After their return from Idaho, Marita didn't speak to Alex about anything besides the most basic needs of their work. They shared an office at the Consortium headquarters in the posh streets of uptown New York City. Their desks even faced each other close enough that if Alex stretched out his legs, he could nudge Marita's foot with his own. And yet she remained silent, alternately writing reports for her other job at the UN and shopping online for lacy bras and black, silk panties.

"Not that I have any use for them," she thought silently to herself.

Alex hated it when she ignored him. He first tried tossing pencils at her desks, but this only made her glare. Although she wouldn't speak, she seemed ready to shout. Her lips would jut out occasionally, then relax, as if the words to ream him out were on the tip of here tongue.

After a week of this deadly isolation, Alex felt heavy and depressed. He had given up brushing her legs with his feet under the desk. He had stopped sending her one lined emails, which simply read "I'm sorry." He suspected these notes made her angrier; moments after he sent them, her ring finger would stab loudly at the delete key on her computer. She never wrote him a message back.

When Alex felt he could finally no longer take such punishment, when he was almost ready to give her a little slap to put some sense in her, she finally spoke:

"I have someone I want to set you up with."

"Excuse me?" Alex said. The surprise made him swallow his coffee too quickly so it burned a welt on his tongue. Marita still averted her eyes on all points of the room (the chrysanthemum in its glass vase, a pile of quarters on the desk, the wooly carpet) . Her finger clicked spasmodically on the mouse.

"I have this friend and I want you to go on a date with her."

"I don't go on dates." Alex slid his mug away and sank down into his chair. He rocked in it so it screeched rhythmically. Marita raised a well groomed brow.

"Celibate?" she asked with venom in her voice.

"Marita…" he warned. His tone gave her a jolt of surprise. She hadn't expected him to get angry so quickly. She suspected her silent treatment was about to backfire any minute. Soon, he would feel self-righteous and that would ruin the whole week's effort to make him feel guilty about the night at the motel.

"She's cute. You'll really like her. She lived in my suite during sophomore year at college," Marita said quickly, her voice rising at the end of every sentence. She brushed her hair over her shoulder and smiled with all her teeth at Alex.

"There's no one I want to go on a date with but…"

Marita interrupted him before he could crush her again with false hopes. "Her name is Clarice. She works at a PR firm, downtown."

"PR?" Alex said with disgust. He bit down on the tip of his pencil.

"She's smart Alex, she has a Masters in communication."

He sighed and threw the pencil across the room. Marita ducked as it flew past her, although she knew he would never have aimed for her. His eyes were vacant. He crossed his arms and looked away from her. Marita twisted her hands beneath her desk.

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Alex hated it when women pretended to be dumb. He and Clarice had been waiting at the bar for their seat for almost thirty minutes and the date already felt too long. She had chosen Au Courant, a French-Thai fusion restaurant that seemed much hipper than Alex felt. The men wore skinny ties and the women were wearing jeans beneath their dresses. He felt much older than his 26 years and more lonely than ever.

Clarice was cute, but she looked blander as the night went on. Her yellow hair was nothing like the shocking silver, blonde that Marita was blessed with. And unlike Marita's clear blue eyes, Clarice's were too dark to be her best feature. She wore too much makeup as well, in Alex's opinion.

But all of that was nothing compared to her insipid remarks.

"I really don't know, I don't read the paper."

"I'm not sure, I like men to order for me."

"Your work sounds too complicated! I could never do that."

The last remark came after he told her he worked in a biotechnology lab, assaying genetic material to see how it could help vaccine development. It wasn't wrong to be confused by difficult science, especially if she cared to listen and learn. It was just her flirtatious declarations of all the things she couldn't do that bothered Alex. It offended him that she believed weakness would attract him, especially since he was almost positive she had to be smarter than she was letting on if she went to Harvard with Marita.

So Alex got very drunk off of straight vodka in a chilled glass that felt brittle in his fingers. Clarice talked a lot and didn't seem to mind Alex's reticence. He felt a prickling of disgust along the back of his neck as she sucked on the cherry of her cosmopolitan and tried to look sexy. Her eyes moved too quickly beneath her lazy lids.

The service was so bad that before they had even ordered, Alex was determined to break off the date. He downed a double vodka and cleared his voice.

"I bet you want to get fucked," he said loudly. His words slurred. He didn't drink often.

"Oh yeah," Clarice said with a giggle. She stuck out her bottom lip and tried to look coy, but she looked more like a pouting two-year-old.

"I bet you'd like it up the ass."

She fumbled for a moment, but quickly regained her composure. "You like it kinky?"

"I'd only do you in a threesome."

"What did you say?"

"A threesome."

"Yeah, I heard you. Just checking." Her smile had faded.

"You up for it?"

"A threesome?"

"Yeah."

"With who?" she asked with skepticism and hurt. Already he was talking about other women he wanted to sleep with on their first date.

"Marita Covarrubias."

"But she set us up!"

"Well, I'm sure as hell not fucking you unless I get to have her too."

