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Title: Termination M/Sk references. . In a way, the end wasn't really as bad as it sounded: when you're standing on the pavement, the choppers thundering around you, with the mark of snipers upon your back and your hands all bloody with her, the edge of her drained face very white against the asphalt and the keening rising up in you all sharp and bitter--you don't have time to sit there and brood. You don't say to yourself, 'This is the end of everything I haver worked for and the death of everything I have ever hoped for.' You don't, because your entire mind is focused on the loss of *her*, on the yawning gap that's burning itself into what used to be your soul. On the fact that she's splayed most disgracefully across the blacktop, arms and legs all akimbo and the wound-blood all over her dainty hands. Your entire mind is concentrated on folding her hands and tilting her face into the noonday sun, that she'll get a proper burial in this world that's going to hell in a tanker truck. Smoothing her skirt down, pulling the crucifix out of her shirt and wiping off all the blood smeared on its shiny surface and closing her eyes, closing her eyes, yes, for a moment the entire universe is pulling the lids down over the still eyes. You're so very busy dealing with these things that you don't realize that this *is* the end; you have no time to mourn for things other than her. You realize that it's the end when you see your lover standing at the foot of the chopper, the trench coat beating about his knees and his eyes so very flat and incredulous, disbelieving and removed in his position. You realize that it's the end when they snap the cuffs behind your back, and you look up beseechingly, puzzled, and he turns away, an expanse of tailored suit launching himself back into the copter while they're shoving you into a police car. You don't realize at the time of the time of the actual end, but afterwards, in the agony of waiting. You don't realize it then: Mulder has to realize it now. The lights burn into his shoulders, and he looks up into Skinner's face and sees not dark brown eyes, not eyes like fine mahogany, but instead flat chips of sepia. The angle of his body against the concrete wall is harsh, unfriendly and the crossed arms, the cold face. . .Mulder shuts his own eyes against the sight and he whimpers softly, rocking back and forth as the inquisitor steps forward and starts pounding the fact of the end into him. "You killed her, didn't you?" Mulder tosses his head and moans. "No." "You shot her, didn't you?" "No." "You turned around and you saw her standing there, knew that she had witnessed you killing the truck driver, so you shot her." "No." "You raised your gun, squinting against the noontime sky and you lined your gun up between the two of you, all straight, like they'd taught you at the Academy." "No." "And you shot her." "No." "Once." "No!" "Twice." "No!" "Three times. You shot her in cold fucking blood, you worthless dickhead." "No." It was whimpered, shivered, shuddered, moaned. "Dana Katherine Scully, you pussy. Your partner. You turned around and shot her in the belly, in the chest, and a third time on the ground." Pause. "You couldn't even give her a fucking clean death, could you. You had to shoot in the stomach, in the chest and then you walked up to her and then, then you shot her in the eyes." Silence as the tears slid down Mulder's bared forearms. "On. The. Fucking. Ground." He was still weeping when they turned out the light and Skinner cast one last glance at the huddled shape. . The light, or rather, the abscence there of cast long strips across his face. Bars and lines of black, shadows running lengthwise and widthwise from cheekbone to cheekbone, from forehead to jaw, and those patches not darkened glow brilliant yellow, the color of the lights inside the Philadelphia Correctional facilities. But for the most part, it's black bars printed on the countours of his face; they take the same shape, the same flow every and each day, enclosing the same spaces at the same altitude, possessed of a forceful monotony that instills a rigi-- and one day they shift and then the shadow completely immerses him. Mulder's eyes keep themselves glued tightly to the linoleum floor and he allows his shoulders to hang carefully loose, until a hand at the scruff of his day-glo orange suit hauls him upright and Mulder catches flat plate eyes and a quiver of a mouth. "Mulder." The word gets hissed between clenched tetbaby-smooth skin and a proud lifted head A gasp, a shiver for the hand at his collar, and languid green eyes meet tight green ones. "Have you come to kill me?" A little side-quirk smile. "I've come to save you, Mulder." A shrug. "From what?" Another shrug, liquid smooth. "How the fuck should I know?" A pause as Mulder stares at his hands. "I don't know why you're doing this." "*I* don't know why I'm doing this. What do you know; it's life." Mulder clenches his fists and breath is a thin sharp whine in his throat. "Are you coming with me or not?" Mulder blinks up at the sharply lined form then rises from the cot, joints creaking, body swaying slightly. He notes that Krycek is thinner now, with sharp-boned wrists, skin drawn tight around his