NEW WIP Not My Lover *NC17* 3/?
Deslea R. Judd
drjudd@catholic.org
Copyright 2000

Detailed prefacing information, summaries, 
author's notes and release timetable available in 
a separate post labelled "Introduction". 

Archive: Yes, without alteration.
Spoilers/Timeframe: Ascension to Requiem; this 
installment to Terma.
Category/Keywords: romance, angst, mytharc, 
Krycek/Covarrubias.
Rating: NC17 for sex.
Summary: Tells the mytharc from Alex and Marita's 
perspective.

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Story so far: After stealing the digital tape 
(Paper Clip), Alex and Marita obtained the data 
necessary to work independently on a vaccine for 
the alien pathogen, the so-called Black Cancer.  
Their 1996 marriage (after Apocrypha) has 
protected them from Spender's wrath so far; but 
their clandestine operation in Tunguska has cost 
the lives of her mother, Larissa, and the dark 
man, X (Herrenvolk).  Now, they have learned that 
their accomplice, variola expert Benita Charne-
Sayrre, has betrayed them to the English 
Consortium man, Donovan (Tunguska).

     I don't think she knows just how much I 
love her as she is now.  
     This is my favourite Marita - strong, 
principled, truthful.  I hate that she hurts, but 
I love why she hurts.  She hurts because we 
killed a man, a man she had loved, and it is not 
in her to shy away from that truth as I do with 
my numbness and my silence.  She faces it and 
lives it, carrying its weight in the lines of her 
face like a mark of Cain.
     The irony of it is that she considers 
herself weak.  She speaks of the dark man's 
death, and our part in it, as though she had the 
power to prevent it.  She speaks of it with 
bitter self-loathing, and the fact that she was 
exploited by everyone - by her mother, by Spender 
- means nothing to her.  She sees not the 
powerlessness of her situation, but her own, 
personal powerlessness to act; and she condemns 
herself for it.  And though I took the gun from 
her trembling hands, and killed him in her stead 
as I swore I would do, still she looks on what 
she did as murder.
     Killing is never easy.  It is not, as those 
who have not killed suppose, a bridge you cross 
once, never to return.  You don't become a 
monster on your first kill, or your second, or 
your third.  
     But you lose a little of your soul each 
time...never doubt that.
     Killing the dark man was no easier than my 
first kill, that of an innocent lift operator on 
Skyland Mountain.  I was more technically 
experienced, that's all.  But this time, perhaps, 
there was a glimmer of redemption; for I killed 
him that my wife would never know the coldness 
that I know, that I carry with me like an ache.
     The coldness of the dead.
     Thankfully, that cold was tempered on this 
occasion.  Whatever judgement the dark man may 
have had for Mare, he either forgave or pretended 
to forgive her, to give her some measure of 
peace.  And whatever he thought of me, he chose 
in the extremity of death to tell us what he 
knew, that we might continue the work.
     The damned work.

     Six months.
     It had been six months apart, and I had 
felt every day of them.  I ached for Mare, as 
though for some missing part of myself.  I look 
back on those freshly-written words with 
considerable amusement, because even a year 
before, when I was beginning to love her, I would 
have dismissed them as nonsense...the stuff of 
fairy tales written by middle-aged women wistful 
for lives which weren't their own.
     You know what?  They were right on the 
money all along.
     I hadn't had a lot of time to think of her, 
though; that was a blessing.  I carried her in my 
heart like a talisman, but I was spared the 
torture of dreaming of her and remembering her: 
there was no time.  Even the coldness and 
emptiness of my bunk in Norylsk was only a 
fleeting pang, because I slept, exhausted, almost 
at once.  Managing the Russian operation was a 
full-time job, and I had the task of raising its 
ongoing costs, as well.  
     I wonder if you can imagine the magnitude 
of that responsibility.  You can't support a 
testing regime on a hundred prisoners on Marita's 
income, even in Russia.  We were paying Benita 
Charne-Sayrre fifteen thousand a month, and that 
was about what Mare made from the Consortium.  
Most of her modest United Nations income 
supported the Tunguska compound.  That left me 
with the task of supporting Norylsk, Georgia, 
Azerbaijan and Kazakhstan.  I made a dozen trips 
to Morocco, selling Russian weaponry.  We were 
only just breaking even.
     In the end, I decided to risk a trip to 
America.  I was wanted there, but the market 
price for weaponry was much higher.  I escorted a 
container of merchandise to Saskatchewan.  A neo-
Nazi group just over the Canadian border had 
promised a dazzling figure that could support all 
five of the gulags for six months.  The deal was 
made, funds were exchanged, and I made my way to 
New York and put the money in Mare's safety 
deposit box in Manhattan.  Marita would put the 
money in and out of casino chips over several 
months, then wire it to me.  This served a dual 
purpose: it legitimised the money as gambling 
wins, and it supported a rumour we had carefully 
orchestrated of a significant gambling habit.  
Some months Mare lived on less than a thousand 
dollars, and on her income, she needed a 
plausible reason why.
     The money was not the only thing I left in 
the safe deposit box.  I left a vial - a 
precious, precious vial.  A vial with a miracle 
inside - a secret miracle, only a few weeks old.
     A weak vaccine.
     I went to her apartment, eager to surprise 
her.  It was empty, and a phone call to her 
office revealed she was away for several days.  
No forwarding number.  Her cell was turned off.  
Suppressing my alarm, I telephoned Benita 
Charne-Sayrre.  I intended to tell her of the 
vaccine, but she pre-empted me with news of a new 
wealth of information: hard drives containing the 
US government's smallpox identification data, 
recovered by Scully while investigating the 
Jeremiah Smiths.  She had already sourced copies, 
and they were en route to Norylsk.  
My jubilation at this admittedly fantastic 
find was muted; I knew Benita, and she was using 
her Worried Voice.  It was then that I learned of 
the death of Larissa Covarrubias, and of the 
planned hit on the dark man.
     "What do you make of this?" I asked 
cautiously.
     "Maxwell thinks it's awfully coincidental 
that Marita's two closest affiliations will have 
died in twenty four hours.  He thinks Larissa was 
sanctioned.  That's my feeling as well."
     Filing away her easy use of the 
Englishman's name for future reference, I said 
only, "I'm inclined to agree."
     "Do you think she could be in danger of 
being exposed?" Benita asked.  "Could someone be 
protecting her?"
     "If so, there will be loyalty test," I 
mused.  "I wonder what-" I broke off with a gasp.  
"Oh, hell.  Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
     "The mentor," Benita said firmly.  "No 
doubt about it."
     "Can you find out where she went?" I 
demanded harshly.
     Benita's voice was dubious.  "I can try, 
but you can't stop it, Alex.  If she doesn't do 
it, they'll kill her."
     "No," I agreed gravely.
     "But I can do it for her."

