"Krycek!" the man racing after him shouted, hoarse, and he knew that if he
looked back he'd see the tall, lanky form of his pursuer in high relief,
every shock of tousled hair, every bead of sweat trailing down that
shadow-kissed face, the pattern of his wildly ugly tie, the cut of his
business suit.
He didn't look behind him.
His feet pounded the ground, he leapt over bushes and carefully tended flower
beds, his eyes taking in every scrap of litter that skittered across the
green, remnants from the fair earlier, every shadow, every hidden menace. His
breath scraped his ears, loud and strange, and he ran harder, grinning
insanely.
"Krycek!" Fox Mulder shouted again, struggling with his gun, and Krycek
just doubled his speed, knowing he would die if Mulder caught up with him,
and it was only the rabbit suddenly springing away from him in fright that
tripped him up, only that brief moment of startledness that betrayed him, how
could he have missed it? and he was being plowed into from behind by the FBI
agent, slammed into the ground, rolling, struggling, grinning even more madly
with delight.
Hands beating his chest, slugging into his stomach, a bright burst of pain
along his jaw, and he was grinning so hard Mulder must think it was a grimace
of fear or pain, but it wasn't, it was pure joy. Krycek rolled with the man,
savoring each punch, each spark of contact, savored the feel of Mulder's
length along his own. Blood began its regular trail down his face, coated his
teeth, but he was still grinning, and Mulder wailed into him, cursing and
howling with each fresh punch.
"I knew it was you— I knew it was you— you bastard— you bastard—
gonna kill you—" Mulder was gasping, his own teeth bared, and Krycek wished
he could see his eyes, but they were obscured by shadows. They grappled over
the lawn, tumbled over gray grass and indistinct scraps of trash, used
napkins and popped balloons and wrappers and soda cans.
"Stop— stop—" Krycek pleaded, for show, because he didn't really want
Mulder to stop, not really, it was so good, so good, feeling him again,
touching him again, this contact, the only thing he had.
"You bastard— it was you— who told you about the case? The Smoker? Who?
Tell me what you're doing here— what you have to do with the case! Tell
me!"
"N-nothing—" Krycek groaned out, mouth full of blood, and it was too good,
God, how he loved this man, God how he loved this man—
Mulder heaved to his knees and straddled Alex, hands gripping his jacket,
twisting the cloth until Krycek was nearly blind with pain, the squeezing off
of his air, and still it was so good.
"Tell me now what you're doing here," the agent bit out, glaring, furious,
panting, his chest heaving. The moon caressed his features, made his hazel
eyes glitter. Magic. "Tell me or I kill you now, right here."
"Nothing, Mulder," he rasped, around the pressure on his throat, "I've got
nothing to do with whatever it is you're doing here; investigating; a new
X-File; nothing, nothing, nothing."
"Liar!" Mulder yelled, snarling, and slammed Krycek's head against the
ground, and Krycek could feel his world tilt from the force of that blow,
Mulder was really furious, really beyond the point of reason, of sanity, of
holding back, and Mulder slammed his head again and Krycek could still only
feel the greatest pleasure, the greatest delight, he was going to die and it
was okay, because Mulder would be the one to kill him. Krycek turned his head
to cough dark blood onto the grass, and by his cheek was a crumpled, stray
napkin from the fair that had taken place earlier today; "Araxdelan's," it
read, a tiny logo along one side, and Krycek wondered briefly if it was a
restaurant or catering service or music band, and then Mulder was pounding
him again.
"Liar! Liar! Liar!" the man was screaming, each word accentuated with a new
punch, and the moon was sending out glittering silver rays over the black
lawn, the black trees, the bobbing, half-deflated balloons, the black man
sitting on him, the black fist, the black holes where eyes would normally be.
"Always a lie! Always a lie!" he howled, and Krycek didn't bother defending
himself, didn't even ward off the blows, juts lay and watched the moon pass
behind thick, roiling clouds and again his gaze turned to the little forlorn
napkin lying beside him, "Araxdelan's," "Araxdelan's," "Araxdelan's," it was
singing in his head, singing, he wondered what it was, what it meant.
And then, a star seemed to fall down from the black sky, only it didn't come
from the sky, it came from the earth, and it wasn't a star.
It bloomed, became.
It was an aurora, it was a miasma of colors, a rainbow suddenly risen right
there, dazzling and cool. Krycek stared. Rainbows blazed everywhere,
spangling colors across Mulder's back, whitening his face, turning him into
a kaleidoscope.
Mulder froze mid-punch, turned, stared.
