Date: Sat, 12 Feb 2000 13:47:43 -0800
Subject: xfc: NEW: NickyFish's Valentine by Mik (1 of 1) M/K NC-17 SLASH
Source: xfc

TITLE: NickyFish's Valentine
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: mikdok@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: SRA
RATING: NC-17. M/K. This story contains slash i.e.
m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP
NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.
SUMMARY: Anniversaries and Valentines are
meaningless to one. Just a tattered paper heart, tossed
into the shadows and alleys of loneliness.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU,
very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Krycek Mulder NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Nicholas Lea, and all other
X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen
Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No
copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being
made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine,
but I've been advised to deny everything.

Author's note: Sometimes it takes a fight to get you to write.

If you like this, there's more at
http://www.squidge.org/3wstop
If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.


NICKYFISH'S VALENTINE
by Mik


RED HEARTS

I've seen him twice since he hung up the phone that
day. Once, quite accidentally. On an 'assignment' in
San Francisco, I nearly stumbled over him at the scene
of the crime. He looked dreadful. Too thin, even for
him, his tie askew, hair disheveled, everything about
him said 'I don't give a damn'.

I was surprised that it hurt me to see him that way. I'm
not sentimental by nature, but it hurt to see the object of
my obsessions looking as if he had not only stopped
caring, he had stopped living.

He was kneeling over the body, one of my less elaborate
hits. Two tiny puncture wounds at the carotid, left to bleed
to death. I have done better versions of this that actually
suggested something vampiric. But I was in a hurry and
hadn't even had time to make sure the wound was fatal.
I didn't expect the body to be discovered so quickly, which
speaks to the fact that my mind wasn't really on the task
at hand. And I certainly didn't expect to see him show up
on the scene within an hour or two.

I should have faded the second I saw him, but my heart
lurched and my body went into full revolt. So I stood
there, watching him watch a dead body, as if he
expected it to wake and name its killer.

And then, suddenly, he lifted his head and scanned the
crowd, his eyes intent and searching, blazing an oxygen
rich green as they danced into the shadows where I stood.
And for one moment, I knew he knew I was there. I tensed,
waiting for him to rise, part the throng of morbidly curious,
like Moses at the shores of the Red Sea. Then the fire died
and his face became as lifeless as the corpse he stood over.
He resumed his consideration of the body.

Released, I slid away, into the unseen, to wallow in
dreams and memories and the bleeding of my own
shattered heart.


BLUE HEARTS

"He almost looks at peace."

"Mulder, the man is dead."

I continued to kneel beside him. His face was
absolutely relaxed, as if just before death consumed
him, he had some kind of epiphany that he was laying
down his burdens. He had burdens. He was a human.
He did have an extra helping however. A nice little wife
in Dayton. A hot little trick in Los Angeles. And neither
of them would be kissing him good night ever again.
"Yeah.  Murdered."

"What?" She arched one perfect little brow at me.
"No vampires? No soul suckers? No aliens? Just ...
murdered?"

I ignored her. I had ignored her a lot of late. I had
ignored everyone lately. Everything. Somewhere,
somehow, my soul had drained out of my body the
same way blood had drained out of this man. And
probably with less struggle.

He walked away from me. That easily. As if I meant ...

Nothing. The truth is, I meant nothing to him. I was the
one picking out lace curtains and naming children and
raising bunnies. He was just fucking me. That's all.

That's all. That's it. He penetrated me. Entered my
body and overshot. Pierced my heart as well. I was only
an animated sex toy for him. Just lie still and let him
come. Let him make me come and cry and scream.
Clean me up and leave me lying there, just like this
poor sap.

Six months, and I'm still looking for that sign, that
rabbit, that dream of finding him, being found. Found.
I'm lost without him.

It's pathetic to feel so empty, so unwanted. I'm a grown man.
I don't need anyone, least of all a one-armed, two-faced
murderer like that ... murderer ...

I looked up. Something prickled the back of my neck.
Something stung the shell of my heart. So many curious
faces staring at me. So many people whose lives were so
empty and pointless that they had to come look at
someone who might be worse off than themselves.
So many people like me.

For a moment ...

For a moment I knew he was there. I FELT him. The
son of a bitch was breathing the same air I did, seeing the
same dead face. And yet, he wasn't there. He couldn't be.
If this was Al -- Krycek's work, he'd been long gone ...
Alaska, Cancun, Moscow, Des Moines by now. Still,
a disquiet stole over me, hung around me like a shroud.

Damn it, I missed him.

Damn it, I ...

I love him.


FALSE HEARTS

The second time I saw him was an even greater surprise.
Surprise? No, shock. Electrical. Cold. Horrifying. As if
the fingers of death were curling around my spine.
Two days later, in a little wharfside bar in the seediest
part of the City, a place where favors of all kinds are
exchanged while everyone looks the other way; women,
information, drugs, death and a Vodka that isn't even
supposed to be legal in Russia let alone in this country.

He was sitting, slumped in a booth, a shot glass in front
of him. He was even more disheveled than before. He
looked as if he had been sleeping in his suit. His tie was
gone. He had a day's growth of beard that did not
compliment his face, but emphasized his dour, defeated
expression.

I sat in the shadows, feet hooked over the rungs of my
battered bar stool, watching him in the muted light of
the smoky room. His face was a mirror for my soul;
ravished and in despair. I ached for him. I hated him.
I loved him.