     I was in time - just.
     I found her at Mulder's, about to put a 
bullet into the dark man.  I coaxed the gun 
from her trembling fingers and drew her against 
me, shooting him myself.  She gave in without 
a fight, leant against me with a sound of agony.  
And then we had left him - but not before hearing 
his final words.
     "Alexi?" Mare said softly the following 
morning.  The timbre of her voice was still 
bruised, still more husky than usual; but she was 
more like the Mare I knew.  I felt my worry for 
her ease a little.  It would be a long time 
before the scars of the last forty-eight hours 
faded, but she would come through.  We both 
would.
     I said nothing of this, but only looked up 
at her questioningly.  She was brushing her hair 
vigorously.  She went on, "Do you really think 
Benita is compromised?" I don't think she truly 
doubted her mentor.  She was sounding me out.
     I looked back to the mirror and shrugged.  
"It's possible.  She knows a hell of a lot about 
the American project," I pointed out, rinsing my 
razor.  "Why would Donovan give a scientist the 
Jeremiah Smith hard drives?  I know it's variola 
related, but that's hybridisation material, not 
vaccination material.  It's not need-to-know if 
she's really doing the work for him she says 
she's doing."
     Mare nodded slowly.  "Okay.  But why side 
with him?  He's probably paying more, but she's 
independently wealthy.  We have the best data and 
the least compromised operation."  She put the 
finishing touches on her coif, or whatever the 
hell women call it.  Severe-looking bun thing, 
lots of pins.  "She's always said that's why she 
wanted to work with us."
     "I think they might be lovers," I said in a 
low voice.  "There was an intimacy about how she 
said his name - I'm almost sure of it."  She 
opened her mouth, about to play devils' advocate, 
but I forestalled her.  "It could just be a fling 
- or she could have done it to get 
information..." I trailed off.
     "But funny things happen to loyalties 
sometimes when people make love," she supplied, 
frowning.  At my nod, she went on softly, "You 
and I know that, of all people."  Her voice was 
suddenly husky, and my gaze locked on hers.  She 
flushed.  Then, in a whisper, "Alexi."
     I hadn't been aware of the desire - the 
longing for her, always simmering just below the 
surface - but suddenly I was crossing the room to 
her, grasping her arms, lowering my mouth to 
hers.  "God, Mare, it's been too long," I 
whispered urgently, my lips brushing hers as I 
spoke.  Her warm breath on me was intoxicating.  
"Too damn long."
     "Alex," she breathed.  "Every day I wish-" 
     There was more, but it was lost as her 
mouth opened beneath mine, as she wound her arms 
around my neck, pulling me closer.  I slid my 
hands down over her arms, the fabric of her dress 
catching, and I felt her breath against me 
quicken.  I held her, one hand in the small of 
her back and the other higher up, pressing her 
torso to mine; and still it wasn't close enough.  
I could still breathe air that wasn't hers, could 
still see and hear things that weren't 
her...still my senses were assaulted by that 
which wasn't her, and so it could never be 
enough.
     She kissed me, hard, backing up to the 
dressing table.  I followed her, stumbling.  I 
lifted her onto it, dragging up her demure dress 
to the waist, finding her bare beneath.  A 
teasing line of fire shot through my veins, from 
my hand straight to my groin, and I gave a low 
sound against her mouth.  "Going commando today?" 
I said thickly.
     She gave a low, indulgent laugh.  It was 
throaty, delicious.  "I haven't finished getting 
dressed yet, you idiot."  I laughed too, but my 
laugh became a sharp gasp as her mouth found mine 
once more.  I'd been lifting my hands to touch 
her somewhere - breast, neck, between her legs, 
it didn't matter - but I let them fall again, 
realising the uselessness of it.  I couldn't 
remember the last time I'd caressed her, or given 
to her with my mouth, or she to me...the fire 
between us was just too strong for that.  We 
kissed, we held, and we had to have each other, 
right now; because the point wasn't the thrill of 
technique, or the languid teasing, as much as I 
loved those things.  The point was her - her 
scent, her taste, her touch; and everything else 
was both too much and not enough.  
     She rocked against me, a single cry of need 
escaping her in a hiss; and that sound undid me.  
Urgently, I picked her up and carried her to the 
bed, holding the length of her body against mine, 
my mouth finding hers once more.  I laid her out 
on the bed, and she made only the mildest, most 
teasing of protests:
     "You're going to *ruin* my hair."
     "Yes," I growled.  "I am."

