Summary: Krycek and Marita are bad, bad, bad. They're also getting it on. Requiem post-ep, R.

TITLE: The Good Fairy

AUTHOR: Cecily Sasserbaum (cecilysass@yahoo.com)

DISTRIBUTION: Archive anywhere, Goss, Eph, Xemplary,
Spooky site. Anywhere else, sure, just let me know,
please.

SPOILERS: Requiem.

RATING: R / NC-17, bad language, mostly.

KEYWORDS: Krycek/Marita, implied MSR, Krycek POV.

CLASSIFICATION: S, A, R

SUMMARY: Krycek and Marita are bad, bad, bad. They're
also getting it on.

DISCLAIMER: I intend no infringement of copyright.
It's just for fun.

FEEDBACK: Would be spiffy: cecilysass@yahoo.com

NOTE: A warning to anyone who pays attention to my
fanfic, which may be very few of you: this isn't my
usual MSR. It's darker. It's dirtier. It's from
Krycek's point of view, and he can't always be trusted
to be nice or even honest. You've been warned.

If you're missing half, check at:
http://www.geocities.com/cecilysass/home.html.

***

I'm like the goddamn Good Fairy, really. Because in
the end, everyone gets what they want. Their dirty
little unspoken wishes.

Agent Mulder, for example, gets to meet his boyhood
heroes.

This is maybe my favorite good deed, because sitting
here in this soulless office, thinking about what the
fuck I'm going to do about all of CGB Spender's shitty
little unfinished deals, I like to imagine Mulder
getting all those lovely things shoved up him, and
probably still kinda wishing to himself he
had a little notebook, and maybe a little pencil, to
write it all fucking down.

Because you just know he hasn't given up yet. You just
know he's murmurring to himself about how he'll get
word to Scully and what their plans are and that the
Truth can't be submerged forever and bullshit bullshit
bullshit. He's so mind-numbingly predictable. Just
like his father, come to think of it.

Second good deed, Agent Scully gets knocked up.

And conveniently for her, it's without the
pain-in-the-ass of Baby's Father. She's free to live
out every Super Single Mom fantasy she's ever had, and
to purchase every self-congratualtory empowering
self-help book she's ever secretly wanted. I'd bet
anything she eats expensive ice cream late at night,
and fantasizes about colors for the nursery, and muses
about private schools, and tries not to feel guilty
for how little she misses Mulder.

Third, Marita gets laid.

This one is tied close with Mulder's as my favorite.
Because Marita, let's face it, is a delectable screw.
Those half-closed eyes, faintly distrusting, looking
up at you. Full pink lips, a slight flick of her
tongue. Pale smooth limbs falling eagerly open. Cool
blonde hair falling over her face. I am surprised, of
course, at how needy she is, how willing she is to be
coaxed into my bed again. But I don't deny her, and as
I am plowing into her, her legs pressed high above her
head, I notice a flicker of some undescribable emotion
in her eyes. Something like affection, or even, if I
were less cynical, love.

Krycek gets .... ?

And this is where it gets muddy.

Because what is it that I get, after all? What is my
great inheritance, besides the pleasure of Marita's
bed and CGB Spender's splendid apartment? What do I do
now, with all the power in the world, now that I have
it?

"Mulder has turned up," Marita says.

She's standing in the doorway to CGB Spender's -- I
mean my -- office. Leaning, backwards, against the
frame of the door. Her eyes scared.

"Where have you been all morning?" I say, pleasantly.
As if trying to make conversation.

"Did you hear me?" she says. "Mulder's turned up. A
John Doe."

"Oh yeah," I say, with deliberate indifference. "Is
that so."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Well, he's hardly a threat right now, is he?"

"No," she says. Her lips are pursed. She has that
cautious, worried Marita look, that puckered tension
in her forehead. She's sexy, inexplicably sexy.

"Does Scully know where he is?"

"Not yet," she says. "But it will only be a matter of
time. He's in a local hospital -- Georgetown, Room
910. He turned up in a dumpster in Foggy Bottom."

