Title:
Pas De Deux
Author:
CGB
Email:
luberluber@yahoo.com.au
Web:
http://Appelsini.tripod.com/Christine/
Feedback:
Is a good thing.
Archive:
So too.
Spoilers:
Requiem
Category:
K/M
Disclaimer:
No one who writes anything as bad as Surekill
deserves
these characters.
Summary:
Krycek and Marita run from the scene of the
crime.
A prequel to my other Krycek and Marita fic "The
Fugue"
but an independent story in its own right.
*
He held
her hand.
They
moved fast without actually running. He couldn't
remember
how or where but he'd taken her hand in his. It
felt
small, fragile.
"We
need a car," she said, and she looked around as if
choosing
from the selection parked in the street, "I don't
suppose
you learnt how to steal a car in prison?"
She is
matter of fact, business like. Unfazed by the events
of the
past hour.
"In
Tunisia?"
Her
hand was still in his. It had begun to feel warm where
they
were joined.
She
nodded curtly, thoughtfully.
"A
taxi will do."
They
moved up the street still walking fast, occasionally
glancing
behind them to check for cabs in the opposite
direction
and god knows what else that might be following
them.
He knew she carried a cell phone but they couldn't
risk
that.
"We're
too conspicuous," she said eventually.
"There's
no one out here, Marita, they'd have come by now
if
there were. God!" He paused and looked down at his
hands,
"I need a cigarette."
She
blinked at him and let go. Instantly he missed the
pressure.
The feel of her. He hadn't known she
could be
like
that. Delicate. It was insane to think of her like that
now. It
was all insanity.
"I
didn't think you smoked," she said.
"Remember
that prison in Tunisia?" he growled.
He was
feeling
explosive. They really needed to get
out of there.
He lit
his cigarette and savoured long puffs.
He
checked the street again and was relieved to see a cab
heading
towards them. She was already out on
the street
waving
her hand.
In the
cab they were silent. Krycek checked
the driver's ID
for
clues that he might not be the person his picture said he
was.
They knew all the tricks, all the tell tale signs of fake
identifications
and manipulated pictures, and precaution
was a
habit, but they weren't always going to spot the
delusion.
Krycek
gave the driver the benefit of the doubt and told
him to
take them to a part of town where they could find a
car
rental.
Half an
hour later were let out on the street next to two car
rentals
vying for attention across the road from one another.
"Do
you have a driver's licence?" he asked her. She
nodded
and searched through her purse. She
retrieved three
plastic
cards and looked at each thoughtfully.
"I'm
not sure whether these are safe," she murmured more
to
herself than to Krycek.
"We
don't have much choice," he grumbled, "besides, the
cabbie
will get them this far."
*
Krycek
was thinking of black oil. He was thinking of how
it felt
to be taken over like by liquid death. The invasion
had
been so detestable to his system that he had tried to
stop
breathing in order to resist's its infiltration. It had been
inside
him and inside Marita only he never understood
which
strain was which and why either of them was still
alive. She said they had a cure but a cure for what
and for
who was
the real question and neither of them had an
answer.
He
thought about being alone with it in a darkened chamber
in Area
51. For a while there, he really did
think his sole
purpose
to the Consortium might be to keep this thing
company
while they had it under lock and key. He always
knew he
was a pawn to them but the reality of being so
callously
used was destroying and emptying.
He
remembered meeting a very beautiful Special Operative
called
Marita Covarrubias with her own agenda and a head
full of
ideas and deviations. They pulled him
out of the
holding
chamber and sent him straight to her. She'd
immediately
berated the other operatives for not having fed
the
prisoner and sent them off to find him food.
"Get
him some clean clothes too," she added as an
afterthought.
She sat him in a chair and poured water for
him
from a glass pitcher.
"Alex
Krycek, I'm Marita Covarrubias, Assistant to the
Special
Representative of the Secretary General."
He
thought the title impressive but didn't have the strength
to say
so.
"I
have an assignment for you from the Consortium."
He
coughed in disbelief. She picked up his
water glass and
handed it
to him again.
"I
know. I know you think you can't trust them and you're
right.
You can't. But you can't trust anyone
really, surely
you
were around Fox Mulder long enough to learn that."
She
placed a file in his lap.
"You
don't have to read it now. You can eat first, clean
yourself
up. We have somewhere for you to stay you know.
How's
your Russian? You will need some practice I think."
He
stared at her. His throat was dry and he could barely
focus.
The water did little to help.
"You
know this isn't a choice."
He
knew. But it didn't stop him thinking
that he should
just
tell her no and let her shoot him there and then.
"You're
problem is that you're still thinking this is about
your
employers, isn't it?"
She moved
away and leaned against the desk once more.