Clarice made a sound of disgust. She grabbed her purse and sauntered out the crowded room. Her exit would have been more effective if she hadn't bumped into a waiter and wobbled on her stiletto heals.

Alex ordered another vodka from the same waiter. The waiter paused for a second.

"Hell of a pickup line," he said to Alex. Alex just shrugged and smiled, holding up his empty glass.

"I call them drop-off lines."

"Hmm, have to remember that," the waiter said as he walked away.

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A few hours later, Alex left the bar and managed to give a taxi driver Marita's address. In his dizzy state, he forgot to use the elevator and climbed the twenty flights of stairs like a mountain climber griping the railing with one hand over the other. He was puffing by the time he finally leaned his head against the clean, white door of Marita's apartment. The hall was swaying and rocking like a ship.

Inside, Marita sat on the cushioned seat of her bay window, watching the walkers below on the sidewalk. The Saturday night crowd was a sea of colorful umbrella tops in the gentle, calming rain. Marita mused to herself that they looked like atoms and molecules bumping around down there. She followed a raindrop trickling on the glass with her finger and tried to guess which direction it would flow. Down and over seemed to be the only options for the little thing.

She couldn't bring herself to go to bed. The thought made her feel sick. She held the cordless phone in her hand, but had decided to refrain calling until a later hour when Alex was more likely to be home.

"How did it come to this," Alex and Marita each thought to themselves. Only the door separated them. It was a drunken epiphany for Alex; the kind of drunken thought that seemed so true at the time, but would never be remembered the next morning. For Marita, it was her heavy eyes and twisting stomach that made her think the self-pitying statement. "How did we ever get so messed up?"

And they each returned to a moment when they first met five years ago.

Her sister's wedding had been an obscene affair. The petal smell of lilies made it difficult to breathe. But she had been happy for her sister, just sorry that so many strangers had to attend the wedding on her father's insistence. The imported champagne, Beluga caviar, even Marita's own low cut dress all seemed to be more for the benefit of these strange, serious looking men rather than for the celebration of her sister's new life.

But the way Marita's father introduced her to all of these men made it even worse. It felt as if she were up for sale the way every man with thinning hair and a cigar pressed in his lips looked her over. They measured her hips and her breasts with their eyes. They spoke to her father instead of to her, as if she were too stupid to answer any questions.

The only one who seemed to value her differently was Spender, but even now she wasn't sure if his power, greedy expression was better than the loose faces of the horny old men.

He asked her about her education as he discreetly blew smoke down at his own shoes. He asked her questions about international policy, especially concerning the strained relations between Russia and the U.S. Spender listened intently, but usually had a snide remark for her answers. He always had the urge to prove his own superior knowledge. Marita disliked this trait. She didn't like politely arguing with a sarcastic man. But anything was better than feeling every other man in the room comparing her to her ecstatic sister, parading around the room in her perfect cupcake dress.

"So I assume you didn't go to Harvard just to marry a doctor then," Spender had teased her as she watched her sister toss the bouquet. Marita realized she forgot to join the crowd of other women grabbing at the flowers.

"No. If I wanted to get married, I would have. I'm starting my masters in international relations in the fall," Marita had answered quickly.

"In my line of work, we can always use a global savvy woman."

Marita's heart had raced. She remembered wishing so hard for the simple statement to turn into a job offer.

Spender inhaled half his cigarette and exhaled the sooty remains out his nose.

"Send me your resume sometime."

Even now, Marita was embarrassed to admit to herself that she mailed him her resume later that night when she got home, even though the post-office was hours away from opening.

As she twirled her champagne in its fine, fluted glass, Spender caught her smiling in triumph. He looked over his shoulder and waved at someone discreetly.

Alex had been watching the entire conversation since it began. He knew Spender didn't talk to anyone for so long without reason. But the young woman caught his eye as well. At the time, he had simply noted she was pretty. It wasn't until years of working with her, talking to her every day, watching her accomplish so much that she became breathtakingly beautiful to him. It was not love at first sight for Alex. But it was a tingle of what was to come. At Spender's signal, he threaded his way through the crowds of people nibbling on miniature quiche to meet her.

"Marita, this is my son, Alex Krycek," Spender said as he placed a gentle hand on the small of her back so she faced the dark haired youth more fully.

"Krycek?" Marita asked before she could stop herself. It was such a tactless question, but she didn't understand how he could be Spender's son and have a different name.

"He's really not my father, he's just being a jerk," Alex had muttered as he shook her hand. Their grip was simple and firm, but Alex had noticed that had exceptionally soft skin on her palms. Marita just noted that his hands were large and sweaty. But she liked his eyes. It was an intense and intelligent stare.

"Always a smart mouth," Spender had said and grinned a malicious smile. Marita felt a little chill. "He's a good boy, works for me."

"Yes, he's one of our most valued employees," a voice had interrupted. It was her father. His well manicured hair and suit remained as impeccable as ever, but the animosity in his voice had frightened Marita. The conversation shifted away from the younger two to the older pair. Her father glared at Spender, while the smoker looked cool and unfazed. He blew a puff of smoke at her father's polished shoes.

