to an inquisitive mind, which I know he does, he'll
come.
I don't know what I'll say to him. He'll probably be happy. If he
is...I don't want to break in front of him. I haven't yet broken over
this. I don't have big emotional reactions very often, I don't go for
them. And never in front of others.
For a while, I watch the door, then give up. A watched pot never boils.
A watched door never lets the Fox in.
I stare at the blank, white ceiling for a while, then drift into
uncomfortable sleep.
It's shady. Dark. I can't see anything, but I know something's there.
Someone. Nervously, I lean up against a tree and wait. Suddenly, the
tree falls away from behind me, and it's all gone... darkness totally
takes over all my senses—
My eyes snap open suddenly, and harsh white light fills them. For a
minute, I don't know where I am, then I remember. In the place I'm
almost certainly going to be for the rest of my life.
There's another knock on the door, and I turn my head in hope. But it's
the nurse. I guess she's nice, as nurses go, but I don't really like
any of them. She smiles at me—the only one of them with a genuine
smile.
"Feeling okay?"
Everyone asks that, it seems, in here. What am I suppsoed to answer?
'Of course not, I'm going to die. And you?'
Instead, I shake my head slightly, without saying anything. I think
I've gained the reputation here of being the quiet one. Better than my
reputation anywhere else, that's for sure.
She smiles again, understanding, and comes over to my bedside, to check
the IV. I watch her, even though I've seen her do the exact same thing
a thousand times. Possibly not a thousand times, but still quite a
few...
When she's finished, and is leaving, she turns around as if suddenly
remembering something.
"Oh, and Alex? You have another visitor. You're quite the popular one
today, aren't you?"
I don't reply, but something—in another time, it might have resembled
a smile—crosses my face instead. She leaves.
I hope it's him. I don't know who else it would be, who else would
bother coming to see me. Unless it's another one of them, coming to
pretend to be sad. I don't need to see them.
I hear footsteps down the hall, and a detached part of me wonders if
they're supposed to sound that far away. I don't think so. They sound
miles away, but I suppose they're just out in the hall.
The door was left open by the nurse, and Mulder appears in it. His
expression completely changes when he sees me in the bed, and I can see
he's struggling to decide what the proper reaction should be. He must
be able to see I'm dying.
Mulder stands beside the door, quietly closing it. He doesn't meet my
eyes at first, just stands there, staring, face a perfect mask. Leaning
against the wall.
"Krycek," he says, as a greeting. For a minute, I wonder what to reply.
"Hey, Mulder," I say to him weakly. He's staring out the window. I wish
he'd look at me.
"What happened to you?"
He's uncomfortable. I can understand that, because I am too—much as I
don't want to be. If the roles were reversed, I suppose I'd also be
like this.
I want to think of a smart, sarcastic comeback, but can't. I'm sure
that's a sign of something. So I just reply truthfully.
"Cancer."
The expression that plays over his features would be impossible to
describe. He doesn't say anything to it, just keeps up that blank face
which is killing me.
Literally, I suppose.
I have to look away from him finally, and I focus on some wilted
flowers on the windowsil. The nurse brought them in for me. I guess
pity had something to do with it.
He still hasn't said anything. I finally think of something to lighten
the situation.
"Hey, Mulder, when I die, want me to leave you my jacket?"
The joke falls flat, and I regret saying it. Mulder shrugs a bit and
shifts his weight. I don't know what to say. I wanted to see him so
much, and when I do, it's like this.
I wish the man would show some goddamn emotion. Wake up, Mulder, I'm
dying. Take notice. Laugh, cry, curse, fuck me...I don't care what,
just do something. I'm going crazy.
He finally moves, pulling a chair to beside my bed.
"You're going to die, Krycek?"
His face, this close...I can't look at him. I turn away again, and hate
myself for it.
"Looks like it. Sucks to be me, huh."
I wish he'd say something, if only to tell me to shut up, because I'm
making no sense. It'd be nice to be able to come to terms with it. I
think I'm afraid of it.
He looks away, without a smile or anything. It's hard to get used to
the fact he's not, for once, hitting me, slamming me against the wall,
or otherwise abusing me. I look down for a while, then at him.
"Go on, Mulder."
He frowns. "What?"
