Pretences I've been a fool for a longer time now than I can remember. Than I care to
remember. It's not that I'm particularly, overly stupid—I'm not. It's more
that I have such a terrible inability to think outside myself, outside the
present tense, to consider affects that will take their toll on anyone.
I still can't believe I said that to Mulder.
Well, it's not the fact I said it to Mulder, that is the surprise. It's more
a surprise that I actually meant it, and that I don't currently regret it as I
expected that I would. Damn Mulder and his... everything. Damn him.
I can't believe it.
I can't believe I don't care.
I stand up, pick up my leather jacket and walk to the door. My jacket's
definitely getting worse—it's not in the best of conditions at the moment.
It'd probably be my most prized possession (sad, isn't it—my most prized
possession is an item of clothing) now... sounds corny, cheesy, but we've been
through a lot together.
I survey the apartment. You wouldn't know to look at me, or to look at where
I live, but I have quite a keen aesthetic sense. My apartment's nothing like
Mulder's. It never has been, and it probably never will be.
I'd sooner kill (though possibly not kill him) than tell him so, but I truly
love his apartment. That couch is so comfortable, everything is so incredibly
him. His remarkably unique personality is in every carelessly placed
object around his...
Shit, listen to me. I sound like I'm besotted with the man. Like I'm in love
with him or something.
Uh-uh. No. No way. Never.
Alex "I don't give a fuck" Krycek isn't in love with anyone... he doesn't
care about anyone... doesn't give a damn... doesn't even like anyone. Let alone
Fox "I'm too spooky for my fish" Mulder.
I'm not. There's no way. I only care for myself.
Sounds awfully arrogant. How appropriate.
But I don't.
I won't.
I can't.
Angrily, I slam the door and exit the apartment, pivoting on the ball of my
left foot and stalking down the hall. Nothing in this goddamn apartment building
looks in the least bit clean. I look at the floor, and immediately up again, not
needing to see the grime which seems to be breeding in the floors here.
I go down the stairs; always opting for the stairs as opposed to the
elevator. The front doors present themselves to me, and I go through them,
complete scowl on my face, ignoring everyone.
Outside, it's rapidly darkening. I didn't notice how late it was... haven't
really noticed much this evening. I don't blame me.
Why the fuck did I say that to Mulder?
The snow's still falling on the street—I decide to don my jacket and
gloves. Coldness isn't the nicest feeling in the world. Despite the Siberian
winters I used to endure, I don't like feeling cold.
I shrug on my jacket, then pull on my gloves. I wish I could feel the strange
caress of leather on my left hand. It's funny, the things you miss.
I snap my gaze back towards the ground, and keep my eyes trained on my feet.
I walk, at a steady pace, along the path, steps making interesting sounds in the
grey slush that I assume was once stark white snow.
I stop outside a donut shop, and smile a little. Except for the "CLOSED"
message emblazoned across the blackened windows, with paper behind the glass,
everything is exactly the same as I remember.
The inside used to be done with yellows, oranges and reds—all terribly
tasteful, all giving off a warm feeling. In my days as a Fed, I went there
nightly. A ritual of mine, I suppose. I used to eat a lot, and mourn over the
job I knew I was required to carry out. The job I knew I was going to carry out.
I always sat at the counter. I don't know why, exactly, I just did. I always
did think it strange how there was a mirror behind the counter, opposite my
usual spot. I used to look at myself, and wonder where my real self had
disappeared to.
Little wonder Mulder gave me so many looks back then. It wasn't that he found
my attractive back then (why does thinking that sentence make me feel slightly
sad?)... quite the opposite. I repulsed him. Not particularly surprising—I
looked really, really... ugly.
I smile at my feet, a little cynically.
When I look straight ahead into my reflection in the window, I start, seeing
Little Agent Alex Krycek looking back at me, a disgusted look on his pathetic
little face.
Is that really what I used to look like? I blink, and the image disappears,
turning into my actual reflection. Hardened. Black leather. Sneer. Spiked hair.
Sad expression that I can't explain in eyes. No left arm.
Reminds me of the completely different self I used to be.
Which me would Mulder prefer?
Oh, fuck me. What the hell do I care, about what I thinks? I don't care what
anyone thinks. Let alone him.
Hell.
What's the point in pretending? Who the hell do I think I'm fooling?
I sneer at my reflection.
Merry Christmas, Agent Alex Krycek. Do svidaniya.
17/12/98
Moods V
by Fleur
I lie back on my couch, the perfect picture of forced nonchalance. The couch in
itself is tattered, stained, and quite frankly an awful eyesore. I sigh,
glancing offhand at the phone. Its receiver is mocking me; teasing, basically
telling me what a fool I was. Fool I am, more like.