"I congratulate you on this wedding. Very successful," Spender said as simply as if he were commenting on the weather. So thoroughly did he ignore her father's anger that even Marita felt embarrassed for him. For his part, Alex's pale skin turned a glowing red. He searched the party for anywhere else to be but standing between the two aging men.

"You know, this wedding business got me thinking. We should just marry your Marita to my Alex. Maybe then I could expect a stronger alliance and a good deal more loyalty from you. Don't they say blood runs thicker than water," Spender said. His tone was just as sarcastic as ever, but the flippant words made Marita's previous disgust with the crowd and the day boil over again. She excused herself roughly and left the room. That day everything had felt as if it were closing in on her. Even her throat felt constricted.

She found an opened French window, which led onto a balcony outside. The buzzing New York air felt so much cleaner than inside. She had rested her arms on the railing and waited until she felt the angry shakes leave her body. But she wasn't meant to be alone.

"Don't take him seriously," Alex had said behind her. Marita looked at him like he was dirt. She didn't care how pretty his face was, her how enjoyably long were his legs. At that moment, he represented everything she was trying to escape in her family.

"Whatever." They stayed silent. Alex stood behind her awkwardly. "Don't pretend you're not a part of this," she said angrily, although she knew her tirade was misdirected at him. But Alex had been a convenient target at the time.

"Part of what," Alex said with a slow, staccato rhythm to his words.

"This…Consortium of men. Doing their secret little business that no one cares about, marrying within the group like in-bred hicks."

"I wasn't born into this."

"But you're sure a part of it now, aren't you. You're just a younger version of them," she had said so meanly that she felt embarrassed right away. But Alex looked only amused. He leaned against the railing beside her.

"So you don't want in on this secret business?" he said in a taunting tone. Marita flustered for a second, before she could find an intelligible answer.

"Yes and no, I guess."

"Marita…"

"Sorry I yelled at you."

"Whatever, don't worry about it. He pisses me off too. And so does your father. They make me just as mad as you are now."

It had been the right thing to say. From that moment on, Marita trusted him. He wasn't a sycophant. She would learn much later that Alex was a walking enigma. His business was secrets and lies, but he always told her the straight truth.

"Look, I don't want to marry you. I want to work with you," he had said, although the way he chucked her beneath the chin made her heart flutter and reconsider her previous rejection. Alex saw the look; her eyes darted away, her lashes hid her expression. Even as he made his early commitment to their partnership, he had wondered if he could stay so platonic with Marita. There was a level of comfort and confidence that he normally never felt with anyone. But at the time, her smile was enough to make him forget any doubts.

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And so there they were. Marita called Alex's apartment, but when no one answered, she resisted the urge to cry. She forced herself into bed though she didn't feel sleepy at all. She watched the dark without boredom.

"He must of stayed at her place," was all she could think. Over and over, she thought about how he must be touching her. She obsessively compared her hips to Clarice's. Finally, Marita caved and buried her face into the pillow, sobbing.

Alex broke into her apartment. It worried him that her lock was so easy to pick. Anyone could come in. Even a drunk man, apparently. The room was lightless. He froze when he heard her sobs. Inside the doorway to her room, he hovered until his eyes adjusted to the dark. Slowly, he could see her body curled up all alone on the massive bed. He waited, too unsure of himself and of her to move. Alex was like a shadow.

After an hour, Marita felt all the tears leave her. She idly wondered what made people stop crying. The pillow was damp and sticky. She blinked. A slight movement at her door made her jump. Yet she calmed. Instinctively, she knew it was Alex. If her nose hadn't been stuffed up, she would have also smelled the pungent aroma of vodka on him, as far as she was from the door. Marita propped herself up on her elbows and looked at Alex.

He moved to her side at the bed. He looked down at her. Slowly she raised her hand up to his chest. He held it with his much larger, shaking hand. He caressed the length of her arm. He rubbed his face and his head against her knuckles, like a cat. He used her arm like a life rope to pull himself into bed. And they held each other through the night.

Their kisses were wet, partially from Marita's lingering tears and Alex's drunken confusion. He kissed her ear by accident all through the night, but his loving lips made Marita shudder with passion. She felt like a rubber band pulled tight. Alex felt the wonderful comfort of a soft place to rest while the alcohol wore off. No one was softer than his Marita. And no one loved him more.

"You didn't like your date?" Marita whispered to him late in the night. Alex pulled her closer to his chest. Their clothes had long since been thrown on the floor across the room.

"You're the one I want, Marita."

"Then why won't you let yourself have me."

He didn't answer her. Instead, he clutched at her hair. He could tell her what needed to be told. The fact that he was afraid of losing her would sound cliché. But he had lost a family once and he wouldn't risk that again. He would just have to love her secretly, rather than expose her as a target to his enemies. His true father hadn't thought so clearly, had obviously felt safe in the deepest woods of Siberian Russia. But his father had been a fool and they were all gone now.

"It's better to be unhappy than to be dead," Alex mumbled into Marita's hair. She didn't hear him.

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