"Laugh. Grin. Be happy. I'm never going to be here to bother you again.
You'll be free of Alex Krycek."
My voice wavers a little at the end of that. Breaking. Because I don't
mean a word of it. Well, I half do. That's the half that knows I
probably don't have a week left. Won't see the movie on Saturday night.
I wish that weren't the more logical half.
His eyes. He just looks at me, as if I've hurt him by saying that. I
don't see how. Surely it's true. In my idea of a perfect world, it
wouldn't be—but in my idea of a perfect world, this wouldn't be
happening.
"You dying doesn't make me happy, Krycek."
I want to say 'Call me Alex and hop on the bed, Foxy,' but he'd
probably shorten my life even more and take my head off.
So instead I settle for a more sane reply, even if it isn't what I
want.
"Sure, Mulder."
I meant that to come out incredibly sarcastic, but it didn't. What the
hell is wrong with me?
Oh, sorry, Alex, you didn't notice? You're dying. I must have failed to
mention it to you.
He looks at me, just stares, and I wonder what he's thinking. His eyes
don't exactly tell me much—or have I just lost my touch at reading
them—and his face still betrays no emotion.
"I'm not happy that you're dying, Krycek, even though I should be."
He thinks he should be? Great, we agree on something, finally. I think
he should be, too, but I wish I didn't think that. I don't reply, so
Mulder goes on.
"I don't know why I'm not. I used to think this would be the greatest
thing to have happen—Alex Krycek, finally out of my life."
Well, at least he isn't lying to make me feel better or to save my
feelings. I hate that. But I wish he didn't look like he meant that
statement.
I feel like crying. And I promised myself I wouldn't.
"But I can't be happy about it. It's finally come about. My father's
assassin is going to get what's been coming to him for a long time."
"I didn't.."
"Kill my father. Yeah, Krycek, we've been through this a thousand
times. And I've never come any closer to believing you. And it's not
going to change just because you're on your deathbed."
That remark, true as it could possibly be, I suppose, cuts deeply. I
don't need to be reminded that I'm on my deathbed. Don't need to be
told. I know it. And I'm trying to get used to it. Quickly, I look away
again. I swear, if he keeps looking at me that way, I'll lose it. And
then it'll all just go.
Mulder sighs a little, so quietly I hardly hear. Neither of us knows
what to say, again, and I hate it. I've always hated silence.
Especially when it's as tense as this, uncomfortable, awkward—I could
go on listing, for a while.
For the rest of my life, I guess. However long that is.
Mulder gets up again, paces around the room. I watch him, admiring, and
I suppose a little jealous. It's been a while since I've paced around
like that. Easy stride, no pain.
No pain. That's starting to be a foreign concept. Can I even remember
what it was like, without the pain?
He stops at the pathetic flowers, looks at them, then turns around to
me.
"Who gave you them?"
"Nurse," I reply shortly. No point in saying anything else, how I have
no other friends to give me flowers, no one who cares enough to even
notice I've been in here.
"They're dying.." he says quietly, and I wonder if he means the double
meaning that comes across clear to me.
I nod, and shift a little in my bed. I wonder about his change of
attitude, why he isn't yelling, cursing me out, laughing, being
violent. It's unlike him. This is too quiet, too peaceful. He's
treating me almost like he used to.
Maybe he's been thinking about that night like I have been. The night I
went to his apartment.
I didn't know then, but I had cancer. Hell, I didn't know until a week
or two ago. Originally, the kiss was simply intended to confuse
him...but then I realised how much I wanted him. I always knew, but I
didn't know. That doesn't make any sense. I make no sense. This whole
fucking situation makes no sense.
Maybe it made him realise, too. Maybe he pursed his lips, wanting it on
the lips. Maybe he longed to reach out, pull me in, kiss me back, take
me...Maybe my imagination's running away with me again.
Mulder glances towards me in the bed again. His eyes are sad, which
surprises me. He cares. I wouldn't have guessed that, otherwise.
"I've...I've got to go, now," he stammers, trying not to break my gaze.
Turning, he walks to the doorway, then pauses. I don't know why, but I
take the opportunity to ask him a question.
"Are you coming back?"
He looks down at the floor for a minute, then, without replying,
leaves. What sort of an answer is that? A 'maybe'? A 'No'?