The halo of light and colors pulsed, grew wings of cerulean and salmon and
emerald and butter and violet.
It sang silently, each pinion a note of crystal, elongating, shrinking,
colors swirling brilliantly.
Mulder and Krycek stared together, as one.
It was an angel.
No. It was a phoenix, see how it burned all the colors of fire, crimson and
scarlet and orange and lemon.
No. What was it?
It was a glory, a seraph, an alien, a sea creature made from air, Iris across
the clouds, a thousand multi-colored balloons.
Now it was a woman with long, smoky hair, tendrils of jade and amethyst,
now it was a dancing horse, treading air, mane of azure and ruby,
it was dazzling, dazzling, what was it, it was all the memories of Alex's
life, all the good and bad things, right there.
Mulder and Krycek stared as one, gazed into the thing that sang without
noise, that threw pearl shadows and golden beams, that swirled silver and
plum and celadon and diamond.
Their pain and hatred flew like shadows from the world, fled, disappeared,
and only awe and joy and grace remained, filling every joint, swelling every
bone, strengthening every sinew. They gazed at the creature from some strange
heaven and couldn't remember what hatred was, or fear, or loneliness. It
blazed all the bad things from them, let only the greater things remain.
Their hearts seemed to spill golden light, their souls seemed to flow with
silver streams.
The whirling cloud of brightest colors pulsed once more, a panther of cream
and sapphire and honey, and then it shifted, slid across the dazzled lawn,
fluttered once, and was gone.
Completely gone.
Black shadows and dull silver moonlight returned, hollow and sad, but the two
silent men still heard the ringing of delirium in their ears, silent and
enthralling. They sat for a long, long time, simply breathing, simply alive.
Finally, Krycek turned to Mulder and asked, breathlessly, "What was that?
Was that your X-File?"
"I don't know..." Mulder replied faintly, still gazing after the vanished
pool of light. "It might have been... I don't know." And then, "I don't think
it matters."
And still that awe and marvel was singing golden notes inside Krycek's veins,
along his nerves, and the fear and misery and loneliness was gone, and he
said to Mulder, quite simply, "I love you."
Mulder gaped, his mouth dropped open in astonishment, but Krycek didn't care,
couldn't, the joy was too deep within him. Still the colors swirled behind
his eyes, dazzling and cool, and all he could do was sing golden notes.
"Wha— what did you say?" Mulder whispered, flabbergasted, and Krycek leaned
over and cupped this man's cheek, stubbled and strong, and kissed him gently
on the mouth. He wished to share his deep joy with him, wished to show Mulder
how wonder was all he had left in him, how his heart was soaring, now, and
how this was all that mattered.
He told Mulder his whole life's story in that one, soft kiss, and Mulder sat
as one turned to stone and let him, and understood. All the rainbows of the
world were behind Alex's eyes, and how he loved this man, this strange,
eccentric, lovely, courageous man, and how the whole universe was only joy
right then, beyond death, beyond pain, beyond all finite things, there was
this infinity.
And the pain and the death and the decaying and the hatred and the confusion
were all parts of this great infinity, this great unending, and he was a part
of it, and Mulder was a part of it, and it was all joy, joy, joy, joy, joy,
all of it, in different forms. And Mulder was part of this joy, too, this
eternal laughter that all things shared in, and Krycek was a part of it as
well, and oh, how he loved, how he loved.
And then Mulder leaned forward and kissed Krycek back, and there was love,
too, and how he was amazed, and laughing, laughing, and still the cloud of
colors spangled and chimed, right there, inside their muscles, along their
nerves, behind their eyes, all right there.
And it was all joy, all of it, and he was alive, and giving his whole life
to Mulder, to this man that he loved so much, this man who made him, gave
him shape, gave him a heart to lose, and he lost it, no, he gave it away,
gave it to this marvelous mundane creature with hazel eyes, and Mulder
leaned in and gave it right back, without blood, the blood and hate was
forgotten, left behind like an old skin, no longer necessary, and Mulder
leaned in and gave the joy right back.
And Mulder leaned in and gave it right back.
And it was all joy, joy, joy, joy, joy, joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.
And it was all the deepest joy.
THE END
Homage
by Raietta
His heart was pounding in his throat, his blood was tearing through his
veins, the adrenaline rush so great it made him feel like he was soaring. He
could see every blade of grass in the slight moonglow casting over the park
lawn, every vein on every petal of every silver gilded flower with his
suddenly superhuman sight. It was at times like this when he felt most alive,
every cell in his body singing.
