Scully swings the gun up fast, two handed, drawing a bead right on the middle of his forehead. She's seriously considering squeezing the trigger and finishing this whole Krycek thing once and for all. The fact that Krycek is standing a safe distance away from her, unarmed, with his hands reluctantly raised and a small tight humourless 'you got me' smile on his face counts for nothing. It's the thought of how much hassle and paperwork it causes when an FBI agent ends up with a dead unarmed felon that's stopping her. Maybe she'll get lucky - maybe he isn't unarmed. If he's carrying so much as a toothpick she's gonna shoot him and claim self defense.
"Up against the wall." Scully's voice crackles with anger. "Hands against the wall, spread your legs."
Krycek stays where he is. The close smile on his face widens into a half leer that lifts his top lip, showing his even teeth.
"Is this a come on, Agent Scully?" Mocking disbelief in his voice. "Because if it is, I gotta tell you, I don't get it up for redheads. Sorry."
"Hands against the wall !" Scully makes a one step lunge towards him, jabbing the gun toward his face, but careful to stay out of his reach. Krycek's sarcastic smile drops somewhat. Scully may be small but she carries an awful big gun. Slowly and reluctantly he turns, putting his hands shoulder high against the wall.
"Feet back, wide apart. Hands high. Do it!"
Scully isn't happy till his spread feet are far enough back from the wall that the heels of his boots are lifting slightly off the floor, and his hands, flat against the wall, are higher than his head. She moves in close, pushing the gun into the small of his back and snaps the slide as loudly as she can, putting a round into the chamber, snicking the safety off .
"Did you hear that?" she demands, anger making her voice thin.
"Yeah, I heard." Krycek's cautious now that he's made her so mad.
"Alright. You so much as breathe suddenly and I'll blow you in half."
Scully starts searching with her left hand down the left side of his body, the other hand keeping the gun muzzle pushed hard into his kidney; passing her hand over his shoulder, down the side of his rib cage, reaching forward and smoothing her palm efficiently over the left side of his chest and stomach, over his hip, down the outside of his leg, back up the front of his thigh, down again along the back of his leg, lifting the faded worn denim at his ankle, checking for anything pushed into the top of his boot. Change gun hand. Krycek stirs ever so slightly.
"Stay still." Scully shoves him with the gun. "I'm right handed - this might go off without me meaning it to." Her tone makes it clear that if it does, it'll be his problem, not hers. Right hand over the right side of his body: shoulder, side, chest, stomach. The tension of his awkward braced position is starting to tell - the muscles of his torso are hard ridges under her fingers, felt through the thin fabric of his t shirt. Over his hip, down the outside of his leg, back up the front, down the back, check the ankle.
A Bowie knife in a battered leather sheath, tucked into the side of his boot. Scully pulls it out, puts it into the back of her waistband. Krycek makes a tiny 'Ah shit' movement with his head.
"I said stay still." Scully snaps, digging him with the gun in the back.
Change hands again. This time he stays put. She doesn't for one second think he has anything else, but just to piss him off she runs her hand roughly over the back of his shoulders, feeling inside the neck of his t shirt, then lifting the back of it, sliding her fingers between the waist of his jeans and his bare skin. Then she bends down, keeping the gun tight against him, and runs her hand up the inside of his left leg, ankle to groin; then up the inside of his right leg. The tendon at the inside top of each thigh is standing out stark from the muscle, and Scully can feel the slightest suggestion of a tremor in each leg. The muscle strain of bracing himself so far from the wall is really starting to burn.
For sheer spite Scully slides her hand slightly forward from the inside of his right thigh into his crotch. Her fingers move over denim worn and washed to a texture as soft and supple as silk. She feels a soft heavy curve against the fabric.
"Yeah, you can keep your hands to yourself thanks." Krycek's voice is flat, with nothing more than a hint of distaste in the tone. Something in Scully's head packs up and leaves home. She takes her hand away from his groin and slides it up under his t shirt, her palm flat against the right side of his rib cage. There's a fine tremor going through his body.
"Come on, I'm frisked already. You know I'm clean. Come on, I'm getting a cramp in the back of my leg." Krycek sounds like he's getting a little ticked off, but mostly he just sounds bored. Scully turns her hand into a claw, digging all five fingernails into the muscle between his shoulderblade and his waist and scratching hard.
He jerks in pain, but damps the movement and stays still when she leans on the gun, but he can't stifle a gasp of pain and surprise and anger.
"Shit! That hurt. Fuck off why don't you?"
