Summary: "I don't love him. He's a cold fish." Parody of Deslea's "Denial" by an anonymous detract- er, fan. It won't make any sense if you haven't read Denial, though.

DENIAL OF DOCTOR DO LITTLE
by Komakazi

DISCLAIMER: Women's guff.
CATEGORY/KEYWORDS: Vignette, Krycek/Marita.
SUMMARY: I don't love him. He's a cold fish.



Just a cold fish.

That's all he is. A swimmer with a slithery body and big glossy,
googly eyes. Upstream or downstream, forever eluding the
truth of his own vertiginous sea-rebral waves. A darter with
shiny scales who knows how to stroke, gape a few bubbles in
your eyes, but then POOF- a cloud of ink fogs your vision- and
he's whisked off into the nether regions of that dark sea of lost
soles, and that cozy table in the corner that you snagged for the
night is all out of the Catch du Jour.

So you settle for the tiny shrimp toss.

He's a cold fish.

A hell of a fish, that Alex. Mmm-mm. Especially when gutted,
filleted, and grilled right over the coals. I let him know, too. It
either turns him on or pisses him off. And whether he's spitting
from either head, you better make sure you've got those heavy
duty snorkeling goggles on, because he cusses those expletives
like Moby Dick. When he's yelling his head off, all you see is
wet molar and vigourous pink tongue in a wide, wide mouth of
a whale.

That's probably why I haven't killed him.

I should, of course. Should've done it long ago.
But every time I think about it, I think about how wrong it
would be to take him out of that otherworldly ocean of others
that he loves so much. The only place Alex can frolic and toss
his tail way up in the air.

I couldn't bear it. What other place would accomodate the...
um, preposterous size of his swollen head? So I haven't done it.

A fish.

Damn fool, Marita. Fool, fool, fool. No catch would be worth
this much pain.

But I will do it.

I will.

One of these days.

But first, the net. I haven't netted him enough.
Seems I hunger for him more, rather than less, every
time. Is that the definition of love? Growing
instead of diminishing? God, I hope not.

Look at those fish-lips.

I don't love him.

I don't.

It isn't that I can't. I'm not like Scully, who'll fling herself
across the Milky Way to watch an oyster obsessively nonstop
just to see a piece of dirt slowly turn itself into a pearl after
what, five years?

You can get those things from labs. Dirt cheap. I got better
things to do.

I don't love him.

That heart of darkness.

I don't.

He's a cold fish.

I just like the way he wriggles. The way he moves. Oh yeah.
The way he violently shirks from human contact, but quivers in
rivulets of sweat just typing out the word 'cock' or 'tit' on his
sticky keyboard.

God help him. He's labored for every drop of that saltwater
oozing out of his pores. Save the whale. Free his willy.

I don't love him.

I don't.

He's just a poor fish.

Somebody take this hook outta my hands.



END