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Three Halloweens That Never Happened to Alex Krycek

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Three Halloweens That Never Happened to Alex Krycek

Three Halloweens That Never Happened to Alex Krycek

by Courtney Gray

[Story Headers]


NUMBER ONE:

"Since we're invited guests to this Halloween shindig, I don't see why we still have to fork over $100 a piece?" Ringo Langly pushed a stray lock of blond hair behind his ear and adjusted his plumed hat away from his glasses.

"It's for charity, benefiting the Children's Hospital," replied Byers as he tugged at the irritating froth of lace at his throat. "It's for a good cause."

"Yeah, besides where else can you see this many Fibbies looking so ridiculous," added Frohike, hefting up his wide leather belt as his sword scraped the floor again.

"I wouldn't talk," grumbled Langly. "I still think we should've come as the Stooges."

"Dignity, Ringo, dignity," returned Frohike. "Anyway, we couldn't all be Moe."

"Yes, and I think the Three Musketeers is very apropos for us," added Byers.

"Well, you would, it was your idea."

Byers ignored Langly's grousing comment with a smile. "One for all and all for one," he quoted. "I just didn't expect these costumes to be quite so...lacy."

"It was the manly style of its day, bro," replied Frohike. His eyes roamed the crowd of costumed party-goers. "Ah, there's the lovely Ms Scully."

Dana Scully was walking towards one of the many small tables scattered throughout the ornate ballroom, Mulder by her side.

"Hey, is she wearing a lab coat? Not a very original costume for a doctor, is it?"

"Even in that rather capacious coat, there's definitely no hiding the fact that she's in the family way," remarked Byers.

"You mean, knocked up? Pregnant? About to pop a bun out of the oven any second? You're so like a Victorian aunt, dude."

Frohike gave both his friends a sour look. "She's still hot."

"What kind of uniform is Mulder wearing?"

"Early Boston Red Sox. C'mon." Frohike led them towards the couple, snaking through the crowd.

"Can't we stop at the buffet table first?" whined Langly, his plea ignored.

Scully was carefully settling herself into a chair, a small plate of hors d'oeuvres in front of her and what looked like a glass of apple juice.

"Well if it isn't Alexandre Dumas' worst nightmare," greeted Mulder as his three friends approached.

"That's a non-regulation cap, dude," returned Langly pointing to Mulder's hat. Instead of the Boston Red Sox logo, it was emblazoned with the words, 'ET Went Home.'

"Number 42, Mulder? Your old apartment?" asked Byers, curiously eyeing the number on the back of Mulder's shirt.

Langly rolled his eyes. "The meaning of life, the universe and everything. Hitchhiker's Guide."

"Actually, it so happens you're both wrong," replied Mulder. "It's Jackie Robinson's number. Best baseball player that ever lived."

As they bantered, Frohike bowed towards Scully with a grin as she smiled politely back and nibbled at a stuffed mushroom. "You're looking exceptionally radiant this evening, Ms. Scully."

"Likewise," she said, her blue eyes taking in his velvet coat and satin sash, wide silver belt buckle and sword. Beneath her own roomy lab coat, she was wearing a loose and rather low-cut shift with the Periodic Table printed on it. The chemical elements over her belly curved noticeably around the large baby bump. Earrings shaped like tiny crystal test tubes dangled from her ears.

Suddenly, she gave a soft, "oh," and dropped the hors d'oeuvre, her hands moving to her stomach.

"What? What is it, Scully?" Mulder leaned down, his arm going around her shoulders. "Are you okay?" he asked solicitously.

She took a slow breath and smiled up at him. "The baby kicked me. He's moving around a lot. Here, feel." She took his hand and laid his palm on the side of her belly.

Mulder grinned. "Yeah, I think he's getting tired of his accommodations. Maybe he's thinking about moving out."

"No offense, but you make me nervous," said Langly. "Shouldn't you, like, be in a maternity ward or at home lying in bed or something?"