Scully unhooks the handcuffs at her belt, takes a couple of steps back and throws them on the floor between Krycek's feet.
"Pick them up," she orders. Krycek stands away from the wall, stretching his arms away from him, flexing his shoulders and neck, starting to turn towards her.
"I didn't tell you to turn around. Just pick them up."
Krycek breathes something that she doesn't quite catch, but it includes the words 'fucking' and 'pain'. He hunkers down, his breath making a little catch at the discomfort of stretching his cramped tendons, picks up the handcuffs and straightens up again with another little wince.
"I assume I put these on," he says sarcastically.
"Just one. And let me hear the click."
Krycek puts one cuff around his left wrist, lifting his hand out to the side, splaying the fingers of his right hand so that Scully can see as well as hear when he snaps the band shut. He holds up the empty cuff in the fingers of the same hand.
"Where to?" Disinterested, pissed off.
"The radiator. Move slowly and don't turn around." Scully takes another step back and tracks Krycek with the gun as he does as he's told, moving carefully and keeping his back to her. He goes to fasten the second cuff around the pipe at the top of the radiator.
"No. Not to it. Around it - put the other cuff on your wrist."
"Oh for -" Krycek has to hunker down to get enough slack on the chain to go round the pipe and still get the second cuff around his right wrist. As he does so he turns somewhat, sideways on to Scully.
"I'm not going to say it again. Don't turn around. Get your face to the wall."
More not quite audible bitching from Krycek as, still crouching, he tries to turn on the balls of his feet, but there isn't enough space between his knees and the front of the radiator, and he says sourly: "I can't. My legs are too long." This is said with a certain 'something you're not gonna know about' significance in his tone. Scully steps up close to him and puts the gun to the back of his head.
"So kneel. There's room if you kneel." Her tone as much as the gun in the back of his skull tells Krycek it would be wise to do as he's told. He gets on his knees.
"All the way. Ass on your heels, knees spread." Scully is cutting him no slack whatsoever. Krycek kneels, his arms outstretched in front of him to the top of the radiator. Something in his demeanour has changed. There's a stillness, a listening quality to the fractional turn of his head, slightly bent between his upraised arms. Scully realises that this position has executional overtones that someone of Krycek's profession cannot miss.
"What are you going to do?" His voice sounds perfectly calm, but the fact that he's asking at all proves he's not so sure of himself as he was.
"What do you think I'm going to do?" Scully steps in against his back, pushing the gun against the short dark bristle on the back of his head, forcing his head a little further down between his arms. "I'm going to blow your son of a bitch head off." She sounds like she means it. She does mean it. But first she's going to make the arrogant bastard eat shit. Krycek makes a tiny noise, a sort of almost smothered 'Oh fuck' sound.
"Are you ready for this? I hope you're praying down there, Krycek."
Scully puts a little more pressure on the gun. He bends his head as low as it will go. His shoulders are lifting and dipping, his breathing turning into little shallow rapid jerks. When he speaks his voice is husky and unsteady, but he gets the words out:
"Fuck you." The last will and testament of Alex Krycek. Scully curls her finger inside the trigger guard. She wants to do this so bad she can taste it. She knows that if she shoots him at this kind of range she's going to be wiping his brains out of her eyes, but she's still very tempted. He's starting to shake, a steady hard tremor going through his spine, she can feel it in her legs, against his back.
"What's the matter Krycek? Scared?" She never knew she could hate someone this much. Krycek doesn't answer in words, but he makes a choked sound deep in his throat, and she sees him flex his fingers and then clench his fists hard. He's tensing himself, forcing himself to stay still, to stay in control. Refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him 'funk'. Pulling the trigger now before he loses his nerve would be doing him a favour. He can cope with dying better than he can cope with the idea of being out of control. Gotcha.
Scully eases her finger off the trigger, and hunkers down beside him, moving the gun to the back off his neck. He makes a slight puzzled sound, and lifts his head fractionally. She gives a little dig with the muzzle of the gun.
"Don't you move. Don't you move and don't you make a sound. And you might yet get out of this alive: but don't bet on it."
He is so still he seems to have stopped breathing, as if his entire body is listening. Scully slides her left hand up under the back of his t shirt and runs her palm firmly over his warm bare skin, up his spine, out over his shoulder blade, under his raised arm. She reaches forward, passing her hand over his bare chest. Her fingertips find the softer more yielding flesh of his nipple. Krycek gives a little jump and exhales suddenly.
