Summary: Krycek's thoughts post-One Son. One Son spoilers, PG13, Krycek/Marita.

Maybe Marigolds
by MissElise@aol.com

Keywords: AV
Rating: PG
Spoilers: "One Son"
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, yada.
Summary: Krycek's thoughts post "One Son."

~*~

The world was going to hell, so Alex Krycek did what he did best--he vanished
into the haze of a bar and began to drink himself closer to oblivion.

He started with the same thing he always did, vodka. Through all the years and
the mistakes and the deaths, it had always been there for him. It provided a
clarity he otherwise lacked. When he had lost his arm, there had been vodka.
When he had lost his parents, there had been vodka. When he had lost her--there
was enough vodka to swim in.

And now, he had lost her again.

Seeing her standing there, lurking behind Spender--he hadn't expected it. He
had lived his life so recklessly, he had come to expect anything. Or so he had
thought. He hadn't expected this, not in a million years. He always thought
that phrase was an understatement, but this time around, it was as true as
things came.

She looked--

No, he needed more vodka before he contemplated that. He poured, watching the
clear trickle of liquid from the bottle to the glass. It made a gurgling sound,
one that he liked, one that often made him have to piss. Not this time.

Krycek's hand closed around the glass and he lifted it to his mouth, ignoring
the way his hand shook. He had killed men and remained steady. He would not
contemplate what this meant, that he shook at the mere thought of her
appearance. He drank the vodka down, letting it fill all of the hollow places
inside.

When he poured his next glass, he could hardly remember meeting her. It had
been a winter's day, bright with cold sunshine; it had turned her hair to spun
sugar. Her hands had been wrapped in gloves so she couldn't feel the splinters
from the aging bridge; she let go for a moment and smiled that pretty smile.
She hadn't known he'd been watching.

He drank straight from the bottle now, the cool liquid warming his belly. It
dribbled down his chin and he wiped it up, licking his fingers. None of this
would be wasted. None--because it would help him forget. He needed every drop
to forget the first time he had kissed her.

It had been an autumn day, with the wind blowing up off Lake Ladoga; she had
stumbled over the rocky coast, squeezing his arm. They would have three nights
and it wouldn't be enough. It was never enough.

The edge of the bottle hit the table as he set it down, the vodka making a slosh
against the confines. He watched it until it settled, pearling down the sides
of the bottle.

Maybe it was summer after all that he was trying to forget, with the red and
gold kite flying high against the warm wind, laughter skirting along the edges
as she told him that when she thought of America, she missed marigolds most of
all.

Tonight was too clear so he poured more vodka. It wouldn't let him down. It
might take a little more than usual, but it would always come through. He
gulped and let it slide down his throat, smiling as it erased the evening. Her
hair was like straw, back lit by harsh blue lab light. Her eyes looked alien;
that ice blue he had loved was gone, turned to a near-topaz, ringed in near-
blood. Her beautiful mouth was ruined; he could remember kissing her for days,
but that was gone now.

"All gone," he whispered, suckling the bottle. He tipped it up, vodka flooding
his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and drank hard, watching as the liquid
washed the night away. Come morning, it would be all gone. He would forget
that somewhere, there might be a grave in need of marigolds.

Krycek gestured for another bottle.

THE END