AUTHOR - Araxdelan (firstname.lastname@example.org)
DISCLAIMER - Fox, 1013, blah blah blah. Stupid nusiance lawsuits.
RATINGS/WARNINGS - PG13 for adult situations. Character death.
SPOILERS - None, unless you count the arm.
DISTRUBUTION - Anywhere. It'd be nice if you tell me where though.
PAIRING - M/K
SUMMARY - Sometimes you don't say what you want until no one can hear you.
COMMENTS - Aah, did I write this on an ironic date! This was self beta-ed, so blame no one but me. The reason? I have no slasher friends. The only friend I have who's a big Phile is a *shipper*. So if you want to beta for me, or just talk M/K, email me.
DEDICATION - My first (publishable) slash ever is dedicated to a special person, who knows darn well who he is. Thanks for putting up with my wacky interest, and hearing me describe the plot of every good fic I've read. And not throwing up in the process.
Inspired by Andre Dubus' short story "At Night", found in his collection *Dancing After Hours*
is not brought on by unrequited love,
but by a love not realized,
Until it's too late.
Fox Mulder awoke with a start. The sky was darkened with night, and he was sleeping in his seldom used bed. He felt something warm at his side, and and under him. He touched the bed, and brought his hand to his face, and squinted at it in the pale moonlight streaming from the one window in the room. His fingers were stained with blood.
He swung his body around, and he faced the source of the blood. Lying in his bed, still, with a face peaceful with sleep, was Alex Krycek. Mulder sat, confused, wondering why a bleeding Krycek would come to him. It was those thoughts that kept him from noticing the calm in the other mans chest.
When Mulder finally cleared his head enough to examine Krycek for wounds, he was confused as to why there was no longer blood gushing forth. He then noticed the amount of blood covering the bed, and then the slashed wrist, and the absence of pulse from Krycek's throat.
He sat in silence for a moment, next to the still-warm body, left next to him as if some gift. Krycek had laid this death out for Mulder, to appease Mulder's anger and hurt. Mulder stared at the body, aware that his shows of murderous anger had brought him here.
Mulder burst into tears, his mind finally realizing that Krycek had left him. He grabbed the dead face between his hands, kissing it's cooling lips. He threw his arms around the body, trying in vain to revive life to it through sheer will. He wept, kissing the top of Krycek's head.
Though it was true that Mulder had been angry at the man, most of the anger came from disappointment, his care for the man fueling his rage. He had never been able to console this pain, and he shielded his feelings from Krycek as to punish them both. He had never said the words...
And now, as he desperately clung to an empty vessel, tears pouring from his eyes, and Krycek's blood, Krycek's life, soaking down through his clothes and into his skin, he cried, he screamed, "Alex!". Feverantly, three times, he all but screeched the name. And then, the sun rising over the horizon, with the smell of death and sorrow penetrating the room, body limp in his arms, he raised the voice of his soul from within him, and cried out with his voice graveled and his heart pure, "Alex I love you!". But the only words Mulder ever truly meant would not be heard.