"Oh, brilliant," I laugh."That's brilliant."

"I don't understand, Alex," she says, sharply. "I
don't understand why you're not worried. Wasn't the
point that he would be gone indefinitely?"

"He's comatose, right? In a fucking vegetable state?"

"But he could recover."

"Yeah," I smile. "and he probably will. Because
Mulder, like you and me, has this tendency to bounce
back, doesn't he?"

She doesn't answer. Looks sullen. Disapproving.

God, I'd like to push her back against the wall right
now and lay into her. To surprise her into soft moans,
unexpected.

"I was thinking about a new attitude towards Mulder
and Scully," I say. "A more laissez-faire approach.
I'm not so sure they are our enemies. Not like they
were his, the cigarette-smoking man."

"Really."

"Yeah," I say. I'm not really convinced of it yet
myself. "I think we can work with them."

"Work with them. Mulder and Scully."

"Yeah," I say again. "Exactly."

It bothers me that she seems to think she knows more
than me, that she doesn't think I know what I'm doing
like old Spender did.

"Should I ..." She pauses, open and closing her mouth.
"...give Scully a call then?"

"Give Scully a call?" I say, not comprehending.

"Yeah, you know, tell her Mulder's room number? In the
hospital? Maybe send flowers?"

"Oh, I get it. You're being a smartass."

"Maybe give them Xeroxs of all Spender's files? Offer
to let them have a cut of his money? Throw them a
goddamn baby shower?"

She's pissing me off. She lacks vision. She lacks
perspective. She's dumb, cold, mercenary, unable to
care about things like I care about them.

I'll show her.

I pick up the phone.

I dial, and she stands there, gaping. I hit
speakerphone, just so she can fucking hear. So she can
fucking hear what I'll say.

"Agent Scully speaking."

There's a pause. I clear my throat a little.

What does Scully do there all day, at the office? She
probably knits? Yes, knits. Baby booties. I picture
her knitting.

"Scully...? It's Alex Krycek."

There's another pause. Scully's sharpening her
knitting needles, presumably.

"Yeah. What do you want."

"I wanted to tell you that Mulder's back in town.
Alive. Georgetown Hospital, Room 910."

Another pause. Marita's giving me this outraged look,
this fucking-I-know-what's-what look.

"Why are you ..." Scully begins. She stops.

"Is this for real?" Her voice is surprisingly small,
surprisingly vulnerable. Pregnancy hormones, I guess.
I bet she's dropped her balls of yarn in shock.

"Yeah, it's for real. He's comatose. I'd get my ass
over there, if I was you, agent," I say.

And hang up the phone.

Marita's glowering. She's pissed as hell.

"I know what I'm doing," I say.

"Oh, I'm sure," she hisses back. She'll probably storm
out now, disappear for a while.

But she doesn't move from the door. She's not leaving.

"I know what I'm doing," I repeat. More in control
this time.

And the thing is, I'm only half lying.

***

We arrive at the hospital right before Scully does.

"Vegetative, as expected," I comment, gesturing to
Mulder.

"He doesn't look that unhealthy," Marita says. Her
arms are crossed over her chest, at the foot of
Mulder's bed. Her foot's tapping. Her brow's puckered.
"He looks like he could walk out of here in a week,
and be chasing down our asses in two weeks."

"Gosh, I had no idea you were a fucking doctor,
Marita," I say sweetly.

"He's back in the picture now. Just look at him."

"Why does that bother you so much? You didn't want to
get abducted in the first place. You've always been
soft on the feds. What's this change of heart about?"

"He wants to kill you, Alex."

"Yeah, well, I want to kill lots of people but don't.
If it's good business."

"You think you can make it good business for him not
to kill you?"

She's staring at Mulder. Watching his eyes and mouth.

And I wonder if Marita's ever had it hot for Mulder. I
bet she has, I think, as she walks over next to him.
Women find blind stupidity appealing in some way; I
suppose it makes them think of dogs or babies and
other devoted starry-eyed things.