"You moved. Two strikes and you're out." She takes her hand away from under his t shirt and puts it on the side of his neck. A tendon flexes under the skin as he clenches his jaw, but he doesn't move.
"Get your head up." Scully shifts to her left slightly, so that when he raises his head she can see the side of his face. His eyes are open but blind and his face has a rigid dead expression. Scully puts her hand to his forehead: there is a fine sheen of sweat there. She strokes her fingers over his temple, pressing her fingertips lightly on a beating pulse in the golden skin, then tracing the smooth black line of his slightly curved eyebrow. The fine skin of his eyelid tenses and quivers, but he doesn't even permit himself to blink.
"That's better. You stay like that." As she says it she traces the sharp plain of his cheekbone back, and delicately glides her fingers over the neat small shape of his ear, then down into the corner of his jaw, then cupping her hand under his chin, spreading her fingers along his jawbone. He swallows dryly: she feels his throat move under her fingers. She touches his mouth, smearing her thumb over his lips: he closes his eyes, and she sees a tense crease appear at the inner corner of his eyelid.
"So you don't get it up for red heads? Well I can make you. I can make you do anything." Scully leans forward, putting her mouth to his ear, taking the small earlobe between her lips, then tracing the cool hard curves of his ear with the tip of her tongue, breathing out in a soft sigh, with a low catching moan. A sex sound.
"Dream on." Krycek's tone can only adequately be described as 'kissing his ass goodbye'. Then he closes his mouth tight, holding his breath, waiting for the bullet. Scully pulls back sharply, stands up. "Oh crap, Alex. Two strikes - you're dead." She steps back, as if to avoid the very worst of the splatter. Very softly she thumbs the safety back on. Krycek bows his head, his breath coming out in a sharp jagged catch.
"Get your head up dammit!" If she's going to kill him he has nothing to lose, and should tell her to go to hell. But fear is making him pliable, and his head comes up with a jerk. She swings the gun out, up, down hard. The blow catches him just over his right eyebrow, splitting the skin. He lets out a hard cry of pain and fear and surprise that he's still alive to feel pain and fear. Scully changes the gun to her left hand, then bends to his right, her knee beside his, the gun to his back again.
"Gee, Alex. It looks like you got a bonus round. Do you want to try it again? Do you want to try and stay alive?" His body is shaking, jerked by ragged gasps. He ducks his face to one side, away from her: then turns it against his shoulder, wiping his face on the sleeve of his t shirt, and makes a tiny noise of angry hopeless fear.
"Alright. I think you know the rules now. Don't move. Don't make a sound. And don't imagine you'll get another chance." Scully slides her hand under the t shirt, reaching around his side, feeling for his nipple. Soft, so soft, like a petal. Keeping her hand flat against his warm skin she takes up the tender flesh between her index and middle finger, lifting and squeezing gently. Krycek is still, but she can feel every inch of his body tense up. Gentle squeezes; then teasing the hardening tip of his nipple with her fingertip; then a pinch and a pull.
He breaths out, a long shuddering sigh, like a cry controlled. She slides her hand upward over the muscle of his chest, mentally admiring the smooth flawless texture of his skin, the soft silkiness of the hair on his breastbone and around his nipple. Her palm traces down again, over the lifting ridge of his ribcage, down into the hot hollow of his stomach. Her fingertips slide on the tighter drier texture of scar tissue, starting above his right hip and disappearing into the waist of his jeans.
"Up. On your knees." Krycek obeys, moving carefully; kneeling up gives him a little more slack on the handcuff chain, and Scully sees him flex his fingers, then close his hands tightly around the chain and braces his elbows against the top of the radiator, as if he doesn't trust himself to stay still if he has any room to move. She reaches around his waist and pulls opens the front of his jeans, the buttons coming easily out of the worn, old, buttonholes. She gets her fingers around the belt loop at his right side and pulls downwards, then puts her hand inside the jeans waist and slides it down over his hip. Her palm goes over the ridge of his hipbone, into the cool hollow of his flank and down onto the rock hard muscle of his thigh without interruption.
"Alex - no underwear? You whore." Her tone is disgusted, mocking.
The left side of his jeans is down as far as his hip: Scully reaches between their bodies, gets a handful of the denim at his left hip and pulls it down around his thigh.
She smoothes her palm over his bare ass, her fingers finding the notch of bone at the base of his spine, then up and around his waist to the front of his body, her hand flat on his stomach, sliding down slowly, along the line of fine hair that runs down the centre of his body and widens at the base of his abdomen - smooth and straight, like an animal pelt, then coarsening and curling in his groin.
