angst-ing away
This isn't very appropriate for the valentine's holiday, but oh well. It's not valentine's day anymore!
Warning: Angst, death, major character death. No sex. Nasty stuff. Rated R. You have been warned. Please don't sue/kill me.
Eidolon
Blooming blood on the white sheets. He’s never seen anything as vivid as he sees this, the backs of the man’s knees creasing softly, pale column of flesh where there once was a beating, ever-jumping pulse now calmed, and the dark sable of his tousled hair seamless from the shadows cast over his face.
Is this what it’s like to lose something you never knew you had? It hurts a lot. It tears a big hole in his already scarred heart, pricking silent, hot tears from his eyes.
Is this a dream? Can he really be seeing this, on his bed, in this hotel room, this body of someone he once knew, spread before him like a sacrifice? Is this a dream?
Does he dare to believe it to be something more?
The walls have eyes, he knows. And ears, and hands and fingers and silent, stealthy feet that move in the shadows, always in the shadows. Did they finally get to him? His mind is in momentary chaos, at a loss for what to do. Should he call in a homicide? Should he move the body?
Is this a dream?
“Alex,” he says softly, calling to the immobile form. He knows there will no answer just as he knows the skin of Alex’s back where he reaches out to touch will be cold as it is snow-white.
Snowing. It’s snowing outside. The window that overlooks unfamiliar streets is coated with frost and snow around the edges, hanging from the sill in icicles like it is Christmas morning. The sun slowly breaks over the horizon, but it takes longer for it to reach the room obscured by other towering buildings, banks, hotels, corporations - all foreign, strange, unsettling.
“Krycek,” he calls quietly but the name barely makes it past his lips before his mouth dries up. He hoped it might get a reaction, but the body on the white - now stained with neat little puddles of red - sheets is lifeless, unmoving, and still. So still.
And then something is jarring him out of his dazed stupor, something loud and shrill. But he can’t tear his eyes away long enough to locate the source of the sound, he doesn’t want to, he’s mourning, damn it, he’s mourning. He wants peace and quiet more than anything else right now. He wants time. If only he had more time.
Is this a dream? Will he wake up to his familiar couch and TV? What is he doing here?
And then he realizes with a jolt that his phone is ringing.
And he wakes up.
“Mulder,” Scully’s voice is loud to his sleep-clogged ears and slightly admonishing. “What the hell are you doing still in bed?”
“Scully. Hi.” His mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. “What am I supposed to be doing again?”
There’s a sigh over the line that’s born more out of resignation than irritation, and Scully says tiredly, “Down at the diner sitting across from me, going over the Lawson case. He’s the man who slaughtered his two daughters and disappeared, you remember?” And Mulder just nods, grumbling something about getting dressed and muttering an apology for his tardiness.
He splashes his face with cool water and scrubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, feeling the last vestiges of the dream wash off and away, swirling down the sink like so much dirt.
A slight twinge of nausea twists his stomach, but only very briefly, as he recalls the vivid image of Krycek spread on the bed, bleeding like a gutted pig. The images his mind supplies are incongruous and disquieting. He thinks about Scully and her morning smile and shimmering red hair as he brushes his teeth.
He doesn’t have time for a shower. He doesn’t want to keep Scully waiting.
At the diner, when Scully sees him, she says very politely, “Jesus, Mulder. You look like hell. Did someone die?”
Mulder shakes his head, his mouth a hard line, and he doesn’t know what to say. He can’t be sure someone didn’t.
I promise something more uplifting and happy in the near future.
Warning: Angst, death, major character death. No sex. Nasty stuff. Rated R. You have been warned. Please don't sue/kill me.
Eidolon
Blooming blood on the white sheets. He’s never seen anything as vivid as he sees this, the backs of the man’s knees creasing softly, pale column of flesh where there once was a beating, ever-jumping pulse now calmed, and the dark sable of his tousled hair seamless from the shadows cast over his face.
Is this what it’s like to lose something you never knew you had? It hurts a lot. It tears a big hole in his already scarred heart, pricking silent, hot tears from his eyes.
Is this a dream? Can he really be seeing this, on his bed, in this hotel room, this body of someone he once knew, spread before him like a sacrifice? Is this a dream?
Does he dare to believe it to be something more?
The walls have eyes, he knows. And ears, and hands and fingers and silent, stealthy feet that move in the shadows, always in the shadows. Did they finally get to him? His mind is in momentary chaos, at a loss for what to do. Should he call in a homicide? Should he move the body?
Is this a dream?
“Alex,” he says softly, calling to the immobile form. He knows there will no answer just as he knows the skin of Alex’s back where he reaches out to touch will be cold as it is snow-white.
Snowing. It’s snowing outside. The window that overlooks unfamiliar streets is coated with frost and snow around the edges, hanging from the sill in icicles like it is Christmas morning. The sun slowly breaks over the horizon, but it takes longer for it to reach the room obscured by other towering buildings, banks, hotels, corporations - all foreign, strange, unsettling.
“Krycek,” he calls quietly but the name barely makes it past his lips before his mouth dries up. He hoped it might get a reaction, but the body on the white - now stained with neat little puddles of red - sheets is lifeless, unmoving, and still. So still.
And then something is jarring him out of his dazed stupor, something loud and shrill. But he can’t tear his eyes away long enough to locate the source of the sound, he doesn’t want to, he’s mourning, damn it, he’s mourning. He wants peace and quiet more than anything else right now. He wants time. If only he had more time.
Is this a dream? Will he wake up to his familiar couch and TV? What is he doing here?
And then he realizes with a jolt that his phone is ringing.
And he wakes up.
“Mulder,” Scully’s voice is loud to his sleep-clogged ears and slightly admonishing. “What the hell are you doing still in bed?”
“Scully. Hi.” His mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. “What am I supposed to be doing again?”
There’s a sigh over the line that’s born more out of resignation than irritation, and Scully says tiredly, “Down at the diner sitting across from me, going over the Lawson case. He’s the man who slaughtered his two daughters and disappeared, you remember?” And Mulder just nods, grumbling something about getting dressed and muttering an apology for his tardiness.
He splashes his face with cool water and scrubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, feeling the last vestiges of the dream wash off and away, swirling down the sink like so much dirt.
A slight twinge of nausea twists his stomach, but only very briefly, as he recalls the vivid image of Krycek spread on the bed, bleeding like a gutted pig. The images his mind supplies are incongruous and disquieting. He thinks about Scully and her morning smile and shimmering red hair as he brushes his teeth.
He doesn’t have time for a shower. He doesn’t want to keep Scully waiting.
At the diner, when Scully sees him, she says very politely, “Jesus, Mulder. You look like hell. Did someone die?”
Mulder shakes his head, his mouth a hard line, and he doesn’t know what to say. He can’t be sure someone didn’t.
I promise something more uplifting and happy in the near future.