     I stayed in America.
     My reasons were many, chief among them an 
urgent need to be with my wife; but undeniably 
the most pressing one was the need to monitor 
Benita Charne-Sayrre.  I commuted between 
Washington, Florida, and a half-dozen other 
hotspots in her work, along with fortnightly 
trips to Tunguska.  I was still wanted for 
multiple counts of murder and treason, so it 
stood to reason that I should shelter with others 
in a similar predicament - in this case, a couple 
of my Canadian gun buyers.  I did not dare live 
with Mare; but I based myself in New York, close 
enough to see her, close enough to touch her, and 
close enough that if she ever had to flee from 
Spender, we could run together.
     "I think we need a safe house," I said 
abruptly one day.
     "A safe house," Mare echoed, standing a 
plate in the rack.  She didn't question me, but 
simply waited.  I turned and watched her in 
mischievous silence for some seconds.  It doesn't 
pay to be that predictable.  At last, she said 
fondly, "Being elliptical doesn't work with me; 
you know that."  
     Dammit, she was laughing at me.
     I shot her a mildly reproachful look, but 
gave in good-naturedly.  "Somewhere we can run 
to," I explained, turning back to the basin.  
"Somewhere each of us can go if we're ever 
separated to wait for the other."
     She was nodding.  "Good idea.  Any thoughts 
on places?"
     "Maybe Morocco," I suggested, handing her a 
bowl.  "Lots of points of entry.  It's pretty 
neutral as far as the alien agenda is concerned.  
Who knows what could change down the track - we 
could have the Russians or the Americans after 
us, or both," I pointed out.
     She looked alarmed.  "You're not planning a 
double-cross, are you?  The Russians have been 
good to us, and we're well established there."  
She stopped wiping to look at me.
     I shook my head.  "Not at all.  But they 
might sell us out, too."  A look of pained 
surprise crossed her features. I understood her 
reluctance to consider this possibility, but it 
had to be said.  "Aside from our problems with 
Spender, I have some concerns about Mikhail.  I'm 
just being cautious."
     She nodded slowly, reluctantly.  "Fair 
enough.  What about Tangier?  That's accessible 
by sea from Spain if necessary, and it's not as 
busy as Casablanca," she pointed out.  "It's 
supposed to be beautiful," she added, her voice 
suddenly wistful.
     "It is," I said, brushing a stray soap 
bubble from her nose.  She shot me a gorgeous 
smile that made me almost forget about safe 
houses.  I had planned something utilitarian, but 
I suddenly decided to get something nice - 
something we could live in together when all this 
was over, if it ever was.  Somewhere we could 
wash dishes together for all eternity if we 
wanted.  
     Jeez, Alex, you've got it bad.
     I said nothing of this; only, "Okay.  
Remember - if we get separated, we wait in 
Tangier for the other to appear.  No matter how 
long it takes."
     "As long as it takes," she agreed softly.  
The lines of her face were suddenly softer, as 
though I had addressed some fear she had not 
expressed.  I thought I knew what it was, too: 
the thought that we might one day have to run and 
lose track of one another haunted me.
     We washed in silence for a while.  I 
studied her thoughtfully from the corner of my 
eye.  She wore domestic day garb - faded jeans, 
paint-spattered shirt, hair pulled back in two 
braids.  Braids, for God's sake.  I'd married a 
schoolgirl, I reflected; and yet she was so 
right, so *Mare*.  So removed from the cool, 
manufactured Marita who was called upon more and 
more these days, largely because of me.  I had a 
sudden, mental flash of lifting her onto the 
bench, of sliding into her in an instant.  It was 
a crude image, but it disguised a deeper truth: 
that *this* was the Mare I loved, that I craved, 
that I belonged to; and I longed to give her the 
kind of life where she could be that Mare all the 
time.
     "Are you going back to Flushing tonight?" 
she asked at last, arranging her dish cloth 
neatly on the rack.
     I nodded; said with distaste, "Neo-nazi 
scum meet tonight."
     "You're going to slip up and call them that 
to their faces one day," she warned, opening a 
cupboard.  She began to put cups away, her voice 
grave.  "I know they've been a source of 
protection, but there have got to be other ways."
     "It's not going to be for too much longer," 
I revealed.  "They're planning a major bombing 
next month, and I'm not going to let it happen."
     "And how do you plan to prevent it?" she 
demanded, whirling to face me, aghast.  "It's not 
like you can turn State's evidence against them."
     "I'm going to give them to Mulder."  The 
cup she was lifting stopped, mid-air. "Goodwill 
gesture.  We're going to need him sometime down 
the track."  She put the cup up, more slowly than 
before.
     "That's not bad," she said with some 
admiration.  "Not bad at all."
     But as it turned out, we needed him sooner 
than we thought.

