Crashing In The Same Car

// I lost my virginity when I was fifteen years old.//

Marita stared at the words she'd written, wondering at their significance and then, slightly nauseous, tore the page out of her notebook, crumpled it into a tiny ball and chucked it from the backseat of the Jeep and onto the hot pavement. There was no point in reliving the minutia of her existence, was there? Not now when she was so tense and disoriented from hours and hours of travel and, God the desert was so terribly hot.

That therapist of hers was a quack. To expect her to just randomly blurt out her thoughts into some idiotic journal whenever something that seemed remotely important popped into her head, it was madness. How in the world was she supposed to find the time for such a meaningless activity? How was it supposed to make anything better?

And yet...

// I lost my virginity when I was fifteen years old. To Alex Krycek.

Even then, I knew it was a terrible mistake. Just a few years earlier, father had caught us- in his office of all places- me on the desk and Alex sitting in his chair, pretending to be a big somebody or other, his hand shoved between my legs, bringing me to my first, albeit interrupted, orgasm. That incident had landed me in the Dante-esque, Parisian boarding school from which I'd just returned. I'd spent two years in that hellhole thanks to Alex and his hormones. Father told me when he sent me, and I knew it to be true. Alex Krycek was nothing but trouble and I needed to be as far away from him as possible.

The fact that I'd spent nearly every night at that damn school tossing and turning in my bed, struggling to suppress moans of agony, of missing, yearning for his touch, it didn't make any difference. I was supposed to be an adult now. A lady. And a lady just doesn't have urges like that. Especially for someone as low as Alex Krycek.

I hadn't expected him to be at my party, my coming out, my perfect little debutante ball. I'm not sure why. Maybe I thought he'd be rotting in prison by then. Irony. Ha.

He was there though, and I noticed him right away, sniffing around the circle of attention surrounding me, always on the outskirts, waiting for his chance. I'm a little ashamed to admit how much I felt like a queen that night.

When I left, I had been an awkward adolescent, legs too long, taller than all the girls and most of the boys, braces, breasts too soon, hair so oily the only style it would keep was pigtails. Yes, he'd wanted me, but he'd wanted everything, everyone.

Now I was beyond that. I'd grown into my body and I was graceful, elegant, a woman. A queen in a pink satin party dress, encompassed by admirers and well wishers. A Grace Kelley for the eightees.

All of my sisters were there, of course. Husbands and screaming children in tow. And my new step-brother, a wiggly, pink, peculiar creature who made me nervous by virtue of his gender alone. But for once I was the center. Father's attentions were focussed so completely on me, I almost forgot the ache of missing my mother.

I was it- the star, the success, the chosen one. Surely I could do better than Alex.

But I wasn't the only one who'd changed. When I'd last seen Alex, he'd been a gawky, skinny twelve-year-old with a perennial hand caught in the cookie-jar expression. Since I'd left he'd grown, almost to his full height. Skin and bones had been replaced with sinewy muscle, built up, I later learned, from hours of practice with both the rowing and soccer teams at his school. The ridiculous bowl cut he'd been sporting during the office incident had been trimmed into a much more flattering, shorter style.

He was a strapping fourteen, almost a man.

He was wearing jeans. Jeans of all things. I knew his attire was no accident. Alex had already honed his chameleon-like abilities to an art form. He was capable of morphing himself to fit any mold, blend into any situation. If he'd chosen, he could have easily been one of the boys, one of the crowd. If he'd at least worn a jacket and tie with the jeans instead of that damn Sex Pistols T-shirt.

In any case, he didn't fit in and it was obvious he was trying to make some sort of statement. I was surprised his uncle had allowed it. Perhaps he'd finally come to accept what everyone else already knew. There was no hope for Alex- orphan bastard that he was- so he might as well have quit trying.

He waited to approach me until the adults had dispersed and I was standing in a relatively small group of girlfriends. I watched them appraise him with a mixture of curiosity, disgust, and lust, and attempted to dispense of him quickly. I told him he'd gotten me into a huge mess and that he was trouble. Nothing but trouble and he needed to leave me alone and never speak to me again. Especially in public.

"I thought you liked trouble," was his response. Strange how easily I can recall those exact words coming out of his mouth and the thinly veiled hurt behind them.

I turned my back to him and resumed conversation with my now giggling gaggle of friends and the next thing I remember is realizing he was gone. That he'd been gone for over an hour. Then I realized that one of my friends had also disappeared. I think it was Andrea.

I broke from the group and stalked the grounds, inexplicably furious and searching for them. I found them in the step-mother-of-the-week's rose garden, making out on a bench as the sun set behind them.

