Title: The Dawn on the Snow


 Author: Lissa


 Disclaimer: Not mine. Believe me, I can't be more
 dissapointed than I already am.


 Archive: A.S.S. only


 Rating: PG 13


 Category: Vignette/Angst


 Keywords: Mulder/Krycek slash


 Spoilers: None. Well, Terma I guess. We all know
 what happened there.


 Summary: Mulder is alone at home at night,
 and he has a visitor.


 Thanks to Araxdelan and Lone Gungirl for beta.







 The Dawn on the Snow



    I've been standing like this for so long, my body is numb.
 Forehead on the cold glass, and the coldness is slowly
 taking over my body. The world is filled with the deaf music
 of the falling snow.


   Welcome to the Silver Dance.


   But I am alone tonight. Dark eyes follow my every
 movement, ghosts from the past are here today. Whispers
 surround me, like a dream, because when I try to catch
 at least one word, total silence comes from every corner
 of this freezing, shadowed place that for eternity I've
 called my home, home never warmed by a lover.


   Welcome to the Snow Dance.


   But I am alone tonight. My hand is holding the empty air.
 My partner is hiding in the darkness of the big mirror in the
 hall. I am afraid to look at it, afraid that I'll see my own
 reflection there, that the sinful darkness in it is my soul.


 Am I waiting?
 Am I thinking?
 Am I simply passing through this evening, like all those
 before, like many others that will come?
 But today it is snowing for the first time, and I am warm for
 the first time, and I am shivering from the cold and from
 the anticipation of magic.


   Welcome to the Lone Dance.


   But my lover is here. I am listening to his steps on the polished
 hardwood, slow, like waltz, light, like polka, graceful, like
 polonaise. Fatal, like death. Closer and closer, magic growing
 so big and I see the black holes of mysteries, night, approaching
 and I see the golden eyes of the stars.


   So beautiful is the world. So lonely. And I have been waiting
 for you. You are here. The breathless presence right there on
 that edge of the pink-yellow light, streaming from the window,
 and thick, black-gray darkness of the coming winter. You are
 staying at the door, without words asking for permission to enter,
 like a vampire. I know I can say one word and you'll disappear,
 but I would never do that, never tell you to leave, even though
 it's dancing on the tip of my tongue, almost slipping, but never,
 never it is spoken, and you stay.


   The world is pink-gray, spreading light orange on the
 frozen earth. Snow is falling silently and softly, so gentle
 it is, so harsh are its kisses, so violent is the touch of the
 cold. The blushing snow - your skin heated by the lovemaking.
 Your perfect vampire teeth, drawing blood from my heart,
 spilling it on my hands, making me your accomplice in this
 most beautiful and deadly of all crimes.


   You come and I let you in, and then silently devour you,
 your soul, seeing it is only my privilege, your heart which
 is preserved only for me, and your body, marred by me.
 The perfect moment, the happiness, misunderstood, incomplete,
 the chain of joy is broken in fragments. We are surfacing for
 a second, the length of one breath, one touch, and we are
 drowning again in the blue depth of this story, written on
 the pink snow.


   As much as I want to keep you here I let you go back into
 the shadows, where you, by ruining lives, save the world. Irony
 is all around us. Irony is in our existence, in our struggle, in
 our victories always accompanied by losses.


   In this snow-white deafness I hear your words, the ones
 you never say to me:


   "You are like babies. Ugly little things, always cry, always
 demand something, always searching for the warmth, for
 the food you give them. Put the whole world into those tiny
 hands. Dedicate the whole life to that little monster and
 can't even thank the destiny enough for it.
 As long as you are here, it is so worth it."


   Nature doesn't acknowledge white color. Where nature
 is concerned, it doesn't exist. The law of life is both taking
 it and giving it. Even the cleanest snow under the sun is not
 white but light sparkling silver and liquid gold. The pure
 white cotton of the clouds is marred by the upcoming
 darkness of the rain, of the storm, of the war.


   Martyrs are the worst of us, those who have nothing to lose.


 And when I am letting you go I don't know whether
 you are going to destroy us, or save us.




   The End





  Lissa
  http://www.members.tripod.com/Araxdelan/lissa/Lissa.html