Summary: Cigarettes and surveillance. V, A, H Marita/Krycek with overtones of slash and even a dash of MSR. See also Butt-Ends Of Days And Ways.

I'm posting this here first because, frankly, you guys have about the
biggest chance of actually liking it. I wrote this for our glorious
listmom, Des, btw, and it in turn caused her to write the very lovely
"Johnny." Different pairing and all that, but isn't it nice how the good
fanfic karma circles 'round? The "other woman" in this instance happens to
be my all time favorite: Marita. I hope you enjoy this one, fellow wives.
In many ways, it's for you, too.

Kelly

* * *

TITLE: Nicotine Bliss And The Road Not Taken

AUTHOR: Kelly Keil

DISCLAIMER: CC, Fox, 1013, and such can bite my ass.

CATEGORY: V, A, H Marita/Krycek with overtones of
slash and even a dash of MSR

SPOILERS: None to worry about

RATING: R

SUMMARY: Cigarettes and surveillance

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place somewhere in
the murky depths of the series after 2F/1S and before
Requiem. I don't completely follow canon, but then,
neither did the show's writers. More notes at the
end.

* * *

They sit together in a darkened room, with Marita
lounging on the old sofa and him perched
uncomfortably on a folding chair, waiting for the
antics across the street to get interesting. To pass
the time, they talk, trading bullshit without the
need for thought, the patterns of their speech like a
worn sweater or broken-in shoes. Sometimes they lie
and sometimes they tell the truth. Part of the game
is to figure out which is which. They have been
playing this game for a very long time.

"What do you see in him?" Rita asks, lighting a
cigarette. For a moment, her face is lit like the
glowing coral cameo pendant that his mother always
wore.

He lets out a small laugh. "Give me a cigarette and
maybe I'll tell you."

She looks up, brows raised, and inhales a lungful of
tar and carcinogens and delicious nicotine. "I
thought you quit."

"I changed my mind."

She shrugs and tosses pack and lighter his way. They
arc gracefully; she has never thrown like a girl.

He extracts a cigarette, lights it, and breathes in
acrid manna. It's been too long. He throws the pack
and lighter back and she catches each with ease,
despite the lit cigarette gripped loosely between two
fingers of her right hand.

"Well?" she asks, taking another deep drag of smoke
and nicotine.

Because of the darkness, he can only see her face
when she brings the cigarette to her mouth. In its
faint light he can see the woman she will become
years from now, if she lives that long. She seems so
fragile in the red glow.

He struggles with an answer. "He smells good," he
finally says.

She chokes on her laughter. "You're shitting me,
Alex. I don't believe that."

It's true, though. Mulder's scent is full of danger
and sex, need and want. Krycek has never been able
to resist it. Not from the very beginning.
Apparently, however, this isn't enough of a reason
for Rita.

"He's fucking beautiful."

She cocks her head to one side, considering this. "I
don't know," she says. "His nose is too big. And he
always looks like someone just shot his puppy."

No arguing with that, but it's beside the point. He
finds Mulder's pain exquisite and amusing at the same
time. Mulder revels in his misery and Krycek likes
to watch him. It is an arrangement that suits them
both down to the ground.

"He's a good lay," he finally concedes.

Rita smiles her quick feline smile. "I know."

And of course she would. Who hasn't Mulder slept
with, really? He is a cosmic slut who fucks anything
willing and avoids reality whenever he can. He is
weak. Krycek abhors and adores his weakness. He
laps up Mulder's tears like cream. At the same time,
he wants to beat Mulder's face in when he moans over
the icy Scully or his icier mother or his frozen
corpse of a sister. All the women in Mulder's life
are icicles and Krycek wishes he would just get the
fuck over it and move on. Preferably into his empty
arms. So he quietly listens to Mulder's confessions,
then lets Mulder slap him around, then opens his
mouth when Mulder finally gives up and kisses him.

Krycek breathes in more nicotine and tries not to
think of things that are not possible, at least not
on this night.

"When did you fuck him?" he asks her.

She flips her hand in a negligent way, the red glow
of the cigarette tracing a sigil in the air. "Does
it matter, Sasha? It was just one night. I've had
better." The Cheshire smile returns. "I've had you.
Even at fifteen you had him beat hands down."