Whoever the girl was, it might have been Kara now that I think of it, I interrupted to tell her that her father was looking for her and that he was quite irate. As she scurried shamefully back inside, I made sure to give her my dirtiest dirty look so that she'd know not to make the same mistake twice. Who knows if it worked.

"What's the matter? Jealous?" he asked, and I felt the familiar urge to slap him in the face. Of course I wasn't jealous. Of course. I was merely irritated that he thought he could *make* me jealous, that he even wanted to try.

"You're acting like a child, Alex. Don't you have any dignity?"

I should have known better than to ask a question like that.

I should have known better than to let him kiss me.

Did I let him though? No, I don't think that I really did. I think that he grabbed my head and forced his affections on me, leaving me little opportunity to refuse him.

I suppose he was attempting to answer my question with his tongue. No, he had no dignity whatsoever. And after a few minutes, neither did I.

Soon enough that life force, the energy field that crackles and burns around him like an aura of fireworks had burst through the gaps in my shoddily constructed armor. Soon I was dizzy from it, from him. No one had kissed me like that before. Not even him. He'd obviously been practicing a lot during our two-year separation.

In retrospect, I'd probably laugh if someone tried to woo me with such total lack of finesse, such clumsiness. But to my relatively inexperienced, teen-aged self, those sloppy, wet, probing kisses, the tangy, sour-sweet taste of his mouth and the scratch of his newly grown stubble were more exciting than I can even put to words today.

I suppose that's why I told him to take me to Father's boathouse- a frequent childhood hideout for the two of us. I wanted more of those kisses, more of his hands, more than we could do here, out in the open and so close to the party.

Once we were hidden he became even more passionate, more aggressive, and I didn't fight it. Not at all. Even though the feel and the sight of his erection, pressing against those damn jeans, had suddenly become a frightening, threatening thing, I continued to encourage him.

I sat down on the hull of Father's sailboat and spread my legs, pulling him between them, pressing that erection right where I could feel it best. He started grinding against me and I was flooded with the sensations I'd been trying so hard to forget. I think I was convinced this was as far as we'd go. Aside from a bit of groping, this had always been our primary method of sexual gratification.

But he did something else this time. He got down on his knees, hiked up the skirt of my dress and kissed me through the crotch of my pantyhose.

I think I must have screamed. I'd never felt anything like that. Never.

"God, you're so wet. Smell so sweet," he moaned and began flicking his tongue gently against me. I still think of that moment often. Whenever I need to get ready for intercourse in a hurry, whenever orgasm is a necessity with another lover, I remember that moment and the way his words made me feel. Is that pathetic?

Perhaps, but it doesn't change the fact that it was one of the most erotic experience of my life. Maybe it was the newness. Maybe it was the thrill of the forbidden. Whatever it was, it led to an almost instantaneous orgasm.

Once it was over, I planned on reciprocating. I'd learned at school, through elaborate banana presentations by my roommate, what was expected of me. But he didn't ask for that.

Instead he kissed his way back up my body and whispered roughly in my ear, "I wanna fuck you. God, please let me fuck you."

I'd been taught by then, through intimation more than outright proclamation, that my body was a commodity, that fucking was to be given in exchange for things far more valuable, that I was worth my weight in gold. How could I just give that to Alex Krycek in a dirty boathouse in exchange for absolutely nothing?

But then I realized, I was still a virgin and losing one's virginity was a dirty job. Awkward, unpleasant, potentially embarrassing. Perhaps it was best to get it over with here and now with someone whose opinion didn't matter.

Those were the rationalizations anyhow, but when he pulled down my pantyhose and underwear and took out his newly gigantic member, I had to bite back a tremor of fear. Fear and something else. Something dark and primal inside me that wanted it so badly.

"Have you done this with other girls?" I asked him stupidly. He just shrugged. Like he didn't know. Little bastard.

"If I do it with you, are you gonna keep doing it with other girls?" I don't know what I was thinking. It just seemed like the right thing to ask, despite the fact that I was in no way planning on having a monogamous relationship with him.

"I'll probably have to. It's not like you're ever gonna do it with me again, you're such a priss."

Yes, he's always been a sweet-talker. Somehow, though, it was the right answer.

It hurt. Hurt like bloody hell, but I didn't let him know. He was rough and frantic and I think it probably lasted a total of five minutes. But he kissed me and he told me I was beautiful and when he came inside me, he called my name and it felt good. I think it was probably a better first time than most girls get.

"Do you love me, Alex?" I asked him later, attempting to make myself presentable enough to return to the party.

"What does that mean?" I suppose it was a good question. I tried to explain what it meant to me at that time, but I don't think I really knew.