Byers surreptitiously batted his arm.

"I'm not due for a couple of weeks. Besides, this is my last official Bureau function for a while and I intend to enjoy it."

"Are you going to continue working at Quantico after the baby is born?" inquired Byers.

"Well, I'm thinking about keeping my part-time hours after I'm finished with maternity leave, yes."

"So, you're not interested in going back to the X-Files at some point?"

Mulder swiped one of her stuffed mushrooms and popped it into his mouth as she gave him a mock glare.

"Aside from the Bureau's regs about married agents working in the same department, there's no need since Mulder has finally adjusted to his partner and they make a damn good team." Her eyebrow arched meaningfully. "Speaking of whom, where is he, Mulder?"

Mulder scanned the milling crowd just as a band started to play at the far end of the ballroom. "He's late. He better not think he's wheedling out of the bet."

"What did you bamboozle the poor kid into doing this time?" asked Frohike.

"You wound me, Melvin. No trick. It was fair and square, a contest of adroitness and dexterity. Winner chooses the loser's costume." A beatific smile spread over his face. "I won."

Scully shook her head, red hair swaying against her shoulders. "Mulder bet him that he could stick more pencils into the ceiling in one go without any dropping off. Isn't that ridiculous?"

"Hey!" cut in Mulder. "That happens to be a skill requiring precision accuracy, steady reflexes, and intense concentration. It takes years to hone and develop. I beat him 11 to 5."

Scully rolled her eyes. "Men," she muttered, as if the one word said it all.

"Is that your sister over there, Mulder?" Langly pointed to a slim woman enveloped in what looked like a frothy soft pink ballgown with little fairy wings sprouting from her back. She was wearing a tall crown with a little cluster of diamonds dipping over her forehead.

"You mean, Glinda the Good Witch of Chilmark, Mass?"

"Looks like she just stepped out of 'The Wizard of Oz,' dude. Very cool."

Mulder smiled indulgently. "Yeah, I guess she looks all right," he conceded in typical big brother fashion.

"Where's her doting fianc?"

"See that Indiana Jones with the hat falling over his eyes heading towards her holding the sloshing champagne glasses?"

Frohike and Langly both started to chortle. "I figured Agent Pendrell as more of the Jimmy Olsen type myself," quipped Frohike.

"Sam told me that 'Raiders' is his favorite movie. And I wouldn't talk...Porthos."

Before more comments could fly, Scully called out. "There you are, Walter, I was beginning to think you'd never get away from that security meeting."

The Three Lone Musketeers exchanged glances as Assistant Director Skinner strode through the crowd towards their table looking like he was ready to take on the Clanton Gang at the O.K. Corral. A Marshal's badge gleamed on the leather vest he wore over a cream-colored cotton shirt that emphasized his wide shoulders. His dark cowboy hat was angled just so and a classic six-gun hung low at his hip. A soft jingle of spurs marked his steps as he stopped beside Scully, leaning down to kiss her lips tenderly.

Mulder nodded as he looked on. "As you can see, your wife is safe and sound, if huge," he said as his boss straightened, his brown eyes still focused on his pregnant spouse.

"Walter, is that why Mulder has been hovering over me like an anxious granny ever since I set foot out of the house tonight?"

"I just wanted him to keep an eye on you for me, dear." Skinner pinned Mulder with a look. "I had hoped he'd be a little less obvious."

Mulder swallowed and began examining the rubber cleats on his baseball shoes.

"Oh my god, is that your partner, Mulder?" Langly's voice bubbled with laughter.

Mulder looked up and a huge grin spread over his face. "Yup. There he is."

A large purple object was making its way along the edges of the room towards them.

"Oh, Mulder, you didn't," chastised Scully.

"Doesn't he look," Mulder paused to snicker. "Adorable?"

