TITLE: The Gravity of Stars AUTHOR: Spica ARCHIVE: Keep my info attached and you can have it. FEEDBACK: Is very welcome, to email@example.com DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions
and Fox. No copyright infringement intended. KEYWORDS: V, A, Krycek/Kim Cook RATING: NC-17 SPOILERS: Sleepless/Duane Barry/Ascencion SUMMARY: Reality catches up with hubris. Humility ensues. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Warm thanks to Bardsmaid and KristenK2 for thorough
and inspiring beta. NOTES: For the record, this is not the same Kim/Krycek as in "Devil
at the Crossroads".
That night he stands before her door drunk and swaying, leaning
his head against the doorframe while his flat hand pounds on the door.
Too wasted to think of the doorbell. Too wasted maybe to even find the
doorbell. It is five minutes past midnight, and according to the Smoker's
orders he should already have been out of town, on a flight to another
coast. He felt the ground burning and flickering under his feet as he staggered
That night she opens her door to him in a silver-gray silk
dressing-gown, just as far as the security chain will go - but when she
sees his face, she releases the chain and lets him inside. Into her world
of safety and light and order, into her normal life to wreak his havoc
"Agent Krycek." Her voice is alarmed and bewildered. But her
touch is sure and strong. She steers him toward a big easy chair. She
is a most capable woman. Skinner's a lucky man. Alex wonders briefly if
he's in love with her too.
He falls down in the chair in an inelegant sprawl, then looks
up to face her, feeling stupid and sluggish. Too much to drink. Too goddamned
much, but how else was he supposed to forget about a man pushed to his
death from a cable car, and Mulder screaming his heart out in a wind-blasted
field, and Dana Scully naked and violated on a surgical table in Fort Marlene?
How else was he supposed to forget the Smoker's taunting words?
'You have no rights, only orders to be carried out.' He sees
how it is now; he sees how it will be and how it always was and how unbelievably
stupid and egomaniacal he has been.
He stays there, transfixed and caught in her presence, like
a comet drawn and warmed by the powerful gravity of a sun, and he has
a moment of dread, of a terrible, drunken clarity of insight. He's been
so proud of his ambitious progress in the sky, has been so proud of how
brightly he was burning. Now, with a shudder of premonition, he remembers
all too well that comets are just celestial vagabonds, borrowing the sun's
glory for a few months at the closeness of perihelion, then for years cooling
to nothing more than dark lumps of dust and ice as they approach the far
cold exile of their orbit's outer perimeter. Migrant fireflies, dirty snowballs,
harbingers of disaster.
"Is it because of Agent Scully?" asks Kim softly. And he knows
for certain then, even drunk as he is, that she wouldn't ask that unless
she had a good idea of the reason behind his messy state. Yes, she reads
reports, she puts through phone calls, she arranges meetings and writes
the minutes, of course she knows that they are beginning to suspect him
now of not being the innocent rookie agent he's let on to be. Not that
this will be news to her. She knew before any of them. Somehow she knew.
He marvels that even so, she had the trust to open the door
for him and let him in.
He doesn't know whether the Smoker intended him to see Scully
tonight, out at the Consortium facilities. Probably did, the bastard.
So cold and pale, drugged out of her mind, unseeing and unmoving and whimpering
in pain. She looked like the living dead, like some horror flick version
of Snow White in a glass coffin. Just the thought makes him want to throw
Instead he looks up at Kim, who leans over him and anchors
him with her gray star eyes. He has obsessed about her for eight days.
Tried his best to keep from hurting her for all those days. This night,
he fears, his efforts will be put to shame at last. He's the magician's
foolish apprentice, who never knew how to control the dangerous spells.
The evil is out of control now and it will poison everything he touches.
But how can he not touch her with her leaning over him like
that, and knowing it's his last chance to do so before everything goes
to hell? Tomorrow, as per the Magician's orders, Agent Krycek will have
vanished into thin air, and already formed suspicions will be confirmed;
conclusions will be drawn. This night he slips from daylight into the
shadowlands. This witching hour is his last hour posing as a decent man,
the last hour sweet Kimberly Cook may want him to touch her.
So he touches her. The collar of her pajama top tapers down
in a V, and that bared expanse of skin just begs for the feel of his
fingers. He places his fingerpads just below her throat, very gently,
his index finger nesting lightly in the little hollow at the base of her
collarbone. God, how hot she is. He looks at that spot, then lowers his
gaze and sees the shadows between full, pale breasts at the bottom of the
V. He looks up again and her eyes are unfocused, falling half-shut. He arches
his neck back, leans up two inches and kisses her. He rises unsteadily
to his feet, puts his arms around her and kisses her some more. She feels
uncertain in his arms, a small noise rising from her throat as he starts
untying the knot of her dressing-gown.
But she lets him, even helps him slide the gown off, and whispers
his name as he starts unbuttoning her silk pajama top, whispers 'Alex'
with a funny little catch to her breath, and he goes a little bit insane.