She starts again. Her hand on the whipcord ridge of his spine, then down onto the close lean curve of his ass, over the hollow at the side, forward onto the front of his leg, solid as stone, further around onto the softer flesh at the inside of his thigh, her fingers silking through soft hair at the crease of his groin.
Again. Over his ass, down the back of his thigh, inwards, between his legs, her fingers cupping whisper light against his balls. And squeeze. Gently. Just a threat.
Last time. Over the line of his hip, down, following the trail of scar tissue into his pubic hair, combing her fingers through the soft curls, then drifting her hand over his cock. He isn't hard but he isn't soft either. She breathes her hand lightly over the velvet skin, caressing, tempting. She feels his flesh lift and bob under her touch. He doesn't want this to happen but he's out numbered: Scully and the gun and his own treacherous nerve endings. She keeps touching, lightly and gently. She'd dearly like to tear it off and make him eat it, but that's just plain brutality, and while Krycek does not believe in suffering in manly silence he also doesn't go through any great crisis of identity because someone hauled off and hurt him. Presumably he sees it as an occupational hazard. She'll forego hurting his body if she can hurt his arrogant pride. His flesh hardens, his shaft lifting away from his body.
Scully closes her fingers around him. Like iron in a fine sheath of silk.
"I thought you said you don't get it up for redheads, Alex." Scully's tone is like a threat, as if she's holding him responsible for what she's making happen to his body. She passes her hand over his erection again, careful not to catch against the satin head of his circumcised penis.
"I think you're lying. You have a hard on. You shouldn't lie to me Alex: you lie to me and I'll hurt you." Delicately she rakes the tips of her fingernails along the length of his cock. Out of the corner of her eye, Scully catches the fine flinch of his face - not pain, her touch is light; it's anger and helpless humiliation. Scully stands up, steps away; she slips her jacket off and lets it drop behind her, then steps up close beside him and leans down to him again, her left hand holding the gun against the side of his head. Her right hand she puts in front of his face, offering the palm.
"Spit," she orders.
Krycek draws his chin back a millimetre, an uncontrollable gesture of negation, and she sees a muscle in his cheek jump as he clenches his teeth together. Scully moves the gun to the back of his head and leans a little.
"I said spit. You don't and I'll do you anyway with my dry hand and that's going to hurt. And then I'll shoot you for not doing as you're told. It's up to you." Scully watches the line of his throat and jaw work as he tries to produce moisture in a dry mouth. After a couple of seconds he dips his head to her hand and she feels the hard rapid cool exhalation from his nostrils and then, in the middle of her palm, the warm impact of spittle and breath from his mouth. She kneels down to the right of him, moving the gun to the small of his back and snaking her wet hand around his side and down into his groin. She curls her palm over the head of his cock, smoothing wetness over it.
"Alright. You'd better stay very still and very quiet. It's going to be hard enough to do this without shooting you by accident as it is."
Scully makes a circle of her thumb and forefinger and slides it over the head of his penis. Back and forth, just a tiny movement, conserving the moisture there is, and trying to coax more from his body. And sure enough when she smoothes her thumb over the little opening, there is a drop of wetness slicker and smoother than saliva which she eases over the hot skin. Again, the same small circular caress, then gathering up his body's wetness, spreading it into the ridge between head and shaft. Over and over, working her way down his length, then coming back to the tiny weeping stream of precum.
Just for meanness she takes her hand away and puts it to his face again, her palm cupped. She doesn't need it: his body is reacting wholeheartedly even if he isn't. But she wants him to smell his own raw sharp scent on her hand.
"Do it." She doesn't say 'spit' because he should know what she means by now. This time he does it instantly, productively and with a venomous plunge of his head. He'd like to spit that in her face, but he can't. Which is the whole point of the exercise.
She slides her hand over his erection again. Closing her fingers around him. He's harder than ever. She starts using long strong strokes, but the angle is all wrong: reaching across his body like this she isn't going to be able to get enough speed or pressure to make him come. Which is what she wants: she wants him to see his body puking out cum while she stands back and laughs at him. And besides, with his back to the room and his face towards the wall, he has a degree of concealment and privacy that she does not intend him to enjoy. Scully pulls back, stands up, gun forward.
"Turn around." For a second there's no reaction. "Turn around dammit."