"Do you dream about me? When I'm not there, do you wish I was? Do you long for me? Do you want me more than anyone else?"

"Yeah, yeah. If that's what it means, then yeah, I love you, Marita."

It's the only time he's ever said it to me. The only other time I asked was that night in New York, the night I took the boy. He laughed and told me that love was meaningless, that it was a stupid question. I've been wondering ever since just who was betrayed first.//

"Miss Covarrubias?"

The Jeep had stopped moving. Marita looked up from the journal to find her guide staring curiously at her. She used her hand to cover the words she'd written.

"We've arrived, Miss Covarrubias."

"What does the old bastard want from me?" he asked her, drying himself with a small, moth-eaten towel.

"I don't know," she answered, honestly. "I'm assuming he wants you to do some work for him."

The towel fell to the floor with a soggy thwap and she tossed him a pair of pants.

"I don't work for him anymore. Didn't he get the letter of resignation?"

She scoffed, amazed, but never shocked by his gall.

"Alex, you haven't got much of a choice. Unless you'd rather stay here?"

"You're gonna leave me here if I don't agree?"

"What do you think?"

"Just because he arranged this, it doesn't mean I owe him my soul," he insisted, sand blowing into his eyes from the side of the road as the Jeep carried them away from the bowels of hell.

"Nobody said you did, Alex. It's just a job like any other."

Does he even have a soul, she wondered.

"So what about you, Marita? What's your deal?"

She looked him in the eyes and saw the same fury and desire as she'd always seen. Maybe a bit more fury today.

"What do you mean, my deal?"

"You're looking remarkably healthy these days. What did you have give him in exchange for that?"

There was no mistaking the insinuation in that, but she chose to ignore it, not to take offense. What would be the point?

"My survival has always been ensured. Because of who I am."

"You didn't seem so sure of that the last time I saw you."

She still wasn't sure. Would she ever be?

It didn't matter though. She hadn't come here to talk about herself.

"Where did this come from?" He eyed the object on the bed suspiciously.

"I brought it with me," she told him. She was still wondering why she'd bothered. "Put it on so we can get out of here. Our flight to London leaves in three hours."

"Did he give it to you?"

He picked the prosthetic up with his remaining hand and examined it. She sighed.

"It's yours, idiot."

He continued to study it, obviously not convinced it was indeed, his spare, and she started gathering the last of her belongings from the hotel room.

"We need to go, Alex."

"I'm taking another shower. With soap."

He tossed the arm back on the bed and brushed past her on his way to the bathroom. She half expected him to ask her to join him. She was only a little disappointed when he didn't.

When he came back from his shower, she was in her underwear. Since he was going to dawdle, she might as well change into more comfortable, clean traveling clothes. And if it took her a half an hour to decide what to wear, what was the harm?

He was in a towel.

"Are you ready?" she asked him.

"For what?"

He looked her up and down once with a mixture of hunger and mistrust and then turned away. Then he sat down on the bed and picked up the telephone.

"It's time to leave, Alex."

"I wanna eat."

"No."

She made a grab for the phone and he dropped it onto the mattress and took hold of her wrist. His grip was tight and a little bit painful. She swallowed her moan.

"Look, I haven't had a meal without bugs in it that I didn't have to nearly kill someone just to get to in almost a year. I want some real fucking food and I want it fucking now!"

His eyes were dangerous and she thought he might kill her just to get his stupid lunch.

"Then make it fucking fast."

She tried to pull herself free, but he wouldn't allow it.

"Let go of me, goddamn you."

He pulled her close enough that she could smell the cheap hotel shampoo in his hair, the soap and moisture on his skin, mixed with the lingering scent of body odor that would probably take at least a week to wash completely off. She watched, hypnotized momentarily, as a drop of water slid down his throat and into the cleft of his pectoral muscles.

"Do you know how long it's been since I've even seen a woman?" His voice was low and raspy, almost enough to melt her resolve. Too early. It was too goddamn early. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

"I thought it didn't make a difference to you. Weren't your mates in prison enough?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I seem to recall being told that I can't suck dick as well as a man. I'd have thought you'd be in heaven in that place."

"There's no sucking dick in prison, Marita. It's rape or be raped."

She wondered which side of that equation he'd found himself on. Somehow she found herself unable to imagine either.

"Look, there's no time, Alex. Don't even think about it."

He tugged on her wrist, bending her down so that he could look directly at her face.

"If you don't want me to think about it, then stop walking around in your underwear and waving your pussy in my face. If you don't wanna do it, then put your goddamn clothes on."

He shoved her away from him and called up room service. She put on a robe, but didn't bother closing it.

