Category: Story, Romance, Angst Pairing: Spender/Marita Rating: "R" for mature themes Spoilers: Post episode Two Fathers/One Son Archive: Ferret Cage okay (but please wait for version I send in, okay Drov?) Nowhere else, thank you. Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. CC does. Many thanks to Zoot for her unwavering support and suggestions for this piece and *many* grateful thanks to my readers and friends who give me tons of support and love especially when I need it most. Thank you! ====== THE REWARD by CiCi Lean, 1999 cicilean@yahoo.com ====== In the end, he had to take her with him. He didn't know why. She was such a sick and helpless creature, who, contrary to all her protestations, was no help to him at all. She knew nothing, not even the way out of the prison-lab and it was only by the luckiest of chances they'd escaped with their lives. Not that he had much of a life left to save. But there was something about her, something about her desperate need that Jeffrey Spender couldn't deny. He hated himself for it and heard his father's dark voice berate him for his foolishness, his weakness. He wasn't his son, he was a weakling... a disgrace. But, in the end, Spender still had to take Marita Covarrubias with him. Took her back to his apartment and ordered hot chicken broth for her from the Chinese restaurant across the street. Asked them for some fried noodles to go with it and sighed when they insisted on charging an extra quarter for them. He agreed, then slammed down the phone with frustration. No good deed it seemed, could ever go unpunished. Later, he watched her hands shake violently as she tried to eat it; watched each tiny spoonful of broth splash onto the table, wasted. Ended up feeding her himself, patiently encouraging every swallow with a slow nod and tight smile. When she was finished, he gently wiped her face and helped her into his bed, tightly tucking the blankets around her trying to quell her shivering. He stretched out beside her, utterly exhausted and sick at heart. It was his last night alive, he was quite sure of that, and he had nothing to show for any of the twenty-eight years he'd wasted on this planet. Nothing except the starved woman who lay shivering against his chest. He wrapped a tentative arm around her and cringed at the sharpness of her ribs and shoulder blades. She felt like a fallen bird, all angles and thin bones. There was nothing soft or attractive about her. She was but a trembling skeleton in his arms, smelling faintly of disinfectant and decay. But he held onto her anyway. If she was all he was going to have for rest of his short life, then he'd make the best out of it. Just as he'd done with everything else. He talked to her in a soft voice, making up stories about the childhood he'd never had, as if he'd actually lived it. He was the only child in a simple, happy family, one that took vacations in Disneyworld and had meatloaf every Saturday. He'd done well at school and had lots of buddies all of whom still kept in touch. He'd played football and baseball well, even had an imaginary trophy or two stuck in the closet somewhere. It had all been ordinary and wonderful and there wasn't an insane, crippled mother or evil, wraith-like father to be found within a thousand mile radius of it. Maybe not even within a million miles. Marita said nothing, but burrowed more deeply against him as he spoke. He kept talking to her, exhausting one dull topic after another, coming finally to the woman of his dreams. He humorously admitted that this was a fantasy woman, one that was blue-eyed and blonde, with a long, slim body eternally sheathed in black silk. She would be the most beautiful woman in the world and every man who saw her would lust for her. Vainly. Because she would be his ... all his. Completely in love with him and unafraid to show it. Her fingers would be slim and elegant, always entwined with his own. Her kisses would be warm and soft and her bright eyes would always be shining for him. For him alone. His fingers twined idly through Marita's hair as he spoke, as if smoothing the scarce, dry strands could organize his chaotic thoughts. He gently stroked her brow when he felt her shiver and pulled the blanket up higher around her, leaving himself exposed to the room's chill. By midnight, he'd finally run out of stories to tell, but the silence quickly became far too oppressive. He kept talking. "Marita. Beautiful name. Reminds me of a little girl I knew in grade school. Her name was Marita as well. I remember so clearly how much she hated it. Do you like it?" There was no response. Spender sighed. Combed his fingers through the coarse hair once more. "Well, I like it. I like it a lot," he said kindly. "It's very pretty." There was another moment of silence before a hollow whisper rose up from beside him ... a dark breeze rising from some faraway grave. "I was... I was human once you know." Spender felt a terrible chill run up his spine at the ghostly voice. "You're still human. Don't be silly," he replied, not sounding quite as confident as he would have liked to. "What sort of nonsense is that?" But the ghost-voice continued. Oblivious to his protests. "Yes, I was human once and some people actually thought that I was pretty, beautiful even. They told me that I was. I... I wasn't always like this you know. No, I wasn't always like this." Spender found that he had no reply. Felt the chill of his own grave surrounding him and as Marita's voice slowly faded, he could still hear her awful words echo within. //"I was human once, you know.// //And I wasn't always like this."