Kidnap by Erin A.

Title: Kidnap
Author: Erin A.
E-mail: eeavot@wm.edu
Rating: R
Spoilers: "The Blessing Way/Paper Clip"?
Keywords: Scully/Krycek UST
Summary: Classic Scully/Krycek kidnap vignette
Notes: Unresolved sexual tension is the best kind. Rated "R" rating for language and not much else. Feedback welcome at eeavot@wm.edu. This is a first-time fanfic attempt, so do be gentle.
Disclaimer: Neither one belongs to me!

A cold, blunt weight noses her earlobe. She freezes, hand still grasping the door. In the post-dusk, unlit apartment, she cannot make out her assailant's face. "Step away from the door."

She obeys, fingers itching for her gun. A large hand slides between her tailored jacket - unbuttoned in the overheated elevator - and silk blouse, curving around her waist. Smooth alien fingers and a sudden, sick weightlessness in her gun holster. There is a rustle of cloth - her gun tucked safely away on his person. "Turn around."

"Forehead to the wall." This time she detects a tinge of impatience. Awkwardly she turns, pressing herself against painted drywall. Cold on her skin. She senses him behind her, a large mass of muscle and flesh blocking the dim light from curtained windows. Heat. The smell of leather, and dust. A faint tang of sweat. She wrinkles her nostrils, and considers a lash out backwards with her leg. Not high enough…

"Spread." The point of his gun comes to rest against the small of her back. Slowly she shifts her legs outward. Her muscles tense with the effort. She grits her teeth.

"Good girl." It is a distracted murmur from the space behind her, below her waist. She stiffens instantly when a hand - his hand - grasps her ankle through a pants-leg. He ignores her strangled gasp and begins a thorough frisk for other weapons. Calf, knee, thigh, waist, down, then up again. His touch is light. Quick. Impersonal. Professional, she adds to herself. One of his knee-joints pops as he rises, gun still firmly planted in her lower back. A hand grasps her waist and slides upwards.

"Arms up." She complies, wishing she had the leverage to smash her elbow into his face. Broad fingers trace her right side. A whisper of a touch brushes the underside of her breast. She flinches.

"Sorry." There is the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. She says nothing. He makes quick work of her other side, then draws away.

"Put this on." Fabric brushes her outstretched fingers. Heavy fabric. It stretches in her hand a blindfold. She hesitates.

"Alright." Her own voice sounds rusty. She leans her head back, grimacing at the strain in her leg muscles, and pulls the fabric over her eyes. There is a sudden, piercing trill of a cellphone. Not hers. She starts and bumps her forehead against the wall. He swears softly. Even disoriented she can hear the rustling of his pockets, a soft click, expectant silence.

Another click and she has been spun away from the wall, gun now painfully digging into her ribcage. His heavy arm wraps around her waist. She is pressed into the hollow of his shoulder. He jams something onto her head - a hat? - and speaks, his murmur prickling the insides of her ear.

"We walk. Slowly, outside. Try anything and you'll be dead before you hit the ground."

She nods, once, squirming away form the prison of his arm. He tightens his grip. "Someone wants to see you, Agent Scully."

The slow burn of resistance that sustained her through the stumbling, humiliating trip into the parking lot flares when he shoves her down into a car. She twists away from the pressure of his palm, sprawling gracelessly onto the seat. The door slams home beside her.

Soft footsteps on asphalt, his settling weight beside her, another slam, and the engine grinds to life. She leans as far away as possible, hands scrabbling for the handle. Escape.

"Automatic locks, Scully." He catches up her left hand from its clawed grip on the doorframe, heavy torso pressing her into the seat. Gloved fingers roughly entwine with hers, then jerk her arm outward. Cold metal twists around her wrist. There is the audible snick of closing handcuffs. He leans back across her tensed leg, locking the cuffs to the underside of her seat.

Trapped. Arm stretched down, she can only shift the smallest bit sideways. There is a growing, unpleasant strain on her left wrist. God, how she wants that gun. She'd handcuff him to the steering wheel, pistol-whip his smirking face, then -

Rewind. Can't do that. She makes a mental readjustment: handcuff him to the steering wheel, then arrest him for attempted kidnapping.

"All right?" There is something about that voice…besides self-satisfaction. Scully nods, all outward compliance, then chops sideways with her free hand. Pain flashes through her wrist, but it's worth the connecting blow across the column of his neck. His muscles contract beneath her knuckles.

There is an explosion of breath against her forehead. One of her finger-nails gouges the rough skin beneath his jaw. Quick as a snake, he shifts and she loses any leverage. His elbow digs into her chest. There is a sudden, suffocating pressure across her throat.

Goddamnit. She flails against his weight, fighting for more oxygen. An oddly detached part of her brain recites the heightened symptoms of suffocation. Breath: short. Outer limbs: weakening. Color spots blossom behind her eyelids. Anger - this is the final step - anger slides into a dream-like fatigue. Goddamnit, she is sick and tired of never being safe. Never taking anything for granted. Freedom from fear. Freedom from anger, bitterness, survival by detachment. His arm is like an iron bar, relentlessly depriving her of breath. She's just so tired. So tired…

Her mouth is cotton-dry. She moves her lips experimentally, then winces. Pain stabs her neck. Did she sleep on the glove-box?