Before he knows it, he has maneuvered her up against the wall. Wants her
so bad, wants to forget, wants it all to disappear in the trembling lights
and shadows of pleasure, and his hand dips into her pants, probes between
her thighs, pushes aside her panties and caresses her soft heat. She moans
against his shoulder and her body strains and shivers against his.
"Please," he breathes, "please, Kim, can I, I need to, please..."
A word he isn't used to saying, and it falls awkward and callow
from his lips, but she stares at him, her eyes huge gray orbs. And then
she whispers, "Yes," and she reaches down to push down her pajama bottoms
and panties and toe them off.
She's still wearing the half-undone pajama top as her shaking
thighs part hesitantly under his hand, but his other hand is already
unbuttoning his fly and freeing his erection, then fumbling through the
clumsy haste of finding his wallet, pulling out a condom. She helps him
put it on; her shy touch feels like embers and feathers. And he knows
it's too fast and he knows he should prepare her but there's no time, there's
only *heat* and *urge* and *need* and *pain* and he moves in blindly, crashes
in on her like the tide, their cries mingling and both of them trembling
like crazy. He drops his forehead against her shoulder and tears are stinging
his tightly shut eyelids because now he's fucking her dry up against a wall,
this woman he's longed to make slow unforgettable love to, and it will be
just another dream he managed to fuck up, one more thing that should have
been good but never will be now, ever.
He can't bear to look at her, can't bear to speak to her,
elicit a response and hear whatever blame or disappointment may be carried
in her voice, so he does the only thing he can, and the only thing his
body will allow him to do - works towards his finish, slides back and rocks
in, trying so very hard to be gentle, taken over by need and yet despairing
every second that he's hurting her.
"*Wait.*" An urgent whisper against his cheek, and then the
soft press of her lips into his neck. "Give me a little time. Just a
Somehow, the fragile tenderness of that voice penetrates the
crazed chaos in his mind the way something louder and more impatient could
never have done. A little time. A moment. He can manage that, he thinks.
If it can make it all right, if it can make it at least a little better.
He waits, and feels her shift against him, feels her raise
her leg to slide around his hip. He realizes that this may be better for
both of them, and he moves his hands down to cup her ass, lift her and
press her against the wall again, better aligned with him like this. She
wraps both legs around his waist, and her cheek rests against his own. She
takes a ferocious shivering breath. There are tears on her face. Or they may
be his own, who can tell?
She isn't dry, he realizes. She isn't overflowing either,
but there's enough wetness that his rough entry can't have hurt her,
or so he hopes. And God, he wants to make it up to her now, and he finally
thinks he can do it when she leans her head back and takes his face between
both her hands and murmurs, "I'm okay now, Alex-" - her eyes languid and
darkening every second with desire, her cheeks flushed, her mouth open
and warm. He loves her at that moment, loves her for handing him the chance
to bestow pleasure and joy, to give something other than death and pain
She leans forward slightly, and they're so close already that
now she can just flick her tongue out and lick over his lips, maybe the
softest way anyone ever touched him. Like the immaterial dewy wing of
a moth, like the glide of a single raindrop. He opens his mouth in a shuddering
gasp, realizing only then how tightly it had been clenched shut... and
she moves in delicately, a tip-toeing kiss stirring him and waking him
up from nightmare. She is so gentle, so gentle. Kim is holding his head
gently and gently teaching him how to kiss again, and he closes his eyes
and accepts the lesson like a sad child, knowing he is completely undeserving
and because of that all the more grateful. Slowly she coaxes him into it.
Slowly he starts to believe that there may still be a reality besides shame.
Finally managing to speak, his voice is slurred, with a wistful
hardness he can't keep out. "God, Kim, I wanna stay inside you forever."
His hopeless longing seems to get to her. There's a hitch
in her breath--soft concern, and then he feels two fingertips stroke
gently over his lips. "Ssh, baby..."
"Kim," he murmurs again. "I didn't...I didn't mean to...I
never meant for it to be like this." Not talking about the sex now; about
anything but that. His closed eyes turn in on self-recrimination, on
dark swirling guilt and despair. In eight days, he has killed three people,
and thinking back to Fort Marlene, he fears that the fourth death won't
be long in coming.
Way to really fuck up a perfectly nice shitty life.
She takes his face between both hands then, and pulls it close
to hers. He is hidden inside her to the hilt, and he stills there, trembling
with tension and grief and pent-up emotion. And hazily he recognizes
that his grief isn't primarily for the people whose deaths he has caused,
and will cause; it is as much for himself, for everything that has gone
bitterly wrong and everything that never ever was right in his life.
His pain is selfish and devastating as a child's.
"I know," she whispers. "I know you meant everything to be
different." She kisses his wet eyelids tenderly, then trails her lips
down to his again, breathing understanding into his mouth as if giving
him the kiss of life. Her voice is husky. "Don't think about it. Not now.