// ============ The sun rose with its usual vengeance. Spender got up and showered quickly, going through the motions of ordinary living, even though he knew that he hadn't much longer to live. Roused Marita from her sleep and cleaned her up the best he could, quickly and efficiently, mindful of her modesty even though she appeared not to notice. Not to care. He combed her hair back gently, away from her eyes and clipped it up with a practiced hand. He'd done the same for his mother on a daily basis for years and had become handy with the various tools of female vanity, no matter how pointless they often were. Dressed her in the clothes that he'd always held on hand against the possibility of his mother's unannounced and often unexpected return. The loose cardigan and black leggings hadn't aged very well, but they were better than nothing. He dressed her as one would a child -- one leg up on his knee, a sock bundledd carefully over his thumbs and then over each foot. An old pair of woman's running shoes followed, laced tightly and knotted twice for insurance against loss. Spender cringed when he viewed the final ragged result. The old, baggy clothes did nothing to hide the abused body beneath and he grimaced at Marita's reddened eyes, still filled with fear and confusion. Winced at the sight of her straw dry hair, unruly even after his attentions and at the cracked lips, peeling from a year of constant dehydration. Christ, but she was a harridan. A poor, miserable creature -- a salt-white banshee, one who would take you into death with her if you looked too closely into her eyes. She was incredibly ugly ... hideous even. His heart nearly broke at the sight. But she appeared not to notice his revulsion. She peered at him hopefully. "Are we going now? Are we leaving here, Jeffrey? " Christ. Jesus Christ. He knelt beside her and measured each word carefully. "Marita, please listen to me. I can't take you with me," he said slowly. "I can give you my car and all the money I have on hand right now, but I can't stay with you. It would endanger you more if I did. Without me, you might have a chance." She blanched, then covered her face with her hands and he heard a tiny sob. "I knew it. You're abandoning me. Leaving me to die." "No," he said, swallowing hard. "But you have to understand..." "It's because I'm of no use to you. It's because I have nothing to give to you. Nothing to offer you." "No, of course not," he insisted, his tone becoming indignant. "It's because I have nothing to give to you. I can't help you, Marita. I can't even help myself. Believe me, you are better off alone than with a loser like me." She shook her head, grasped his hand desperately and he shuddered at the claw-like grip. "But it's raining," she said brokenly, motioning toward the window where the sun had given way to dark rolling clouds. "I ... I can't go out into the rain like this." Spender fought the urge to flee. To run as long, as hard, as fast as he could and never look back. "Oh, for... here," he said wretchedly. "Look, Marita. I can give you my coat. Here, stand up. That's right. Stand up and put it on. It's a little big, but, here, you can tie it around your waist. See? Look. It's a trenchcoat. A good one that'll keep you dry. And see the lining? It zips out in the summertime so you won't get too hot in it when spring comes." She looked at him and he forced himself to return her gaze, as horrible as the sight of her face was. Didn't pull his hand away, even though her dry, corpse-like touch unnerved him completely. He began to beg. "Please, it's truly all I have. Please, Marita... please. Let me go. I'm no help to you. I wish I could do more, but I can't. I'm not even any good for myself anymore. Please try and understand." He ran a gentle finger along her cheek. "Please, try and understand." Her voice was hollow. She clutched the coat tightly about her, clinging to it as if it were life itself. "All right. I ... I understand." "Thank you," he breathed. Relieved. Debated it for a moment and then bent down to kiss her gently on the forehead. "Thank you." Was surprised to see a slight ray of hope spark in her eyes. "I was human once you know," she whispered forlornly, wrapping herself tightly within the coat's gray folds. "I wasn't always like this. I used to be pretty. People would tell me so. Men would tell me so." "You're still pretty," he lied. "Beautiful even." She shook her head. "No. I am nothing now. Not even human." Spender considered her closely for a long moment. He'd never seen an uglier woman, but, taking a deep breath to quell his revulsion, he kissed her again, this time on the lips. Softly. With honest affection and care. "There," he said, after pulling away. "Do you believe me now?" She stared at him, her eyes filled with surprise. "Do you?" he asked gently. She blinked and Spender saw something else fill her eyes. Something akin to strength. "Yes," she replied calmly. She released his hand. "Yes, you should go, Jeffrey. You've done ... more than enough. You are right. It'll be better this way." Spender closed his eyes for a moment as the relief washed over him. Pulled his car keys and his wallet out from his suit pocket and laid it before her on the table. He turned quietly and left through the door of the only home he'd ever been able to call his own. The door he knew he'd never enter again. ======== Marita wandered for hours in the rain before coming to the coffee shop. She'd left the keys and cash behind, because she knew that neither item could help her accomplish the one thing she *had* to do. For somewhere, in the back of what was left of her memory, some shards of knowledge remained. She knew that she'd been a powerful woman once -- a Special Representative to the Secretary General of the U.N. among other things. And within the ashes of what was left of that