"I'm flattered," he says. Their early encounters
swim to the forefront of his consciousness, demanding
to be reexamined: fumbling in a dark closet, the
smell of fur and leather enveloping them; in her bed
with the frilly pink canopy above them; the backseat
of his father's Crown Vic.

"Do you remember how it began?" she asks archly,
knowing very well that he hasn't forgotten a single
furtive grope or stolen kiss.

For all intents and purposes, it all began the day
eight-year old Sasha was introduced to nine-year old
Rita as "Alex." From that day forward he was never
called Sasha again, except by Rita when she wanted to
charm him, or nettle him, or do both at the same
time. It was her task, assigned by his and her
parents, to form his small Soviet self into a
believable American, born and bred. She took her job
seriously, and used the power she had over him with
ruthless calculation. At age twelve, she'd convinced
him to beat up a boy at her school who'd been teasing
her. At thirteen, he'd gotten drunk for the first
time on vodka she'd snuck from her father's liquor
cabinet. At fourteen, he'd stolen his first car at
her behest, and they had driven it to a quarry and
swam naked in the clear cold water by moonlight. That
had been shortly before the incident that Rita is
referring to now in her oh-so-unsubtle way.

"Sure, I remember," he says. He remembers her head
in his lap as they sat in a darkened room, watching
television, the grownups talking heatedly in the next
room. She had sprawled against him, her cheek
rubbing along him until he had a hard on that ached.
Then she'd turned her head and looked up into his
eyes. His hand had fallen to the crown of her head
and turned her face toward his erection.

"Sasha," she'd said. "Do you want me to...."

He hadn't been able to speak, had just nodded. One
of his hands remained on her head and the other
gripped the couch cushion. She had fumbled with his
pants and underwear and then her mouth was on him,
tasting him in small tentative licks that had made
his whole body tremble. He'd nearly come right then.
Instead he had come less than five minutes later in
her mouth, her rosy lips stretched around him. She'd
swallowed his semen with a grimace of distaste, then
had silently gotten up and left the room. His heart
had pounded while he righted his clothes, afraid that
she had gone to tell the grown-ups or something
equally horrifying, but instead she'd just come back
a few minutes later, sipping a glass of Coke.

"That was interesting," she'd said. "Maybe next time
you can do that to me."

He remembers every detail like it had just happened.
"It's not something I could forget," he says.

"You never forget your first blowjob," she agrees,
then brings the cigarette to her mouth.

Instead of answering, Krycek gets up and walks over
to the camera sitting on a tripod, its telephoto lens
pointing toward Mulder's apartment window.

"Are they fucking yet?" she asks.

"Looks like it," he says, his gut squirming as he
sees bright red hair spilling across Mulder's lean
legs.

"One thing about Mulder," she says, "he's got
stamina. Far more than you did back then."

"I thought you said I was better than him," Krycek
says, moving away from the camera. .

"I like to think that you've aged to perfection,"
Rita says, stubbing out her cigarette. "Not that
you've given me much opportunity to prove my theory."
Her voice is wistful. This is an old argument
between them, one that has been repeated so many
times that each of them knows every word of it by
heart. Still, she won't let it go, at least not
before getting in one more salvo. "Once upon a time,
you begged me to fuck you. 'Please, Rita, please.
I'll do anything.' Remember that?"

She only wants him because she can't have him, he
feels sure of this, and he won't give her the
satisfaction of knowing that the force of her will is
beginning to erode his resolve to keep things between
them strictly professional.

"Rita, let it go."

She lets out a ladylike snort of disgust. "Coward,"
she says. "Besides, I was just mentioning it because
it means we're in for a long night. They never go
over evidence until after a good long screw."

"I know," he replies tersely.

"Jealous?" she asks, eyebrows raised in a
supercilious way that she knows pisses him off.

"What do you think?" he asks.

"Poor, poor Alex. My heart bleeds." She lights
another cigarette.

"What's got your panties in a bunch, Rita?" he asks.
Sometimes she rubs him raw, and tonight is one of
those nights. "What the fuck did I ever do to you?"