     Benita was, indeed, compromised.
     Donovan was receiving as much information 
about our work as we were about his.  He was 
playing us, anxious for us to find a vaccine that 
he could copy and present to the Consortium in 
order to halt the hybridisation deal.  That would 
be fine - as much as I owed the Russians some 
fealty, my interest was salvation, not politics - 
but if the Consortium got the vaccine before it 
was in general circulation, there was a 
significant risk that the alien race would find 
out, and speed up the colonisation timetable.  
Mare and I would receive nothing for it - neither 
power nor money - and would probably wind up 
where we'd been not so long before.
     Facing the death penalty.
     There aren't too many geniuses out there, 
though, so we continued to use Benita.  Marita 
misreported results in the nursing homes, 
directing her towards another, similar formula, 
hoping for clues on how to refine the formula 
that worked.  Benita continued, following the 
same biomedical trail, unaware that she had 
already passed the biggest hurdle.  Vaccine and 
alien samples were trafficked merrily between us.  
Everything was going well.
     Until someone spilled it.
     Our couriers had been trained, 
hypothetically, about what to do if ever such a 
thing were to happen; but none of them thought it 
would. For his part, our man was a perfect 
courier - polite, inoffensive, and totally 
forgettable.     But not, perhaps, a man 
equipped for an emergency.
     It happened in Honolulu.  Our man flew in 
from the Republic of Georgia, en route to make a 
sample delivery to Benita.  For reasons known 
only to Customs, he was subjected to a search in 
spite of his diplomatic passport.  Our courier 
panicked.  The canister containing the alien 
pathogen was opened, and an officer died.  Our 
courier was taken into custody and, we presume, 
passed on his limited information before being 
killed.  He could give them little - places and a 
few names - but it was enough to bring us to the 
attention of the group.  And while Donovan and 
Spender had each quietly allowed our work to 
continue for their own purposes, once we came to 
the attention of the others, they were forced to 
act.
     I was on one of my jaunts to Tunguska, and 
the first I knew of what had happened in Honolulu 
was when I received a coded message from Mare.  
It was brief - one of our agents had fallen.  A 
lowly one at that.  Nonetheless, I knew our work 
had been irrevocably compromised, and I flew back 
to America at once.  
     Within thirty-six hours of her message, 
Mikhail, my second-in-command in Tunguska, 
contacted me with the news that an American 
intruder had stolen a piece of Tunguska rock.  
Mare and I had an emergency meeting, and she 
agreed more emphatically than I had expected when 
I broached the subject of terminating Benita and 
her work.  But her expression darkened when I 
spoke of the dark man and his dying words.
     "He knew something like this was going to 
happen," she said softly.
     I nodded slowly.  "I think he understood a 
lot more about this than either of us gave him 
credit for."
     "I should have brought him over to our 
side," she said bitterly.
     "Don't do this to yourself," I reproached.  
"You didn't do this.  Your actions were forced by 
Larissa and by Spender.  You were used, Mare."
     She nodded.  "Yes, I was used.  And a man 
died."  She looked away for a moment, then faced 
me once more.  "Do you think he knew we would 
need Mulder?  Do you think that's why he led him 
to me?"
     I thought on this; said at last, "I think 
so.  Mulder can be manipulated.  If we play him 
right, we can use him to get back that rock."
     Marita looked nervous.  "We'd better.  The 
difference between our operation and theirs has 
always been the availability of the alien 
pathogen in dormant form.  All the samples 
they've had have been sentient and capable of 
generating radiation - they haven't dared use 
them for vaccine testing.  They're at a 
disadvantage, and it's crucial that they stay 
that way."
     I made a sound of exasperation.  "Damn it, 
if the group gets a vaccine before we refine 
ours, we can kiss our lives goodbye.  That's the 
only reason Spender and Donovan haven't done it - 
we're their insurance."
     She was shaking her head.  "I just don't 
understand why it leaves the subjects so weak.  
What the hell does it *do* to them?"
     "Benita would know," I said sardonically.  
"Pity we can't ask her."
     "It's infuriating!  Without the vaccine, 
we're strong enough to beat the alien race with 
numbers and brute strength, but we're defenceless 
against the pathogen.  With the vaccine, we can 
beat the pathogen but we're too weak to fight 
them.  Oh, hell, why do I keep rehashing this?" 
she demanded, upset.  
     "Easy, Mare," I said softly, though I 
shared her frustration.  "We'll work it out.  We 
have a vaccine - that's the main thing.  The rest 
of it will work itself out, as long as we can 
keep the group at bay."
     "All right."  She bowed her head for a 
minute, breathing deeply, then looked up once 
more, calm.  "Do you have someone in mind for 
Benita and the rest of the cleanup?" she asked.  
"My position is risky right now.  I can't be 
involved in that."
     "I have a man in St Petersburg.  Why is 
your position risky?" I demanded, worried.
"There are a lot of questions being asked 
about my lifestyle - or rather, why I don't have 
one.  People are starting to ask why.  The 
rumours about gambling debts are wearing thin."
I nodded slowly.  I'd been expecting this.  
     "We can't have that.  Pull a hundred grand from 
Switzerland.  Get this place redecorated - really 
rich lavish stuff, antiques; the whole deal.  Get 
a car and a new wardrobe and an expensive watch.  
We need you in the American loop."
     She protested, "Alexi, that only leaves 
four hundred thousand for the Russian operation 
aggregate total.  You can't fund medical research 
on that, even in Russia.  How much are you going 
to pay your man in St Petersburg?" she demanded.
     I shrugged.  "Multiple crimes in multiple 
jurisdictions...risking execution for 
treason...maybe a hundred grand," I hazarded.
     "Leaving three hundred thousand in Austria.  
And the Austrian currency is low.  It could stay 
low for six months.  We don't have Jeraldine to 
sell secrets for us anymore, Alex."
     "Let me worry about the money, Mare.  You 
worry about staying alive and in the loop.  Use 
whatever you have to.  We can cut corners on the 
Russian operation."  At her querying look, I 
elaborated, "We can trim Norylsk, Georgia and 
Azerbaijan back to admin and pathology research - 
get rid of the prisoners and the guards.  I'd 
shut them altogether, but having them makes the 
governments feel like they have a stake in us so 
they leave us alone.  But I'm not cutting corners 
on you."
     She sighed.  "All right."  A new thought 
occurred to her, and she said suddenly, "Mulder 
would know about the UFO crash in Tunguska.  Once 
he finds out where the rock is from, there's at 
least a fifty-fifty chance he'll decide to go 
there - you do realise that, don't you?"
     I met her gaze thoughtfully, wondering 
where she was heading.  "Actually, I hadn't given 
it any thought, but you're right," I agreed.  
     "Why?"
     "Just an idea I had," she said softly.  
"He's going to be useful - especially if we can't 
prevent colonisation.  He'll probably be a major 
player in the American resistance, if he doesn't 
self-destruct first."
     "Most likely," I agreed.  I looked at her 
with sudden awe.  "You think we should try to 
make him immune?" I demanded admiringly.
     "It's worth a shot.  It would only take one 
test series to be sure of his immunity, and you 
could fast track that - say a week at the 
Tunguska compound.  He'll be sick for a while, 
but I don't think the Consortium has anything 
planned that would require him to be on duty, 
from our perspective."
     I nodded, my mind rapidly ticking over the 
possibilities.  "All right.  We'll play that one 
by ear - see if we can play him in that 
direction.  That will be your job - if I do more 
than direct him to the rock, it will look too 
much like a put-up job.  I want him to think I'm 
a pawn, too."  It felt good to be conspiring with 
her again.  I felt the lethargy of helplessness 
lifting, my sense of control over our situation 
returning.  My blood was pumping with it.
     She nodded her agreement.  "There's 
something else.  Mulder may have some immunity to 
the retrovirus carried by the morphs, thanks to 
his adventure in Alaska a couple of years back.  
Might be worth taking some blood, seeing if we 
can synthesise a vaccine.  If the alien race 
can't control us with the pathogen, eliminating 
us with the retrovirus could be the next prong of 
attack."
     "Will do.  I'll have someone standing by to 
work on that in Tunguska."  I shook my head.  
"Damn it, if only we didn't have to lose Benita.  
The woman's a genius."
     "We'll find another genius, Alexi.  Just 
get Mulder in and out of the compound alive.  
Everything else will fall into place."
     We made these plans, and we parted 
reluctantly, the need to touch white-hot after 
weeks apart.  Our fingers brushed as we said our 
farewells, and it galvanised us into action.  We 
found one another instantly, held one another's 
faces between our palms, mirroring each other; 
kissed with a strange, urgent tenderness.  We 
broke apart reluctantly, for there was no time.  
I felt her cheeks beneath my palms, felt how 
perfectly they fit there, and captured forever in 
my mind how she looked when I held her that way. 
     It was the last time that I touched her 
with both hands.

