Author: Marcia Elena
Keywords: Mulder/Krycek, crossover with Angel the Series.
Warning: Character death.
Summary: No summary this time. Just read it. Or not.
400 words ficlet, written for challenge #61 at slashthedrabble, themed 'Cards', January 26th, 2006.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit. I wish.
Author's notes: I haven't written in a while and I'm very rusty. Plus, this is entirely stream of consciousness. Free virtual moon pies for anyone who can guess what's going on here. ;-)
He's watched this scene before, the shower curtain being ripped out of its hooks one by one by one as he falls, unable to hold his weight as he clutches at it with his one hand. It's never been his weight before, though, and he never thought he'd be playing the part (too cliché, though he can't name any of those movies now, his mind is busy with a million other, more urgent thoughts) but then he's meeting the floor, the cheap cold tiles cutting into his cheek, his chest and groin. He tries to breathe, to speak, but the only thing coming out of his mouth is blood (his, only his this time) hot and metallic, spreading underneath him and pooling in his throat, in his lungs as he keeps trying (vainly) to draw a deep clean breath. He knows he's drowning in it, and he wants to laugh but all he can manage is a wet gasping gurgle (another cliché and he can't stand it, that his death would be like this, that he doesn't even know who killed him, or why.) Yet a gun was fired, four shots and his ears are still ringing with it, and the bullets don't need an identity, they kill just as they've been designed for. Like him, just like him, hadn't he killed people without letting them know why, hadn't he watched them die, like this and in too many other ways, clichés for them too but Death doesn't care, it comes and it owns you and you're gone, gone... Not gone yet, but his vision is dimming, and he thinks his brain is playing tricks on him, all he can see is someone's hand, his killer's hand, and it's green and spotted as it lays a business card on the floor close to his face. He moves his head and the tide of his blood surges forward, as weak as he feels. His killer is leaving and he can hear his steps falling further and further away, and there's blood on the card now and he can't read it, only one word stands out to him but he thinks it's misspelled (Hart) and his own heart is faltering now, misspelling his life, not a life at all but a lie, only a lie and too late, all the need inside him flaring up too late, burning so bright, oh Mul-