AUTHOR: Eve (alfa_fighter_3@hotmail.com)
TITLE: Category Mistake 2
PAIRING: this one alludes to K/Ma in the past tense.
SPOILERS: up to and including Requiem. Mulder's gone, people!
DISCLAIMERS:Uhhhh...sure. I own them. Riiiiiiiiiight.
NOTES: the first story was inspired by my Philosophy 231 Prof. I liked this little universe so much that I decided to stay and dabble a little while longer. Indulge me.
THANKS TO: Erynn for the beta and Marita-help, and anyone who asked for the sequel oh so long ago.He lost track of time somewhere between counting the stains on the ceiling, and wondering if it was going to collapse on him. Wouldn't that be the perfect ending to a perfect evening? Spender's confidante had probably gotten away, and if he ever managed to free himself, he'd have to face Marita's cold "I told you so" look. Somehow, he doubted Spender had ever gotten himself into a situation like this.
The bed creaked as he shifted, impossibly trying to find a more comfortable position. Unfortunately, there wasn't anywhere to go. Scully hadn't left any slack when she tied and shackled him. He couldn't believe she'd left him there. Mulder was the one who beat him up and left him for dead. Scully was the one who fixed things, who was rational, who always did the right thing. Apparently that all went out the window when tequila was involved.
He wondered if she knew about her pregnancy. Probably not, otherwise she wouldn't be drinking. Dr. Scully would know all about the side effects that alcohol had on a fetus. Well, it was only a guess on his part that she was carrying.
Despite being immersed in it for only god knows how long, the smell of tequila still filled his nostrils. It was starting to make him feel sick. That, and the need to go to the bathroom were turning this experience from unpleasant and embarrassing, to fucking unpleasant and embarrassing.
He wanted out. Now. Alex Krycek was not a man who liked to be trapped. It made him think of dirty Russian peasants and cold, dark missile silos. She'd taken his arm, for chrissakes. Had the woman no compassion?
If he ever got it back he was going to hunt her down and beat her with it. Maybe handcuff her to Skinner's balcony. Naked. That'd teach her, although old Walt might enjoy the view. Krycek sighed, a sound that bordered on a frustrated whimper. Now he was whining. How had Scully reduced him to this?
Headlights suddenly brightened the room, and he heard a car idling for a moment before the lights went out. A key in the lock. It wasn't housekeeping, so it had to be Scully. The door inched open, and a pair of long legs appeared, attached to the last person he wanted to see right now.
Marita focused her icy laser eyes on him, and her eyebrows went up a notch as she surveyed the bed.
He wanted her to cut him loose this instant. He had to piss like a racehorse, and he couldn't feel his feet or his hand. But more that pain, he hated begging. And he would never beg Marita, not even if he trusted her completely.
Still, she remained standing in the doorway, eyeing the phone cord, the stump of his shoulder, the cuts across his chest, wrinkling her nose slightly at the smell.
"Take a picture. It'll last longer."
"Don't tempt me," she replied, slamming the door closed. So she was angry. What did she have to be angry about? He was the one trussed up like a sacrificial lamb.
"So Alex, how are you doing this evening?" she asked, smiling tightly.
"Cut the crap Marita. And while you're at it, cut me loose. I have to piss."
She 'tsked' a few times, and came to stand beside the bed. "Even if I wanted to, I don't have keys for the handcuffs."
"I know you can pick the lock." That was one of the first things he'd taught her. "And don't tell me you haven't got a knife in the car. You're mean, but you're not stupid." Sure asshole, antagonize her some more. He wouldn't put it past her to just leave him here to lie in his own filth.
"You're right," she said, suddenly hiking up her skirt. A leather sheath was wrapped around her thigh, and she pulled out a small dagger. At any other time, the sight might have excited him, but he'd had enough of women and knives for one evening. She sat hard on the bed, jolting him and his bladder, and angrily sawed through the phone cord.
"Let me tell you a little story, Alex. I was sitting at home, relaxing with a book and a good Merlot, when the phone rings. I'm expecting you, since you're the only person left who has that number. But who do I find on the other end? Dana Scully. Special Agent Dana Scully. She doesn't tell me her name, of course, but I'd know that voice anywhere. All she says is 'He's at the Westside Motel. Room 13.' Naturally, what I want to know is where she got my number."
She looked at him pointedly, but he shook his head in denial and slowly bent his legs. "How did you know it was me?"
She set the knife on the nightstand and pulled a small lockpick set out of god-knows-where. "Why else would she call me? Who else cares about you?" The harsh words were tempered by her soft voice. Still, the truth hurt. There really wasn't anyone left who gave a rat's ass besides Marita. Sure, anyone still involved in the Project looked to him for leadership, but beyond that no one cared whether he lived or died, as long as there was someone left to pick up the reins.
