Chris takes one look at the bitch and knows that Toby's already fucked her.
Sex is body language is sweat is fucking is just two people marking territory, property, ownership. Beecher sometimes tries to hide it, tries to pretend that he doesn't want ownership, but it's a con, it's just a con. it comes from his fucking ideal of love though, so usually chris lets it slide.
he never bothered with this bitch, and then he sent her into Chris like a christmas present, wrapped in a short skirt and heels, tough, waiting, easy. "You really wanna get me out of here?" Chris says to her at one point, leaning casually against the bars of his cell - stupid fucking protective custody.
She's already doing up her blouse. This one's efficient. "It's my job. It's what I'm being paid to do."
"Mmmm," Chris says. he knows differently. Chris has pretty much contented himself to never, ever, ever getting out of here. He knows that in here at least he'll have a smaller playing field, lessen the damage some. Maybe he'll only go to Hell for two hundred years, not eternity, if he fucks and kills murderers.
"What?" she snaps. Skirt's in place, the bitch is back to professional mode. Shit, she'll probably even want to go over the briefs again - try to prove that Chris didn't have Hank killed. There's a little pull in her skirt, as if someone's fingernail caught it.
"Nothing," Chris says, and smiles wide for her. "See you next week," he calls out after her. She strides away, confident step. Her hands shake. chris knows because he knows who put that shake there - Beecher.