Title: Pas De Deux
Author: CGB
Email: luberluber@yahoo.com.au
Web: http://Apelsini.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 was 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













Christine

CGB

"Crazy isn't being broken, or swallowing a dark secret. It's you or me, 
amplified" - Girl Interrupted