     I returned to my fascist friends easier in 
mind.
     I e-mailed Mulder his final tip-off, 
alerting him to the location of the Canadians.  
Meanwhile, I played up to my role as the 
psychotic genius, spouting at length about the 
Black Cancer.  When they got that glazed-over 
facial expression, I knew I'd had the desired 
effect.  After the bust, I expected, they would 
give Mulder anything he wanted to hear about 
their traitor.  Hopefully, he would start to put 
things together from that, and come up with as 
much of the picture as I wanted him to know.
     When the time came, I handed them over to 
Mulder.  Once that goodwill gesture had been 
accepted and I'd taken the obligatory punch, he 
and Scully and I settled down to talk.  
     I told them about the incoming courier from 
Russia with a diplomatic pouch, and waited 
patiently as they took off after the American 
thief.  When they returned, diplomatic pouch in 
hand, I was relieved to find that it indeed 
contained the Tunguska rock.  With little choice, 
I submitted to custody, knowing Mulder wouldn't 
leave me in the county lockup.  The rock would go 
somewhere secure and comparatively independent 
with Scully, and I would get a safe house.
     A relatively safe house.
     Mulder and Scully left me with Skinner, who 
threw a punch of his own - a real one, not the 
pissy ones Mulder does - and left me to freeze, 
handcuffed to the railing on his balcony.  The 
next morning, he threw some toast at me, 
glowering, before storming off to work.  I 
thought Skinner's reaction was a little extreme, 
given that I'd really only punched him a couple 
of times.  
     But then I remembered Duane Barry's death 
and the heat he took for that, not to mention 
Scully's sister and Scully's abduction - he'd 
always had a soft spot for her - and that asshole 
Cardinale had shot him, too; maybe he thought I 
was part of that.  I had a bit more understanding 
of his attitude then, and chalked one up to bad 
karma.  God knew, I'd earned a bit of that.
     I was still cold, though, dammit.
     The American thief broke into Skinner's 
apartment later that day.  As Mare explained to 
me later, conflict had broken out in the group 
about the vaccine in the wake of the rock 
incident.  The courier had wisely not given 
himself into custody; but instead hoped to 
recover the rock and save his own hide.  I was 
more worried about my own: caught between a rock 
and a high place, I threw myself over the 
seventeenth storey balcony and prayed the cuffs - 
and my wrist - would hold.  When the courier 
found me, I wrestled with him and pulled him over 
the side - the longest ten seconds of my life.  
No guilt on that kill - it was the only defense I 
had.
     I was still there, dangling between life 
and death when Mulder retrieved me a half-hour 
later.  "Stupid-ass haircut", he says with a 
punch, when I just damn near got killed in the 
so-called safe house he'd set up.  
     One of these days I'm gonna quit playing 
penitent for his father and slug him back, I 
really am.

     When I woke, I was alone.
     I was still handcuffed to the steering 
wheel, my shoulder aching, my wrist abraded and 
bruised.  We were parked outside Mare's, and 
Mulder was gone.  I was refreshed in mind, if not 
in body.
     I watched the lights and shadows of the 
windows, trying to work out what was going on.  
Mare was moving back and forth - I could tell 
from the shape of the head - but there was no 
sign of Mulder.  His cell phone was on the dash, 
plugged into the car charger; and after an hour 
had passed, I decided to risk using it.  I phoned 
Mare, and after several busy signals, I got 
through.
     "Where are you?" she asked urgently.
     "Right under your nose.  Mulder has me 
handcuffed to the steering wheel of his car 
downstairs."  The curtain flickered as she peered 
down at me.  "Can you speak freely?"
     "Yes - he's asleep.  I'm just about to wake 
him and feed him the pouch information.  I'm not 
going to give him Tunguska - just the entry point 
in Norylsk.  I think it's better if he works it 
out for himself.  You know what he's like."
     I nodded slowly.  "Good.  It's all arranged 
with Mikhail - they're expecting us."  Then, "Did 
you hear about the courier?"
     "Yes," she said grimly.  "What happened?"  
At my explanation, she said furiously, "Damn it!  
They had no right to put you at risk like that!"
     I laughed at that.  "You're like a mother 
hen sometimes, Mare."  It felt good, that someone 
got that angry on my behalf.
     "You're my husband," she said simply.
     "It wasn't a criticism," I said gently.  "I 
like it when you get protective."
     She smiled indulgently - I could hear it in 
her voice.  "There have been some Consortium 
developments," she said.  "Donovan's buddy 
Senator Sorenson is calling a congressional 
enquiry into the American courier's death.  Total 
smokescreen leading to nothing, but Donovan wants 
to publicly distance the group from the rock 
theft.  Seems some of our Russian comrades aren't 
too happy with Camp Spender right now," she added 
sardonically.
     I smiled faintly.  "The enquiry doesn't 
really affect our position, and the more 
preoccupied Donovan is, the more exposed that 
leaves Benita.  I'd say let it be." Then, as an 
afterthought, "It could even be to our advantage, 
if it buys Mulder's work some protection."
     "That remains to be seen."
     "Let's worry about what we can change," I 
counselled.  "Speaking of which, can you have the 
billing entry for this call wiped from Mulder's 
phone bill?"
     "Piece of cake.  You should see my newest 
hack program," she added gleefully.  "You could 
co-opt the government of a small country with 
it."  I had to laugh - she was such a computer 
nerd.  "I'll go wake him now - get him moving.  
You must be cold down there."  Her tone was 
solicitous.  I could imagine her serving me 
chicken soup in my sickbed with that voice.  The 
image amused me very much.  What had Mare said 
once?  Something about things that happen to 
normal people, and not people like us?  
     She was waiting for a response.  "More like 
profoundly relieved," I snorted.  "I swear, if he 
hits me one more time-"
     "You two always did like a bit of B&D," she 
laughed.
     "That was a long time ago," I said 
irritably.  "I'm serious, Mare, he's driving me 
nuts."
     "Mulder drives everyone nuts.  Even Scully 
shot him."  We laughed, but then she sobered.  
She cautioned, only half-joking:
     "Don't kill him.  We need him."