"How ?" Krycek jerks angrily at the handcuff chain. He wishes she'd shoot him and make the decision for him. As long as he's alive he's going to submit to whatever it takes to stay alive, and he hates himself for it. He's a survivor, and he'll put up with worse than this if he has to. And he has a bad feeling he's going to have to.
"Turn around, Krycek . You have three seconds to figure it out."
Krycek gives another furious yank at the handcuffs, then twists, his right arm going over his head, and turning on his knees. His right knee gives an ominous crunch (no more parachute drops for you, Alex, he thinks) and there's a dart of pain in his neck as a nerve or something gets twisted, but he makes it round. On his knees, his heels jammed against the bottom of the radiator, his elbows high, wide, and bent back as far as they can go, his hands behind his head pulled tight together now that the twist in the handcuff chain is taking up any slack. With his jeans around his thighs and his t shirt around his waist he feels like something trussed up to be slaughtered. The only mercy is that a combination of anger and humiliation and the pain in his kneecap is taking the edge off his erection, so he hopefully doesn't look like quite so much of an idiot.
If Krycek feels like something waiting to be slaughtered, it's seriously bad news time. There's a wolf in the room. Scully puts her gun down on top of her jacket and takes Krycek's knife and sheath out of the back of her skirt.
She takes the knife out, testing the edge of the blade on her thumb. A hair thin line of blood springs up under her gaze. Krycek could open up someone from chin to crotch with this. He probably has too. She throws the sheath down on top of the gun and jacket, and steps close to him again.
Krycek is paying attention to the knife in her left hand so he isn't ready for the right handed smack across the mouth that he gets. Scully's small but she works out hard and she knows to swing all the way from the shoulder, and the blow snaps his head to one side and his mouth fills with the hot rust taste of blood. He jerks his head around to look at her. What the fuck was that for? his eyes ask. The answer in hers seems to be, because I can.
Then she kneels down in front of him, whisper close. The top of his fast fading erection brushes against the soft fabric of her skirt and Krycek gets a little tingle. Don't fucking move, he mentally addresses his groin. But then Scully starts messing around, and his dick seems to over look the fact that she has a knife in her hand and she's scaring the shit out of him.
"Look at me. Keep looking at me" she says.
She starts at his forehead, stroking her hand back over the short dark hair, back over his skull, rubbing her palm on the intense bristle texture at the back of his head. Then she smoothes out the silky black hair of his eyebrows. The blood on the cut by his right eyebrow is congealing - she traces her fingernail delicately beside it and feels him shiver. His eyes are locked on hers, watching with intense consuming concern. His nerves are shot enough that he is almost grateful for every second she is not actively hurting him.
There are depths in his sly almond eyes - depths of fear and anger and uncertainty. Not blue, not green. The colour of deep water overhung by summer pines. She puts her fingers on his chin, dipping it slightly. He's watching her watching his lips.
"Open your mouth."
He obeys. What's scaring him is he doesn't know where the knife is. At least with her digging the gun into him he knew where it was. He has that blade honed sharp as a word, and his skin is alive, waiting for the cut.
Scully stretches her throat and lifts her mouth to his. Her tongue slides between his teeth. His tongue stirs unconsciously.
"Don't do that!" Scully jerks back, eyes bright with anger.
The knife comes up and out of the corner of his eye Krycek sees the blade hover at the corner of his jaw. Scully puts her mouth to his again. He concentrates on keeping his tongue passive behind his lower teeth. Scully slides her tongue over his teeth, then pushes it into his mouth roughly a couple of times, then licks over his lips.
"Close your eyes. Don't look." Scully's voice is cruelly kind. He closes his eyes and she watches his eyelids jumping and flickering, then licks over the golden glossy skin. He makes a tiny sound somewhere between his heart and his mouth.
"Hush. Just keep your eyes closed. It'll be over soon." She sounds as if she's soothing an animal.
Krycek feels her move away from him. His heart manages to stop and race at the same time. Here it comes. He wonders how long it takes to die when your throat is cut. He wonders if it hurts. That knife has an edge like a scalpel. It's possible for a blade to be so sharp that it doesn't even hurt when it cuts. Maybe she's done it and he didn't feel it. Maybe he's already bleeding to death, blood flowing down in a tepid flood he can't feel -
- Sudden warmth and wetness and weight between his legs like a gout of blood. His eyes flash open.
Oh Jesus. This is not happening.
Strange, Scully thinks. Strange that an act that has always been a gift and a submission and an abasement can, in the right circumstances, be an attack.
