The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come
Fandom: The X-Files
Category/Rated: T
Year/Length: ~1060
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek
Spoilers: Post Existence
Disclaimer: Mine now. 1013 fired them.
Beta: Jennie
It wasn't a white Christmas, although there was snow on the ground. It was the kind of dull, sloppy snow that seemed tired, impeding rather than assisting a festive mood.
Lights twinkled bravely enough in the window of the fourth floor apartment. It was apparent that the occupant had made an attempt at festivity, and the colors flickered, changed, casting small pinpoints of cheer, down on the wet and mushy sidewalk.
The occupant of the room was lounging on a ratty old leather couch in an attitude of repose, his long legs stretched out before him, resting on the coffee table. The TV was on; the old, black-and-white, sci-fi movie that was playing had apparently lost his interest, because his eyes were closed, and his breathing was deep and regular.
Moving closer, it became obvious that he was sleeping. His fingers had been clasping a bottle of Gatorade, and now lay curled loosely around the neck of the empty container. It was obvious that he'd been making preparations for Christmas. Cards, ready-written, sealed and addressed, lay in a stack on the coffee table, and two gifts, neatly wrapped and packaged, were beside him on the couch.
He wore faded jeans and a Henley that was threadbare at cuff and elbow; his feet were bare. Slim and somehow sensual despite his faint snores, he slept on, unaware of scrutiny from a pair of strange eyes. He was attractive; his body screaming from beneath drab clothing that it deserved better. Here was a man who could be at home in his own skin -- Narcissus, asleep beside his pool, the long body and clever, handsome face completely at rest.
When the other presence appeared, at first nothing seemed to have changed, save for a darkness that seemed to move slightly within the framework of the darker shadows that clustered in the corners of the room.
Slowly, softly, the dark presence crept forwards on cat feet, until it could be discerned that this was in fact a man.
Standing tall and solid in the muted light of the TV, the newcomer bent momentarily, a faint huff of laughter escaping to hang in the air between the two, and then he straightened again, slinking to stand as close to the sleeper as was possible. The man was wearing a leather jacket, and his left hand was in the pocket, lending him a casual air at variance with the intense and brooding expression he wore on his face. As he drew near to the man on the couch, he fumbled in his right hand pocket to find a small, gift-wrapped package, which he laid gently on the table beside the sleeper's feet.
His hand returned to his pocket, and this time he drew out a Glock, the silencer in place like a sinister finger, black against the flickering light from the television. Gun in hand, he leant forward once more to approach the sleeping man. Placing the gun at the dreamer's temple, he bent still further until his lips touched those of the sleeper, barely skimming the lushness of the mouth as he stooped.
There was a pause. The sleeper's breathing hitched and then resumed its steady pattern. Softly, the intruder used his gun barrel to trace the other man's features, the end of the silencer a mere fraction above the skin of his face. Unwitnessed and unguarded, there was a look of naked longing in the huge, dark eyes, and yearning was painted on the saturnine features, making him look young, and lost, and very alone.
At last, shaking his head, he stepped away, returning his gun to his pocket, and began to slip cautiously back into the shadows.
The phone on Mulder's coffee table shrilled, disturbing the man's sleep and causing him to sit bolt upright as he tried to separate his dreams from the reality of his living room.
"Mulder," he murmured sleepily into the telephone.
"Mulder, it's me. Merry Christmas." The familiar voice seemed to clear away the last few cobwebs, and he stretched luxuriously as he smiled into the phone.
"Merry Christmas, Scully. What did you buy me?" Mulder's chuckle was cut short as he spied the new package on the coffee table. "Hmmm... strange."
"What is it, Mulder?" Scully's voice was sharp, and Mulder suddenly started to laugh.
"It looks like Santa Claus has been here on a visit. He's left me a gift."
"Mulder, what are you talking about?"
"There's a package on my coffee table here, and I don't know how it got here."
"It's not another Mr. Potato Head, is it, Mulder?"
"No, Scully. It's..." Mulder was tearing away the paper even as he spoke, and when the package was opened, he could see a plain manila folder and a small audiocassette. Leafing through the folder, he discovered all the notes that he and Krycek had made about Augustus Cole, about Duane Barry, and about Scully's abduction. Catching his breath, he laid the documents down and returned to Scully. "...I don't know what it is, Scully. Let me call you back."
Hanging up, Mulder turned his full attention to the documentation he'd found, leafing through to verify the contents with wide eyes. Finally, he turned to the tape that was enclosed with the folder. Striding over to insert it into his cassette player, he pressed play and then shivered as a well remembered, desperately despised voice brushed against his ear as though it were raw silk across a wound in his soul.
"Hello, Fox, I bet you didn't expect to see me. Did you think I was lying on a garbage heap somewhere being eaten by the worms? Sorry to tell you that I'm still extant. However, Fox, I think that now you're no longer part of the FBI, it's time that you and I achieved an understanding." There was a pause, and Mulder could hear Krycek breathing heavily as he decided what to say next. "You know that I've always loved you. If you think that it's time too, then here's what you do. Pack a few clothes, but don't worry too much -- where we're going, you won't need fancy suits. Then come downstairs to the street and look for the purple PT Cruiser. I'll be waiting."
By the time Scully gave up waiting and called Mulder back, the apartment was empty.
Finis
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