Fandom: XF Category: Slash, Humor, Weirdness Pairing: Mulder/Krycek Rating: R for profanity Archive: Nowhere, thank you. Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. CC does. Feedback: Yeah, why not? Send to dbkate@yahoo.com Summary: Alex Krycek tells a ghost story. ================ HAUNTED by DBKate, 1998 dbkate@yahoo.com ================= "Don't go to your own funeral." That was the first instruction given to me when I arrived and, being the sort of guy I am, I didn't listen. I think I should have. My requiem was an intensely tacky affair, more so than I ever would have believed. They'd returned my body to my "parents;" two befuddled former Russian spies, who'd never met me when I was alive, but figured that they might be able to snare a green card for their "loss" now that I was dead. The entire shindig was government sponsored. Which government -- who knows? I got the Sixty Dollar Red-Light Special, right down to the sky-blue polyester pillow and ruffles lining a white fiberglass coffin, the one with four dolphin-shaped gold tone handles. Wasn't that special? I looked like I'd died and gone to K-Mart. I have to say I wasn't impressed with the floral arrangements either, a few of them looking like they'd been stolen that morning from some other poor slob's grave. Even the smoking bastard sent one, a batch of dead carnations, in the shape of a wrecked car. Always the joker, that guy. Asshole. There was no eulogy, and I have to say I was sorely disappointed by the lack of a nasty word or two from all of my former "pals." The entire affair was just a bunch of people I didn't know, talking about anything and everything but me, and crying crocodile tears over the polyester, making sure that they didn't get too close to what was left of me. Which wasn't a whole lot, but the mortician did a decent job. Hey, all he needs is a head and a pair of hands -- he can fake the rest. I was grateful for the pronounced lack of lipstick and rouge; I sort of liked the blue/white, sunken cheek, gray-lip look. Heroin chic, I think they call it. All in all, it was a rotten time, and I was just about to leave, when the chapel door opened... And Mulder came in. Looking incredible. Tightly groomed, dressed in black, his hair slicked back immaculately. I'd never seen him look better, and it figured that I'd have to be dead before I'd be able to enjoy the sight. He looked nervous, slightly abashed, as he talked momentarily to my "parents," who were, no doubt, hoping he was from Immigration. After a few polite nods, he slipped by them, and went up to my coffin, running a finger over the edge of it, grimacing slightly. Thank God. At least *someone* in the room had a little taste. It was strange, stranger than anything else, to see Mulder standing there -- staring at what was left of me. He didn't kneel, didn't pray, didn't even feel a ruffle to judge its quality. He just stood. And stared. At any moment I expected him to give me one last punch in the face, for old time's sake, but he did something even weirder. Weirder than anything I'd seen up to that point, dead or not. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled a rose. A single, trimmed flower, slightly wilted, but still very beautiful. Obviously picked with care. It was red, a very dark blood-red, and he placed it beside me, making sure it was tucked in tightly between the coffin and my "arm." Perhaps making sure I would be buried with it. Astonished, I watched his face, and wondered at its blankness -- at its still, pale repose. Watched as he leaned in, and without hesitation, without repulsion... He kissed me. A pair of rubies against gray sapphires. Sad warmth against bitter frost. Life against death. Without another word to anyone in the room, Mulder turned on his heel and left, virtually jogging in his haste to exit the parlor. I followed, as best I could, and watched as he ran out into the cold night, flying past the ice cream store and across the parkway, nearly getting killed twice by cars that didn't slow down for funeral homes. To return to a life that didn't slow down for grief. ======= A few hours, no, maybe it was days later, I visited him at home. Well, in that hole he calls his home. The man can afford better, I'm sure of it, but he insists on punishing himself in any, and every, way he can and who am I to argue? Or, who *was* I to argue? He was home alone that night, drinking from a frozen orange juice can, the sticky ice laced heavily with cheap vodka. I'm glad I hadn't seen this when I was alive, or I might never have given him the time of day again. Of course, I couldn't speak to him, I could only watch. Watch and wonder if he thought that I was in Hell, burning like a Boston Market chicken, with a pitchfork shoved up my ass. Or, that by some chance, all my evil deeds were simple misunderstandings and I was floating around in a white robe, playing blackjack with Dean Martin and asking Lorne Greene why Battlestar Galactica had been canceled. Little did he know that I could be doing either, because Heaven and Hell are nothing like what anyone would expect them to be. Not even close. And please, don't ask me to tell you about it. You'll find out soon enough. But at that moment, all I wanted to do was be with Mulder, hoping he'd do or say something that would explain his actions at my funeral. Unfortunately, he wasn't the type to sit around and talk to himself, as crazy as Scully or Skinner or everyone else thinks he is. So, for hours we sat, Krycek the Friendly Ghost and Fox Mulder, Bartender to the Hopeless, unable to communicate, unable to touch, unable understand each other at all. Just like we'd been in life. For a second, I wondered if I could manipulate anything physical, maybe knock over his fish bowl, or convince him to pull out his Ouija board, but the penalties for that sort of nonsense are severe. Yes, there are rules in the afterlife, rules clearly dividing the realms of the living and the dead, or believe me, shit would be flying around *all* over the place, day in and day out. Remember, there are a lot more of us than of you. I watched, silent and frustrated, as he finally put down his drink, and turned on the TV, swaying slightly. He flipped the channels aimlessly, and I could see that he wasn't really watching anything at all. His expression was painfully blank, deep-lined with sorrow, and somewhere, in what was left of my individual soul, I wondered if it was for me. Hoped in my heart that it wasn't. For there is nothing more painful to the dead than the mourning of the living -- it burns like fire. Mulder continued to stare out drunkenly at nothing, and I decided to take off, to leave him... To let him rest in peace. I had just begun to back away, when, without warning, he looked directly at me. Stared at me. Gaping. Trembling. As if he'd seen a ghost. Impossible, I thought, but there it was. The hint of terror in his eyes, only slightly marring a look of relief. A look of wonder. A look of tremendous joy. "Alex?" he whispered, and at the sound of his voice, I felt myself getting pulled -- dragged back unwillingly,into The Place. I didn't dare try to speak; didn't know if I could, but it didn't seem to matter. All that mattered was the look of happiness in his eyes, the complete evaporation of the grief that had weighed so heavily on him just moments before. I couldn't answer him, not with words, but that hardly seemed to matter. He was smiling, and that wondrous smile was the last thing I saw before he faded from my view, as the unfathomable horizon of what follows took me into its eternity... And swallowed me whole. ========= Case: #X-27421387 File: Krycek, Alexander Date: February 2, 2001 Subject: Personal Addendum to Closed File 7 a.m, Thursday Found red rose on my bed this morning. FM 2/2/01 ========== THE END (?) If you laughed, or if you cried, how about letting a poor, dejected author know? Puleeeze? dbkate@yahoo.com