As she bends, lowering her head, opening her lips, taking his penis into her mouth, she is no more passive than a predator crouching down over its dead prey. In an act of exquisite insult, she puts the knife down out of her hand onto the floor at her side. Let him look at it. Let him watch the light slide and shine on its blade, so close but out of reach.
He is the best part of a foot taller and half as heavy again than her, and he has killed men using nothing more than cunning and a little luck, but she's master here now.
She would like to torment him, tease him with her teeth, let him balance arousal against the fear that she is going to hurt him. But a small careful part of her brain reminds her that as long as he has a heartbeat Alex Krycek is dangerous, and it doesn't do to take your eye off him for too long. Take what you want and get back on the right end of the gun. She cups one hand under his balls, lifting and squeezing softly. The other she closes around the hard length of his shaft. She makes her mouth into a soft pulling pressure, sucking at the head of his penis. Moving her head up and down, moving her hand with the same stroke. A little harder, a little faster.
It only takes a minute or two before she feels a particular expectant tension in his groin, defining itself out of the more diffuse tension in the muscles of his thighs and stomach. She makes a final sliding deep caress with her mouth, intending to pull away before he can come.
Too late. Krycek gives a single jagged cry as if in pain, and her mouth is filled with a jetting pulsing stream of heat and sharp salt muskiness. A little of his cum goes down her throat, but most she manages to hold between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. She pulls away, picks up the knife, gets up, leans over him. The knife to his throat, the flat of the blade against his larynx.
His face is indescribable - bare, broken, as if the flesh has been carved off with a jagged edge. His eyes have a burnt blasted quality, as if he is looking inwards at some private horror. Scully gets hold of his jaw, pulling his mouth open, bending her head down to him.
Half it goes into his mouth, then he manages to turn his head a fraction and the rest goes onto the side of his cheek and runs down onto his jaw.
"I don't want your dirt, Krycek." Said as sweet and mean as poison.
Krycek makes a stifled sound half way between a retch and a sob, and turns his head as far as he can away from her, the side of his face against the hot skin of his own bare arm, his eyes tightly closed. Even as she looks down at him his face seems to smooth and soften, and then harden again, setting in the lines of its usual cool guarded restraint. He is breathing in slow shaking sighs, slowing, slowing. Getting himself under control. Telling himself it's over.
Suddenly the blurred hot excitement in Scully's crotch becomes a single point of burning itching need. It isn't over. It isn't enough. She wants him properly. The law sees a difference between sexual assault and rape. How true. How very true.
She wets her middle finger in her mouth, kneels down in front of him, snakes her hand back over his hip, down into the cleft of his ass. The knife at his throat, warm ivory skin creasing a little against the flat of the blade when he turns his head and looks at her. Fear in his eyes, opening up like a flower. The tip of her finger at the tight circle of his anus. Pushing in, gently, just gently.
"Don't do this." His voice is like a still storm of dread. "Not like this. Please."
Scully leans on the knife just a fraction. The skin at the corner of his jaw lies on the blade, then splits. The edge on the knife is so good it takes a few seconds for the cut to start stinging and for him to realise he is bleeding a little.
"Quiet." She has the little firm flesh of his prostate under her finger, and she starts massaging gently in a tiny circular motion. After a moment she looks down between their bodies. His erection, having faded after his orgasm, is coming back strong. She makes her touch deeper, stronger; a steady sliding plunge and withdraw, and always coming back to the notch of firm tissue, and each touch there making his penis harden and lift more. He isn't breathing in separate breaths - the air comes out of and goes into his nostrils in a continuous shaking stream.
Scully slides her finger out, twists away from him, turning on her knees, the knife in one hand still. Pulling her skirt up. Right now. She can't wait another second. Pulling her underwear down, her hand awkward and trembling. Getting her feet between his legs despite his pulled down jeans in the way. Boosting back against him, reaching between her own legs, taking hold of him in one hand. She feels him try to draw away, but she backs up again and there's nowhere for him to go.
She puts the head of his penis right to where the pain is and pushes down.
Half way down, then drawing back for a second and trying to still the turmoil in her chest, then pushing down again, taking him completely inside her. Pull back, slow, till she feels the head of his penis at the opening of her vagina, then down again hard.
Sex is something that men do to women. Women are intrinsically passive in the act because they are entered. A man puts his cock into a woman, therefore it is he who gives and she who receives. Yeah. Like a shark ripping your arm off is passive because you have your arm in its mouth. Men do not enter women, women consume men.