Byers' face pinked with sympathetic embarrassment as the plump purple creature, head down as if it could avoid detection, waddled closer. Langly swept off his plumed hat and held it to his breast. "He'll never live this down," he declared solemnly.

The triangle on the top of the creature's head bobbed slightly back and forth, and a bright red purse swung precariously from one fat and furry arm.

"Hello Tinky Winky!" yelled Mulder as his purple-costumed partner finally made it to the little table, his back firmly turned away from the room at large.

"I think I hate you right now," muttered Jeffrey Spender, his eyes blazing out of his Teletubbies costume.

Assistant Director Skinner bit down on his lip for a moment before giving the head of his X-Files unit a reproachful stare.

Mulder only shrugged. "I won fair and square. Isn't that right, Jeff? Hell, if you'd won, I'd probably be dressed as Marilyn Monroe or Madonna."

At that moment, a couple of agents dressed as vampires with large Bloody Marys in their hands lurched by, and one called out. "Hey, Spender, I love your purse! It's so you!"

Agent Jeffrey Spender gritted his teeth as the others muffled their amusement and Mulder laughed out loud. "All right. Bet's done. I'm going back down to the garage and change."

"What?!" whined Mulder.

"The bet was that I had to show up in this absurd costume, not that I had to stay in it for the whole evening!" snapped Jeffrey.

"Well, at least wait until Alex gets here," replied Mulder.

"Yeah," cut in Frohike, "Where is your better half anyway?"

"Yeah," echoed Langly. "He said he was going to let us know tonight if we got the contract extension."

It was Skinner who answered. "After he made his presentation at the security meeting, he said he had to make a call to a 'hot' prospect in London and then he'd change and head over. And that was after he'd settled on a very lucrative agreement with us." He let out a long breath and turned to Mulder. "I would have thought that since he's married to you and you are one of our agents that he'd have, at least, given us a discount."

But Mulder was looking fixedly over Skinner's shoulder.

"That would've been showing favoritism, Walter. I couldn't do something like that," said an amused and husky voice.

Alex Krycek, having slipped silently through the crowd of revelers, stood right behind him. Dressed in thigh-high black boots, snug black pants, and a flowing black silk pirate's shirt, a gleaming, authentic-looking cutlass hanging from one hip, he was the epitome of a fantasy buccaneer, right down to the gold hoop earring in his left ear. Dark hair sweeping low over his brow, his vivid green eyes sparkled with satisfaction as he lifted his chin and smiled.

Skinner looked him up and down. "Well, you're dressed appropriately, that's for sure, you shameless pirate."

"Oh, Walter," Scully interrupted. "You told me yesterday yourself that Alex's company had the best proposal and the best software."

Skinner harrumphed and crossed his arms. "Still."

"Hey, then that means we get to poke more holes in the Fibbie security networks!" crowed Frohike.

"Yeah, you've got your extension, guys," confirmed Krycek. "And I think I'll need you for some work in London after that."

The three computer experts began high-fiving each other, swords clanging, as Scully offered her congratulations.

Meanwhile Agent Jeffrey Spender was inching his way towards the nearest exit as unobtrusively as he could manage in his conspicuous costume, muttering apologies as his red purse slapped into people along the way.

"Bye, Jeff," shouted Mulder devilishly. "Thanks for being a good sport! You look great there, partner!"

The purple creature seemed to shudder for a moment before picking up speed.

"Mulder, you bastard," chastised Krycek as he came up to stand close beside him. "You went ahead and made poor Jeff wear that silly thing."

"It's good for him. It'll make him strong." Mulder gave Scully a wink before snaking his arm around his one true love's black-clad waist.

Alex was watching the purple creature fade from sight, his green eyes pensive. "Did you ever notice that the interior of the Teletubbies' house looks like a spaceship? The outside is shaped like a flying saucer, too. Oh, it's covered with grass, but that could just be a disguise. And, of course, there are those data screens on their bellies. They're all extraterrestrials. Benevolent aliens, of course, but--"

The sudden silence around him made him glance back at his friends. They were staring at him with incredulous expressions. The Gunmen had their mouths open and Skinner's eyebrows were climbing above his wirerims.