I hope it's a 'yes'. I want to see him again, even if it is like that
meeting. It's just something I have to do, see him. He doesn't realise
what it's like from my point of view, what it's like for me.
What it's like to not know how long you have left.
I'm sitting, cross-legged, in the middle of a clearing. All around is
dark, but a light is shining in the clearing, over my body. I'm
watching from the side. A small creature comes into view, and I reach
forward to pick it up with both hands. However, before I take it, the
creature scampers off, and I close my eyes. Darkness takes over
totally, and I am alone.
Strange how I have two arms in dreams. Maybe my subconcious hasn't
noticed. But in dreams, I'm always my whole, relatively healthy self.
Like I used to be. Perhaps it's just that my subconcious is stuck in
the past.
Wonder what Mulder's dreams are like. Wonder who's in them. In my
perfect world, I'd be in them. Every night. Naked. But, this isn't my
perfect world.
I'm cold. It's midnight, well, eleven minutes past, to be exact. At
least, according to the bedside clock. Maybe someone's set it back. Or
forward. I don't know. Would it even matter? I don't sleep according to
it. I sleep at random times, for random amounts of time. Sometimes
sleep doesn't happen.
Not only am I cold, but I'm lonely and miserable. It may sound cliched,
but it's true. The streetlights from outside are casting an eerie
light. Wish they wouldn't do that. A night nurse should be in to check,
soon. I'm sure they have some way of knowing if someone's asleep or
not. Can imagine how that conversation would go. 'You're not sleeping.
Feeling okay?' 'No, I'm still in pain, I'm cold, lonely and miserable.'
'Ah well, see you in the morning Mr Krycek!'
Not worth it. May as well try to get to sleep. Not that I have much to
wake up for. Another day of tasteless food, mindless happiness, fake
smiles. Don't know if I can take that for another twenty-four.
I hope I don't dream.
It's Scully. Is it? No. It's Melissa. Melissa Scully, her sister. Clad
in a long dress, which sweeps the ground, and her long hair is draped
over her shoulders. Her features are all exaggerated. Silently, she
reaches out to me, and takes my hands. She tugs, and involuntarily I
step forward...
She's dead.
I blink my eyes several times, trying to dispel the memory of that
dream. Melissa Scully is gone. I don't want to think about why she's
beckoning me in my dreams. I hope it doesn't mean what I suspect.
I feel worse this time. Weaker. Sicker, if that's possible. This
feeling of hopelessness...it's impossible to get used to. I'm going to
die, and I can't do a thing about it.
Outside, the sun is just rising. I look out at the colourful rays of
light, shining through the window, and long to be outside in them. Just
one more time. But, somehow, I don't think that's going to happen.
It's getting harder to even think a day into the future. I'm wondering
if it's because there won't be a day in the future to look forward to.
Better not be.
It's hard to be any less negative. Positivity seems to escape me right
now. It's hard to be positive with a sword continually hanging over
your head. Sometimes I just want it to drop, and stop me from waiting
and wondering when it will.
I suppose I should sit up, but I can't. It would take too much effort.
There have been too many days like this lately, when it's really bad.
Some days are fine. But most are somewhat harder. These days outweigh
the fine ones, and it's getting worse. Yesterday was fine. Well,
relatively so—I got through without hurting too much. But already I
can tell that today is going to be one of the worst.
Perhaps it will be the last.
A nurse comes in, despite how early it must be. I don't have the energy
to check the clock. She takes a look at me, and I realise that I don't
really know her.
She frowns, and I want to ask what is wrong.
Systematically, she checks all my vitals, then leaves again, without
even saying a word. Why not? Don't people here understand that not
saying anything is much worse than giving me bad news?
Soon, the woman comes back with a doctor. She looks at me, then pulls
up a chair to talk to me.
"Are you feeling all right, Alex?"
"Why does everyone ask me that?" I reply weakly. "Do I look all right?"
"Actually, no."
I blink, and wonder if I should have been wanting everyone to be
straight with me. Her face is the perfect picture of concern, and I
wonder if it's sincere. She looks up at the nurse again, and she
tactfully leaves.
"Is there anyone you'd like to see, today?"
