Christmas I'm in a bar. It's not quite one of the more uptown bars; people simply come
in here off the streets to get away from the cold. A lot of street workers, some
tramps, two doped-looking students, and me.
I turn my head a little in order to look through my glass. The world on the
other side of it twists around, wraps around the glass, distorted. Through the
ice, some parts are out of proportion with others, and I begin to wonder if
anyone else sees them that way.
The vodka here is too watered down; perhaps it is that the barkeep puts too
much ice in it. I don't know. Anyway, it's pathetic. I didn't bother asking for
the brand name, names just don't matter all that much.
Sounds like something Mulder would say, only because he hates his own name. I
don't blame him—I doubt I'd enjoy being named after an animal. It's hard
enough being an animal. Figuratively speaking, of course.
I got a Christmas present in the mail today. The only one. Not that that's in
any way surprising; just a tad depressing. It was in a plain brown wrapper, tied
with string. No card, no message, and I didn't recognise the handwriting on the
address. Turns out, it was rat poison. Fucking good sense of humour someone has
there.
I raise my right hand to signal the barkeep, and indicate for another drink.
I know what I must look like; just sitting here and downing one glass of vodka
after the other, slowly getting drunk and more depressed. I'm not looking my
best anyway; everything's got me down at the moment.
The gentle clink of my glass being set down beside me momentarily brings me
out of my daze, and I raise my head long enough to down the liquid. It's been a
long time since I noticed the way my throat feels with vodka. It's been a long
time since I noticed any pain.
I set the glass back down, and fix my gaze on a painting on the wall to my
left. The frame is somewhat tarnished, and dirty, yet the painting is intact. It
looks out of place in here, where the smoke clouds my sight of it.
It's a dirt road, and a little boy is standing on it, looking dejectedly down
towards a clump of trees. He's got dirty smears on his face, and no one is
around. His clothes are tattered. I wonder about the story behind the picture,
and why the barkeep has it up.
I begin to notice, at the edge of my vision, a woman watching me. She's
dressed in dark clothes; perhaps a trenchcoat, I can't tell from here. I don't
know who she is, or what she wants.
Before I can move, she rises and comes over to me. She takes off her coat,
placing it on the stool next to mine, and sitting on it. With one finger, she
tugs my chin towards her. I notice her long, red, manicured fingernails, and
cringe back. They look a lot like claws, and I suddenly see her as a cat,
preying on the innocent mouse. Or rat, as the case may be.
"You look down, honey. Can I give you some Christmas cheer?"
Great, the one woman who notices me, and she's a whore. I look at her face
for a while, wondering if perhaps a quick bout will bring me out of my mood,
then back down. It's not that she isn't pretty; she's got long auburn locks and
blue eyes, but she's too fake. I wonder if I'll ever meet a woman who isn't
fake. Unlikely. I'm too fake.
"A cheap lay won't go far for me," I reply easily.
She narrows her eyes, and stands up. I watch without showing any emotion, as
she picks up the dark coat and wanders back to where she came from. I'm not
exactly sad to see her go.
There's a knot in the wood beside my hand, I'm looking at it, staring.
Strange how fascinating an imperfectation can be. I'm sometimes obsessive with
imperfectations. They destroy the sometimes perfect symmetry of an object. I
love symmetry, if nothing else. Shame I'm asymmetric.
The two students have shifted to a booth, making out. They've both got bags,
of last minute shopping, I assume. I wonder when they had time to get high.
Perhaps shopping came afterwards.
Last minute shopping used to be a thing of Christmas, to me. A tradition.
Like Christmas pudding, a tree, carols. Now it's something of a time long past,
when I had people to shop for. There's no one, now.
The students... she seems to stand out, bright, her features exaggerated.
Like a cariacture of her real self. Her eyes are dark, cheeks bright red,
everything is overdone. Her eyes are totally spaced, the pupils dilated. She
looks completely foreign to me.
Caught up in my thoughts, I didn't notice a man sitting down beside me.
"Scotch," he mutters at the barkeep, staring straight ahead.
From my vantage point, I can't see his face, but he's wearing a trenchcoat.
Seems to be the standard of dress, tonight. Underneath, he's wearing a black
suit.
I don't think I'm right, but it looks like Mulder. Probably my imagination
again—there are a lot of men around with his build, a lot of guys who wear
suits and trenchcoats.
The barkeeper brings him his scotch, and he downs it in one gulp. Obviously
upset about something. I straighten up, and clear my throat.
He doesn't notice, but the barkeep does, coming over and getting me another
drink. I don't protest. While the man is at it, he gets the man I'm hoping is
Mulder, another scotch.
"Thanks," I mutter, somewhat sarcastically.
"Shut up, Krycek," the man next to me mutters back. I snap my head around to
look at him, surprised, and he grins a little, cynically. "Yes, I know it's you.
What do you take me for?"
It's not a good idea to answer, I decide. I can tell when to keep my mouth
shut, it's just sometimes I'm unable to control it. He drinks his scotch.
I look forward for a while, right hand tracing the outline of the gun inside
my jacket. I don't know why it is, but whenever I'm around Mulder, I have this
overwhelming need to pull a gun on him. I suppose it could be called a fetish.
His left hand sneaks out and catches my right wrist. His grip tightens, and I
look towards him.
"Don't ruin the atmosphere, Alex," he sneers, and I wonder what the hell is
wrong with him.
Something has to be wrong if he's calling me by my first name. He's probably
had a fight with Scully. I'm simply wondering if he's going to drop my wrist
before he cuts my circulation off. Before I put my question into words, he lets
go.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I ask, not really caring. I'm good like
that. I just pretend to give a damn about others, I don't actually care either
way.
"You're so Mr Sensitive, aren't you, Krycek?"
I don't make an effort to reply to that. After a while, and when he's had
another two scotches—I've stopped drinking, I speak again, "You know, you
should really try some harder stuff sometime."
"Oh, like Real Russian Vodka, huh, Comrade?"
"Vodka might do it," I reply, ignoring his sarcastic tone. These moods of his
are easier to ride out than to fight. "It depends what you're trying to drown."
"How about my entire life up until this point?"
He is in a bad mood. Ooh, but I'm observant sometimes. "Might need something
stronger, then."
He smacks his head down on the counter, and I figure it's time for me to shut
up again. After a while, he looks up again, and over at me. He stares for a
while, and I frown at him, wondering what the hell he could be possibly
thinking.
"What the hell is it, Mulder?"
"What colour are your eyes?"
You can't tell me that wasn't a complete and utter random tangent. Goddamn,
his mind travels in strange directions. I simply shrug in reply, and turn back
to the front, ignoring him.
It's strange to have such a relatively civil conversation with Mulder. I'm
used to violence, not this quiet sarcasm. Something has to be wrong with him.
Perhaps it's just the "Oh, great, another Christmas" spirit. Perhaps not.
He moves his glass forward, but when the barkeep comes over to get him
another, Mulder motions for him not to. I watch him, as he turns around and
stands up, all in the one movement.
"Merry Christmas, Krycek," he says, turning to leave.
I spin around on the stool to watch his retreating form, as he walks out the
door, letting it swing shut behind him. A desolate swoosh, and I sit there,
wondering what the hell just happened.
"Another vodka, sir?"
I look up, and nod wordlessly, returning my forehead to the counter top.
Moods
I
by Fleur
The wood of the counter top is dark, lovingly polished until there is a shine
that I could probably slide my head along, if I so wanted. I'm in a position to
tell this, because my forehead currently rests on its cool surface.