The glove-box moves beneath her cheek. Her mind blanks before a sharp wave of nausea. Oh God. Control. She curls into herself, trying to relax. Willing the pain in her head to go away. Slow inhale, slow exhale, nausea receding. She breathes a small, thankful sigh of relief. "Good morning, sunshine."

Nausea returning with a vengeance. Her shoulder feels like someone wrenched it out of the socket, then twirled it around a few times for good measure. She groans. Two fingers brush aside the hair covering her neck. Leather presses into her skin, searching for a pulse.

"Stop." She rolls her head back, croaking irritably. Soft worn fabric against her skin. Flexing beneath her cheek. Oh God. She stiffens, anger mixing with a sharp flush of embarrassment, trying to move away from his thigh.

"I was wondering when you'd notice." A mock-leer in his voice. She knows that voice. Low, clipped pronounciation, distinctive even over the engine hum. Her mind works furiously as she struggles to an upright position. Then she has it.

"Alex Krycek." Spoken with flat certainty. There is the slightest pause, then he recovers. "Clever, Scully."

With her free hand, she reaches for the blindfold. Instantly she feels the weight of his gun behind her ear. Her heartbeat accelerates in reaction.

"Alright." She drops her hand. Even through the cloth, she can sense the high-speed whirrs from other moving cars, the regular flares of bright light. A highway. How long had they been driving? It was still dark, at least. How long had she lolled unconscious on his thigh? Her mind rejects that image. Try bluffing instead.

"Saturday?" Krycek snorts. "You two may be inseparable during the work week, but that's it, sweetheart."

"Mulder's asleep on his couch, Scully." He ignores her and laughs. Short, knowing. "The life of the party. And he won't call."

Scully tries to shake off the implications of that statement. Her apartment, her phone, they must be all bugged. Every conversation recorded. Cameras, mikes, anything, anywhere. It sickens her.

"Poor Scully. Are you feeling all right?" The false concern in his voice changes to amusement. "Would you like to lie down again?"

"Fuck you." She snaps the words between her teeth. Satisfying, icy venom. Krycek's response is interrupted by the sharp ring of a cellphone. "Quiet." She turns her head to the window, listening. For a full minute there is only the even sound of his breathing. Then he speaks and she strains her ears to hear.

"I see." A pause. "That wasn't the original plan." His voice is studiously casual. A longer pause. "Right." The click of a terminated conversation. Krycek remains silent.

Suddenly, her blindfold comes off with an awkward snap of cloth. Scully blinks in confusion.

"It doesn't matter that…" she looks out the window, squinting at the glare. It is a regular two-lane highway. Not many cars. A mileage sign flashes in her peripheral vision. Where are they?

"Plans change." She studies his shadowed profile. "Let me guess. Whoever hired you to kidnap me has changed the rules?"

A muscle works in his jaw. He has a strong profile, all clean lines and sharp edges. His hair is cut short. It barely brushes the leather collar of his jacket.

"So what are you going to do with me, Krycek?" She unconsciously massages the ache in her left wrist. The challenge in her tone surprises her. Lord help her, she's forgetting he has the gun. "You could shoot me, of course," she offers. "Add another notch to your belt." His shoulders twitch. Score one for the kidnap victim.

Her gaze drops to his hand, tightened on the steering wheel. Strong, blunt fingers. Trigger-pulling fingers.

"You shot my sister." The words are dead to her, somehow, and painful anger threads with hatred. She lashes out venomously. "You murdering bastard."

His words are uncalculated, careless, but no less painful. Scully closes her eyes. Anger mixed with old guilt rises in her throat, threatening to choke.

"You, Scully." He glances in her direction. Her profile is ivory, carved and cold, but her hands tremble. He continues relentlessly, refusing to let go. "Are you saying you wanted to take her place? That you wanted to die instead?" His expression hardens. "Don't give me that crap. I've had enough of this conversation. And I'm the one with the fucking gun."

Anger wins out, burning bright and sharp like the pain twisting her insides. She leans forward, deliberate, and spits in his face. Saliva slides down his cheekbone. Wordlessly he wipes it away.

"Gas," he explains economically. Eloquent man. Scully peers out the window in icy silence. Still no dawn-light in the sky. How long had they been driving? The Exxon is deserted. Krycek slides the car into park and turns off the engine, leaving them in unfamiliar silence.

"You'd throw it in my face." He shakes his head, and swings out of the car. Damn. Scully listens to the rattles of the gas pump. This might well be her only chance. There is a click Krycek replaces the nozzle and heads toward the convenience store. Barely a minute passes before he returns, two bottles of water tucked under his arm. The car door opens. His weight settles into the seat. "I need to get out. Take a walk."

"I have a cramp in my calf." She injects the perfect touch of bitchy pleading into her voice. "Please. Handcuffs?" She jangles her wrist.