She puts her cigarette in an ashtray and taps her
forefinger against her pursed mouth. "Let's see
here. Let me think. Betrayed me...how many times
now? Four, or is it five? I've lost count."

"You've fucked me over plenty of times yourself. I
think we're pretty even there."

"There was the baby."

The words hang in the room like poisonous vapor. In
all the years since it happened, neither one has
mentioned the incident.

"Jesus Christ, Rita," he says, "I was sixteen. We
were both kids then. I didn't mean...." He stops
speaking because there are too many things he hadn't
meant to do. He certainly hadn't meant to knock her
up, and he hadn't meant for her parents to find out,
and he for God's sake hadn't meant to cause her
father to beat her so hard that she'd lost the baby.
It had been abortion the hard way, and she'd nearly
died before her mother had relented and taken her to
the hospital.

"I know," she says, her voice dull. "It was a low
blow. I...." She pauses and picks up her cigarette.
"Forget I said it."

But now he can't. In the taut silence that stretches
between them, he thinks of a different life. Him,
and Rita, and their child. Hell, children. A house
in the suburbs. PTA meetings. Vacations to Disney
World. Orthodontists. Private schools. Saving for
college. A fucking minivan. The works. He expects
the vision to be a nightmare but instead he feels
only a species of gentle regret. Maybe it wouldn't
have been so bad.

"You were seventeen," he says. "Even if you hadn't
had the miscarriage, having a baby at that age--"

"What?" her voice breaks in sharply. "Would have
ruined my life?" She lets out an ugly little laugh.
"Right."

"Would have made things different," he says.

"Yeah," she says with a sigh. "Yeah. And if you say
'Road not traveled' to me, Alex, I will kick your
sorry one-armed ass but good. And don't think I
can't."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he says.

"I know," she says. "That's why I love you." Her
voice is sardonic but there is note of honesty there
that startles him.

"I'm a bad bet to love," he says, making it sound
off-hand. He wonders if she does really love him.
It doesn't seem possible, not hard-as-nails Rita.
His cool American princess has never shown such
vulnerability before, except perhaps in the depths of
Fort Marlene when he'd left her for dead, but best
not to think of that right now.

She nods and sucks down more lovely nicotine. "No
one ever said I ever made the best choices in life."

"No one ever said that about me, either," he says.

"What a pair we are."

"Mm hm," he agrees, getting up again to peer through
the camera's lens.

"They still going at it?"

Scully's mouth is open in a scream that only Mulder
and the apartments around him can hear. Her back is
arched and her breasts are pert and lovely even to
Krycek's jaundiced eye. He wonders if Scully knows
that she can be seen through the half shaded window
and if the knowledge turns her on. "Yep," he says.
"We're in for the long haul."

"We could fuck to pass the time."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "You never give up, do
you?"

"I figure that if I keep asking, eventually you'll
say yes. I'm wearing you down."

"Like Chinese water torture."

"Exactly," she says.

"Give me another cigarette and I'll think about it."

Again she tosses pack and lighter his way. "You'd
whore yourself out for cigarettes? I like that in a
man."

"I've whored myself out for less."

"I'll bet."

He stares at her and she stares back.

"I was just kidding," she says.

"No, you weren't," he replies. "You want me bad.
You want hot Krycek cock in your tight little pussy,
don't you?"

Laughter burbles out of her, right on cue. "You've
been watching too much porn. I think Mulder's a bad
influence on you."

"Not nearly as bad as you." He stands up, the idea
of fucking Rita right here and now growing on him.
What better way to get the vision of Mulder putting
Scully through her paces out of his head? He'd
prefer some pretty college boy, but Rita's not bad as
alternatives go. "Come on, Rita. Let's be naughty.
Like the old days."

Unless he's mistaken, a blush spreads across her
face. Maybe he's wrong. Maybe it's just the light
of the cigarette. "You're not serious," she says.

"I'm serious as I ever get," he says. He's close
enough to pluck the cigarette out of her hand, and
pluck it out he does, stubbing it out in the ashtray.
He takes a few more drags on his own, then crushes it
out as well. He takes off his shirt and tosses it on
the floor. "Let's fuck, baby," he says with a
snigger.