Her
posture afforded him a pleasant view of her legs but he
expected
she knew that. He wasn't in the mood to be
seduced
but he figured she knew that too. There
wasn't
anything
about Marita that suggested she did anything
unconsciously.
"Have
you thought about what it could do for you?"
She
looked him in the eye and then nodded at the folder on
his
lap.
"Open
it," she instructed.
He did
as he was told. His shaking hand opened the cover
to a
page containing details of his family's immigration to
the
States, his father's civilian position at the Department
of
Defence and his own education and training at the
Bureau.
"Those
are the official details of course. We both know
there's
a lot more to your father's file than what's written
there
but we also know there's only one way you're going
to get
your hands on the real information."
He
sneered. She folded her arms across her body.
"Well,"
she sighed, resigned. "It's not as if we need your
approval.
We're not in the habit of offering alternatives.
Still,
I was hoping you'd see the benefits of the situation."
He
continued to scowl at her.
"Please
don't be difficult Alex. This would all be so much
more
pleasant if you'd just cooperate."
She
shifted herself away from the desk and picked up her
files.
She turned to leave pivoting gracefully on her slight
heels.
He
liked the way she moved. He thought he
would like to
see her
dance.
*
They
rented a car. She drove.
They
kept driving. Past the city limits, well past the last
outposts
of the capital.
It was
a liberating feeling, leaving it all behind even if they
knew
that wasn't possible. It wasn't something you could
leave.
Marita's
eyes squinted at the heavy sunlight reflecting off
the
road. If she wanted to, she could pretend she was
escaping.
Escaping the consortium, escaping colonization,
escaping
her past, all of it. However, she hadn't sought
solace
in fantasy for years and she wasn't about to start
now.
Fantasies were lies, and she hated being lied to which
is why
she was in the business of knowing the truth, always
being
the one in the know.
She
checked the fuel gauge. Nothing in need of attendance
there.
Her stomach on the other hand needed immediate
attention.
She didn't eat much. It was something she could
never
remember to do. It was always the last
thing she
thought
of.
Strange,
it was, to be reminded of it now. Perhaps she just
had nothing
better to do.
She
pulled up at a gas station. He'd been sleeping, resting
his
cheek on his shoulder. He woke when he
felt the inertia
pushing
him against him harder against the car door.
"What
are we doing?" He said.
"I'm
hungry."
"We
need to keep driving."
She
scoffed.
"You
know it doesn't matter how fast or how far we drive,
they'll
find us. I'm hungry and I need to go to the
bathroom."
"Marita..."
his voice was low and threatening. He didn't
trust
her. He figured she knew that and didn't trust him
either. They were about to reach a stale mate.
"Alex,
believe me when I tell you I'm not going to call
anyone
and I'm not going anywhere. I'm coming with you.
I'm
with you."
He
laughed disbelieving.
"Right.
You know I'd be an idiot to believe that."
She
threw her hands up.
"Fine.
Come with me then."
He
unbuckled himself and opened his door.
"Let's
go."
They
went to the bathroom first. She threw him a curious
look
when she entered the 'Ladies' but she knew something
as
simple as social etiquette wouldn't stop him.
She
stepped inside her cubicle but found resistance when
she
went to close the door. He stood behind her with his
one
good arm holding the door open.
"I
don't think so," he said.
She
glared at him before reaching under her skirt to drag
her
panties down to her knees. She knew
that the best way
to play
this game was to pretend she wasn't playing at all,
to
pretend that she really didn't care if he witnessed her in a
private
moment or not, but she did care and she really did
feel
self conscious even if she hid it behind her best scowl.
Krycek
smirked. He always was a bad winner.
Afterwards
they used one of Marita's many credit cards to
buy
greasy food. They sat on the car and ate it.
She
stared at the sky, half expecting helicopters.
Or
spaceships.
*
She
seduced him. Or she believed she did but they were
both
seduced. She'd told herself it was necessary but she
was
easily swayed. He'd been leaning
against the door
while
the Consortium met. She caught his eye from time to
time
and he smirked back. He looked like
he'd betray them
all to
the highest bidder as soon as someone gave him the
opportunity
although she knew that was why they kept him
around.
They needed someone who didn't care.
She
thought she would seduce him. Spender
would find it
amusing
and the Elder wouldn't care so long as they
accomplished
the tasks laid out for them and he made the
rest of
them so nervous they would be willing to see him
form an
attachment just to prove he was human.
She
passed him on her way out.
"Come
with me," she said and she didn't turn around to see
if he'd
done as she asked.
There
was a room with a large mahogany desk further
down
the hallway. He followed her inside.
She wasn't
confident.
Not like she hoped to be. She'd wanted
to seem
like
she did this all the time but she felt like a teenager
dressed
up to pass for twenty-one and no one was buying
the
deception.
"I
think we could help each other," she told him.
