"Let Go"
10/19/98

RATING: About a M15, I guess. Just some nice language and references. 
Oh, and m/m affection.
SPOILERS: "Terma" (kind of), "The Red and The Black" (you didn't know 
they kissed?) "The Blessing Way" (well, again, only kind of)
SUMMARY: An unexpected situation forces the schmoopsome twosome to 
admit feelings.
ARCHIVE: Anywhere, just drop me a line please.
FEEDBACK: As always. AlexKrycek@innocent.com
DISCLAIMER: Of course, they're not mine. I don't think Alex will want 
to ever see my face (or fingers on the keyboard) again after this. FOX, 
1013, CC, don't sue, because I have no money. 
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a lot of firsts for me. So be gentle! ;) 
Beta by the lovely Frankie. (hopefully) Any remaining mistakes remain 
my own. 


=====
LET GO
10/19/98
by Fleur
=====

There's a knock on the door. Not that that's especially unusual, in 
here. The only difference is, that the knock isn't the professional rap 
of the nurses, or doctors. It's a more casual one. I don't look at the 
door...there aren't exactly many people it can be. I look out the 
window, at the somewhat small view I can see from here. 

"Alex," comes a voice from the door, and I refuse to look. I won't. I 
know the voice, and even though it's not permitted in this hospital, I 
can smell the cigarette smoke that comes with it. 

"Feeling any better?"

I still don't look, and he comes around to the side I'm facing. I have 
no choice but to quickly look him in the eyes, and the sight repulses 
me. Fucking sack of cancer. Ironic, to say the least. In response to 
his question, I shake my head slightly. 

The bastard picks up my chart. I feel like telling him to drop it, not 
wanting him to know every detail of me, but don't. I can't. I guess it 
has something to do with fear. I never used to be afraid of anything. 
Nothing could touch me. Knowing you're going to die anytime kind of 
changes a lot. 

I simply watch him, eyes hollow, as he sets the chart back down. He 
looks at me, then speaks again. It's unnerving to see him without a 
cigarette in hand or mouth. Hard to get used to. Not that I'll have to. 

"We'll miss you when you go, Alex."

Sounds so positive. Not at all sorry. Not at all like he's going to 
miss me. What will he miss, having a pet rat he can order around? Not 
Like I have any other qualities. I guess I used to be good-looking. 
Hell, I used to be whole. 

I don't reply to that. I hate the way everyone says "when you go". 
"When you pass on", "no longer with us", "Is no more". Say it. I'm 
going to be fucking dead. Six feet under. Dead. Buried. 

Maybe I'm avoiding it, too. It's hard. Everything I do is tainted with 
the thought that it might be the last time I do it. Death doesn't have 
much meaning. I can't think about the fact there won't be anything 
left. Can't imagine what it will be like. 

Wishing it was different. There are a lot of things I think I would 
have done differently. My choice in careers, for one. I'd be a 
gynaecologist.

I guess I must have looked spaced out, because he simply walks out. I'm 
not sad to see him go. Although I don't get many visitors in here, I'd 
be happy to have some friends come.

Not that I have any. Don't fool yourself, Alex. You're a lonely, 
one-armed assassin. No one likes you, they haven't for a long time. 

The door slams, and the sound echos through the room. Probably my 
imagination. I don't know, it's hard to keep reality straight these 
days. So much is hallucination at the moment. The drugs may have 
something to do with it, but I don't really know. Wish I did. 

I wish he would come. Well, in more ways than one, but I just want him 
to come here and see me. I need to see him. When I called him 'Comrade' 
that night, I meant it. He's the closest thing to a friend I have, now. 
Now, ever. He used to consider me a friend, too. At least, I think he 
did. Called me "Alex". Now it's always "Krycek", spat out angrily, 
meant as an insult. 

I miss the days we were partners. It wasn't supposed to be like it was. 
I was supposed to stay detached, to just spy on him. I wasn't supposed 
to fall in love with him. I wasn't supposed to jerk off thinking about 
him. Neither was in my job description.

But of course, when they told me about him, they failed to mention all 
his finer points. And are there ever a lot of them. 

I hope he does come to see me. I sent him a message, by way of the FBI. 
Don't ask how, but I do have connections there. If he has anything 
remotely close to an inquisitive mind, which I know he does, he'll 
come. 