That's not fair, really. Mulder's not stupid. He's not
a dog or baby. But then he's no Alex Krycek, either.

"I know the right buttons to push with Mulder," I say.


And right on cue, who should make her entrance but the
very best button of all.

Scully, minus the knitting needles. But suitably
flustered. Pink-faced. Indignant at our presence.
She's a swollen cream puff of a fed at this point.
Hard to take seriously, if you must know the truth.

"Get out," she says. Her pitch is low and measured.
"Get out of his room."

"Excuse me, Dana," I smile, "but don't you remember
getting a phone call from me a few minutes back? A
gesture of my good will?"

"You set him up in the first place," she says. I'm
impressed, as usual, with her calm. She's one cool
cucumber. Even inflated.

"I'm surprised you think that," I say coolly in
response. "That's not true."

She's not paying attention to my performance now,
though. She's staring at Mulder. Something unsteady
about her. Like she's going to tip over.

And then she's leaning down, resting her lips against
his forehead, releasing a deep breath. Slowly,
strangely, she moves her head down him, finally
leaning her forehead against his rib cage like she's
imprinting his chest on her brow. Acting out the Pieta
or some goddamn bullshit, I guess.

"You want to see his chart?" Marita asks, handing it
to Scully. Marita's trying to go along with me, I see.
She's playing it like I am: helpful, solicitous. She's
following my cue. It surprises me. It annoys me, too.

Scully, from above Mulder, eyes Marita stonily,
snatches the chart from her hands.

"I'm sorry," she says sarcastically, her voice
cracking a little, "but maybe I missed this. Was there
something you wanted? Alex? Marita?"

"Just trying to be helpful," I say. "Show our good
will."

"Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me," she answers.


"Don't forget that Little Mulder can hear that nasty
language," I say, gesturing to her belly. "I'm trying
to initiate a partnership, or maybe, a truce, between
you and Mulder and myself."

She rolls her eyes at me. "Not likely."

"You haven't heard the details, Agent Scully. It's not
going to be that hard for you to swallow. Or him,
either." I gesture to Mulder.

It occurs to me suddenly that Mulder's motives are
much more clear to me than hers. I can manipulate him.
I know him well. But she's weirder. More opaque. She's
the mystery.

"It's not a very good time," she hisses. "Maybe you
could come back, when Mulder's not in a coma and I'm
not days away from giving birth."

"If it weren't for me trying to make a truce," I say,
lightly, "you wouldn't have Mulder back, and you
wouldn't be pregnant with a healthy baby, either."

That gets her attention. Her head snaps up.

"Get out," she says.

She almost seems like she will cry, which surprises
me. I thought she was made of sterner stuff.

"Let's go," Marita says. She pulls my arm, which
annoys me. I get to choreograph exits. Why doesn't she
realize that? Just me, no one else.

"Oh, we'll talk later, Dana," I say. "Maybe Fox, and
dear little Fox, will be around for our next meeting,
too."

Is that a threat? I don't know. It sounds half-assed
to me. I wish I hadn't said it. I'm pissed at Marita.

But Scully, she doesn't look up. Her hand is wrapped
around Mulder's. Her eyes are on him.

***
continued in part 2.

cecily's bookshelf of fanfic:
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***

Marita doesn't talk to me the drive back; she stares
out the window of the car in dark silence.

"And your issue is ...?" I finally say, as we walk
into Spender's old living room, our living room, in
the Watergate.

"It's wrong, Alex," she says.

I don't answer her. Since when are we worried about
wrongness.

"It's not right," she paraphrases. "It didn't feel
right, saying those things to Scully. It felt dirty.
Stupid. Petty."

"Got any more morality lessons, Marita?" I say.
"Because I'm already tired of this one."

"You weren't sounding like yourself, Alex," she says.
"You knew it was stupid. You knew it wouldn't work to
approach Scully like that, over Mulder's hospital bed,
but you did it anyway."

