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"Have you seen the papers?" It's an odd question, in the circumstances. A few minutes ago, they were getting hot and heavy against a wall. He'd expected the walk to be a more subdued version of the same. But no, she'd dropped his hand when they reached the newsstand in the shipping terminal concourse. "Can't say I have," he says. "I've been otherwise engaged." She leaves him to talk to the vendor. He watches her, and he aches all over. He wants to get her somewhere safe and fuck her senseless. It's a fierce need, and he wants it the way a tired man wants sleep, with a longing fuelled by a need for rest. He wants to be deep inside her. In her softness. He wants to be held. She comes back, paper in hand, and hands it to him. A familiar face greets him - a file photo of Mulder. As if he hasn't seen enough of that guy already. The headline reads, 'All This Conjecture About Little Green Men - False, Dangerous, Delusional. -- Panelist Fox Mulder.' His curiosity is piqued in spite of himself. "Did he really say that?" She nods. "It seems that Kritschgau did a better job on him than the old men dared to believe." "That's bad." He knows he should care, but he really doesn't. Not now, when she's by his side at last. "Yeah." They pass out of the concourse onto the street. "Where are we going?" he wonders. He shouldn't be too far away from Dmitri. He really shouldn't. "There's a building up the street. Serviced offices. It was all I could get on short notice. It'll do if you need somewhere to run to. There's a service elevator if you need to bring Dmitri." He nods. He hopes to dispose of Dmitri before that, one way or another. He hopes it will be by cutting a deal. Dmitri will probably end up dead regardless, but he likes the kid. He doesn't want to do it himself. He's probably not even twenty yet, poor bastard. Might not even have had a woman yet. Krycek never wanted to kill anyone that young. Of course, he never really wanted to kill anyone, and look how that turned out. "You really think you can pull this off, don't you?" she says again. He wishes she'd just shut up and hold his hand. This wasn't how he wanted their reunion to be - so near, and yet so far. He should have just had her on the ship. But he needs to rest. This time, he answers her honestly. "I don't know, Marita," he says. "I just don't know." "Alex," she says. Pauses a moment, biting her lip. He doesn't think he's going to like what she's going to say. "I want to let the boy talk to Mulder. Before you make your deal." Anger rises up in him - the kind of exhausted anger you get when someone asks you to do that one last thing. The straw that breaks the camel's back. "You know, just once, I wish it wasn't all up to me," he snaps. "I'm the only one who can deal with the stupid Syndicate fuckheads. I'm the only one who can make Mulder get his head out of his ass. This sucks." Marita looks chastened. She looks away. Battling tears, he thinks, from the way she carries herself. It's ridiculously disproportionate, but he supposes that she's on edge as well. No-one was meant to be on the frontlines of this kind of shit for as long as they have. "I'm sorry," she says after a moment. "I just thought-" "I know what you thought." He takes her hand and squeezes it to soften the blow, because he just can't apologise right now. He thinks he probably should, but he can't. She squeezes back. Shoots him a weak smile. "And anyway, you're right," he says after a moment. "We need to get him back on track. But this isn't the way to do it. There are too many things that could go wrong." "What sorts of things?" Things like being infected themselves, the longer they fuck around. He has only a finite supply of vaccine. But he doesn't tell her that. No need to worry her unnecessarily. He doesn't like carrying his burdens alone, but watching her carry them is sometimes worse. "Just things," he says. "I don't want to talk about it right now. Let's just get this over with, and then deal with Mulder afterwards. Can we do that?" She shrugs, and seems to let the matter drop. "I just want it to be over," she says after a while. "I hate living like this. I hate seeing you like this." To his horror, the backs of his eyelids sting with tears he hadn't even known were there. "Me too," he forces out. "I want to take it all away. The burden. The responsibility. Just for a little while." Hunger crashes over him, warm and bittersweet. He wants that. So much. He closes his eyes. "I love you, Marita," he says abruptly. It isn't at all tender, the way he says it. He doesn't look at her. "Same." He clears his throat. Nods to an office building up ahead. "Is that it?" She's smiling at him. He has the feeling that she's amused by his awkwardness. Her amusement is kind, though, and he can't bring himself to be annoyed. "Yes, that's it," she says. Still smiling. She leads him in the service entrance. He wonders, with a pang, whether that's because he's not fit to go through the lobby. But then, of course he isn't. That wouldn't have bothered him once, but he's oddly conscious of his looks since he lost his arm. He wants people to see what's left, not what was taken away. "I should wash up," he says. "I smell like rusty freighter." She fumbles with her keys. Finds one, and turns a lock set into the wall between the elevators. "I don't care what you smell like, Alex." Well, yes. Somehow that doesn't surprise him. Even after he lost his arm, their problems were his, not hers. It was a long time before he allowed himself to believe that she still wanted him as much as ever. "I know. But still." She shrugs. "There's a bathroom if you want it." The elevator dings, and they step inside, and he pulls her against him when the doors slide shut. Her kiss is warm and deep and slow, and it lasts until they reach their floor and stagger out and crash together onto the staid corporate couch in their office. He never does get his shower, but moving inside her, he feels cleansed anyway. Her sounds fill his ears, and her taste fills his mouth, and everything else seems far away. "I'm so tired, Marita," he sighs against her neck when they're done. "So goddamn tired." She moves a little. Turning him off her, onto his side. Still in her arms. "It's going to be all right, Alex," she whispers into his hair, cradling him. "One day, it'll all be over." "The sooner the better," he murmurs. Then, more nakedly than he's ever spoken to her, "I don't know how much more I can take." Her eyes are bright. "You should sleep," she says. Infinitely tender. No, he shouldn't. He should go back to the ship. But the thought of letting her take care of him - just for an hour or two - God. He wants it. So much. He holds her. Sinks his head against her soft white flesh until the pain whittles away. Dimly, he is aware of her tears slipping down onto his skin. "It'll be all right, Alex," she whispers through hitching breaths. "I'll take care of it. I'll take care of everything." He wants to ask what she means, but his mind is drifting. Colours swirl beneath his eyelids. Sleep is not far away. It will be a relief. The End *** Author's Note: This story was inspired by Vanzetti, who, when asked which song she never wanted to see inspiring fanfic again, said, "Any song by Andrew Lloyd Webber." Sorry, hon. Try not to hold it against me! Gethsemane (extract) (for Krycek): I only want to say Everything's All Right (extract) (for Marita): Try not to get worried, try not to turn on to -- From Jesus Christ Superstar |
The Anointedby Deslea R. Judd |