She leaned over him as she worked to unlock the cuffs. His face ended up pressed between her breasts, but he was grateful as the smell of her perfume washed over him. If he never smelled tequila again it would be too soon.
"Don't get too comfortable down there," she drawled. And why not? It wasn't like he'd never been there before.
"But I'm thirsty." It was true. He'd kill for a cold beer. Maybe an ice tea.
Marita moved away slightly so she could look into his face. Uh-oh. She had her lips pursed disapprovingly.
"I hardly think you're in any position to be making jokes." Just then he heard a click and the cuffs fell away from his wrist.
"Whatever you say, Marita. But first things first." He sat up and stumbled to the bathroom on shaky legs. It was only through sheer force of will that he was able to get his fly undone with nerveless fingers and aim somewhere near the toilet. He couldn't help the sigh that fell from his lips as he let his head fall back and emptied his bladder. Just as he was finishing, he opened his eyes and caught Marita's reflection in the mirror. She was leaning in the doorway, watching him with calculating eyes.
"Jesus, Marita!" He turned slightly to shield his body from her eyes. Shit. He'd left the door wide open.
"Don't get shy on me now. Remember, I've seen it all before."
"That was a long time ago."
"Yes. It was."
He glanced at her sharply. The faraway look on her face, the tone of her voice. She sounded wistful. Don't tell him after all this time . . . Then the look was gone, and she seemed like herself again. All business. Except for the lingering softness in her eyes.
"Come on," she said. "Let's get you cleaned up. You're not going anywhere near my car upholstery looking like that."
While he washed his hands she found a clean face cloth and wetted it under the warm water. She gently pulled off the tattered remnants of his t-shirt and began wiping away the dried blood and tequila residue. He leaned against the counter, trying to relax. It had been so long since someone had laid gentle hands on him. In fact, Marita may have been the last.
Now there was a depressing thought.
She rinsed the bloodied cloth and swept her eyes over him critically. "Take off your pants."
"What?"
"They're soaked in tequila. Take them off. You smell like a still."
"Did it ever occur to you that I could just take a shower?"
"Fine. Go ahead."
He pulled back the grubby shower curtain and withdrew immediately. God. Was that a cockroach? Because if it wasn't, he didn't want to know.
When he met her eyes, she just arched her brow and stared at him. Refusing to be the first one to look away, he reached for the button of his jeans and slowly kicked them off. Her eyes didn't flick down once, not even for a second. He didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted.
She handed him the cloth. "Here. You finish. I'm going to get a blanket from the car. And the underwear go too."
He glared at her retreating back. Marita could be an icy bitch, but he knew her well enough to know that she was enjoying this. She had a hundred ways to say 'I told you so' and none of them involved the actual words.
He swung his arm a few times, trying to loosen his stiff shoulder, then tossed the cloth in the sink. If he couldn't mess up her car, the least he could do was dirty up the blanket. She quickly returned with the plaid flannel.
"Done washing?"
She looked unconvinced at his nod, but held out the blanket anyway. Without another word he wrapped it around his shoulders and removed his underwear, tossing them in the trash. He peered suspiciously out the door of the motel room. If anyone saw them--saw him--he'd be a laughingstock. If anyone wanted to kill him, now was their chance. Somehow, he doubted that flannel was bulletproof. Not even the plaid kind.
"I wasn't followed," she said, reading his expression.
With one last lingering look he followed her to the car.
"So how did she do it? SWAT team? Tranquilizer darts?"
If only. There was no way he was telling Marita that Scully knocked him out single-handedly. He was naked. Wasn't he emasculated enough?
"And Spender's friend?"
"He was there."
"Did he see you?"
"Yeah, he saw me."
"So now he knows we're looking for him.
And the old bastard would probably go underground. Or not. "After what happened, I doubt I've put the fear of God in him."
"Still--"
"Let it go, Marita." He didn't need this right now. Once he had clothes, and his arm, and a concealed weapon she could give him all the shit she wanted. Just not now.
"I was all prepared to let it go," she said, ignoring his dark look. "You were the one who insisted that this man had to be silenced, that he was a threat."
He remembered a time when he could silence Marita with a look--a time when she actually listened to him. The good old days. When Mulder was around to torment and Scully was her predictable self. Things had really gone to shit.
"Do you think," he said, seemingly out of the blue, "that if I gave Earth to the colonists they'd build me a time machine?"
The car stopped at a red light and she turned her head slowly. It was obvious that she was trying to determine if he'd really flipped his lid. She even ignored the honks behind them as the light turned green. He grinned wryly, and she finally turned her attention back to the road, speeding through the intersections just as the light changed back to red.
Well, at least she'd stopped asking him questions he didn't want to answer.
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