Our next presenter is quickly gaining recognition in the M/K community. She's
written many stories deeply exploring the dynamic between Mulder and Krycek, often
focusing on the inner workings of the men themselves. She is probably best known for
her *Lost* series, the forth part of which she is currently working on. She also writes
Mulder/Krycek poetry, and one of her poems was a finalist in this year's awards.
The path of love for our boys never does seem to run smoothly. The
authors nominated for the category of Best Angst display excellence in both
their writing and character portrayals. Each of these authors deserves the
nomination, and I only wish that an award could go to each of them.
Batesville by Loren Q
"Look Mulder, I'm not really sure why I wanted to talk to you-"
"The hell you aren't. You always have a plan. You want to see just
how you wrecked me. You want to gloat!"
"I wrecked you? Okay, I had a hand in breaking down your denial,
but I had a lot of material to work with."
"You fucking raped me!"
"And you were hard the moment you saw me. You were hard before I
fucked you and you stayed hard after I was done."
"That doesn't make it consent. It's still rape. It's still a
crime."
"How different is it from getting the shit beat out of you? If
they're even, then I owe you at least one more."
That's it! I vault over the table, barreling at him. He's sitting
there, not making a move. I pull him off the barstool, slam him
hard against the wall and pull back my fist.
"Make that two more. Or I can give consent and we won't count this
one." I'm inches away from beating him to death and he never loses
his calm.
I grab his collar and haul him up to my face. "What the hell are
you doing to me?"
"I'm not doing anything to you. Believe it or not, I'm trying to
help."
Hit and Run VI: Dead End* by Frankie and Lucy Snowe
[FMldr] Honestly, I don't know. I treated him so badly. He didn't care, and
I didn't think I did, but...god, I'm rambling. You know him. He just gets
under your fucking skin. God, you'd think he was still alive.
[zp7193] Yeah, it's hard to believe he's dead. What did you do to him? And
what made you start to care? And, really, don't worry about the rambling.
I've been guilty of it myself.
[FMldr] I was a shit to him. I knew it would scare him, but I just wanted to
make him suffer a little. It worked. But he got me back. I don't know when I
started to care...and that's not even what it is. I don't know. He was out
of touch for a while and it made me realize that I felt something I
shouldn't. I'm not making any sense. I just wish he was here.
[zp7193] You cared for him.
[FMldr] I did. Maybe I still do.
[zp7193] Maybe? It doesn't sound to me like there's much doubt there.
[FMldr] You know what he did. Can you explain to me why I would have wanted
to be with him after all the shit that happened?
[zp7193] No, I can't. You're on your own for that one.
[FMldr] I think I cared before he fucked me over...the first time, I mean.
When we were still partners.
Not on My Watch 4: Remember Me by Aries
The early autumn sun washed the open field in its warm glow, spotlighting
the lone, dark figure amongst the pillars of white. As motionless as the
slabs of stone, the figure stared unblinking at the mahogany casket.
Only a short time ago, the field had been dotted with color, the hallowed
silence broken by the sounds of rifle fire, a lone bugler playing taps, and
a somber voice offering to a grieving mother the thanks of a grateful
nation.
Family and friends offered their condolences and slowly faded away, leaving
three people huddled together in their grief, and one who would now forever
be alone.
The mother watched through a haze of tears as, oblivious to their presence,
the solitary figure slowly approached the mahogany casket, dropping to his
knees in front of it, and rocked back and forth. The mother looked to the
woman beside her.
"Who is that?"
The younger woman drew a deep breath then spoke. "That's..."
A hand on her arm made her cut off her words, and she looked up to the male
in their small group. He gave her a tiny shake of his head, but she would
not be dissuaded.
"He never would have lied to her if she'd asked him." She placed her hand
on the mother's back, stroking gently.
"...That man was your son's lover. His name is Alex."
Sleep and Tackle by Loren Q and Zoe Takashi
The time passes slowly, the monotony of driving interrupted for food
stops and fuel. Krycek seems to have a faintly amused expression on his
face every time I say something, otherwise, he completely ignores me.
I turn this into a game--seeing if I can get a reaction out of him. So
far it's Krycek 38, Mulder 19.
I glanced at him one time and would swear I caught a look of intense
lust on his face, but it was so quickly replaced by his normal
expressionless mask, that I must have imagined it.
Late afternoon, at a re-fueling stop, Krycek suddenly cuffs me to the
steering wheel and gets out of the car. "Krycek!" He ignores me and
walks to a payphone. He's only gone a few minutes but when he returns
his tension level is high and any evidence of a good mood is gone.
Uncuffing me, he directs me to drive due east.