It occurs to me that Marita understands Scully better
than I do. Is it a woman thing? Are her motivations
crystal clear to Marita, an open map? That pisses me
off even more.

"And why, pray tell, is it wrong to try to ally
ourselves with Mulder and Scully? Because we should
really -- morally, of course -- be trying to kill
them? We should be sending Mulder into eternal orbits
around earth, or kick-starting Scully's cancer cells?"

"You're really trying to get them to work with us? It
isn't a trick?"

"No," I sigh patiently. "It's not."

She looks out the window. "I just don't think it would
be good for them to be on our side. To be working with
us. I think the two things are best kept separate. "

"Kept separate," I repeat. "What the hell does that
mean?"

"I mean ..." she trails lamely. "Let them do what they
do, and let us do what we do. That's what I think our
plan should be."

I can't believe that's what she's fucking saying.

"Our plan," I repeat.

"They're different from us," she says again. "They've
got a different ... I don't know, path."

"Let's be very clear, Marita, I'm going to do what I,
Alex Krycek, want to do."

She turns and stares back at me, blankly.

"That's the whole point of this. It has nothing to do
with you. You're not my partner. I'm making all the
plans now, me. I'm calling the shots. Not Spender, not
Scully, and sure as hell not you."

She's silent. She's leaning against the wall, staring
at me evenly. This feels good. I should let her have
it.

"Therefore, if I want to win Mulder and Scully over,
I'll get it done. If I want them killed, I'll do that,
too. If I want their kid here, in my house, calling me
daddy and shining my shoes, I'll do that, too."

Her eyes slide away from mine, looking at an angle.

"And furthermore, if I want you here, working for me,
you'll be here. But if I want you working as a
roller-skating waitress in Timbuktoo, you'll lace up
the skates."

Her face is blank.

"And if I want you on your knees, in front of me, then
..."

But I don't finish. Seems unnecessary. She gets the
picture.

She walks away.

Just leaves the room. Just like that. Goes to the
kitchen, rummages around in there, where she's out of
my line of sight.

She's getting ready to leave, I realize. She's getting
ready to leave town. I've seen this coming.

There's a bang in the kitchen. She's shut a cabinet
door. Getting out her dishes?

Where will she go, I wonder? Where will Marita flee
to?

She'll be paranoid I'll try to find her, although
she'll be wrong. I won't give a shit. I don't really
care what she does. She can do whatever she wants. Go
anywhere. Hardly matters.

I bet she'll go somewhere small, anonymous, try to
start over. It'll be a crappy life. Boring as hell.
She'll be pathetic. A schoolteacher maybe. A real
estate agent. Lots of small town intrigue, big and
cheap midwestern houses, trashy smoky bars. She'll
indulge in impulsive fucks with big small town men,
farmers and contstruction workers and policemen.
Jesus, policemen. Big built Irish policemen.

She walks back in with a glass of wine, one of
Spender's huge red wine glasses, beautiful. She takes
a sip. Her lips are stained red. She's so sexy, it's
maddening, it's ridiculous.

"Alex," she says. Then stops.

And she surprises me. It's so unfathomable, what she
does next. So unexpected.

She laughs.

She laughs, and it's not contrived, not a put-on to
save face or to hurt me, she's really laughing. It's
weirder still because Marita, in the time I've known
her, hasn't been much of a laugher. Too nervous. But
now her face is really soft, her eyes bright. She
thinks something's funny.

I'm wondering what it is.

"Alex, I'm not going to betray you," she says finally.
"I'm really not."

"What does that mean? What are you talking about?"

"You can call me your partner," she says, with a
smile, "or your henchwoman, or your roller-skating
waitresss, or whatever, Alex, but I'm not going to
betray you. Talk smack all you want. I don't believe a
word."

She's answering a question, I realize, that she thinks
I was asking. An unspoken question.

I turn away from her a second.