"What happened? How did he catch you?"

He sat at the small table in the corner of her room and she stood over him, watching him devour a meal fit for twelve.

He didn't answer her.

"Alex, what happened? You killed her, didn't you?"

He shrugged and continued to stuff himself. This wasn't going the way she'd planned at all. He wasn't reacting in any of the ways she'd expected.

She took note for the first time of the slump in his shoulders, the weary expression on his face, the bags under his eyes. He suddenly looked at least ten years older than the last time she'd seen him. There was something different about him. Something she hadn't prepared for.

"Didn't you know he'd come after you? Alex?"

"I don't wanna talk about this," he growled through a mouthful of salami and cheese.

"God," she sighed, understanding the problem. "You really don't give a shit anymore, do you?"

"Nope."

"You've no intention of helping him once we get back there."

"What did you expect?"

"He'll kill you this time."

"Not if I kill him first."

She allowed herself the luxury of a tiny smile. There he was, halfway with her already.

"You think it's enough to kill him?"

That got his attention. His ears and eyes perked up like a cat's and he finally put his fork down.

"You don't intend to help him either. Do you, Marita?"

"I want to sabotage this, whatever it is. But I...I need your help."

He looked at her carefully, scrutinizing.

"How do I know this isn't a trap? How am I supposed to trust you?"

"You don't have to trust me. All you have to do is believe me. Believe in my hatred for him."

"What do you want from me, Marita?"

She knelt down between his legs and put her hands on his thighs, looked up at him imploringly.

"I want you to bring him down. I want you to let me help you. He's all that's left. He let the rest of them die. Our families, Alex. I want us to be vindicated."

"And then what?"

"Don't you remember, Alex? Don't you remember how badly you wanted his power? How we planned..."

She let that drop, immediately realizing her mistake. Of course he remembered. Reminding him of her betrayal couldn't help the situation. Surprisingly, though, she didn't sense any anger in his reaction.

"That was a long time ago, Marita."

"Not that long..."

"I don't want his power. I don't want his life. I just want it to end. I want it over."

"No, Alex, it can't end."

"It has to. Don't you see? God, I'm just tired. I'm sick of it. Aren't you?"

She didn't want to consider that. It was too frightening.

She traced a pattern on his thighs, inched her fingers higher and higher until they danced around the edge of his towel.

"What would it take?" she whispered, moving her face towards the growing bulge between his legs.

"Stop it."

"I'll do anything, Alex."

"God, just stop it! Look at yourself. What the fuck is this? I can't be like this anymore."

She was taken aback by the harshness, the raw honesty in his voice. And she was terrified. What was he saying? What was he doing? Her whole world was suddenly thrown completely off-kilter. Again.

"What *do* you want, Alex?"

"I just want it over. I want him gone."

"Then come with me. Hear what he has to say and help me ruin him. And then we can kill him."

His face bore an almost blank expression, but she could see the calculations and equations running through his frighteningly mathematical mind. She knew he wanted to make the bastard pay as much as she did. It was just a matter of what he had to lose.

"If I get dragged back into this because of you, Covarrubias, I will kill you."

"Is that a yes?"

"I mean it."

"Alex, if you get dragged back into anything, it'll be your own doing. I'm not asking for anything more than this. Now will you do it?"

He sighed and slumped even further into his chair, resignation emenating from his pores.

"Yeah. Yeah, why not."

"All right, then. Let's go."

She rose to her feet and turned away from him, began selecting a suit. She felt his infuriated eyes following her every move and was silently thrilled.

Rifling idly through her belongings, she ticked off the passing seconds in her mind.

One...two...three...

His hand was on her wrist before she got to ten.

"One of these days you oughtta figure out if you're gonna be a tease or a whore, Marita."

"Fuck you, Alex."

"You're really good at starting things you don't intend to finish. I hope you're planning on carrying this plan through."

"I could say the same to you."

"Yeah, well, maybe I said yes a little too soon."

"What do you want, Alex?"

She smiled sensuously, knowing exactly what he wanted and finally ready to give it to him. It was time now. All he had to do was ask. He tugged on her wrist and pulled her body closer. Close enough for her to feel the electricity emanating from his skin, to smell his desperation. Her throat tightened in anticipation. God, it had been so long. So long since she'd been touched by any man, let alone this man. The only man who could make her feel...anything.

"Tell me what you want from me," she whispered against his neck and wet her lips, preparing to lay them on his flesh.

"What I want is for you to stop."

He pushed her back, but kept his fingers clasped around her wrist. He shook her as he spat out his words. "Stop...acting...like...a fucking...whore. Stop trying to sell yourself to me. I'm not buying, okay."