Whatever Scully is experiencing it isn't like sex. Each thrust and slide on his cock is felt with a raw real intensity, and yet there is no real pleasure, just a vicious adrenaline-jacked anger. She has as much chance of climaxing as she has of flying. And she's glad. She wants nothing from him. Except...
She pulls off of him, turns to face him again. He has been looking at her, but as soon as her gaze meets his he looks away, turning his head, then closing his eyes as well, as if there's no way to not see her enough. Scully slicks her fingers in her own wetness, then gets her hand down behind him again. Finding the opening, easier to enter this time. Her finger finding the right spot and working it. Dropping the knife from her other hand onto the floor and closing her fingers on his shaft. Her hand sliding on the smooth wetness from her own body.
A counterpointed rhythm - slow on his prostate, hard on his cock; then the other way about. Change and change about. Scully was one of those kids who could pat her head and rub her stomach at the same time. The tightening circle of muscle squeezing her finger tells her how he's doing. She gets him close and then stops with the hand on his cock and grips tight just under the head. Holding him off. The finger inside keeps going. Pushing him against the edge of a climax he can't have because of her other hand.
Krycek's face is a mask of hell. His eyes clenched tight shut, the crease across the bridge of his nose as deep as a cut, creases scored into the inner and outer corners of his eyes. A sheen of sweat on his forehead and his top lip. A sex flush across the tops of his cheekbones. He opens his mouth, a little at first, then his top lip draws back from his teeth into a silent snarl of anger and humiliation and anguish and closeness. Scully loosens her grip on him and his climax is as swift as a bird on the wing.
She feels it in the finger inside him first, a final almost painful constriction of the muscles gripping the base of her finger, turning suddenly into a pulsing dilation and tightening. Then she feels it in the fingers holding his cock. Like three heartbeats, and she sees the sparse expulsion of cum, in three small pulses. All that his body has left after what she has already done to him.
"That was hardly worth it" she sneers, taking her hands away from him.
Krycek turns his head towards her, opens his eyes, looks at her. Die. The hate is like a blow in the face. Scully hastily gets herself together, pulling her underwear up, sliding her skirt down. She feels for the knife, not turning her head to look for it, takes it up, gets to her feet, backs away. Don't turn your back on him. Never turn your back on a caged animal. When she gets as far as her jacket she ducks down, takes up her gun and puts down the knife. She feels for the handcuff keys in her pocket. Walking back towards him is like approaching an open furnace. She almost falters in the heat of his eyes.
When she opens the cuff on his left wrist he lets out a cry of pain as muscles and sinews yank free from their strained position, and she has no trouble getting the empty cuff around one of the radiator pipes and snapping it shut. She moves back smartly, but he twists away from her, bringing himself close to the slack on the chain, lowering himself so that he is sitting on the floor. His left hand comes up to his face. He puts it in front of his eyes, fingers spread, holding his forehead. Scully backs away again. Careful. Careful.
She is half way across the room before she manages to unhook herself from the sight of him curled against the radiator covering his eyes, to turn around to the hallway.
In the bathroom she turns on the cold tap and puts her hands under the running water. There's a small scrap of dried up soap at the side of the basin and Scully takes it up and washes her hands. When she rinses them off she looks round for something to dry them. There's a towel on the side of the bath but she wouldn't dry a dog in it. She spots a roll of toilet tissue on the floor between the floor between the bath and the washbasin. That'll do. She pulls off a mile or so and wipes her hands. She looks at herself in the smeared mirror. She's fine. She doesn't regret it.
She sits down hard on the side of the bath, even with the filthy towel in the way. She feels like she's going to get sick.
It's the worse thing a man can do. Every woman knows that. You'd sooner be just killed. Rape is worse. Rape kills you inside and leaves you breathing so you can go on suffering even when it's over. Suddenly Scully is in a landslide of memories and half thoughts. A narrow escape on a teenage date with some jerk who imagined that the words 'Get off me you asshole' were a form of flirtation. Women brought into ER when she was an intern. Women who rubbed at their skin as if they could wipe off the memory of what had happened to them. Women who had to be persuaded to wait for a little while to wash, until a rape kit could be done.
It doesn't count. He's a man. That's such a weak lie that even the part of her mind that manufactures it doesn't believe it. He's a killer. He deserves anything that happens him.
Those women, rubbing at themselves, at their hands, their faces. Sometimes they didn't just try to wipe it away. They tried to tear it off. Scully feels again the horrified rage of coming back into a cubicle and finding her patient clawing at her own face in hysterical revulsion. No one deserves that. No one. Not even Alex Krycek.
