Indemnity

Alex had a sharp sense of humor. He'd have a witty comeback for almost any situation, no matter how grim. It was one of the things I loved about him.

It was also one of the things I was dreading when I went to get him from Tunisia.

And why did I have to get him?

Because some sick senile old man, who still had enough power to have me locked up in quarantine, was having paternal delusions. Maybe, if he hadn't shot his own son in the head, he wouldn't have that need.

Maybe, if I hadn't said that to his face, he would have let one of his contacts already in Tunisia bring Alex back, and I wouldn't have to face a man I've had nightmares about for the past year.

Well, not the whole man.

Just his back.

I prepared myself for it. I even practiced responses to various things I thought he would say. I walked into that prison ready to face Alex and his cutting wit.

I never imagined he would have lost it.

When he spoke to me in prison, I immediately shot back a retort, assuming his words were meant to sting.

I waited for the remarks to come, but none came. I caught him staring at me several times, but none of them were glares, more of a puzzled look. A couple times, I thought I saw regret, but it could've been wishful thinking. His silence could've meant he didn't care enough about me to waste his breath.

I told him the smoking man was dying. I was sure that would bring some comment, but he just looked at me for a moment, and went back to showering.

I began to think something else was wrong. I was sure he would at least say, "good", to the news. Spender's death was something Alex always wished for. How can he take this news so casually?

I arranged dinner, figuring after months of prison, he'd want a good meal, but he picked at his food. As I was cutting myself a slice of bread, my hand slipped, and I sliced my finger. Not a deep cut, but there was some blood. It was a perfect opportunity for him to get in a few jabs.

-I thought you'd be pretty good at using a knife by now, or is that just when it's someone's back?

-I didn't think you'd have that much blood left in you, judging from the last time I saw you. What poor soul did you suck that stuff out of?

He said nothing.

He just asked me if I needed a bandage. I shook my head, and he went back to picking at his food.

Something was wrong. It was like he had no fight left in him. What happened to him? Did I do that?

I didn't think so. He still had that mischievous spark in his eyes when I saw him at Fort Marlene. That was gone now. Was it prison? Did that old bastard finally break him?

I read somewhere that, although men are physically stronger, women can withstand more pain. I assumed that if I could survive all those tests, Alex could survive anything also. Perhaps I was wrong.

Was this the reason Spender sent me?

To gloat?

He always resented my relationship with Alex. He even had the nerve to blame me for the car bomb.

"An unfortunate event," he said. "I had high hopes for Alex, but I'm afraid he couldn't be salvaged. Not with such a bad influence around him"

Asshole. He failed then, and in North Dakota, but there are more ways than death to destroy a man, as he often said.

I looked at Alex, still staring at his plate. It was a beautiful night. I made sure all the windows would be open, knowing how much I needed to feel fresh air and open spaces when I was released. He hadn't even looked out them.

I wanted to ask him what happened.

If I did, would he tell me?

I wanted to go up to him, and wrap my arms around him.

If I tried, would he let me?

"Marita?"

I was staring, I didn't know how long. He was waiting for a response. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him I was sorry things went so wrong. I wanted to tell him I forgave him.

I wanted to tell him I still loved him.

Instead I said, "I still want to kill him."

He looked like I just slapped him. For some reason, those words hurt him. I never meant them too. Of course, I never meant to hurt him at all, but it seems like that is all I've done.

I gathered my dishes, and escaped to the kitchen, fighting off the urge to throw the plate at the wall.

Damn him.

I came there prepared for the Alex I knew. I didn't know how to handle this one.

He'd left the table when I came out. I found him sitting on the couch. He looked up at me.

"Have you ever killed anyone, Marita?"

"You know I haven't"

"I Thought maybe since-"

"I've been locked up since."

Again my words hurt him, but now I knew why.

This wasn't apathy. This was guilt.

I could have hurt him then. I could have told him about the tests, and the torture. I could have told him about the needles, and how with each one, I never knew if it was for another experiment, or that final one, which would put me to sleep like some wretched animal. I could have told him that even when I was stripped of every last ounce of dignity I had left, I still hung on to that part of me that was determined to survive. I clung to it with all the strength I had left, until that part died the day he abandoned me.

Most of all, I could have vindicated myself by telling him that the day I supposedly betrayed him, I had come to the boat to check on the boy, only to find the oil was adapting to it's prison. That I had tried to phone him, but in our desire to have a few hours alone, he'd turned his phone off and hadn't yet turned it on. That seeing the danger, I took the boy away, because back then, I'd risk my life a thousand times before I'd choose to risk his. I tried to get the boy to Mulder, the only one I knew who'd be immune, but it was too late.

I could have told him all those things. It was an opportunity I looked forward to. I'd rehearsed the speech over and over again, preparing to wipe that smirk off his face.

Except there was no smirk, or sneer, or malice, only pain. It was like a sadistic merry-go round. His pain, my pain, round and round, over and over again. Was there ever a time when we felt only joy?

I knelt down in front of him, and put my hand on his knee.

"I had to heal. If it wasn't there, it would have been some other hospital."

"So there were no more tests?"

"No." I lied.

He studied me for a moment, and brushed his finger down my cheek.

"I don't want you to kill him." He said.

I leaned away from him, fearing again that he lost his will to fight.

"Why not? Don't you think he deserves it? "

He gazed at the floor. "Oh, he deserves it. Someone should have sent that bastard back to hell a long time ago, but it'd be your first murder, Marita. He's not worth you crossing that line. I should be the one to do it."

It's pathetic that I felt relieved by those words. In a normal life, I'd be happy if he lost his thirst for revenge, but in our world there's a name for those types of people.

Corpses.

I leaned back in. "Then I want to be there when you do."

He tilted his head, studying me again.

I got off the floor, and straddled him on the couch. I was terrified he'd try to stop me, but he didn't.

"Marita, I never."

I brought my fingers to his lips. He was about to give me an apology, or a rejection, and I didn't want to hear either.

"Sshhhhh. It doesn't matter. The past is past. Leave it there."

It was wrong. I know this. To use a murder as a way to get him back was a horrible thing to do, but I didn't care. I'd been through too much, and I wanted this. To hell with morals, we deserved some joy.

For that night, at least, we had it.