She gasped, startled into an absolutely honest reaction. Her head shook back and forth of it's own volition. She stared blankly at him, unable to comprehend.

He'd never refused her before.

He shook her again.

"Do you understand? If you wanna fuck me then tell me you wanna fuck me just because you do. Not as an exchange. Not when I have no fucking way of knowing if you're planning on using your cunt as a weapon on me again."

So, he wasn't over New York after all. She wasn't hurt, or even surprised to hear it. What continued to shock her was the fact that Alex was listening more carefully to his convictions than he was to his dick.

She knew he was capable of great sacrifice and self-restraint when he needed to be, when he was working towards a goal. But with her...he'd never been able to control himself with her. And now he was, by his own admission, desperate for a woman. She would have been impressed were she not so annoyed.

"Fine," she snapped, jerking out of his clutches. "We've got a plane to catch anyway."

She remembers when this moment was a fantasy.

Paris. That was the first time Alex had mentioned it. They'd been dining at L'Oree Du Bois on her twenty-seventh birthday. He'd ordered an embarrassing amount of food which she picked at only sporadically, not wishing to chew in public. She'd been in one of her bulimic phases.

He'd been a nervous wreck, looking over his shoulder every couple of minutes even though he was sitting with his back to the wall. Didn't feel safe with her, with anyone. Three days earlier, he'd killed for the first time.

She remembers his false pride, his bragging about the incident and the way it seemed to make him feel invincible. She'd teased him, reminded him that he'd been a clueless pawn throughout the entire assignment and that he'd come perilously close to botching it up entirely on more than one occasion. She'd laughed about the cheap suits he'd been forced to wear and the ass-kissing he'd delivered to Fox Mulder, and for what? Poor Alex still hadn't known, but he'd known he was in trouble which was why they were in another country.

Still, nothing she said seemed to deflate his enthusiasm.

"I can do anything now, Marita," he'd whispered excitedly between forkfuls of some stinky liver pate. "I can kill."

"Alex, you killed a tram operator. By accident. You're hardly Ghengis Kahn."

"I can kill, Marita. I can kill him. I can kill them all. And someday I will. Someday I'll be more than an errand boy."

At the time, the thought held little appeal for her, but as the years wore mercilessly on and they watched their souls being chipped away, she began to think more and more about his words that evening. She began to long for it. To wonder...What would it be like if they were gone? What would it be like if it were only her and Alex. Alone.

She shivers in her seat even though he's got the temperature in the car close to seventy-five degrees. They're alone now, aren't they.

Fantasy has become starkly real and anti-climactic doesn't even begin to explain what this moment is to her.

She wonders if this is what it's like for battered women who kill their abusive spouses. Relief because the beating will finally cease, coupled with a chilling fear of the consequences and an inexplicable sense of emptiness and loss. Not quite the euphoria she'd been anticipating.

What then? Alex had asked and she has to admit now, she doesn't have an answer.

So much has happened that she wasn't prepared for.

The possibility of Mulder's abduction hadn't even occurred to her. They'd expected him to find the bloody ship, not jump on board like an idiotic drone. He was supposed to help them. Now they have no one.

Surely Scully will hold them accountable. She will find them, demand things from them. Just as Marita knows she would do herself if the situations were reversed. If Alex had been taken.

She gets a sick feeling in her stomach, realizing that if she loses Alex, she has less than nothing.

She wonders if he is frightened.

She knows that he is euphoric. He is humming, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, driving erratically. She can practically feel the racing of his pulse. She is jealous.

This was supposed to be their moment, but it seems that their realities have diverged.

"What are you thinking?" he asks her.

She is thinking that she needs to feel what he is feeling and that there is only one possible way. She is thinking that he is the only person in the world who truly knows her. She is thinking that he's never, in all the time she's known him, asked her what she was thinking.

"I'm thinking...where are you staying tonight?"

She misses his other hand.

The last time they spent the night in her DC apartment, he still had it. That's how long ago it was.

Still, one hand is better than none and he knows how to use it. He's already got it shoved between her legs. Her skirt is hiked up around her waist and he traces agonizingly slow and gentle circles over the silk of her underwear.

His teasing touch is incompatible with the violence of his kisses as he pushes her against the wall of her bedroom. She remembers the way he lifted her up and fucked her in this exact spot on that night so many years ago. He can still lift her, but it's awkward now and she doesn't like the feel of his artificial limb on her ass.

"God, we really did it, Alex," she breathes into his mouth.

"Mmhmm...yeah," he groans, twining his tongue with hers in the open air and squeezing her. She thrusts shamelessly into his hand.