What can she do? What can she say? 'I'm sorry...' ?
Scully remembers hearing about a VC case involving a serial rapist who would send flowers to his victims with a card inscribed 'I'm sorry, I got carried away.' Scully thought at the time they should hang him for that part alone.
Still fighting the urge to start retching, Scully gets up from her perch on the side of the bath. There is a grubby beer glass on the cistern behind the toilet. She takes it up and washes it carefully under the running tap, then fills it with cold water. She carries it and the roll of tissue back into the other room.
Krycek is still curled against the side of the radiator; but he has his jeans fastened and his t shirt pulled down again. He's looking towards the window with a calm distant expression on his face. Dreaming.
When he hears her he turns his head to look at her, and the soft unfocused look in his eyes turns to sharp hatred. Scully falters for a second, then forces herself to approach. She has the glass in her left hand and the tissue held in the crook of her left elbow. She keeps the gun trained on his head as she cautiously approaches and puts the things in front of him, and then steps back quickly. Krycek takes his eyes off her long enough to glance down at the glass.
"What is it? Strychnine?" His voice is awful. He sounds angry and shaken and hate filled.
"It's just water. Drink it."
Krycek, working awkwardly with one hand, pulls a length of tissue off the roll and wads it up, then dips it into the glass, and starts wiping at the drying semen on his cheek. The action goes through Scully like a knifeblade.
Have mercy on my soul.
Scully finds the handcuff keys again, keeps them in her hand. The knife goes back in its sheath which goes in the back of her waistband. She takes up her jacket, then goes back to Krycek. As near as she can and still be out of reach.
"Alex-" They both wince at her using his given name.
"Agent Krycek-" Jesus, that's worse. It's been a long time since Alex Krycek had 'S.A.' before his name. Scully hunkers down and looks at him till he looks at her. He's still wiping at his cheek with a vague, distracted motion. Killing her.
"I'm letting you go. Look, here's the key to the cuffs. I'm going to put it here..." Scully places it on the floor by her side. He won't be able to reach it with his hand, but if he turns on his hip he'll be able to stretch his leg and get it with his foot. That will take long enough for her to get out. "...You'll be able to get it. Just go. I..." Don't say it, Dana. Don't add to it.
"You better run then, Agent Scully." His voice is pure venom. "Start running. Because if I catch up with you I'm going to kill you, you fucking bitch. Go on, run."
Scully, with her heart in her mouth, stands up. Krycek makes a smooth twisting motion and unfolds one long leg. Scully sees his black boot sweeping along the carpet. He misses the key by a foot, but all he has to do is stretch. Scully turns and runs.
The second she is out the door Krycek folds his leg under him again. There's no hurry. The key isn't going anywhere, there's a handgun and twenty eight rounds stashed in the fireplace and he can always find Agent Scully. The first job is to just straighten his head out a little.
It didn't hurt. It was an improvement on having her thumping him with that fucking gun, or even hitting him. She's got a good swing. Bitch.
And coming doesn't mean he secretly enjoyed it. Making someone come is like making someone scream: you just need to know what buttons to push. She cheated those orgasms out of his body like she could cheat screams out of him if she had a stronger stomach as well as a sharp knife. Bitch.
It's the fact that it was her. From the day he met her Alex Krycek thought Dana Scully was a royal pain in the ass. He was as nice as pie to her face of course, but Jesus...Miss Madam, with her sterile blue eyes and her cold face and her constant sneer of disapproval. Wonder how she shits with her ass hole that tight.
Krycek looks towards the window again, picking up the thread of the daydream where Scully interrupted it when she brought him the water. Krycek has always had a hunch that you can change the past like you can change the future. If you decide to remember something a particular way...well that's the way it was. That's what he's doing now. Remembering what has happened, and changing it to a form that he can live with. There are others, ones that he would sell his already damned soul to have, to be taken by. Not like that cold eyed cold hearted bitch.
Imagine it was someone else. Someone with eyes as deep and restless and warm as autumn sunlight through dancing leaves. Someone with the generous sensual features of a harlot, and a harlot's sweet hot scented breath. Someone so constantly racked and shaken in the storm of their own heart's pain that Alex, even as a victim, would still have been the stronger cooler head. And such is Krycek's power of visualisation, that by the time he stretches out his foot and snags the key, that's how he remembers it.
It wasn't Dana Scully that caught him and cornered him here, it was...