I don't know what I'll say to him. He'll probably be happy. If he 
is...I don't want to break in front of him. I haven't yet broken over 
this. I don't have big emotional reactions very often, I don't go for 
them. And never in front of others.

For a while, I watch the door, then give up. A watched pot never boils. 
A watched door never lets the Fox in. 

I stare at the blank, white ceiling for a while, then drift into 
uncomfortable sleep. 

*It's shady. Dark. I can't see anything, but I know something's there. 
Someone. Nervously, I lean up against a tree and wait. Suddenly, the 
tree falls away from behind me, and it's all gone...darkness totally 
takes over all my senses--*

My eyes snap open suddenly, and harsh white light fills them. For a 
minute, I don't know where I am, then I remember. In the place I'm 
almost certainly going to be for the rest of my life.

There's another knock on the door, and I turn my head in hope. But it's 
the nurse. I guess she's nice, as nurses go, but I don't really like 
any of them. She smiles at me - the only one of them with a genuine 
smile.

"Feeling okay?"

Everyone asks that, it seems, in here. What am I suppsoed to answer? 
'Of course not, I'm going to die. And you?'

Instead, I shake my head slightly, without saying anything. I think 
I've gained the reputation here of being the quiet one. Better than my 
reputation anywhere else, that's for sure.

She smiles again, understanding, and comes over to my bedside, to check 
the IV. I watch her, even though I've seen her do the exact same thing 
a thousand times. Possibly not a thousand times, but still quite a 
few...

When she's finished, and is leaving, she turns around as if suddenly 
remembering something. 

"Oh, and Alex? You have another visitor. You're quite the popular one 
today, aren't you?"

I don't reply, but something - in another time, it might have resembled 
a smile - crosses my face instead. She leaves.

I hope it's him. I don't know who else it would be, who else would 
bother coming to see me. Unless it's another one of them, coming to 
pretend to be sad. I don't need to see them. 

I hear footsteps down the hall, and a detached part of me wonders if 
they're supposed to sound that far away. I don't think so. They sound 
miles away, but I suppose they're just out in the hall. 

The door was left open by the nurse, and Mulder appears in it. His 
expression completely changes when he sees me in the bed, and I can see 
he's struggling to decide what the proper reaction should be. He must 
be able to see I'm dying. 

Mulder stands beside the door, quietly closing it. He doesn't meet my 
eyes at first, just stands there, staring, face a perfect mask. Leaning 
against the wall.

"Krycek," he says, as a greeting. For a minute, I wonder what to reply.

"Hey, Mulder," I say to him weakly. He's staring out the window. I wish 
he'd look at me. 

"What happened to you?" 

He's uncomfortable. I can understand that, because I am too - much as I 
don't want to be. If the roles were reversed, I suppose I'd also be 
like this. 

I want to think of a smart, sarcastic comeback, but can't. I'm sure 
that's a sign of something. So I just reply truthfully.

"Cancer."

The expression that plays over his features would be impossible to 
describe. He doesn't say anything to it, just keeps up that blank face 
which is killing me.

Literally, I suppose. 

I have to look away from him finally, and I focus on some wilted 
flowers on the windowsil. The nurse brought them in for me. I guess 
pity had something to do with it. 

He still hasn't said anything. I finally think of something to lighten 
the situation. 

"Hey, Mulder, when I die, want me to leave you my jacket?"

The joke falls flat, and I regret saying it. Mulder shrugs a bit and 
shifts his weight. I don't know what to say. I wanted to see him so 
much, and when I do, it's like this.

I wish the man would show some goddamn emotion. Wake up, Mulder, I'm 
dying. Take notice. Laugh, cry, curse, fuck me...I don't care what, 
just do something. I'm going crazy.

He finally moves, pulling a chair to beside my bed. 

"You're going to die, Krycek?"

His face, this close...I can't look at him. I turn away again, and hate 
myself for it. 

"Looks like it. Sucks to be me, huh."

I wish he'd say something, if only to tell me to shut up, because I'm 
making no sense. It'd be nice to be able to come to terms with it. I 
think I'm afraid of it. 

He looks away, without a smile or anything. It's hard to get used to 
the fact he's not, for once, hitting me, slamming me against the wall, 
or otherwise abusing me. I look down for a while, then at him.

"Go on, Mulder."