"How's
that?" His hands were tossed casually into the
pockets
of his leather jacket. He made no movement toward
or away
from her, yet she had that feeling he was holding
back,
making her work for it.
"We
have similar goals, you and I."
"We
do?" He smirked again. She liked
his smirk. It was
bold.
And they needed to be bold. "How's that?"
"We
both mean to survive."
"And
how do we plan to do that," he emphasized the 'we'.
She
moved further forward so that they faced each other
intimately.
"By
trusting each other," she said huskily. She leaned
forward
and placed her lips on his. He didn't
react at first
but
moved his lips gently against her. Suddenly, he grabbed
her
head and pressed her harder against him. His other hand
ran up
her body, sliding inside the jacket of her suit and
pawing
her breast.
She
couldn't help feeling excited. Admittedly they were
probably
being spied on and Alex was dangerous. It had all
the
elements of a passionate affair and she was almost
ashamed
to admit how much she would enjoy such a
liaison.
Abruptly,
he pulled away from her and studied her face.
"I
don't trust you for a second," he said, "But I'm on your
side."
He
kissed her again briefly and then left.
She
would never be in love with him. She was sorry about
that.
Not for him but for her. They gave her
an expensive
apartment
and designer clothes but they were never going
to
allow her the luxury of love.
And who
knows what that might have been like.
*
They
pulled up to a motel in the middle of nowhere. She
felt
like they'd been driving forever and now they'd
reached
a point where neither could keep awake.
Alex had
been
checking for a tail since the since the city limits but if
anyone
followed they did so with discretion.
She
remembered he'd left her to die once.
True, she'd left
him to
rot in a prison in Tunisia but they both knew that
was
punishment.
She
remembered Fort Marlene and she remembered Jeffrey
Spender.
She
remembered dropping in and out of consciousness and
dreams
filled with disturbing images.
And
then there were other memories. Memories she tucked
down
deep hoping to keep them hidden indefinitely.
She
remembered standing outside the Maria Fontana Dance
School
waiting for her father to pick her up.
Her hair was
neatly
knotted into a bun. Her father was late. She was
fourteen
and self conscious. Conscious of the fact that she
was
standing alone in the street with nothing more than a
cardigan
covering her leotard and tights. Two
cars slowed
down to
take a better look at her and she wrapped the
cardigan
tightly around her thin frame.
A police vehicle arrived an hour later. It
was already dark
and she
squinted her eyes at the headlights shining in her
face.
They
ushered her into the back seat of the car and drove her
to the
police station. A woman with sandy
coloured hair
wearing
a brightly patterned blouse sat her down in a room
with no
windows and asked her if she knew what her
father's
job was. She said her father sold insurance - it was
what he
told her.
The
woman with the brightly patterned blouse told her that
her
father had been paid to kill people. He had been
arrested
only an hour earlier trying to leave the scene of his
latest
'job'.
The
woman asked if she had any relatives that could come
and
take her. She didn't. Her mother had died when she
was
barely old enough to remember her.
There were never
any
family at their house. They had no cousins, Aunts,
Uncles
or Grandparents. Just her and her father. She'd
always
considered it cozy. Comfortable.
She
stared at her feet. She had black ballet slippers on and
she had
long thin legs covered in white tights.
She wanted
to go
home. She wanted to take off her tights and put on her
jeans
and sneakers. She felt like the tights were constricting
her,
cutting off her circulation.
She
decided there and then that she hated tights and she
hated
her leotard and if she got home soon she would roll
them up
and throw them out in the trash.
"Marita?
Are you OK?"
The
woman with the brightly patterned blouse was staring
at her.
She could feel her cheeks flush red and she had the
sudden
impression that her hair was too tight.
She
began to pull at the hair in her bun.
"Marita?"
She
pulled harder but the hair had been tucked in tightly. A
large
clump of blonde hair came out in her hand.
"Marita!"
She
pulled at her bun with both hands drawing blonde locks
from
head and throwing them on the floor. She continued
to do
so until hands grabbed her wrists and she began to
hear
voices yelling around her. She felt a
prick in her arm
and suddenly
her eyelids felt heavy and her head swayed
trying
to stay upright. Before her vision went black she
caught
sight of her hands being held by the woman in the
brightly
coloured blouse. They were covered in blood.
When
she woke she was in a hospital. She had a room to
herself
with a television and a vase of flowers sitting on the
bedside
cabinet. Her head was thick with black fog keeping
her
from remembering how she had come to be there.
She
noticed a figure standing by the window.
A man with
a
cigarette in his hand. He turned to face her as if he had
felt
her eyes on him.
"Marita,
you're awake?"
She
didn't recognize him. Her head hurt and she raised a
hand to
her forehead to figure out what was causing such
pain.