If I was in a hospital bed, with some horrible and
unexplained injury -- which isn't a completely
unrealistic idea, really, it's certainly happened
before -- would anyone stand and stare like Scully
did, would anyone breath soft low sighs of relief that
I was okay, would she would press her forehead against
me and do all that pining and panting and
ridiculousness that Mulder and Scully seem to take as
required behavior?

It's stupid to think about. It's just sex. Just a good
lay, a good regular lay.

Right. That's right.

But it's sweet, fucking touching, really. It's so
fucking touching, that Marita would reassure me. Like
we were college sweethearts. Kids going steady. Or
Mulder and Scully.

I think she might. I think she might be there by my
hospital bed.

It's so fucking comforting. It's unbelievably fucking
comforting.

I turn around, and she's still smiling. Leaning
against the wall.

"Hey," I say. I swallow a little. I take a step
towards her. This sucks, having to do this, but I
can't seem to fucking help it. "I'm sorry."

"I know," she says.

"We should, uh, discuss what our roles are going to
be. I guess."

There's an element of darkness to her smile. Of
sadness.

"You know, I'm fated to be here," she says.

"Oh yeah?" I breath. My tone is gentler. This isn't so
bad.

"You probably don't believe in this stuff, but I think
I am. I'm fated to be here with you, continuing
Spender's work. Getting in Mulder and Scully's way."

And it's weird, but I can almost see what she's
saying. It makes a peculiar sense.

I take a step forward.

"If I were a good woman," she says, "I wouldn't enjoy
it."

"But you do," I say, softly.

"Oh yes," she said. The pucker in her brow returns."I
enjoy you."

And I'm touching her face, lightly. Stroking her
cheekbones. Letting my fingertips travel slowly to the
back of her neck, burrowing into her hair there.
Breathing in her ear. She closes her eyes. Her face is
flushed.

"You think they should do their thing," I say,
whispering deeply into her ear, "and we, together,
should do ours."

"Yes, that's what I think," she breathes back.

"That we should be partners. That we could continue
his work together," I say.

"That's right, I do. And that they can have their baby
and work all they want to but that they will never
stop us," she says. "Because it's all about two sides
to one coin, you know? They're the law, and we're ...
"

She's distracted by my hands, my wandering groping
hands, that are slipping beneath her silk blouse,
moving slowly to her breasts.

"We're the darkness," she finishes, breathless.

I understand her, I realize.

"You're right," I say softly. "You're very right."

And as I sink into her, as I press myself against her
sweet-smelling softness, I realize that she is right.
She is perfectly and unarguably right, and I need to
change my fucking thinking on this. I'm not fucking
Napolean Bonaparte, after all.

Sure, on some level it pisses me off, it makes me
nauseous. But she is right.

We belong together. We're a goddamn partnership. And I
need her, desperately, like a fucking addict. Because
no one wants to be alone in the darkness.

***

A week later, Marita comes back with a fucking
ridiculous stuffed animal.

A big fluffy rabbit, with a big fluffy blue bow around
its neck. It's so absurd. What the fuck.

"What's that?" I say. "A present for me?"

"A present for the baby," she says, straight-faced.

"The baby?"

"Born today. Seven pounds eight ounces."

She hands me the card, and I read it.

And it's fucking hilarious, what Marita has written. I
start to laugh. I laugh so hard I want to pee in my
pants. It's the funniest fucking thing I've read in a
long time.

"I guess you like it," she says, smiling. "It's not
too campy, right?"

I scrawl my name under hers on the card, and look up
at her. Cock my head.

"It's a masterpiece," I tell her.

I mean it, too. I like this new identity she's created
for us. It's classy, ambiguous, and fucking funny.
Absolutely hilarious.

Because we are partners. The anti-Mulder and
anti-Scully. Boris-and-fucking-Natasha. The two bad
fairies. Cackling in our hilarious, hilarious
evilness.

"To Little Scully-Mulder, best wishes. From Your Evil,
Evil Fairy Godparents. Marita and Alex."

Fuck. I'd give anything to see their faces.

***

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