He frowns. "What?"

"Laugh. Grin. Be happy. I'm never going to be here to bother you again. 
You'll be free of Alex Krycek."

My voice wavers a little at the end of that. Breaking. Because I don't 
mean a word of it. Well, I half do. That's the half that knows I 
probably don't have a week left. Won't see the movie on Saturday night. 

I wish that weren't the more logical half. 

His *eyes*. He just looks at me, as if I've hurt him by saying that. I 
don't see how. Surely it's true. In my idea of a perfect world, it 
wouldn't be - but in my idea of a perfect world, this wouldn't be 
happening.

"You dying doesn't make me happy, Krycek."

I want to say 'Call me Alex and hop on the bed, Foxy,' but he'd 
probably shorten my life even more and take my head off. 

So instead I settle for a more sane reply, even if it isn't what I 
want.

"Sure, Mulder."

I meant that to come out incredibly sarcastic, but it didn't. What the 
hell is wrong with me?

Oh, sorry, Alex, you didn't notice? You're dying. I must have failed to 
mention it to you. 

He looks at me, just stares, and I wonder what he's thinking. His eyes 
don't exactly tell me much - or have I just lost my touch at reading 
them - and his face still betrays no emotion. 

"I'm not happy that you're dying, Krycek, even though I should be."

He thinks he should be? Great, we agree on something, finally. I think 
he should be, too, but I wish I didn't think that. I don't reply, so 
Mulder goes on.

"I don't know why I'm not. I used to think this would be the greatest 
thing to have happen - Alex Krycek, finally out of my life."

Well, at least he isn't lying to make me feel better or to save my 
feelings. I hate that. But I wish he didn't look like he meant that 
statement. 

I feel like crying. And I promised myself I wouldn't. 

"But I can't be happy about it. It's finally come about. My father's 
assassin is going to get what's been coming to him for a long time."

"I didn't.."

"Kill my father. Yeah, Krycek, we've been through this a thousand 
times. And I've never come any closer to believing you. And it's not 
going to change just because you're on your deathbed."

That remark, true as it could possibly be, I suppose, cuts deeply. I 
don't need to be reminded that I'm on my deathbed. Don't need to be 
told. I know it. And I'm trying to get used to it. Quickly, I look away 
again. I swear, if he keeps looking at me that way, I'll lose it. And 
then it'll all just go. 

Mulder sighs a little, so quietly I hardly hear. Neither of us knows 
what to say, again, and I hate it. I've always hated silence. 
Especially when it's as tense as this, uncomfortable, awkward - I could 
go on listing, for a while. 

For the rest of my life, I guess. However long that is.

Mulder gets up again, paces around the room. I watch him, admiring, and 
I suppose a little jealous. It's been a while since I've paced around 
like that. Easy stride, no pain. 

No pain. That's starting to be a foreign concept. Can I even remember 
what it was like, without the pain?

He stops at the pathetic flowers, looks at them, then turns around to 
me.

"Who gave you them?"

"Nurse," I reply shortly. No point in saying anything else, how I have 
no other friends to give me flowers, no one who cares enough to even 
notice I've been in here.

"They're dying.." he says quietly, and I wonder if he means the double 
meaning that comes across clear to me. 

I nod, and shift a little in my bed. I wonder about his change of 
attitude, why he isn't yelling, cursing me out, laughing, being 
violent. It's unlike him. This is too quiet, too peaceful. He's 
treating me almost like he used to. 

Maybe he's been thinking about that night like I have been. The night I 
went to his apartment. 

I didn't know then, but I had cancer. Hell, I didn't know until a week 
or two ago. Originally, the kiss was simply intended to confuse 
him...but then I realised how much I wanted him. I always knew, but I 
didn't know. That doesn't make any sense. I make no sense. This whole 
fucking situation makes no sense.

Maybe it made him realise, too. Maybe he pursed his lips, wanting it on 
the lips. Maybe he longed to reach out, pull me in, kiss me back, take 
me...Maybe my imagination's running away with me again. 

Mulder glances towards me in the bed again. His eyes are sad, which 
surprises me. He cares. I wouldn't have guessed that, otherwise. 

"I've...I've got to go, now," he stammers, trying not to break my gaze. 
Turning, he walks to the doorway, then pauses. I don't know why, but I 
take the opportunity to ask him a question.