She found a bandage wrapped tightly and covering
her
entire scalp.
The man
with the cigarette spoke again.
"I'm
a friend of your father's Marita. I'll be taking you
home."
And she
remembered, the police car, her ballet clothes, the
woman
with the brightly coloured blouse and her hair that
had
seemed so infuriating she had tried to pull it out by the
handful. She began to cry.
The man
with the cigarette pulled a handkerchief from his
pocket
and handed it to her.
It was
silk.
*
The
shower in the motel room was cold. Still she managed
to sit
under the stream long enough to rinse the grime of the
journey
from her body. She was a woman of
refinement
but
Fort Marlene had taught her a much needed lesson in
tolerance
for physical discomfort. There were
times she
felt
that she could cope with anything.
She
stepped out of the shower and exited the bathroom
wearing
the clothes she had arrived in.
Alex
was sitting on the bed staring at the opposite wall. He
looked
up when she entered.
"Cold
water," she said.
He
nodded.
He
grabbed her by the waist and pulled her toward him.
Marita's
training in martial arts ensured that in spite of her
size
she could put up some resistance if she disagreed with
the way
she was handled, but she made no attempt to
extricate
herself.
"What
are you doing?" she said.
"I
want you."
She
laughed dryly.
"Your
timing is impeccable," she said.
"Marita,
please."
The
sincerity in his eyes was frightening. She pulled back
and
frowned at him.
"Are
you OK?"
It had
been a long time. Frantic stolen moments with Alex
were
like drug induced hazes. She was never really sure
what
happened where or which moment slid into the next.
"It
the end of the world Marita. The final showdown. How
did you
plan on spending it?"
She
looked at him. He was serious. She burst out laughing.
"You
have spent way too much time around these people.
The end
of the world Alex? Believe me, I'd know if it were
the end
of the world. The instance of retrovirus outbreaks
would
quadruple for a start..."
"That's
not what I meant."
He
removed his jacket and his shirt to reveal a white
undershirt.
He'd become a deft touch with his one arm.
His
Russian
doctor had been impressed by how quickly he'd
adapted.
He had to.
He ran
his hand through his hair and then bent down to
untie
his boots. He sat on the bed and pulled one off after
the
other.
"What
are you doing?" she said.
He
smiled a crooked smile.
"You're
beautiful you know."
She
snorted.
"For
God's sake Alex..."
He
stood up and peeled his undershirt off. He was
magnificent
to look at. Even his prosthetic arm seemed to
add to
his unearthly appeal. He looked too
perfect to be
human
and the arm was like the exclamation mark on the
point.
She
laughed and shook her head.
"Alex,
this is not reasonable."
He
slipped a hand under her blouse and began pulling it up
her
back. She raised her arms so he could
slip it over her
head.
"You're
not reasonable," she said shaking her head.
He
placed his arm around her waist.
"Do
you like to dance Marita?" he said, his voice low.
"Dance?"
He
dipped her backwards and whirled her around.
She
shrieked with laughter and placed her leg up against his
thigh
to help him maneuver.
He
pulled her back up until their faces were inches apart.
"Do
you like to dance, Marita?" he repeated.
A
reluctant smile crept across her face. She hated to dance.
She
hadn't danced since the night when a police car arrived
to pick
her up from Maria Fontana's Dance School, but
with
Alex, all those memories, her life and it's misfortunes
all
seemed so far away, like mountains in the distance
shrouded
in fog or ships sailing away to a dot on the
horizon.
"Only
with you, Alex," she answered huskily.
He
dipped her again and her head nearly touched the floor.
She
stretched her leg out and her shoe hung precariously
from
her toe. She kicked it off. Secure in the feel of
Krycek's
arm on her waist, she stretched both arms behind
her and
arched her back reveling in the gracefulness of the
movement.
Krycek
raised her body to meet his again and this time he
kissed
her. The rush of blood from her head
left her dazed
and she
kissed him back with the room spinning behind
them.
He took
her hand and led her to the bed. She
noticed he
had
such a large hand in comparison to her small and slight,
one-time
ballet dancer's hands. His hands
killed. Hers did
too but
they never gave that impression.
"You're
a good dancer, Marita," he told her.
"I
used to do ballet," she said, and she was surprised to hear
herself
say it. She remembered spinning on her toes with
her arm
arching swan neck-like above her head, leaping
into
the air and landing with precision, stretching next to
the
barre, feeling her muscles pull and constrict with each
graceful
extension of her limbs. She had loved
ballet.
He
kissed her hand and laid her down backwards onto the
bed.
"Past
lives," Krycek said offhandedly, "who would we be
without
them?"
In
love, she thought. They would be in love.
He
kissed her. She kissed him back. In moments he was
moving
inside her and she was murmuring his name into
his hair.
And the
dance went on.
Fin