     He did hit me again, and I didn't kill him.  
How much of that was self-control and how much 
the handcuffs, I don't know.
     My little display at the airport was 
fortunate, but totally unplanned.  I was pissed 
off and humiliated.  Twenty-four hours with 
Mulder and I'd been punched on at least four 
separate occasions and left to dangle in the cold 
over the side of a seventeenth-storey balcony.  
Pissing in the wind, you might say.  His snide 
remarks were not much more than schoolyard 
bullying, and that was about how they made me 
feel.  I cursed him in English, and then my 
English left me as it sometimes did when I was 
very worked up, and I cursed him in Russian.
     That was when he decided to bring me to 
Tunguska with him.
     I suspect, though, that he intended to 
bring me all along.  I think in retrospect that 
the whole thing was just one more bit of 
bullying.  I wondered if Scully ever saw this 
side of him.  I doubted it.
     We arrived in Tunguska without incident.  
Mulder backed off a bit, perhaps realising he had 
pushed me too far; or perhaps just concerned 
about alienating his only interpreter.  
Regardless, we were imprisoned, and I was 
immediately taken to Mikhail.  I directed him on 
Mulder's vaccination program, and had them throw 
me back in with Mulder once more.  I convinced 
him that I had been interrogated, and he 
responded by shoving me against the wall.
     Like you couldn't have predicted that.
     "What did you tell them?" he demanded.
"That we were stupid Americans lost in the 
woods," I snapped.  His breath was hot on me, and 
I had a fleeting memory of another time; but I 
dismissed it.  I shoved him away, sick of being 
his punching bag.  "Don't touch me again."
     Mulder stared at me as though I had lost my 
mind.  "Don't *touch* you?" he demanded, 
misinterpreting my words.  Maybe I wasn't the 
only one with a memory of other times.  "What are 
you, married or something?"  I turned and 
glowered at him, and he scoffed incredulously, 
"You're kidding!  Who?  La Femme Nikita?"
     "Fuck you," I snapped, turning back to look 
out the barred window.  "You're such an asshole, 
Mulder."
     We each paced for a bit, avoiding one 
another as well as we could in such close 
quarters.  Subjected to the cold and the filth 
and the stench, far worse than the already-awful 
conditions I lived in myself in Norylsk, I felt 
pity for my prisoners; but it was only fleeting.  
They were all violent criminals, otherwise 
destined for the death penalty.  They had all 
accepted this arrangement in exchange for parcels 
of land and money for their families.  In the 
circumstances, their consent wasn't exactly free 
and heartfelt, but whose is to anything in life?  
Mine sure as hell wasn't.  And it wasn't as 
though Marita and I were living in the lap of 
luxury - we worked our asses off to feed and 
shelter them.  That creepy geologist in the next 
cell was the worst - he'd taken a rock with the 
alien pathogen and used it to wipe out his wife, 
her lover, and her family.  Only the wife got the 
vaccine in time, but she came out catatonic.
     At last - partly to make peace and partly 
to pass the time - I said quietly, "You know, 
Mulder, sooner or later you're going to have to 
come to terms with the fact that if it hadn't 
been me that night at your father's house, it 
would have been someone else."
     "Yeah," he grunted by way of concession.  
His voice was not that of fresh anger, but dull 
with bitterness.  "But it *was* you."  He leaned 
against the wall, his arms folded, watching me.
     I nodded with some understanding, but said 
only, "If I had said no, Mulder, they would have 
killed me or mine."
     "You mean your wife."
     "We weren't married at that stage," I said, 
looking up at him from my stance on the floor, 
"but yeah."
     He thought on this.  "Does she know you 
swing both ways?" he asked curiously.  Then, 
before I could answer, "Does she know what you 
*do*?  I mean she doesn't think you're a 
travelling encyclopedia salesman, does she?"
     "She knows everything," I said darkly.  
"Everything."
     He looked at me quizzically.  "But doesn't 
she - well, mind?"
     "Of course she minds," I snapped.  "We both 
do.  You think this is the life I grew up 
wanting?" I demanded bitterly.
     He frowned, but didn't reply; and after 
that we spoke no more.

     Next time I decide to take Mulder prisoner, 
remind me to take a straightjacket.
     After I was removed from the cell, we ran 
the treatment on Mulder.  We drew some blood and 
sent it to Norylsk to attempt to isolate the 
alien retrovirus.  We gave him the vaccine.  We 
gave him the pathogen.  We continued this way, 
vaccine and oil in turn, for much of the night.  
We had been trialling it this way, incrementally, 
attempting to overcome the terrible malaise that 
struck the subjects in the aftermath of the 
treatment, but to no avail.
     Every rule has an exception, though.
     We weren't expecting any trouble from 
Mulder the following day.  Usually, the newly-
tested prisoners were only semi-conscious, 
stumbling blindly to keep up with their comrades.  
Exchanging small-talk with Mikhail, I didn't even 
look for him, expecting that he was passed out in 
his cell.  He was almost on top of me before my 
guards and I realised what was happening; and by 
the time I came to myself, he had me in the back 
of a hurtling truck, several miles from the 
compound.  I knew of the sometimes-erratic effect 
of the vaccine on the psyche, and Mulder struck 
me as someone predisposed to that outcome.  The 
danger was real.
     So I jumped.
     I fell on my left arm - the same one that 
was hurt from the balcony episode and the cuffs.  
Hopelessly lost, I ran in the unfamiliar 
territory of the woods, clutching it, little 
dreaming that I would soon crave the feeling of 
pain it sent through me.  At that point, I 
thought I would be quite happy for the damn thing 
to fall off and be done with it.
     God and irony conspire in their little 
jokes sometimes.
     When I encountered the boys, I was 
relieved.  Naturally, I knew of them, local boys 
and men who had cut off their left arms in a bid 
to avoid being tested.  It was a pointless 
exercise - we only ever tested convicts, and some 
of the boys were too young to have ever received 
the smallpox inoculation anyway.  But one loose-
lipped guard had spread the word of a one-armed 
prisoner we had refused, and then suddenly 
Tunguska was filled with amputees.  I thought the 
whole thing was darkly funny - it appealed to my 
sense of the macabre.  I still do, actually; 
though it's taken me a while to reach that point.
     I convinced the boys that I was an escapee, 
my main concern.  They would have killed me if I 
hadn't.  Laughable.  I was their enemy, in their 
eyes; but I would no more have harmed them than a 
butterfly.  Like I said...God and irony.
     I will draw a curtain over what happened 
next.  I have never spoken of it, not even to 
Mare; and in that uncanny way she has, she has 
known not to ask.  I will put it baldly for 
posterity; but details are something I cannot 
give, even now.  
     They waited until I was asleep, and then 
they cut off my arm.
     Deliberate choice of words.  Amputation 
just doesn't fit, you see.  There was nothing 
clean and efficient about it.  They took a hot 
knife and sawed at my arm until it was gone, and 
by then I was hysterical, screaming incoherently 
with pain.  
     When it was over, I found myself locked in 
terror, paralysed by a chilling fear that they 
would maim me in some other way.  I knew it 
wasn't true - that their violence was not 
malicious and their interest was in my protection 
- but I was beyond all reason.  I flinched when 
they came near me to feed me or bandage my arm; 
and I refused to go with them when they decided 
to move deeper into the woods.  I couldn't have: 
I could barely move.  The shock and the cold were 
slowly overtaking me.
     It was a relief.