Ached for his evident pain, the complete surrender of
his hope. Hated him for reminding me that I had caused
that pain, and I had the power to ease it. Loved him for
... loved him.

I caught myself putting down my glass, sliding to my feet,
wanting to cross the room and touch him. But I remained
where I was. I had no right to touch him, feel him, hear
his voice, coax a smile to those incredible lips. I had no
right to lure him off to a seedy hotel room, plunder his
body as I did so often in my dreams. I walked out on him.
I pushed him away like a woman on a diet pushes away
cheesecake. No matter how sweet he was to my lips,
he was a weight within me I couldn't afford to carry.

As I sat there, watching him watch the sallow liquid in
his glass, the door opened. Another unlikely figure
stepped inside, stalled, glanced around and then,
steeling resolve marched purposefully to his booth.
I was just close enough to hear her impatient murmur.

He answered with a shrug.

She spoke again, sharply.

He kept his eyes fixed on his glass, shaking his head slowly.

She settled, reluctantly, into the booth. Reached for
his hand. Her murmur was gentler, almost compassionate.

He still said nothing.

She got up, shouldered her bag, turned away. Her face
was granite, with dew spilling down.

I watched her all the way to the door.

When I looked back, his head was in his hands.
His shoulders shook slightly.

I left.

In the window of a drug store three blocks down,
something caught my eye, stabbed the place where my
soul had been ripped open. I took deliberate steps to
cross the street, escape from the accusation I saw in my
own reflection. But I turned inside, made a purchase or
two, including a blank card with kittens on it, went back
outside, found a bench and began to write.

Tears blurred my vision toward the end, and I wiped
them away, roughly, shoved things in my pockets and
returned to the bar.

With a crooked finger, I beckoned the bartender, even
as I watched Mulder lift a glass with shaky fingers and
toss back something akin to gasoline. I held out my
purchases, and despite his incredulous stare, tucked a
fifty dollar bill in his shirt pocket.

It took every ounce of will in my body to turn and walk
out that time. But I am strong. Too damned strong.


TRUE HEARTS

Pathetic.

Sitting in the lowest, dirtiest dive in all of San
Francisco, drinking something that could also be used
to clean gun metal, leaving a foul, oily taste in my
mouth. But, it reminds me of him. And I kept drinking it.
I've been drinking it for two days. Ever since I walked
away from the cooling corpse and a curious crowd.

I knew he was there. I could feel him, smell him, taste him.
But I didn't see him. I didn't reach out and catch him,
shake him, demand to know why he left me.

How could another man do this to me? I never lost
sleep over a woman in my life. I've loved and lost, been
abandoned and betrayed and done plenty of betraying
on my own. So what did he do to me, to leave me so
empty when he was gone? Surely couldn't merely be
the sex, although almost from the first, he need only
whisper my name and I stiffened like a flagpole. He
never made promises, never whispered endearments,
never did any of the things that should cement a love
affair. We only laughed, ate, played like children, slept
and made love. Wiggled all over one another like
puppies. Laughed ourselves to tears and couldn't
remember what started it. Kissed until our heads were
spinning. Danced. Oh, yeah, we danced. And then he
took his bow, and left.

The door opened, and I blinked into an unexpected
light. She came to my booth and looked down.
"You missed our flight home."

I shrugged. Home. It's a meaningless concept now.
It's just a room or two with a brand new door.

"Damn it, Mulder, you're going to get fired."

I shook my head and reached for my drink.

She settled down in front of me, reached for my hand.
"He's not coming back, Mulder," she said sadly, softly.
She stood and left.

And I wanted to put my head down and cry.

Instead, I ordered another drink.

A few minutes, maybe a few hours later, the bartender
brought me some coffee. Smelled burnt. I wrinkled my
nose and waved it away.

He set something else down. An envelope and a small
paper bag. I opened the envelope. Read. Swallowed hard.
Read it again, as it began to blur ...

Just wanted to tell you how much you mean to me.

You made me laugh more in two months than anyone
else in my entire life. You've made me smile, giggle,
wiggle, moan, cry, sigh, beg, and scream. Even now,
even so far away, you touch me.

You may never hold my hand again, but you stroke my
soul, nightly.

You made me a part of something for a while. Gratis.
A family, a marriage, a romance, an eternal love.

You became a harbor for me to sail into. Hold me
safe, keep me from storms and pirates and dry rot.
You became an inferno I sink into, lost, and glad to go,
consumed in the licking flames of passion. You became
my pillow. My shield. My pleasure. My treasure.

I took your submission and reveled in it. The power,
the possession, the joy. I am greedy for you, your tears,
your shudders, your stammers, your melting, sighing release.

I offered you submission, and waited, longing for your
claim. Drive a stake through my heart and my body and
leave me weak, helpless, wild, and strangely strong.
No one can hurt me in your arms. Not even you.

I've never known this. Never known it could exist.

There's no point to this other than to say I am so
completely yours. And you are mine.

I opened the bag, almost reluctantly.

Rose. Tossed money on the table. Strode out with new
purpose, tucked in my pocket something pink, with blue
eyes, floppy ears and little cotton tail.

I am strong again. I am restored. He's still there.
I will find him.

- THE END -