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Indemnity by E. Watson
Summary: Requiem missing scene. I read somewhere that, although men are physically stronger, women can withstand more pain. Krycek/Marita, PG13.

Title: Indemnity
Author: E. Watson
Feedback: Lachesistales@yahoo.com Praise and criticism always
Rating: PG
Pairing: Krycek/Marita
Spoilers- All Krycek/Marita Eps
Category: Missing Scene from Requiem.
Summary: I read somewhere that, although men are physically
stronger, women can withstand more pain.
Author's Notes: I started this a while back, and got stuck. I
wrote "Eyes" instead, with the same idea, different POV. This
piece goes with "Eyes", but both can be read by themselves.


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, as 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'd had nightmares about for the
past year.

Well, not the whole man.

Just his back.

I prepared myself for it. I even practiced response 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 have just been wishful thinking. His silence could've
meant he didn't care enough about me to waste his breath.

I told him that 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 were 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?


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

"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 finale 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 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

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

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

"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.


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 here 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. We'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.