     Mare found me.
     As she explained later, she had arrived in 
Norylsk just hours after Mulder's escape from the 
camp in Tunguska.  She had taken advantage of 
Spender's absence, as required by the enquiry, 
and followed us, aware that her own position 
might be tenuous in the aftermath of Benita's 
death.  Upon learning of Mulder's escape and my 
disappearance in his wake, she had taken a crew 
and followed the near-perfect tracks in the 
frozen ground.  They knew where I fell from the 
truck: I lost a shirt button.  Yeah, you read it 
right.  I laughed when they told me that.  
     A fucking button.  Who but a wife would 
know me by my button?
     They searched the area - the whole crew by 
day; just her and a dedicated guard by night.  
That information washed over me when I heard it - 
I had expected nothing else of her - but later, 
when I really thought about it, it was so damn 
comforting.  She did that for three days.  By 
now, given the sub-zero temperatures, she was too 
worried to bother with subterfuge.
     "Alexi!" she screamed.  "Alexi!"
     I heard her crying out that way for hours; 
but, hoarsely paralysed by hypothermia, shock and 
blood loss, I couldn't respond.  I fought for 
consciousness, and in the extremity of hunger, I 
gnawed on the remains of my own limb, discarded 
by my misguided saviours.  I toyed with my 
wedding band, now on my right hand, and waited 
patiently, knowing that she would never give up.  
And she never did.
     At last, her hoarse cries drew near, and I 
cried out as best that I could.  I heard her 
footsteps grow nearer, heard her break into a 
run.  I hid my arm under leaves and, pulling 
myself into a sitting position, I pulled my 
jacket around me, wanting to spare her the shock.  
I would tell her - warn her.  
     She ran into the clearing, gasping for 
breath, and she slumped with exhausted relief at 
the sight of me.  She came to me, dropped to her 
knees in front of me.  Wordlessly, she threw her 
arms around me, silent tears streaming from 
crystal-clear eyes.  I held her with my one arm, 
and I felt her stiffen as she registered the 
absence of the second.  I felt her right arm, 
which embraced my left side, tighten, 
instinctively looking for that which should be 
there but was not.
     She pulled back, her face querying, the 
suspicion not yet fully formed, not yet 
articulate.  She knew that something was wrong, 
but not what it was.  She cried out in Russian 
for her crew to stay back, and I knew I should 
tell her before she worked it out, but I couldn't 
speak.
     I remember the exact moment when she 
realised; when the pieces of the puzzle came 
together.  Her querying look was flooded with 
horror, as though she had been slapped, when she 
remembered the rebel amputees.  She pulled my 
jacket aside, but did not look, still staring up 
into my eyes.  I stared back, afraid of her 
grief, her disappointment, her rage; for then I 
must feel my own.
     She felt her way, her hands tentatively 
finding my shoulder.  They moved down my stump, 
and when she found the sudden absence mid-bicep, 
I saw her breath catch in her chest.  Her 
fingertips moved fearfully over the sodden 
bandage, and it hurt so much, teasing over the 
deep wound, even as my phantom itches clamoured 
for her touch.  But somehow I couldn't ask her to 
stop: I needed to confront her with it, to see 
her pull her bloodied hand away and accept it 
anyway.
     Maybe then I could accept it, too.
     "Oh, Alexi," she whispered, and pressed her 
mouth to mine.
     We stayed there for a long moment, but 
finally, she pulled away, her silent tears dried 
to powdery ice on her cheeks.  She said softly, 
"Where is it?  This cold - even after this time, 
perhaps it can be saved -" but I shook my head 
before she could finish.
     "They took it?" she demanded.
     I shook my head, and motioned with my head 
to the pile of leaves, reluctantly.  It was a 
direct question, and I had never lied to her.  I 
waited while she uncovered it, seeing it as 
though in slow motion.  Her movements slowed as 
she saw the teeth marks and the desecration, and 
she stared up at me in horror as she realised 
what I had done.  I averted my head, ashamed; but 
she said sharply, "Look at me."  I shook my head, 
and she said with fresh tears, "Look at me!"
     At last, I complied; and she said softly, 
"If this is how you stayed alive for me, I'm 
glad, Alex.  Don't you ever be ashamed of this."
     I shook my head again, my face twisted with 
pain.  The gulf I had perceived between us, when 
I had killed and she had not - the unworthy 
bloodiness I felt - it was nothing compared to 
this.  I felt an essential, unnavigable wall rise 
between us, and I was sure it could never be 
breached.  I heard her saying, dimly, "Don't do 
this, Alex; don't leave me," but I retreated into 
myself, staring off into the distance, far from 
her.
     She watched me for a long moment; but then, 
at last, she came to me, carrying my arm.  She 
crouched in front of me and waited patiently for 
me to look at her.  At last, I did it, watching 
with numb horror as she lifted my arm in front of 
me.  "Look at it, Alex.  Look at what you did.  
You did it for us.  And so will I."
     I stared at her, bewildered and perplexed, 
as she used her fingernails to pull off a few 
twisted strands of tissue from the bone.  They 
were frozen; little beads of ice crumbled through 
them.  She looked at them for a long moment, 
steeling herself in a way I understood all too 
well, and then put them into her mouth, closing 
her eyes briefly as she swallowed hard.
     When she opened them, I was still staring, 
unaware of my tears until she brushed them away.  
"We all do what we have to do to survive, Alexi," 
she said gently.  "You don't have to punish 
yourself - or me."  She looked down at my arm.  
"We are man and wife.  Your sins are my sins.  
There is no room for punishment between us."
     And then, at last, I gave way; and she held 
me; and I was comforted.
     