face, but eyes are still fulsome and hot in their dark sockets. Krycek's still got a very clean form, Mulder decides, all lines and pure mathematical curves, and even the jacket on him is precise and the flow of his legs through the jeans is an expression in algebraical inconstants. "What the hell have I to lose, eh?" Krycek’s smile is inscrutable. . A nice car: a rental Taurus, Mulder notes, keeping his hands underneath the suit as Krycek manhandles him past the guards. A very Bureau car, a very anonymous car fitting for slipping him past the hordes screaming for his blood. Skinner. Skinner's sitting in the car. There's a guard standing in front of the car with a semiautomatic in his hands and a Kevlar vest, and Mulder's gut clenches with fear, but it's Skinner that makes the air whoosh out of Mulder's lungs and he fights to stay upright. The world swims "He still loves you, you miserable little fuck you know that, right?" Krycek hisses, tugging on Mulder's elbow. "He still loves you." Blink, flesh briefly obscuring dead moss. "What for?" Krycek shrugs, a creak of leather and a fluid motion of the shoulders as he shoves Mulder into the back seat, next to the startled looking agent. "Damned if I know, Mulder. Damned if I've ever known." . They're about thirty miles away from the prison when Skinner reaches forward to tap Krycek on the shoulder. "Pull over here." Mulder sees the little tick jump up in Krycek's jaw, and he makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He closes his eyes, tries to swallow as his throat sudden clenches up. "Are you sure you'd rather do it yourself?" Skinner smiles, this tight little flick of a smile. “Yes, Krycek. I may not be competent to hold office anymore, but yes, I'd rather do it myself." The car door with a thud, and Mulder shuts his eyes and curls hard against the s the car jumps ahead, and Krycek drives with white knuckles. Twisting backwards into his seat, Mulder catches a flash of pearl-grey trenchcoat and the glare of light off glasses, tight-set mouth just beyond, standing against all that green and not watching him with those burnt eyes. There's a glitter of L-shaped metal in Skinner's hand: it looks familiar, and when Mulder's eyes finally manage to focus at the correct distance, words choke in his throat. Krycek tugs hard and sharp at his elbow, pulls him back to the seat and Mulder bites back the urge to vomit. "Sit down and put your seat belt on. The last thing we need is to get pulled over if you're not wearing your fucking belt. And don't you dare puke. This is a rental car, and it's got to last us to the border." Mulder puts it on with numb fingers. "What did he mean when he said he wasn't fit to hold office anymore?" Krycek shoots him a look of complete contempt. "What the hell do you think?" Mulder shrugs. "I haven't got a clue.." "They nailed him up for professional incompetancy. OPR found out about you and him, and on top of that, these papers that hinted he'd been stealing from the FBI. . ." Krycek turns on the radio. . The motel is small, cheap, dingy and butterscotch yellow; Krycek sneezes when he pushes the door opens and he makes small incredulous noises at the decor: vintage seventies complete with button-down leather seats and chain decor. As he prowls about the room insepcting the furnishings, Mulder collapses on the bed and tucks himself into a neat compact ball. The shower swishes on in the bathroom and Krycek emerges with in a damp t-shirt and boxers, and then he stands by the dresser, regarding the semi-comatase lump lying smack in the middle of the single bed. It rocks ever so slightly, causing the entire mattress to sway; Krycek's sitting down on it causes the whole bed to sag to one side. "Hey, Mulder." "Fuck off." "Love to, darling, but Skinner's dead, and I shot Brian myself." Krycek's voice is obscenely cheerful as he walks around the edge of the bed and begins rummaging through his valise. "Face it, Spooky Boy, you and me are all that's left of our world, all that's left." Mulder turns over and stares up at Krycek, taking in the oblique trapezoid painted in smooth tones, the upturned nose and the eyes, well. The eyes are calm, detached, just the little bit of laughter in the edges. No more mourning for him. Krycek grins. "Shit happens. You just gotta deal with it." Mulder snorts, turning away from Krycek. "You would think that." "Of course I'd think that. Like I just said, shit happens, and what are you going to do? Bitch and moan about it? You just have to deal with it--suck it up, so to speak." There's an awkward silence; Mulder's hands are loosely clasped in his lap, and his breathing carries above the air conditioner and the dripping from the bathroom. And then, Krycek is digging around in his suitcase, and then he holds out a brown prescription bottle. The label is pressed against the palm of his hand. "Here, Mulder, you want something to sleep? It's as dangerous as all fuck, but I think you'll need it tonight." Pause. Mulder closes his eyes. His hands clutch the edge of the blanket until the knuckles turn white, and then he sucks in a fierce breath, then thrusts his hand out and takes the pills, no hesitation at all, none at all. .end Feedback to anasile@aol.com
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