Disclaimers: God, could I please just have *one* of them? 1013 and Alliance, respectively. <sigh>

Spoilers: Not a single one, though I've arbitrarily decided that this takes place at some point after the Due South episode "Ladies Man" and before the XF episode "Tunguska."

Summary: On the town with Alex.

Pairing: Alex Krycek/Ray Kowalski

Ratings Note: R for language, some human relations.

Author's Note: Well, first there was this conversation with Viridian, and then there was this conversation with Dawn Sharon... Starts off weird, goes from there.

Acknowledgments: To Dawn Sharon, for getting the ball rolling and then staying around to help me catch it...

*

for Rae *and* for torch

*

Aurorarowa: Would Ray K. and Alex be able to get
it on, or would it all be over so quickly we slower
mortals wouldn't even see it happen?
Daddy793: <HOWLING> I was actually thinking
about just that pairing today...
Aurorarowa: <purrpurrpurr> Good. What did
you think?
Daddy793: Whose smile would outdazzle the
other?
Aurorarowa: *swoon*
Daddy793: What would they talk about? Is this
my excuse to put Ray in a club and let him dance?
Aurorarowa: I wonder if Ray would try to start
a senseless barroom scuffle? Oh, wait, I remember
I was once thinking about Ray interrogating Alex...
wish I knew when and where I put that note.
Aurorarowa: And Ray *must* dance.
Daddy793: Nah, don't want 'em to scuffle. I want
'em to *fuck*.
Aurorarowa: Alex would know his buttons, where to
touch to hold him still, where to press hard to make
him focus his perpetual motion on one object, one
motion...
Aurorarowa: I think they would stop fighting the
moment skin touched skin.
Aurorarowa: But I'm happy to hear how they might
meet peaceably.
Daddy793: *Silky* thinks Ray
*So hard* thinks Alex
Aurorarowa: I can hear my heart beating in my
ears...
Daddy793: I don't have to give them a *setting*,
do I?
Aurorarowa: No, ma'am. As far as I'm concerned
they can meet up in limbo.
Daddy793: Maybe just a little setting. You know,
one of those rough brushstrokes of being that wipes
the nothing away?
Aurorarowa: (seeing japanese painting: one blade of
grass defines the world.)
Daddy793: A brushstroke on a crumbling brick
wall, Dawn Sharon. Because this is an Alex story and I
will not be accused of not knowing my roots. <g>
Aurorarowa: I didn't, did I? <submissive gestures>
Daddy793: (play along, I'm playing at storyteller.
<g>)
Aurorarowa: You know your roots.
Aurorarowa: Tell me more, teller.
Daddy793: It's night, and it's cold and dry. However,
being as how this is Chicago, Alex knows full well that
the dryness won't last long.

When he looks up at the ring around the moon what little setting we have instantly dissolves into the silent forests of his youth.

His breath puffs out white and cloudy, and if he closed his eyes he knows he might feel the smallest clean crystal of snow landing on his cheek.

But this is Alex, so his eyes remain open and battered with this alley, this brick, this brushstroke...

And when he reaches out to touch it, the darkness is warm and alive, a delicate membrane separating him from... what?

He grins once, bright and sharp, and dives through.

And finds himself face to flesh with an angry mob. Alex shrinks back instinctively, but after a heartbeat he revises angry to 'ecstatic.' The floor is thumping, nearly mobile beneath his feet. The air is thick with so much human musk and sweet, sweet smoke as to make a man faint. It's so hot he can already feel the thin t-shirt beneath his jacket mold itself to his back.

The darkness is rent only by the sweeping flash of cheap, gaudy spotlights.

"Who are you supposed to be, sweetheart? James Dean?" The voice is low and rough, the lashes relentlessly fake. The sweep of his switchblade across the soft belly is fast and steady -- the man won't feel it until his pants are soaked with blood.

And then he pushes through the muscle, fat, and bone of a dozen strangers and finds himself fully on the dance floor and fully fifteen degrees hotter. The knife is dropped into the baggy jeans of one man, the jacket falls forgotten to the floor.

He has others.

Alex has to fight a little to stay within the ragged confines of the dance but all of a sudden the music shifts, the crowd shifts, and he's being *propelled* into the seemingly endless crush of bodies. Height means nothing here -- the air is too poor for Alex to see past the bodies.

Suddenly, he's not too sure that he hasn't shredded another membrane and is not now trapped in hot, living, moving meat --

And the thought is only encouraged by the powerful arm that snakes around his waist and *yanks* him back against something a *lot* bigger than he is and holds him there. He brings his arms up to cup the monster's head just long enough for a snap and immediately has two fingers on his left hand sucked into an aggressively hot mouth for his trouble.

Alex laughs and snakes his body once, twice against that of his captor -- already rock hard for Christ knows how long and then pushes back with his upper body, slow and in deliberate contempt for the crystal meth pulse of the music.

The invitation is accepted before he can even congratulate himself for the perfection of the move and a dark hand molds itself to his pec and slips down his t-shirt, down and damp and rough until the hand catches him where he needs it and squeezes and squeezes --

Alex breaks away as gently as he can and tosses a smile over his shoulder... even though he's sure its intended recipient would never see it through this crush.

Crush.

A bony-hipped beauty with eyes he wants to steal sidles up and throws her arms loosely around his throat and proceeds to demonstrate her distinct lack of lower vertebrae. Alex hasn't been that flexible since back when he wasn't sure why he should be that flexible.

He gives up on out-finessing the woman and brings his hands down to her ass. Yanks her in close and finds long, long legs wrapped around his waist and spends the next several minutes just... *experiencing* her.

She uses him like the dollar-ride in a C&W bar and then slides off into the arms of someone he can't really see at all. The air... Alex crouches down low for a few precious gulps of oxygen and feels three entirely different feet impact with his ribs before he's back up again.

And the rhythm this time makes the inside of his head thrum like a tuning fork and his rib-cage turn and sway just beneath his skin and oh *yeah* he's finally starting to feel this and he closes his eyes and moves and moves and moves and he isn't at all surprised to hear -- *feel* the music getting impossibly loud.

A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face and he grins to himself at the thought of it being blood. This is gonna hurt tomorrow. This hurts right now but... *fuck it*.

And when he opens his eyes again he's looking into his own smile, his own thoughts.

In blue.

A wider look finds him now ostensibly dancing with a lean-wired man his own height, perhaps his own age. The spots paint the sweated-down hair a dozen different colors as they pass -- blond then.

Sharp little cheekbones, red little mouth. Fuck me smile.

And then the man closes his eyes and tilts his throat back and Alex moves in, stalks in and buries his face in taut sweaty skin and breathes in and then they're molded together, ankle-holsters clash but Alex smiles broad and shameless against his prize.

Strong hands cup over his hips and Alex is moved to the music as it's shaped by this dangerous little surprise of a man. Moved and pushed and pulled until they're in perfect synch, an elegance of movement far too delicate for whatever place this is but utterly irresistible.

Alex laps at the man's neck and tastes salt and acid-fatigue. They slow with the music and Alex can feel the other man's thigh tremble with exhaustion. He pulls back just far enough to see his eyes again and for a moment sees nothing but the ash of some long frustration.

"Call me Ray." Mouthed into the chaos.

And then the bass pounds in again and the tremble might as well have been an illusion because Ray's got them back up to speed and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting and Alex throws his head back and laughs, knowing the wall of sound would turn his expression into a silent scream for anyone watching.

He won't be alone tonight.

End.

Back to Due South Fiction Archive