"Krycek, what the fuck is going on?"
"Not now, Mulder."
"I can pull over until you answer me."
"And I'll shoot you where you sit." Ice in his voice.
Wild Justice by MJ Lee
Anonymous Office Building
Reston, VA
Darkness shrouded the room, mirroring the part of his soul that had driven
him here, the hatred, bitterness and hunger that had brought him to this
meeting and to the man facing him.
He sat down and looked at the man across the table. The foulness of smoke
filled his nostrils, making his eyes sting.
"I know why you are here, Agent Mulder," the man said. There was no
gloating, no triumph, just a calm arrogance, his voice ripe with the surety
that sooner or later all would fall to his corruption.
"I want him." The voice, usually so rich, sounded thin and flat.
"Alex Krycek." The legacy of countless cigarettes rasped through the
gravely sound.
The name conjured up the shadow of the man, a traitor, with blood on his
hands, the face of a fallen angel, and a body to tempt a saint.
"Yes." Mulder leaned forward, eyes looking steadily into the face of his
enemy. "What's your price?"
There was a long silence, and then the man slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"He is yours, Agent Mulder." The slight movement of desiccated lips might
have been interpreted as a smile. "Call it a gift."
"I don't believe you."
The smoker moved one frail shoulder in an indifferent shrug. "You may
believe what you want, but I assure you, there is no price."
It could not be this easy. "Why?"
The old man looked at him, his pale eyes enigmatic, and yet there was, for
the space of a breath, a strange emotion kindred to tenderness in the
pallid blue. "Because, Special Agent Fox Mulder, it is the first thing you
have ever asked of me."
The tip of the cigarette glowed hotter as he inhaled. "Whatever you may
think of my methods or my aims, I am not completely unsympathetic to the
natural desire of a man to avenge his ... father's death."
The pause was filled with enigmatic nuances Mulder was unable to unravel.
"Krycek will be delivered to you soon." A thin, ambiguous smile. "If you
have ever hesitated as to his guilt," he held out a black plastic
videocassette. "Watching this will resolve your doubts."
Mulder slowly took the cassette. "This means nothing," he said, wishing the
words did not sound hollow with the echo of a man who has just sold his
soul. "I will still get you, you son of a bitch. I'll expose all your dirty
little secrets, and one day I'll see you rot in jail for your crimes."
The threat slid off an impenetrable shield of lies and power. "I would
expect nothing less of you, Agent Mulder."
Mulder sat on his couch staring at the TV. Automatically he pushed the
rewind button, watching once again his father's face in the mirror, the
sadness, perhaps even regret, that filled Bill Mulder's eyes. And then
behind him, like some demon sent from hell to collect his soul, Alex Krycek
materialized from the shadows.
Mulder watched as his father jerked in surprise, the shadow of fear flowing
across his eyes, but when he saw who stood behind him, the fear transformed
into tired resignation. Bill Mulder said something softly. There was no
sound, but even mute, the calm with which he faced his own death was
obvious. Krycek answered, his smile triumphant.
A flash of the gun! Despite having watched it a thousand times already,
Mulder's body clenched in anguish as he saw his father fall, slide down
limply, the dark pool of blood widening beneath him.
Even as Bill Mulder's eyes filmed over into death, Krycek stepped forward,
and spat, deliberately, into his face. The spittle slid slowly off the skin
to the floor, mixing with the growing red spreading across the floor.
He was unaware of the sound he made. A groan erupting from the depths of
his soul. A primeval soundless scream as he watched and knew the true
impact of the most terrible words in the language: too late.
Yes, Alex by Loren Q
One by one, names are called. Some of my compatriots whisper or growl at the
sight, others look terrified, but no one is neutral.
I'm the last one left.
"M."
I turn and face... Fuck! What kind of trick is this?!
It's Alex Krycek. Shit.
***
Mulder's eyes widen when he sees me, shock overcoming rage. "M, come here."
He doesn't move. The Colonel steps forward, but I put my hand on his arm.
"I'll take care of this."
I look Mulder in the eye. "You have one chance, M. Come. Here."
War rages on his face. I see his hands flex into fists, then loosen. And all
the while the bulge in his jeans never flags. Finally, he moves toward me. All
eyes are on us. Helmut from Germany is smirking.
I put my hand on his shoulder and apply pressure. He drops to his knees. I
point down and he lays his forehead on the toe of my boot.
I gaze into Helmut's face, until the smirk is gone.
Heel planted, I lift M's forehead with the tip of my boot. Looking down, I
softly tell him, "Up." And he stands.
I lift his head so we're eye to eye. "You will address me as Alex."