Rita puts a hand on his chest and studies it
intently, keeping her gaze away from his face. "Fuck
you," she says. "I'm not your whore anymore."

"Number one," he says, "you were never my whore.
Unless you count the Oreos I gave you after that time
in the closet. Number two, I'm the whore here,
bought and paid for with a cigarette. Number three,
fucking me was your idea, wasn't it? Or are you just
a tease now, Rita?"

"Stop it," she says, sounding near to tears, but with
her hand still on his chest. It rubs his skin
slowly, in small circles. He wonders if she's aware
of doing it.

Somehow he has managed to hurt her, and he's not sure
how. He bends down and kisses her, tasting her smoky
breath.

The touch of her lips is like a sweet memory come to
life. He is fourteen again, and kissing her for the
first time. The faithless Mulder and the rest of his
fucked-up life fall away in a blur of randy
teenager's hormones.

"Rita," he breathes. "I want this."

She lets out a breath she's been holding. She
cradles his head in her hands and pulls him down
beside her. They revisit their youth, making love on
a couch in a darkened room. He can almost hear the
murmur of the grownups' voices filtering in from the
other room.

Afterward, they dress silently. Rita lights up
another cigarette. He goes to check on the progress
of the wonder twins. "No sign of either," he says.
"They're probably showering."

"No doubt," Rita agrees. "She's pretty anal about
that."

"Are you sorry?" Krycek asks. She looks so pensive,
sitting across the room from him.

"Are you?" she asks.

"No, and I asked you first."

She is quiet for a time, and he lets her be.
Sometimes he is smart enough to know when to do that.
"Yes," she says at last. "Because I've been reminded
of what I'm missing. If it makes you feel any
better, I understand why you hate Scully so much."
Her voice is flat and cold.

"Rita," he says, going over to her and smoothing back
her hair.

"Don't," she says, flinching away from his hand.
"Don't."

Hurting Rita is always business, never pleasure, so
he does as she asks and pulls away, going back to the
camera. "They're back."

"Thank fuck for small favors," she mutters.

As documents come into view, Krycek snaps pictures of
them. All the while, Rita smokes in silence.

After a time, the two of them trade places, giving
him a chance to stretch his muscles.

"We weren't meant for suburbia, Rita," he says, lying
down on the couch.

"No," she agrees absently while shooting a picture.

"Domestic bliss wouldn't suit us."

"Probably not."

"And kids are a pain in the ass. We'd make shitty
parents."

"Mm hm."

"I hate minivans."

"Shut up, Alex," she says. "I get the point."

For lack of anything else better to do, he lights up
another cigarette.

Eventually she steps away from the camera and
stretches. "That's all, folks," she says. "We can
call it a night. Mulder is about ready to kick
Scully out his door. Give it half an hour and I'm
pretty sure he'd welcome you into his bed."

"Couch," Krycek says automatically.

"Whatever. His freaky kinks are your problem, not
mine." She sounds strained and tired.

"I wish things could be different," he says.

Rita comes over and kisses him in the darkness. "No
you don't," she says. "But thank you for saying it."

"I don't want to want him. I wish..."

Camera under her arm, she makes her way to the door.
"If wishes were horses --"

"There'd be horse shit all over the place," he says.
As he always had, as she knew he would. They've been
finishing each other's sentences for too long. Like
a long married couple. One with a minivan.

She rewards him with a small laugh. "Exactly."

"You'd be the only one I'd ever want to own a minivan
with," he says. "For what it's worth."

"You're so full of shit, Alex," she says. "Go and
see Mulder. You know you want to."

And of course he does. She knows him so well.


Fin

MORE NOTES: This story, first and foremost, is for
Deslea, to whom I owed another trip into Alex and
Marita's lives. I'd also like to thank CazQ and
Spica for their respective betas. Huggles and
snuggles to you both. And to W., who read it and
said that it hurt, but in a good way, thank you as
always. I also owe my very own beautiful Alex a dept
of gratitude for inspiring this story, even though he
will never read it. I miss you, dear boy, and hope
to see you again.