I can hear what she's not saying; 'You're going to die. Want to see
anyone one last time?' I don't reply, and she goes on, suggesting.
"Maybe your parents, siblings, girlfriend?"
I look away, and realise that I'm crying. For the first time since I
came in here. It's suddenly hit me, now.
She makes no movement to comfort me, and I start crying uncontrollably.
One part of me can't believe this, turning into such a wreck after
going through all of this, and the rest of me is saying how I need it.
Eventually, there's a lull in the tears, and she touches my shoulder. I
turn to her.
"Mulder. I want to see him."
She nods, and asks how they can contact him. I give her his phone
number—I memorised it a long time ago, and she nods slightly.
And leans over and hugs me. I hear her whisper in my ear, "Be brave."
She stands up, and walks out the door. I simply turn my face and start
crying a little, again. It's come to me that I'm never going to see a
lot of people again. And it's the strangest ones that I'm going to
miss.
Skinner, my ex-boss who punched harder than anyone I've ever met.
Scully, with the ice-blue eyes and perfect red hair. The Smoking Man, I
suppose I'll even miss him. He's been a part of my life for so long.
The other consortium members.
My family. Even though I haven't known them for a long time, I'll miss
knowing they were around. They won't even know.
All those people who won't care when I'm dead, or who might even be
happy. And I'm sad that I won't see them. I won't see anyone.
Mulder, you've got to come. I have to tell you something.
I stay still, crying on and off, thinking about everything and yet
nothing, at the same time. I don't talk out loud; there's no one there
to hear me. A couple of nurses come in and leave again, but none of
them talk to me.
And then he comes.
He's dressed so casually, yet it seems so appropriate. Jeans. A shirt,
hanging out over the belt loops. Running shoes. His hair's a mess, but
it all seems so perfect to me. He picks up the chair, and draws it next
to my bed. He looks at me, and his features no longer show zero
emotion.
"Krycek," he murmurs, quietly, soothingly. I open my mouth, but he
shakes his head, anticipating what I'm about to say.
"Alex," he begins again. Using my first name almost causes me to lose
all control again, but not quite. He smiles gently, and I wonder when
he decided I'm not the cold-blooded killer he once thought.
"Mulder," I say quietly, "Why did you come?"
I don't know why I had to ask that. What do I want him to answer? What
do I expect?
"Because," he replies simply, "I realised that I don't hate you. I
can't just let you go."
For some reason, I'd rather he didn't say 'die'. I'm glad he didn't.
But I wish he didn't have to say either.
"You don't hate me?"
"No, I don't."
Nice to know that. Did you really have to leave it until I'm like this,
Mulder? He's not avoiding my eyes—in fact, it is I that is having
trouble meeting his.
Something breaks inside. I don't know how else to put it, but something
gives, lets go. I can physically feel it, and my vision blurs in the
slightest. I'm slipping. I want him to put his arms around me. I want
to be held. I draw in a breath, and he hears, leaning forward.
"Alex?"
I nod, and shut my eyes for an instant. I feel almost like I'm fading,
and I need to sleep.
"Hold me?" I suggest softly. I don't have the strength to beg, or ask
coherently. He nods, understanding, and takes me in both arms, coming
onto the bed.
Instinctively, I move my head for him to cradle, and he does so.
Everything's darkening now, all I can feel, all I know, is Mulder, this
close, holding me. His breathing. His heartbeat. I have to tell him
something, even though I know it's going to be the last thing I'm able
to do.
"Mulder.." I whisper, being unable to say it any louder. He murmurs
something, and I realise he's heard. I finish; "I love you."
He strokes my hair a little, and I feel like crying, but the tears
won't come any more. It's all too late.
"I love you too, Alex."
Let go.
It's totally dark, and I am utterly alone. No lights, no gaps, just
opressing darkness, all around. At least the pain is gone now. I don't
know where I am. There's no way to tell. It's relatively warm. I don't
know where to go, whether or not to walk. All I know is a feeling of
complete and utter peace.
The End
Let Go
by Fleur
There's a knock on the door. Not that
that's especially unusual, in here. The only difference is, that the knock isn't
the professional rap of the nurses, or doctors. It's a more casual one. I don't
look at the door...there aren't exactly many people it can be. I look out the
window, at the somewhat small view I can see from here.