"Why Alex, you sound like you've, er, studied the show rather closely," remarked Scully with a twitch of her lips.

"How do you think I found out about Tinky Winky?" replied Mulder. "Oh, yeah, Alex is a big fan. Why you wouldn't believe how--"

Whatever else he was going to say was quickly muffled when Alex turned and instantly covered his mouth with a firm hand as the sound of their friends' laughter filled the air around them.

--The End--

NUMBER TWO:

The stark white business card was blank except for a hand-written phone number. It smelled like tobacco. He stared at it for a long time before carefully slipping it back into his jacket pocket.

The dingy streets were slick and close to clean after the rain, dead leaves lining the gutters here and there. The storm had passed, leaving a cloudless sky and the air wintry and sharp. He gazed up at the moon. It was full and tinged with an almost orange hue. He hadn't taken the bus, needing a chance to walk and think about the decision he had to make. A bone-chilling wind was rising, ruffling his hair and biting his cheeks. In the distance, at the mouth of an alley, he could see the flicker of flames burning in a large metal container. A few figures were huddled around it. There were a lot of homeless people in this part of town, runaway teenagers, druggies and winos. The destitute and forgotten, society's throwaways. When the weather turned cold, they kept warm any way they could, even if it meant a makeshift fire in an old garbage can. The cops didn't seem to pay much attention unless one of the tenement landlords made a fuss.

He passed the familiar boarded-up storefronts and shabby apartment houses without a glance but stopped before an old arched entryway that he had never noticed before. He'd walked the area dozens of times to get to his small apartment but he couldn't remember ever seeing it. The recessed door was bathed in an odd reddish light, but he couldn't see the light source. The door had a sign on it and was slightly ajar. He wondered who would be stupid enough to leave their door open in this neighborhood. He took a step forward and peered at the rectangular sign.

The dark red lettering on it read: Your Fortune Told. Your Future Behold. The Truth is Here.

He smirked with a roll of his eyes and started to turn away.

"Come in," a voice called out to him. He glanced back at the slightly open door. There was something strange about the voice. It sounded somehow familiar yet not quite human. He frowned, considering what a poor choice of location this was for a fortune-telling scam. The con artist couldn't be very smart if he or she expected to find chumps with money around here. Then again, the desperate would probably be willing to fork over their welfare checks for a piece of future hope, no matter how fabricated. People were too gullible for their own good.

"Come in," called the voice again.

He decided he wanted to take a look at this shyster. He pushed the door open the rest of the way and walked in. He expected something that looked like a carnival tent, with beaded curtains and draped scarves, candles to keep the room dim and a tacky velvet covered table with a crystal ball in the center. Instead he stood inside an almost empty room, at least what he could see of it. The light was dim and reddish like the entryway. He couldn't see any lamps or lighting fixtures. No furniture at all. The walls were concrete like the floor, with no coverings.

A tall, shrouded figure stood in the middle of the room. The only thing in the room.

He looked around, checking that the door was still open and no one was behind him. "Not a very welcoming setup you have here," he said. "You must not be making any money." He let the sneer slide into his voice.

"I want no money," said the figure.

"What's your angle?" he asked, moving closer. "And what's with the Grim Reaper getup?" His eyes narrowed as the figure seemed to shimmer, its heavy grayish-black robe moving as if in slow motion, almost fading in and out of view. It had to be the red light, playing tricks on his eyes. He was tired and he hadn't slept well in days. Why was he even bothering with this weirdo? He should just go home.

"It is All Hallow's Eve," the figure said. "The night of crossroads, a spirit night. One night when the future intersects the past and the restless dead rise and seek the living. The truth can be seen and fortune changed."