"It's just you and me."

The thought is as thrilling now as it was terrifying in the car. She pulls at his shirt, sending fifty dollar buttons scattering to the floor. His torso is hard and flat, more muscular and toned than the last time she touched it. His breathing is labored and sharp as she runs her fingernails down his smooth, damp flesh.

When she reaches his belt, her hands are trembling. She's been wanting to pull it open since yesterday. She relishes the small act with an almost ritualistic awe. Opening her favorite present.

Before she can begin to admire her prize he is pushing her to her knees and rubbing his cotton covered crotch in her face.

"Suck my cock," he orders her roughly and she is almost embarrassed at how those words arouse her. If he were another man...God, there's no use even imagining. No other man would dare behave this way with her. But if he did, he would be sorry.

She pulls down his boxer briefs and he kicks them and his pants away. She licks the underside of him slowly, tasting his salty tang and wondering if she will ever again be with another man. He was the last and that was almost two years ago. Her beauty has been restored and she could be with anyone now, but she can't remember what the point would be.

She takes him deep into her throat and his answering moan vibrates through her entire body. She carefully watches the changes in his expression as she swirls her tongue around him, moves a little faster, reacquaints herself with the taste and the feel of him and the ways she can make him lose control.

She wonders why she ever considered this a submissive act. He is entirely in her grasp, at her mercy.

"God, you're so fucking good at that," he groans, slumping against the wall. "Such a good little cocksucker."

Her fingers are inside her panties before she can consider why- how- he can make that an arousing thing to hear. As she touches herself and watches him watching her she thinks that maybe Alex Krycek is sex. Maybe he invented it. Maybe he could make cleaning the grout out of her bathroom tiles seem hot and exciting and dirty and maybe that's why so many people hate him so much.

That kind of power is a very dangerous thing.

"Am I the best you ever had?" she asks, sliding him out of her mouth and rising to her feet.

He grabs her hand and brings her soiled fingers to his face, sniffs at them, takes them hungrily into his mouth and sucks. Her first instinct is to pull away, to hide her body's natural functions from him. She's never taken much joy in the nitty gritty aspects of her anatomy, but she sees the challenge in his eyes and cannot resist. She lets him worship this embarassing part of her and, as always, she feels her shame begin to melt away because of his reactions to her.

"Nobody's better," he tells her when he's finished licking her clean.

This is, perhaps, the biggest load of bull she's ever heard in her life, but she can't complain because she did ask. Laughing is unavoidable though.

"What? You think I'm lying?"

"I think you'd say anything at this point."

"No, no you're wrong. I don't have to say anything at all."

He reaches for her hair and soon a dozen bobby pins are falling to the floor and she is free of the painfully tight bun. He heads for her shirt next and then her bra. Taking a nipple into his mouth, he unzips her skirt and reaches inside her panties.

God, it's been so long. So so long and she can't deny anymore how often she's thought of this, how badly she's wanted it. She doesn't understand why she is cursed with this need for him, but it doesn't matter now. Nothing does.

"See, I don't have to say anything because you can't stop. Can you?"

It's not really a question, which is good because she couldn't answer even if she wanted to. Which she doesn't. He knows. He knows every damn thing.

"No, you can't stop. You need it, don't you?"

He pushes a finger- maybe two- inside her and rolls her clit around with his thumb. She's panting as heavily as he is, and that is something of an accomplishment. Even the way he breathes is unique, intense.

"Alex...please..."

"This is why you're better. Why you make me hotter than anyone else. You need it so bad."

"I need...I need to feel...alive."

And he is the only one who can give her that.

"You know, we get a lot more done working with each other rather than against each other," he tells her, his surprisingly serious face hovering above hers as he kneels between her legs, poising himself to enter her. She nods, wondering what that means.

"Maybe we should try that more often," he continues, increasing her curiosity and confusion. What exactly is he suggesting? What does he want?

"Do you trust me, Alex?"

She knows it's a ridiculous question, but he doesn't laugh or even sneer. He just says, "Not yet," and thrusts unexpectedly into her.

She gasps, initially in shock and then again in pleasure. She'd almost forgotten how it feels, how he fills her so completely. He's not the biggest man she's ever been with, but the one who was bigger was too damn big. He's the biggest she could ever take.

"Fuck, that's good," he growls into her ear and begins to screw her senseless. And it is good. It's almost more than she can stand.

And then, after a few short blissful moments, just as abruptly as he'd gone in, he pulls completely out.

"Alex! What..."

"Turn over."

She rolls over on the bed and rises to her hands and knees in a near panic. She couldn't care less for position. She just needs him inside.