"Are you coming back?"

He looks down at the floor for a minute, then, without replying, 
leaves. What sort of an answer is that? A 'maybe'? A 'No'? 

I hope it's a 'yes'. I want to see him again, even if it is like that 
meeting. It's just something I have to do, see him. He doesn't realise 
what it's like from my point of view, what it's like for me. 

What it's like to not know how long you have left.

*I'm sitting, cross-legged, in the middle of a clearing. All around is 
dark, but a light is shining in the clearing, over my body. I'm 
watching from the side. A small creature comes into view, and I reach 
forward to pick it up with both hands. However, before I take it, the 
creature scampers off, and I close my eyes. Darkness takes over 
totally, and I am alone.*

Strange how I have two arms in dreams. Maybe my subconcious hasn't 
noticed. But in dreams, I'm always my whole, relatively healthy self. 
Like I used to be. Perhaps it's just that my subconcious is stuck in 
the past.

Wonder what Mulder's dreams are like. Wonder who's in them. In my 
perfect world, I'd be in them. Every night. Naked. But, this isn't my 
perfect world.

I'm cold. It's midnight, well, eleven minutes past, to be exact. At 
least, according to the bedside clock. Maybe someone's set it back. Or 
forward. I don't know. Would it even matter? I don't sleep according to 
it. I sleep at random times, for random amounts of time. Sometimes 
sleep doesn't happen. 

Not only am I cold, but I'm lonely and miserable. It may sound cliched, 
but it's true. The streetlights from outside are casting an eerie 
light. Wish they wouldn't do that. A night nurse should be in to check, 
soon. I'm sure they have some way of knowing if someone's asleep or 
not. Can imagine how that conversation would go. 'You're not sleeping. 
Feeling okay?' 'No, I'm still in pain, I'm cold, lonely and miserable.' 
'Ah well, see you in the morning Mr Krycek!'

Not worth it. May as well try to get to sleep. Not that I have much to 
wake up for. Another day of tasteless food, mindless happiness, fake 
smiles. Don't know if I can take that for another twenty-four.

I hope I don't dream.

*It's Scully. Is it? No. It's Melissa. Melissa Scully, her sister. Clad 
in a long dress, which sweeps the ground, and her long hair is draped 
over her shoulders. Her features are all exaggerated. Silently, she 
reaches out to me, and takes my hands. She tugs, and involuntarily I 
step forward...*

She's dead. 

I blink my eyes several times, trying to dispel the memory of that 
dream. Melissa Scully is gone. I don't want to think about why she's 
beckoning me in my dreams. I hope it doesn't mean what I suspect.

I feel worse this time. Weaker. Sicker, if that's possible. This 
feeling of hopelessness...it's impossible to get used to. I'm going to 
die, and I can't do a thing about it.

Outside, the sun is just rising. I look out at the colourful rays of 
light, shining through the window, and long to be outside in them. Just 
one more time. But, somehow, I don't think that's going to happen.

It's getting harder to even think a day into the future. I'm wondering 
if it's because there won't be a day in the future to look forward to. 
Better not be. 

It's hard to be any less negative. Positivity seems to escape me right 
now. It's hard to be positive with a sword continually hanging over 
your head. Sometimes I just want it to drop, and stop me from waiting 
and wondering when it will.

I suppose I should sit up, but I can't. It would take too much effort. 
There have been too many days like this lately, when it's really bad. 
Some days are fine. But most are somewhat harder. These days outweight 
the fine ones, and it's getting worse. Yesterday was fine. Well, 
relatively so - I got through without hurting too much. But already I 
can tell that today is going to be one of the worst. 

Perhaps it will be the last.

A nurse comes in, despite how early it must be. I don't have the energy 
to check the clock. She takes a look at me, and I realise that I don't 
really know her. 

She frowns, and I want to ask what is wrong. 

Systematically, she checks all my vitals, then leaves again, without 
even saying a word. Why not? Don't people here understand that not 
saying anything is much worse than giving me bad news?

Soon, the woman comes back with a doctor. She looks at me, then pulls 
up a chair to talk to me.

"Are you feeling all right, Alex?"

"Why does everyone ask me that?" I reply weakly. "Do I look all right?"

"Actually, no."

