Title: Loved
Author: Ashlea Ensro
Feedback: to theconsortium6@hotmail.com. Flames will be used to 
torch the X-Files office...bwahahaha....
Rating: PG
Category: VRA
Spoilers: Unimportant one to FTF, more important one to "The Red 
and The Black."
Keywords: UST slash. Character death.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Chris. The poem belongs to 
Oscar.
This is dedicated to Anna, of course. :-)

Summary: Krycek and his associate plot to kill the smoking man, 
but something is wrong with this picture.

"Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!" 
-- Oscar Wilde _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_

You watch in silence as the man lifts a cigarette to his lips. The face 
is not visible, but everything else is familiar - the thinning grey hair, 
the sad slump of the shoulders - I would know it was him at a glance. 
You watch, and your green eyes are full of pain. Your right hand 
curls around your left, touching plastic.

This is the man you hold responsible.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

You nod. "The orders were clear."

I lift my glance from the gun for a moment to look over at you. Your 
face registers no emotion. You were never one to take orders.

"But he's-"

You go back to staring at the target. "I know who he is."

Yes, I suppose. You have known him much longer than I have. You 
were close, once, I was told. Very close.

I didn't have much of a chance to get to know him. I did a few jobs 
for him, nothing too difficult. A quiet death in the night. A few files 
deleted from a computer somewhere in the basement of the FBI.

Nothing special.

He was my employer, but times are tough. The date is set. I can't 
say I liked him, and I can't say I regret killing him. I need to 
survive, just like everyone else.

Better to kill him than to die myself, by less pleasant means.

I return my eyes to the crowded cafe where he sits alone, lighting up 
yet another cigarette.

"Do you think he knows?" I can't help wondering.

"You don't ask questions," you tell me, "Just do it." You pause, 
then say, "Yeah. He knows."

He rose up fast in the ranks, from an idealistic young man at the 
beginning,  then a vicious thug and finally up to the upper echelon 
of leadership. He is more powerful than the president - *was* more 
powerful, at least. Until now. They've tried everything to kill him and failed.

We will be successful.

You say that he's become a danger. The truth is, he's always been a 
danger. He's a calculated risk. Valuable.

But not so valuable that he cannot be disposed of.

No, no one is that valuable.

There are others to take his place.

"Still," I say, "Why now?"

"He's been living on borrowed time for years," you reply, "He's 
gotten old. Careless."

"That isn't why."

You give a small smile, and say nothing.

I know the man has been leaking information - he's done it since the 
beginning. A man with too many attachments is a problem for the 
organization. A man with a conscience - even more so.

"He was a good soldier," you say, "But he's served his purpose."

"Is that all?"

Another pause; another drag of his cigarette.

"Yes."

We watch in silence.

If he knows, why doesn't he run?

"Did Strughold give the order?"

The absence of a response is an affirmation. Strughold is the only 
man to whom either of them even pretend to answer. He is on his 
deathbed - reportedly, his last words before slipping into a coma 
three days ago were a lisped request to "dispose of that son-of-a-
bitch."

You would have him dead, regardless.

My hand trembles slightly on the trigger.

You look on, your face flushed, eyes livid with a strange hunger. 
Your hand is on the gun, yes, but you will not fire. That's why you 
brought me. I realize in a sudden flash that you knew you would not 
do it alone.

You swallow, hard, you lift the gun as if it is the heaviest object 
you have ever touched, you move as if gravity itself holds you with 
an iron grip, unwilling to let you go.

"Think of it as a mercy killing," you say, your voice deceptively 
light. You take aim, slowly. "He would never be able to live with 
the consequences of his actions."

"It's all right," I whisper, "I'll do it."

I watch the cigarette dangle between the target's lips, a torch passed 
down from one son-of-a-bitch to the next. I never learned the whole 
story - I never will - but I know enough.

"Did you love him?" I ask.

Your gaze flickers over me, uninterested, turns back towards the 
man who is about to die. You were once good at keeping secrets, 
but those secrets do not matter anymore. Memories of pain, of 
betrayal, of stolen kisses in a darkened apartment - they have no 
more relevance once the trigger is pulled.

You hesitate, and then say, "Yes."

And it strikes me as odd, really. This cancer-ridden wretch sitting 
alone in a cafe was once something else. Once a creature with 
dreams, with passion, burning brightly against the blackness of our 
own lies. Once loved.

You shut your eyes as I close in on the target.

You were once something, too.

I glance at you for a moment. You look at me, then at the grey-
haired man, smoking a cigarette and calmly awaiting death.

"Goodbye, Mulder," you murmur to him. 

And then the shot breaks the silence in half.