Yes, of course, it was Halloween. Or, what was left of it. He glanced at his watch. A quarter to midnight. He'd forgotten. Hell. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Play your freak show games with someone else, creep," he snapped and he began to walk away.

"This is your only chance, Alex," the voice told him.

He froze, turned back. "How do you know my name?" He stalked back towards the table, trying to see the face within the hood.

The figure seemed to waver in the reddish light, not quite solid. "Throw the card away."

Alex felt a chilling dread grip him. The voice sounded different now. Familiar. But it couldn't be. "How the hell--"

"You will never get what you want if you choose that path."

Swallowing back his mounting fear, Alex took a step closer to the shrouded figure. "W-who are you?" he asked in a whisper.

"I am your future." The voice. The voice was his own! Slowly, the hooded robe that covered the spectre melted away.

Alex gasped as the breath caught in his throat. He stared, wide-eyed at a man who looked very much like himself, yet was very different. Horribly different. This version, this strange image, was older. His hair was shorter and touched with grey. He wore black pants and a black shirt. But the left sleeve was empty. He had no left arm! Worse still was the blood. Blood on his right arm. And worst of all, blood seeping down his haggard face from a gaping bullet hole in his forehead.

Alex wanted to run but he couldn't seem to move. His heart was pounding. His palms were sweaty.

"You can change this." His image told. "Free us from this future. Free me."

Despite his shock and revulsion, something compelled Alex to answer the nightmare vision before him. "But...but he has power, influence, money. I'll have that, too. All of it. He can put me on the fast track, open doors that I could never dream of reaching on my own. And I'll be doing important work for the highest circles in government. I'll be able to learn what they know. I'll be one of the Elite."

The horrible image threw his head back with a cry that tore at Alex's heart. "No!" The empty, dead eyes gazed into his. "Fool. Look at me and see what your ambition will give you. You'll turn yourself into nothing but a tool, a weapon for others to use until there will be nothing left of you. You'll lose everything you truly desire. You'll lose the only one you'll ever love." The desolate eyes closed, head lowering, and a silvery tear spilled slowly down one cheek. The image rocked slightly, from side to side, empty sleeve twisting slightly.

Alex stared at the apparition, pity and doubt warring inside him.

"Please," his voice whispered to him, the word weighed with anguish and sorrow. "Please...please..."

Shaking, Alex turned around and ran, pushing the door open and rushing out into the street. He kept running. A fire engine wailed in the distance. A dog began to bark. He paid no attention, finally stopping at the curb, panting more from shock than exertion. The bitter wind fanned his face. He was still trembling.

That terrible image of himself rose before his mind's eye. The bloody face, the empty sleeve. Those awful, dead eyes. So bleak. So lost. His eyes. How could it be? How?! Yet, Alex had always believed that phenomena existed for which there were no simple explanations, no...rational answers.

The chill of the night was no match for the cold that seeped into his bones. Could that really be his future? And if it was, could he really prevent it? With a trembling hand, he drew out the card in his pocket. In the light of the streetlamp, it seemed very white against his palm. He'd been accepted to the FBI Academy, but that would take more work and study and financial struggle with no guarantee that he could make it through. Alex knew he was smart enough, but he'd also learned that it was who you knew and how many connections you had in the 'right' places that really determined how far you could go. The Smoking Man said he take care of everything, make everything so much easier. He saw his potential; he had singled him out from all the other FBI candidates. He promised that Alex would get special training and quick advancement, and more money than he'd ever had before. Finally, he would be Somebody, not just another poor kid constantly fighting to make it. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

He bit down on his lip as he looked over his shoulder. The sound of the apparition's mournful plea echoed in his head. It was real. He knew, deep down inside himself, it was real. But if he gave up this chance, what kind of future could he have? Could it be even worse? Or, if not, with his luck, he'd wind up working in a basement somewhere. Could he still find all that he desired on a different path? Should he take the risk?