I blink, and wonder if I should have been wanting everyone to be 
straight with me. Her face is the perfect picture of concern, and I 
wonder if it's sincere. She looks up at the nurse again, and she 
tactfully leaves.

"Is there anyone you'd like to see, today?"

I can hear what she's not saying; 'You're going to die. Want to see 
anyone one last time?' I don't reply, and she goes on, suggesting.

"Maybe your parents, siblings, girlfriend?"

I look away, and realise that I'm crying. For the first time since I 
came in here. It's suddenly hit me, now. 

She makes no movement to comfort me, and I start crying uncontrollably. 
One part of me can't believe this, turning into such a wreck after 
going through all of this, and the rest of me is saying how I need it. 

Eventually, there's a lull in the tears, and she touches my shoulder. I 
turn to her.

"Mulder. I want to see him."

She nods, and asks how they can contact him. I give her his phone 
number - I memorised it a long time ago, and she nods slightly. 

And leans over and hugs me. I hear her whisper in my ear, "Be brave."

She stands up, and walks out the door. I simply turn my face and start 
crying a little, again. It's come to me that I'm never going to see a 
lot of people again. And it's the strangest ones that I'm going to 
miss.

Skinner, my ex-boss who punched harder than anyone I've ever met. 
Scully, with the ice-blue eyes and perfect red hair. The Smoking Man, I 
suppose I'll even miss him. He's been a part of my life for so long. 
The other consortium members. 

My family. Even though I haven't known them for a long time, I'll miss 
knowing they were around. They won't even know. 

All those people who won't care when I'm dead, or who might even be 
happy. And I'm sad that I won't see them. I won't see anyone.

Mulder, you've got to come. I have to tell you something.

I stay still, crying on and off, thinking about everything and yet 
nothing, at the same time. I don't talk out loud; there's no one there 
to hear me. A couple of nurses come in and leave again, but none of 
them talk to me. 

And then he comes. 

He's dressed so casually, yet it seems so appropriate. Jeans. A shirt, 
hanging out over the belt loops. Running shoes. His hair's a mess, but 
it all seems so perfect to me. He picks up the chair, and draws it next 
to my bed. He looks at me, and his features no longer show zero 
emotion. 

"Krycek," he murmurs, quietly, soothingly. I open my mouth, but he 
shakes his head, anticipating what I'm about to say.

"Alex," he begins again. Using my first name almost causes me to lose 
all control again, but not quite. He smiles gently, and I wonder when 
he decided I'm not the cold-blooded killer he once thought.

"Mulder," I say quietly, "Why did you come?"

I don't know why I had to ask that. What do I want him to answer? What 
do I expect? 

"Because," he replies simply, "I realised that I don't hate you. I 
can't just let you go."

For some reason, I'd rather he didn't say 'die'. I'm glad he didn't. 
But I wish he didn't have to say either. 

"You don't hate me?"

"No, I don't."

Nice to know that. Did you really have to leave it until I'm like this, 
Mulder? He's not avoiding my eyes - in fact, it is I that is having 
trouble meeting his. 

Something breaks inside. I don't know how else to put it, but something 
gives, lets go. I can physically feel it, and my vision blurs in the 
slightest. I'm slipping. I want him to put his arms around me. I want 
to be held. I draw in a breath, and he hears, leaning forward.

"Alex?"

I nod, and shut my eyes for an instant. I feel almost like I'm fading, 
and I need to sleep. 

"Hold me?" I suggest softly. I don't have the strength to beg, or ask 
coherently. He nods, understanding, and takes me in both arms, coming 
onto the bed. 

Instinctively, I move my head for him to cradle, and he does so. 
Everything's darkening now, all I can feel, all I know, is Mulder, this 
close, holding me. His breathing. His heartbeat. I have to tell him 
something, even though I know it's going to be the last thing I'm able 
to do.

"Mulder.." I whisper, being unable to say it any louder. He murmurs 
something, and I realise he's heard. I finish; "I love you."

He strokes my hair a little, and I feel like crying, but the tears 
won't come any more. It's all too late. 

"I love you too, Alex."

Let go.

*It's totally dark, and I am utterly alone. No lights, no gaps, just 
opressing darkness, all around. At least the pain is gone now. I don't 
know where I am. There's no way to tell. It's relatively warm. I don't 
know where to go, whether or not to walk. All I know is a feeling of 
complete and utter peace.*