"I just need to stretch my legs." He gives her a long look, then leans across her leg to unlock the cuffs. Their chafing weight falls away from her wrist in one heavenly instant. Thank God.

"Now -" he begins, rising up. She has shifted imperceptibly, and when he turns, his face is a bare inch from her own. There is a moment of charged silence.

He tilts his chin and looks directly into her eyes. She is locked in place both by his weight and a curious heated inertia. It shakes her, makes her lightheaded.

She should struggle. Draw her head back in revulsion. But then his lips part, drawing her gaze like a magnet. She sees the shadow of his tongue. It moves slowly in the cavern of his mouth. Warm. Soft. Wet. At her unwavering regard, he makes a sound deep in his throat. Husky and inarticulate, it ripples across her her nerve-endings like finger-tips on a harp. Broad, calloused finger-tips. She raises her eyes. His pupils flare with green-hot intent, trapping her gaze. The edges of her vision waver, but the glow-green intensity of his eyes never falters. His pupils seem to shimmer, making the air around them electric. Small currents of awareness dance upwards along her skin. Her throat closes involuntarily. She can feel the sharp waves of tension radiating off his body. Hers, by contrast, seems heavier. Softer. Settling back into the curves of her seat with slow, shifting movements. For one moment, she imagines him leaning forward. Opening his mouth…

No. Scully shakes her head. No. And then she has the gun. Her hand snakes away from his torso like lightening, neatly palming the contents of his back holster. Their eyes are still locked. His expression shifts from heat to shuttered blankness so fast, for one half-hysterical moment she wonders if she imagined the whole thing. But it doesn't matter. Her Glock is like an old friend come home, and she resists the urge to crow in triumph.

"Put your hands on the steering wheel." Her breathing sounds unnaturally harsh to her own ears. Harsh and fast, with small puffs of condensed air from her lungs filling the space between them. A pulse beats rapidly in the hollow of his throat, but his eyes are still blank. She resists the urge to slide the muzzle of the gun into that hollow, just to watch his expression change. His precious control slip. She is angry now, welcomes it, and focuses on him. Krycek. A thief and a murderer, damn his eyes.

His voice cuts through her confusion, harsh, insinuating, cold. "So are you." He holds up a hand, slow and easy. His fingers trace the air between them. She flinches. He ignores her and reaches for the muzzle of the gun, lightly stroking the edge.

Scully refuses to react to the half-leer in his voice, the way he lingers over the words. "Dead men don't have choices, Krycek."

"Ah." He leans back. Casual, comfortable. As he'd never invaded her body space so intimately. "You'd shoot me, then?"

"Krycek, do you have any idea how much pleasure -" she rolls the word off her tongue - "it would give me to pull this trigger?" She tightens her grip. "By all means, give me an excuse. Now, where's your gun?"

"Keep your hands where they are." Roughly she shoves aside the leather of his jacket. Bingo. An ugly automatic. She ejects the ammunition and tosses the empty gun onto the backseat.

"Drive." She steadies the Glock, squaring it on the soft hollow below his throat. "No talking. Take me back."

"It's rush-hour traffic," he explains. The first streaks of dawn were starting to light the sky. Scully glances at her watch six-fifteen, the beginning of the morning commute. "This way's faster."

She retreats into authoritative silence, gun steady. Her arms are beginning to ache from the strain. Almost home. She'd call Mulder, chain Krycek to her living room sofa…wasn't that a delightful image.

"Pull up to the curb. Slow," she orders. The car glides to a halt, engine still running.

"Turn off the car. Do it, Krycek." He hesitates. She turns her head in irritation. "Scully - "

"Keep your hands on the steering wheel," she orders. Unemotional authority. Control is an icy flood rush, narrowing her eyes, straightening her spine - and her aim. "Scully, we - "

"No conversation, Krycek. I'm the one with the gun, right?" He says nothing. I have the gun. I'm in control. A silent mantra running through her head.

"Turn off the car. Unbuckle your seat belt." She opens her car door and slides out, still pointing the gun. "Move, Krycek. Out of the car." Nothing.

Still nothing. His hands clench the steering wheel. The moment extends into a surreal tableau of small detail: the flexed tendons of his grip, an outside chill raising goosebumps on her forearms, the deep grooves etched in her forehead.

"Krycek, you have three seconds to get out of the car before I nail your ass to the seat with a bullet!"

"I said - " the muscles of his throat work painfully, voice almost inaudible. She waits. His eyes hold hers across the car's front seat.

Scully blinks. In that same moment, Krycek leans forward and throws his weight forward and jams his foot on the accelerator, heedless of her gun and the open door. The car shoots forward in a squeal of tires. She shouts, sights her Glock, tightens her aim on the dark profile behind the wheel, and then -

Her fingers lock. Nothing. No bullet shatters the fragile curve of his skull, no cloud of red spatters the driver-side window. His tires stay intact and unpunctured, wheeling around the corner at breakneck speed. She stares after the car, frozen, gun loose in her grip. Nothing. She shakes her head, once, legs suddenly weak.