When he starts rummaging around in her bedside drawer, she approaches hysteria.

"Alex, God, I can't wait anymore!"

"Shh, it's okay," he whispers, finally retrieving her tube of lubricant. She can't begin to conceive why he'd need it at this point. She's so wet he could probably get a Mack truck up there.

"Alex, what are you..."

She trails off when she feels his finger sliding down the crease of her ass.

"Mmm, this is what I want," he murmurs, gently prying her open with his hand. "I want it. You wanna give it to me?"

Didn't you get enough of that in prison? She thinks, but does not ask. She's decided that she doesn't want to know what happened in prison.

In any case, she wants it however he wants to give it to her. She realized a long time ago that it doesn't matter what he does to her, that it's not a particular method of touch or a special technique that ensures her satisfaction. It's just him. His smell and his feel and his lust. That is what makes her come for him every time.

"Tell me if it hurts too bad," he tells her, not waiting for an answer to begin pushing himself inside.

"Didn't stop you the first time..."

Of course, he'd only been sixteen.

"Just tell me...God...Yeah."

"Oh my God," she squeaks- a high-pitched, keening cry- as he works his way completely in and starts moving slowly. So slowly.

"S'at good?"

"Shit...yeah."

Better than she'd expected. Better than she remembered.

She begins stroking herself lightly, recognizing the stage he's reached through the throbbing of his cock inside her and his now gasping breaths.

He reaches back into the drawer and pulls out her little vibrator, hands it to her and presses her hand between her legs. She flicks the switch and is instantly assaulted by a near-overdose of stimulation. She's almost too close, too sensitized to use the device.

"God, Alex, do it harder," she begs him, and he does but it's still not enough and too much all at once. She turns the vibrator off and tosses it onto the mattress, frustrated with its inadequacy, and pushes his hand into her.

"Better?" he asks, pressing his palm against her and pumping her with his fingers. Now it's him, all him, everywhere, and it is better. She clutches handfuls of pristine, white, satin sheets in her fists and bucks into him, feeling free for the first time in years.

"S'just me, isn't it?" She's not sure what he means by that, but realizes that he's probably right. Whatever it is.

"Wha...what?"

"Nobody else can do you this way."

The thought of anyone else even trying makes her laugh. Or it would if she could force her vocal chords to emit sounds beyond a gasp.

"S'mine, isn't it?" He grips her tight and pumps her hard with his fingers, asks again, more forcefully, "Isn't it?"

"Ye...Yes, Alex...yours..."

"And you...you...m-mine. You belong to me."

His breathless pronouncement is more than a little terrifying, but she says yes. "Yes, Alex, yes...yes."

She says yes because she knows. She knows him well enough to understand that what he's asking has little to do with possession, that he's reaching out, groping blindly and stupidly for her, in the only way he knows how.

She says yes because he is irrevocably damaged, cruel and calculating, rendered incapable of direct and genuine human interaction. But she knew him before, when the pulse of his emotion was raw and exposed, not buried and crusted over with bitterness and hatred and mistrust.

She says yes because he wants someone to look out for him, someone who is always on his side no matter what side he's on, but he doesn't know how to ask for that because he doesn't even understand anymore that it's what he needs. She thinks that maybe that's what he's always wanted from her and perhaps his anger, his appetite for her destruction, stemmed more from the sting of her rejection than anything else.

She is not a person who repeats mistakes indefinitely, and this is as close as he's ever come to opening up.

"Yes, Alex," she moans as she finally reaches her release. He follows shortly after, choking out the words "Mine, mine, mine," over and over in time with his sharp, painfully, blissfully deep thrusts.

She wonders if he's ever had anything else to call his own.

He's always been a bad sleeper, even when they were children. She watched him the first time when they were very young, seven or eight, and she'd been allowed to stay overnight at his uncle's house, to attend his cousin Nicole's sleep-over party. She'd always hated Nicole, though- a secret part of her had been relieved when she was taken, relieved that it wasn't Alex- and when all the girls had fallen asleep she snuck down the hall to Alex's bedroom. He was awake when she found him, and they talked for a while and played with his Matchbox car collection. He invited her to sleep in his bed instead of on his cousin's floor, crammed between two other girls in an itchy sleeping bag.

He woke her in the middle of the night by grabbing her hand. She let him clutch her as he tossed and turned and she wondered what he was dreaming and why it was making him so sad. She'd heard that he'd seen his parents die and she supposed that would be enough to give anyone nightmares.

Again, tonight he is restless in slumber and she watches his eyes dart under the lids and wonders what he is seeing. He has never told her any of his dreams. Again, he reaches for her and she lets him hold her arm until she's sure the skin will bruise.

