Analysis The phone apparently doesn't plan to stop ringing without a fight, and I
momentarily consider shooting the damn thing. However, it's probably not worth
the extra expense, or having to explain to my neighbours.
Luckily, the answering machine clicks on, and I happily bury my face in one
of the cushions again, drowning out the sound of my own voice.
After the tone, there's a pause, as if the person calling has drawn a breath.
Then, a muttered, "Oh, fuck."
I frown, moving my head to the top of my pillow and watching the machine, in
half-interest. I don't recognise the voice, and I don't know who would be
calling me.
"Yeah. Mulder, it's Alex Krycek."
Alex... what the fuck is Alex Krycek up to? First he sends me a card. Okay,
sure, I can put that down to loneliness. Fine. Nothing completely disturbingly
unusual about that. But calling me, and waking me up? Destroying the one moment
of peace, of happiness I've had all day?
Simply out of curiousity, I reach over and pick up the phone.
"What do you want?"
"Thought you might be lurking," he replies, but his voice is hollower than
usual. "How's Christmas?"
I wonder what he wants. It's not like Krycek to openly be so friendly. He
always has a hidden agenda. Always. "Why the hell do you care?"
"I don't."
At least he's honest. I adjust my position so I'm lying back on the couch,
looking out the window. "Then what do you want?"
"Can't I just call up in the interest of friendship?"
I'm stunned into surprised silence for a while, then recover. "Friendship?
You can't be serious."
There's no answer, and I shake my head in disbelief. "Krycek, if you consider
me a friend, I don't know who your enemies are, but I'd hate to meet them."
"So would I," he shoots back in reply.
His voice has a strange intonation, one which I don't recognise. Not that I
pride myself on knowing all the different voice tones the man has (although such
a qualification would look interesting on my resumé), but it sounds
almost injured. Hurt somehow.
"Have you gone insane," I ask him slowly, patiently, "Or is it just my
imagination?"
"Can I just have my own reasons for ringing you up?" he replies, suddenly
sounding a bit more incensed, "Or do you have to analyse everything?"
"Analysing things is better, I find."
"Well, analyse this, Mulder... I have fucking feelings for you."
He... what?
What?
What the hell?
By the time I get to staring at the reciever strangely, struggling out of
shock, I'm speaking to the dialtone. I don't know where that came from, and I
don't know what he means by it...
Okay, so that's a lie. I know. I don't want to admit I know, but I know.
Because I've felt...
How the hell I was planning to finish that thought, is beyond me.
Do I even have his number to call back? I don't think so, and the energy to
find it out is currently beyond me. He probably just called from some phone
booth in San José. Or something along those lines.
I slam the phone down, and lie back, looking up at the roof. I don't know
what to think about that conversation. I don't know how to take it, what to do
about it.
Alex Krycek.
Alex "I love this country" Krycek.
Damn. When did this happen, and who neglected telling me?
I realise, without noticing, I've brought my left hand up into my line of
vision, and am flexing it, moving it. To reassure me it's still there, I
suppose. I know how easily it could have been me, there in the forest.
What would it be like to be Krycek? I don't even know where he lives, let
alone what his life's like.
Does he have a family? A father, like he denied me?
Perhaps he has a sister, like I used to have.
I've got to stop making these comparisons. I doubt they're healthy.
Is he like me?
Can I find out?
15/12/98
Moods IV
by Fleur
My peaceful rest, of closed eyes and ignorant bliss, is suddenly interrupted by
the shrill ringing of the phone. I manage to open, with considerable effort, one
eye, lifting the lid at least to half-mast, and glare at it.