You don't have to, promise. Gonna be so good to you, baby. So good."
He shakes his head in disbelief. "Kim," he whispers, and then
repeats her name, hissing, as her hands move down and clasp around his
ass and push at him to make him start thrusting again.
He starts moving, and she is ready for him this time, and
yes, it's good, it's so much better like this. He sees her raising heavy
eyelids and looking down to the shadowed place where they are joined,
revealed in glimpses by the slow, sensuous undulations of his hips. A
small moan escapes her at the sight, and then she looks back up at him
and sees that he is watching too, and she smiles a beautiful smile that
he can hardly believe.
"Kracivaya Alyosha." She calls him beautiful, in a language
he only knows from studies where harder, more practical words form the
syllabus. American-Russian roots, then? So many of her mysteries he doesn't
yet know. He looks at her in wonder, but she only closes her eyes again
to focus on the build-up of pleasure within, her smile fading with concentration,
and the thought slips away.
Her low moans against his neck. Her fingernails digging into
his shoulders. His desire for her a searing, tightening heat in his balls,
his cock, his spine. His fingertips on her breasts, on her clit, making
her breath go sobbing and crazy. His toes curling, his calves tensing. God,
so good, so good. Her face glows with heat and she starts panting fast
and shallow, and then after a little while she tenses and goes rigid, a
small astonished sound escaping her, as if she'd never expected it to be
quite this good, quite this easy.
She throws back her head and opens her eyes as she climaxes,
greedy muscles drawing tight around him and holding, again and again,
her breath exploding hotly against his face while she gasps out her pleasure.
Her gaze is the best gift anyone ever gave him. She is quiet, barely moaning,
but there in her eyes are spinning galaxies and black star matter and wild
unfocused joy, all for him.
He babbles into her red-gold hair, "Yeah Kim, yeah, sweetheart,
like that, you're so beautiful like that-" while he fights to hold still
until she sags spent and quivering against him. He presses slack, open
lips to her hot temple, tasting salty sweat, and then he gathers himself
for the home stretch, pulls back and slams into her like there's no tomorrow,
just *this* and *this* and *this* and...
"God oh fucking Christ oh Kim oh fuck-"
Crying out her perfect name between blasphemy and obscenities,
he lets it all go - not the neat, focused release he usually experiences
but a devastating, messy monster of a climax.
And finds himself slumped over her an indefinable time later,
kneeling against the wall cradling her lax, warm body in his lap, his
softening cock cooling against her bare thigh and his pulse still not
returned to normal. Her mouth is moving against his neck and he thinks
she just said something. He thinks she said something so right and honest
and brave that he should reciprocate.
But he doesn't, because unlike her he's neither right nor
honest nor brave, and more to the point, he's beginning to learn the
bitter costs paid by the recipients of empty promises. He won't exact
that cost from her.
But he musters the decency, the courage at least, to pull
back enough to look into her eyes when he speaks.
"Kim, Kim..." His voice, traitor to his resolve, leaks love,
but there's enough warning in his eyes that she must know nothing good
He whispers, "There's no way I can stay, sweetheart." And
it's not quite true; the truth is he won't stay--doesn't want, yet, to
stay; the truth is her gift has re-energized him, has pulled him up from
the pit of despair enough that he wants to clutch and hang on to his ambitions
as far as he can. The orbit of a comet is long and eccentric. There is a
good time yet before the light will have burnt out.
Her lovely eyes are distant and lonely as galaxies, and he
realizes that she knew this much all along. He stands up with her gently,
watches her wrap herself in the dressing-gown again while he puts his own
clothes in order. In his mind he's already on his way to the airport, speeding
towards the coming night and the next months and new, unavoidable sins
in his desperate clawing for control, a vagabond light having passed the
glorious apex of its orbit, hurtling towards black aphelion.
As she lets him out of her apartment, she tugs on his hand
to make him stay a second after their last long kiss, and he stands sobering
and looks at her. She is straight-backed and very grave. She tenses, draws
breath, seems to struggle for words - as though she's considering a leap
of faith, taking an uncertain chance on him. He waits, puzzled, and raises
his free hand to her cheek, memorizes its rounded softness slowly with
the back of his fingers.
At his touch, her face flushes into fierce warmth. She turns
her cheek to brush his fingers with her lips, then meets his gaze with
new determination. And this time, when she whispers in Russian, there's
no way this could be mistaken as half-remembered sweet talk from a grandparent.
"The men you work for, they're not the only ones. If you ever
need to get away from them, Alyosha - I can help you. I will."
In a flash - premonition, vision? - he imagines her turning
teasingly toward him on a summer night long yet to come; on a foreign
street, onion domes and canals and a myriad bridges around her, different
constellations barely visible in the skies of the white night above.
"Kim?" he asks abruptly, voicing doubt.
She smiles as the door closes behind him, a serious smile,
and shakes her head.