He started walking again, heading for his apartment. As he got to the alleyway and the few homeless winos hunched near the smoldering garbage can, he hesitated, then took a deep break, crumpled the card and threw it onto the hot ashes. His breath misting in the cold air, he shoved his hands back into his jacket pockets and kept walking.

As the card began to crisp and burn, not far away, a reddish light in an arched doorway began to dim into shadow. The forlorn and ghostly figure of a one-armed man raised his bowed head and his bloodied face turned upward. A peaceful smile touched his lips as he slowly faded away.

-The End-

AND NUMBER THREE:

Krycek's thumb rubbed along the handle of the long sharp knife for just a moment before he plunged it into the seeping eye socket once again, twisting deftly to the right and then the left.

With all that he'd experienced and all that he'd done in his life, he still never imagined himself doing something like this. He swallowed as he twisted the razor sharp blade again. He was doing it for Mulder, he told himself. He had to do it for Mulder. He tried not to look at the butchery around him, lips pressed tight into a determined line. It was almost done. Just a few more cuts. And then, never again.

"Hey, aren't you finished with that yet?"

The voice made him jump, the knife cutting deeper than he'd intended. "Damn it, Mulder!" he snapped, turning his head to look at the former FBI agent who was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, the sleeves of his charcoal sweatshirt pushed up to his elbows.

Krycek shifted uncomfortably, trying to block Mulder's view.

"What a mess," continued Mulder as he stepped into the room and surveyed the pieces of gooey flesh that lay on the soaked newspapers that covered the wide table. "Can I see what you've done?"

Krycek shut his eyes for a second and prayed for patience. "I swear, Mulder, you're driving me crazy. You wanted me to do this, you know. Why didn't you do it yourself if you're in such a damn hurry."

"I...I can't do that sort of thing. I just don't have the...talent for it like you do," returned Mulder, his tone more whine than apology. He was slowly nearing the table. "C'mon, I want to see."

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Okay!" Krycek pulled out the knife with a grimace and dropped it on the table, wiping his sticky hand on a wet, dirty towel beside him. He stepped aside to let Mulder view the result of his handiwork. "We could've just bought one that was already carved, you know," he sighed.

"Wow," said Mulder with a bright grin as he looked at the large, transformed pumpkin. "That's a beauty, Alex. See, nothing we could buy could match that. Hey, it looks like it's....smirking," he added with a chuckle.

"Well, it matches my opinion of all the fuss you're putting into this damn holiday. Besides, you didn't specify an expression for the thing." He shook his head as he took another step back. "Look at this kitchen. Hell, look at me," he complained as he took in the mounds of pumpkin flesh, strings of membrane and seeds, along with bits of hard orange shell, that covered the kitchen table, and dribbled onto the floor. His gaze shifted to the wet orangey spots and pulp that covered his black t-shirt and jeans. "Fuck, the things I do for you, Mulder," he grumbled.

Mulder only gave the pumpkin another admiring glance. "It's perfect. Perfect for our first Halloween together in our new house. We can put a candle in it and put in the front window, right under the bats. I hung a few spider webs in the corners, too." His eyes shifted to Krycek as he gave him an equally admiring survey, pausing at the orange stains that dripped invitingly across one nipple. "You know, you look hot in Halloween colors." With a sultry gleam in his eye, he grabbed a handful of Krycek's t-shirt and shoved him back up against the kitchen wall.

"Wha--" Krycek's mouth was swiftly covered, Mulder's tongue flicking over his lips before pushing forcefully inside and taking his breath away. Several dazed moments later, Mulder pulled away, smiling impishly at him before bending down and licking at the wet spot over his left nipple.

"You are very kinky, Mulder," he said, his voice not quite steady. "It's one of your more admirable traits."