power, a phone number remained. The phone number of an old contact who might possibly still be alive. Who might still honor the many favors that he owed to her. If she could only retrieve it from her shattered mind. But the tests, those hundreds of terrible tests made even the simplest tasks virtually impossible. They'd robbed her of her once- flawless memory, along with nearly everything else. She would have cried with frustration, but she no longer had the ability to weep -- the tests had destroyed her tear ducts. She huddled in the plastic coffee shop chair and pulled Spender's coat tightly around her. Took a deep breath and smelled him, the slight tang of soap, sweat and a bit of the aftershave he favored. Forced herself to focus, to close her eyes and listen to the rain beat against the coffee shop windows trying desperately to remember the human being she once was. The woman she once was. She suddenly remembered the warmth of Spender's arms, the soothing sound of his voice and the kiss against her lips that had so filled her with strength ... with hope -- the very lifeblood of the soul itself. Hope. The warm coat Spender had covered her with wasn't the thin gray trench that hung down below her wrists and sagged past her knees. He'd covered her with his care -- a coat of hope. The realization hit her like forgotten sunlight and that's when Marita Covarrubias, Special Representative to the Attorney General of The United Nations rose, walked to the pay phone ... And dialed it with a hand that no longer trembled. ========= Jeffrey Spender had no idea how long he'd been wandering through the void. His memories were sparse and what there were of them weren't any good. He remembered the burn of the bullet entering his chest, remembered the tiles of the basement office floor cold against his neck, remembered the hatred, the murderous contempt in his own father's eyes right before he'd pulled the trigger... And remembered welcoming death as if it were a long lost friend. But Jeffrey Spender hadn't died. Instead, he'd been left to meander through the shadow-place, hovering somewhere between life and death. He could still feel fear, anger, even the bitter pain of his own father's betrayal and his resentment ran deep. It was the final insult, he thought bitterly. He was too inept to even die correctly. Talk about being a loser. It was too much to bear. He was just about to force himself to give up, force the darkness to take him, when he heard *her.* Heard a woman's voice speaking to him from somewhere beyond the abyss. Soothing and reassuring him, taking away some of the fear, alleviating some of the sharp pain that occasionally shot through the darkness. It was a voice that didn't waver in either its strength or its tenderness. It was sweet and comforting, all the while begging him to return to life ... to return to her. He couldn't imagine who she might have been, but he held onto her voice like a lifeline and with a tremendous effort, he slowly pulled himself back from the void, not knowing how or why, just knowing that she was asking him to return and he couldn't deny her. Thus when his eyes finally opened and focused, he could scarcely believe whom he immediately saw sitting beside him. Smiling at him. It was her. The woman of his dreams. The most beautiful woman in the world. Blonde, with sky blue eyes. Her long body sheathed in a black silk suit and she was the epitome of every vain boyhood dream he'd ever remembered. Everything surrounding her, the air itself, held sunlight and honey. She had flawless skin and a pair of soft, perfect lips that smiled down tenderly at him. When she bent forward to kiss him, Spender could smell the faintest scent of white roses and he blinked, now quite sure that he was dead. Oh, yes he was dead and this was heaven and there was an angel, a beautiful, perfect angel kissing him. Thanks be to the Christ, he was the luckiest dead bastard there ever was. "Thank you for coming back to me," said the angel, sounding oddly mortal. Oddly familiar. "I was afraid for a moment or two that you might not, but that's over now. So rest," she whispered, kissing his forehead again. "You're safe. We're safe. Thank God." That voice. He blinked groggily and tried harder to focus. He *knew* that voice, it was the voice of a horrific banshee, a poor miserable hideous creature he once knew and was forced to abandon long ago, but no... it couldn't possibly be... He heard his own voice whisper the name. "Marita?" "Yes. But shhh, rest, Jeffrey," Marita whispered, her lips grazing his cheek. Her voice was infinitely tender as she entwined her slim, elegant fingers with his own. "Rest." He could barely speak. "But how... how did I... you..." "Because you gave me everything that you had," she said replied, idly twining her free fingers through his hair. Another kiss, this one warm and soft against his lips. Filled with honest affection and care. A beautiful face filled with love and unafraid to show it. "And now, I have everything in this world to give to you." Spender could only gape at her, at her words, and the sight of those amazing eyes. Bright eyes that were that were shining for him. Only for him. ======= fini All comments are welcome. Send to cicilean@yahoo.com AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is loosely based on "The Marriage of Sir Gawain" from Howard Pyle's children's storybook version of Sir Thomas Malory's "LeMorte D'Arthur." It's an old Celtic morality tale and I was instantly reminded of it when I saw TF/OS. I thought that Spender was quite noble when trying to save Marita and this was the outcome that my silly romantic heart was sort of yearning for. (Thanks to Ambress for reminding me of the source!)