When the pain and curiosity become unbearable, she shakes him awake. Dreary gray light is beginning to pour in the window, the beginning of a rainy, maudlin morning. She wonders what they will do today.

He seems startled for a moment, but soon settles into a comfortable stretch and yawn and burrows deeply under the covers.

"What time is it?" he asks, rubbing the corners of his eyes.

"Very late. Or early. The sun is coming up."

She waits a beat, expecting him to begin crafting his usual exit, but he doesn't seem to be going anywhere so she asks him, "What were you dreaming about, Alex?"

He gives her an unreadable sideways glance and shrugs. "I dunno. What difference does it make?"

She measures her words carefully. She's not sure herself if it matters.

"You seemed upset. You...you were grabbing me. You do that a lot. In your sleep."

"Guess I have a lot of bad dreams." His tone is casual, non-committal. She wonders what it would take. She wonders why she cares.

"Bad dreams that you can't tell me about, hmm."

"They're not very interesting."

She drapes her arm over his chest and props her head on her elbow, near his ear.

"It's because you don't trust me."

"It's because there's no point."

"But you don't trust me."

He scrutinizes her silently for a moment and her pulse races inexplicably. She knows his answer already, which is why it wasn't a question.

"Why did you change your hair?" he finally asks her. She wants to hurt him, to dig her nails into his face and peel back the skin to see if he's even human at all.

"Could you ever?"

"I like it. Makes you look softer."

"Alex..."

"Why are you asking me this? Does it really matter to you?"

"Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn't ask."

"Why? You've never worried about that before."

"Because...you're all I have now."

She is shocked by her own honesty. She feels stripped bare and wishes she could change the way that they are.

"I'm all you ever had," he tells her bluntly. He's right and that's even more upsetting.

"What happens now, Alex?"

"What do you want?"

She can't remember the last time someone's asked her that and expected or wanted an answer. She's not even sure if he does.

"I...I don't want it to end."

"It?"

She closes her eyes and looks for the words, for the answer. It is so many things and most of them are horrendously bad, but it really comes down to one thing.

"I don't want you to go. I don't want you to leave."

"I don't have anywhere to go to."

"I don't want you to quit either."

"I can't quit. You were right, Marita. There's no way out. Not knowing what we do."

Rain starts to beat on the window and she curls closer to him, imagines a world in which spending a quiet morning together could be just that simple. Just a quiet morning.

"I just wish...I wish things were different," he tells her. "In every possible way."

Yes, so does she, but in telling her that he is making things different. He has the power to change it all.

"We can change things, Alex."

He laughs through his nose and shakes his head ruefully. "No. I used to think I could change things, but it never changes. It just gets worse."

"You changed things today."

"That wasn't about change. He was gonna die anyway. It felt good, but it wasn't change."

Just more stimulation then, more empty, meaningless thrill. Maybe he's not so unique after all. Just another isolated, vacant soul wandering from distraction to distraction, but instead of television and liquor and stunted small talk with tedious strangers he seeks out world domination and power and death. And her.

But no, that's not him. She knows that his motivations run deeper. Deeper than hers even.

"What about what you said before, Alex?"

"What did I say?"

"About working better together than apart."

"What about it?"

"Do you believe that?"

She expects another 'What do you mean?' or 'What difference does it make?' but for once, he answers a question with an answer.

"It's not a matter of belief. It's just a fact. It's always more effective to work with a partner, as long as you're both working towards the same goal."

That's as much as she can hope for in terms of a statement of need.

"Do you believe we can change things, then?"

"I don't know. It depends on...on a lot of things."

"I think that I'd like to try, Alex. I think I need to try."

She feels his body relax just a fraction and his stroking on her back becomes less absent, more focused. Perhaps she's finally said the right thing.

"If you're serious, Marita...I mean if this is something you really want, being part of a team means giving up something of yourself to the other person. Something besides your ass. It means giving up the right to be completely self-serving."

How strange to hear Alex Krycek saying such a thing. Sometimes he still surprises her. Completely.

"It works both ways, Alex."

"You know, having someone look out for you doesn't mean you're going to be safe."

She ponders that for a moment, thinks about Mulder and Scully and all the horrible things that have happened to both of them despite their partnership, despite the fact that they would die for each other. She doesn't even know if she would die for Alex. She's sure he wouldn't for her. They would kill for each other though, and that might be more effective.

"Alex?"

"Hmm?"

"I trust you."

She's not sure if that's true either, but it seems like a good thing to say. It seems saying it might make it true.

He laughs at her, but doesn't let her go.

"Yeah," he smirks with some cruelty, some irony. "Famous last words."