Smacking his lips, Mulder straightened and kissed him again, then began tracing his earlobe with delicate swirls of his tongue. Mulder paused, whispering into his ear. "Did you know that ninety percent of the pumpkins grown in the United States are raised within a 90-mile radius of Peoria, Illinois?" He sucked Krycek's earlobe into his mouth and raked it lightly with his teeth. A shiver ran through Krycek's body. "And that pumpkins were once recommended for removing freckles and curing snake bites?" continued Mulder.

Alex squirmed as Mulder emphasized the question by rubbing methodically against him, pressing their groins together. "And did you know that pumpkins have been grown in North America for over five thousand years?"

Krycek managed an, "Uhh," in response as Mulder began nibbling on his neck.

"You might be interested to learn that our version of the modern day Halloween celebration owes its origin to the ancient Druidic fire festival called Samhain."

Krycek felt Mulder's finger tracing the zipper of his jeans with diabolical precision as the denim tightened around his quickly growing erection.

"Did you know that Samhainophobia is an intense fear of Halloween?"

Krycek grabbed hold of Mulder's hair, pulling his head back far enough to gaze into the gleaming hazel eyes. "The only thing I'm afraid of right now is that you'll never stop talking."

Mulder snorted, bumping their crotches together teasingly. "There's a plethora of fascinating facts to be learned about Halloween. For example, did you know the name Jack O'Lantern actually came from an ancient Irish legend about a character named Stingy Jack, a mean old drunk who tricked the devil into climbing a tree. Once the devil was up there, he laid crosses all around the base and the devil wasn't able to get down..." Mulder bumped him again.

"Mulder, so help me--"

"Stingy Jack made the devil promise not to take his soul when he died and the devil agreed and Jack removed the crosses. Well, when Jack died, the devil kept his word." Mulder ran his thumbs back and forth over Krycek's nipples.

"Mul-derrr--"

"Unfortunately for Jack, he was such a miserable asshole of a human being that Saint Peter wouldn't let him into Heaven either, so he was stuck forever in the darkness between heaven and hell."

Despite his aching erection and equally growing frustration, Krycek couldn't help but ask. "Where does the lantern and pumpkin come into your story?"

Mulder gave him a smug smile. "Knew you'd ask," he said, lowering his arms to snake around Krycek's waist, then dipping down to cup the jean-clad buttocks with his palms.

Krycek's hand circled the back of Mulder's neck meaningfully. "I still know how to snap a man's neck with one hand," he growled.

But Mulder only laughed, eyes slanting provocatively. "Okay, okay. The Devil grabbed an ember from his Hellish flames and gave it to Jack. Jack put it in a hallowed out turnip that he carried in his pocket and from that day foreword, he wandered the earth without a resting place, with only his 'Jack-O-Lantern' lighting his way."

"There's no damn pumpkin in that story!"

Smothering a chuckle, Mulder squeezed Krycek's asscheeks, enjoying their plump firmness. "Over the centuries, as the legend continued, on All Hallow's Eve, the Irish would hollow out turnips and place a light in them to ward off evil spirits and keep Stingy Jack away. When the Irish immigrants came to America, they, of course, brought their folklore and legends with them. They also discovered the indigenous pumpkin, which they found was a helluva lot easier to carve than a turnip. So, Jack-O-Lantern lives on."

"Well, if you wanna live on, you better let me get you into a bed in the next five minutes so we can fuck each other through the mattress," replied Alex as he started moving them, arms still around one another, towards the kitchen door.

As they passed the table, Mulder glanced at the pumpkin and grinned, letting Alex pick up their pace towards the bedroom. "Oh, yeah. I love Halloween."

--The End--


 

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Title:  Three Halloweens That Never Happened to Alex Krycek
Author:  Courtney Gray   [email/website]
Details:  Standalone  |  R  |  29k  |  10/30/07
Pairings:  Mulder/Krycek
Category:  AU (Alternate Universe), Holiday Fic
Summary:  The title pretty much says it all.


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