     She took me to St Petersburg.
     We slept fitfully on the plane, and the 
hospital was a whirlwind of doctors and 
specialists, who proclaimed me to be in 
surprisingly good condition for my ordeal.  The 
prosthetic specialist was optimistic about my 
prospects for rehabilitation.  I would be able to 
drive a car and button my clothes and all of 
that.  I wondered aloud if I would be able to 
knit, but Mare said she thought I would only be 
able to knit as well as I did now.  I told her 
that didn't bode very well.  She just laughed, a 
little wanly, but a laugh just the same.
     My stump itched and it would take time to 
heal - certainly I would not be able to use a 
prosthetic for a while - but I was able to try 
one on.  "I look like a Thunderbird," I said 
disgustedly.
     "Thunderbird?" she echoed, bewildered.
     "Sixties British kids' show.  The parts 
were played by marionettes."  I started humming 
the theme and did a little impression, tip-toeing 
across the room, bobbing the prosthesis up and 
down.  She really laughed then, and it made me 
feel that I might be able to laugh again too.
     Back at the hotel, when at last we went to 
bed, she spooned against me as usual; and I felt 
more potently than ever my loss.  We lay there 
against one another, and I couldn't hold her.  
That hurt in a way that all the little 
irritations had not.  I tried to compensate by 
nuzzling her neck; but at last, I pulled away in 
distress.  She rolled over, trying to get close, 
but I turned away.
     She watched me for some time, but finally, 
she rose.  I heard her moving behind me, before 
she came around the bed into view.  She knelt 
before me, saying diffidently, "Alexi, make love 
to me."
     "Mare," I protested weakly, but she cut me 
off.
     "Do it, Alex.  Show me that you love me.  
Show me that you want me.  Make me know."
     I sat up on the side of the bed, cradling 
her cheek with my hand, and leaned against her, 
my head on her shoulder.  I didn't intend to do 
as she asked; but I inhaled her scent, and it was 
intoxicating.  It was sex and heat and lust; it 
was the gentle warmth of comfort and compassion; 
it was adoration.  She was my lover, my mother, 
my wife.  Everything I'd ever craved in another 
person.  In the depth of my loss, I felt every 
part of me reach for her, needing her close; and 
then I was cradling her with my arm, holding her 
to me as I kissed her urgently, needing her 
comfort and her warmth.  
     She touched my face wondrously with her 
fingertips.  "Alexi," she whispered.  Her arms 
wound around me, not at my shoulders or my waist 
as usual, but one arm at each, bridging the gap 
where I would normally have held her.  She was 
compensating for me, freeing me to touch her with 
my hand.  She moved closer to me between my legs, 
pressing herself against me, moving with me as my 
lips found hers, as I sought her taste and her 
scent hungrily.  I touched her, craving the feel 
of her under my palm, missing its mate but not 
minding as much as I'd expected.  
     I opened my eyes, and hers opened at the 
same instant, our gazes locked in breathtaking 
union.  Her eyes were like quartz, her irises 
such an elusively pale green that they were 
almost clear, trailing delicately around blue-
black pupils, bottomless and unfathomable.  They 
spoke of great pain and great love, and it made 
me ache to know that I was responsible for both.  
I rested my head against hers for a long moment, 
breathing her name in an erratic melody.  Her 
hands were at my neck, cradling me like something 
precious.  I felt loved.
     I touched her.
     Cautiously, tentatively, I moved my hand 
over her skin - skin I had touched a thousand 
times before.  I touched her with wonder, the 
feel of her beneath my hand a revelation.  I 
trailed curious fingertips down over her flesh, 
over the thin silk of her nightshirt.  I found 
her nipple with the back of my hand, and I teased 
it, relishing the feel of it moving across my 
hand, catching at each knuckle; the feel of the 
silk rustling over it, a mere sliver of a barrier 
between us.  I slid my hand beneath her shirt and 
took her breast in my hand, explored it 
curiously, and found out what she liked all over 
again.  I toyed with it, gentle yet childlike, 
treasuring as though for the first time that 
simplest of pleasures: that of touching my wife.  
I was oblivious to her need and my own, 
fascinated by the feel of her beneath my palm.  I 
explored further, my hand drifting over her 
belly, and felt her shudder against me.  It was 
only then that I saw her predicament, or was 
conscious of my own.  She was watching me, her 
skin flushed, her eyes bright; and my need was 
white-hot.
     I kissed her fiercely; whispered, "I'm 
sorry - I just-"
     She stopped me.  "I know."  She took my 
hand in hers and guided it back to her belly, and 
kissed me, hard.  "Do it, Alex," she gasped 
between breathless kisses, her harsh whisper 
scraping across my desire like a knife.  "Touch 
me.  Anywhere you want."
     "I want you everywhere."  
     And then we were kissing once again, 
ravenous for one another.  I pushed at her with 
my head, chased her with my mouth, devouring her, 
unable to get enough.  She stood, pulling me up, 
moving backwards, letting me push her.  The solid 
wall behind her, she pressed herself into me, 
flinging her head to one side.  Roughly, I pulled 
aside the shirt and nuzzled the soft hollows of 
her neck like a man possessed.  She leaned 
against me weakly, making soft sounds of longing.  
"God! Alex," she cried out, her breasts pushing 
into me, her body swaying in agonising need.  "I 
want you so bad."
     "I can't wait," I breathed, grabbing the 
silk of her shirt in my hand.  "I want you, I 
need you."  I lifted the shirt over her head, 
awkwardly, and she made a low sound as the fabric 
dragged on her nipples, teasing them.  I dropped 
the shirt, heedless of where it landed.  
     She drew me close.  Her fingertips dragged 
across my shoulder, the top of my dressing, her 
smooth skin skittering across the raw nerves 
there.  I felt the ruthless twinges of new flesh 
forming, and they sent ripples of pleasure 
through my veins, right on the knife-edge of 
pain.  I sank to my knees before her, my head 
pressed against her, moaning with the exquisite 
pain/pleasure of it.  She cradled my head against 
her stomach, bending to kiss me with sudden 
tenderness.
     I held up my hand to her, and when she took 
it, I pulled her down to straddle me.  The 
floorboards were hard and cold against my back, 
but I was heedless, drunk on her, craving her 
like an addict.  I wanted to fill her in every 
way, to make her forever mine, because I was 
hers.  We rolled around the floor like animals on 
heat, knocking furnishings and our belongings 
about carelessly; yet what I felt for her then 
was not primal, but spiritual.  It was that gift 
of God, of soul meeting soul.  I cradled her head 
with my arm - the only time I truly grieved the 
absence of its mate - and I worshipped her.
     At last, we staggered up, and I laid her 
face down on the bed, stripping her silk trousers 
and my own.  I parted her thighs, laying her open 
for me, and knelt between her slightly bent 
knees, moulding my body to hers.  I kissed the 
back of her neck, pushing her hair up and away, 
breaths heavy with aching desire.  She took my 
hand in her own and drew it under her shoulders 
so that my arm cradled her.  She laid her cheek 
against my palm, waiting a moment for me; but 
then she realised my dilemma, and reached beneath 
her to guide me inside her.  I laid my head 
against her shoulder, pushing into her, felt her 
body part willingly to make room for me.  She was 
slick and ready, and she gave a shocked gasp as I 
filled her, thrusting back at me stroke for 
stroke, pushed to the hilt at last yet seeking 
more.  Her face deep in the bed, I heard her 
crying out in breathless need as she came, felt 
her grow hard and tense, then relax, shuddering, 
in the cradle of my arm.  And when at last I 
emptied myself into her, and we fell apart, she 
was weeping; but her tears were of blissful 
exhaustion; and she turned over, laughing 
joyfully through them, and pulled me down to her.  
I was alive, we were man and wife, and we had 
made love.  My arm was gone; but the world was 
back more or less the way it should be.
     And I felt whole once more.

COMING IN PART 4: MARITA FACES GROUND ZERO 
(IMMEDIATELY TO FOLLOW)