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by Starfish

by Starfish

Written for the lyric wheel dictionary challenge. Thanks to Pollyanna for the cool word. Sorry this is so short, but when the voices are done talking, that's it.

Rated PG-13, I guess -- teeny hint of violence, couple of mildly bad words. Slashy or not, depending on how your mind works. I don't see it, myself...

You want to know what the worst part is?

It's not the obvious stuff, like not being able to drive and eat at the same time, or the more esoteric things, like how in God's name do you clip your fingernails...

It's the fact that my body just won't believe it's gone.

My arm, I mean.

I get these phantom pains, yeah, I know, everybody's heard about them. I also get phantom itches. And then there are the twitches.

The twitches are definitely the worst of the worst. When I get tired or tense, (and when am I not, these days) what's left of the muscles in my shoulder start to twitch. It's like they're trying to remember how to work. Too bad there's nothing there to work with. It doesn't hurt, it just drives me batshit. Little pulses along the nerve endings. Dammit, there they go again.

There's even a medical term for it. Jactitation. I looked it up once. Sounds kind of dirty, doesn't it? When I was driving the Englishman around, I decided to develop a vocabulary that includes words that confuse people. Hey, I look for fun anywhere I can get it, you know?

There's another definition, which is marked as 'archaic' - the offence of falsely claiming to be a person's spouse. I don't get the connection, but...

Every time I think of that one, I have to laugh. 'Cause I get this mental picture of me dressed up like June Cleaver -- sweater, skirt, pearls, pumps --I might even shave the legs and go for the nylons. There I am, standing in Mulder's apartment. Dinner's in the oven, and the place is clean for once. Hey, it's a fantasy, okay? Cut me some slack here. So in he walks. Poor baby's tired after a long hard day of chasing monsters and filling out paperwork, so I have his beer already opened and waiting on the coffee table beside the remote. When he sees me, he stops dead in his tracks. "Krycek, you bastard, yada,yada,yada." Then he pulls out his Glock and shoots me.

What? I'm a realist. I know damn well how much the man hates me. It's just a little mind-movie, to take my mind off these damn twitches.

I look pretty hot in the sweater, though.


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