Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.
Ersatz Liaison
Chapter 1________ Attainment
Man, it takes a silly girl
To lie about the dreams she has.
But Lord, it takes a lonely one to wish
That she had never dreamt at all.
-Dashboard Confessional,
Carve Your Heart Out Yourself
____________________xxx
She can only vaguely recall the truculent being that overtakes her mentality upon hearing the desperate cries of the one woman that she would have least expected to call.
Lauren Reed's shrill cries for help test Sydney's patience. Her abilities at one in the morning do not include translation of strident feminine bawling, but she only needs to understand two words to ascertain the purpose of the call.
"Michael… dead—"
The phone receiver falls several feet shy of the cradle, but Sydney's already struggling into her slacks as she stumbles towards the room door. The thick threads of the lush magenta carpet smother her fading footsteps.
It doesn't take long to locate the apartment building which houses the infamous Vaughns, the surname she would have acquired if not for an unexpected two year sabbatical. She hears the sirens several blocks away and sees the spinning lights as she nears. The beams blind her with an eerie feeling of nostalgia. Sydney recounts the few earth-shattering seconds when the glint of the engagement ring on his finger first made itself apparent.
He observed her with a somber expression, blue eyes expressing a forbidden secret that part of her already knew, but was yet to acknowledge. Moving his hand to his face, he placed the illicit conversation topic in a vulnerable position. The wedding band on his finger glimmered in the dim light and Sydney hastily swallowed a breath of air.
Sydney steps out of the Land Cruiser, displaying her CIA identification as her Holy Grail. She brushes past the agents and medics, the small flutter of hope she's nurturing in her breast slowly simmering down to a meager helping of faith.
Remorse hits her with the force of a speeding truck when she enters their apartment. Spatters of blood are tossed around the carpet haphazardly, on the white settees and the thick curtains. It is a spasmodic trail of Michael's ambling stagger after he feels the full blow of the shots. She follows the path with her eyes.
He was hit the first time, standing… there. He grabbed his chest and was shot again… there…
She maintains her reserved expression, even as Dixon walks out of the bedroom in his confident stride, holding a pair of bloodied medical latex gloves. His eyes widen when he sees her and for a brief moment, they both know that Dixon doest not have an explanation for the massacre's remnants. Nor does he have the consolation that she requires.
"Sydney…" Weiss softly says from behind her. She immediately pivots, glances down at his blood stained jacket. "How—who called you?"
She hesitates, her lips part, and she feigns an expression of misunderstanding while the gears in her head spin feverishly.
"Where's Michael?" she persists, dodging his question. Weiss seems more taken aback by her presence than her lack of words.
"Syd—I think you should sit down for this," Weiss says, setting his hand down on her shoulder. His eyes remind her of a doe caught in headlights, a tad ironic considering the positions that they'e both in. Sydney shakes her head.
"Don't tell me to sit down. Just tell me where he is," she sternly demands. Dixon's looming figure appears alongside her, but Sydney can't will herself to find comfort in his suddenly unfamiliar gaze. The two agents look uneasily at one another and then at Sydney.
"Where—is—he?" she reiterates, annunciating each syllable carefully. The aggravating silence between them is enough of a forewarning of the inclement troubles to come.
"Sydney, his lungs were both punctured—the medics… they say it doesn't look good," Weiss says.
The distraught agent has suffered through so many traumatic deaths, explosions and fatalities that denial is no longer a state of being for her. Sydney can only stand crookedly as one leg loses strength and shudders beneath her. Weiss leans forward and clutches her shoulders, edges her towards the soiled kitchen counter. Sydney shakes off her aid's touch with a bitter glare and corrects her stature.
"Where's Lauren?"
"She went with Michael to the hospital," Dixon replies. "She mentioned something about staying with a friend for the evening. We have her cell phone number if you—"
A cell phone ring shatters the tense moment.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
The tensions rise as the sharp ring continues. Dixon can no longer hide its existence and digs into his jacket's deep pocket, manages to find the mobile among the clutter of small knick-knacks and gum wrappers. He flips the phone open and places the receiver to his ear. Weiss is hesitant to continue discussing the terms of Michael's condition as well as the mental stability of Lauren.
"What? How?" Dixon snarls. "Damn it, what happened to the escort?"
Sydney holds her breath as Dixon continues to argue with the speaker at the other end of the line.
"Well, keep searching the ambulance. I'll be down there in a few minutes."
Both agents look towards their advisor, question beaming from their eyes. Sydney already senses the early beginnings of a mystery and swallows the knot in her throat.
"They've lost sight of the ambulance," is all Dixon says as he casts his gaze downwards and purposely avoids eye contact. He tucks his cell phone back into his pocket and briskly walks off, leaving Weiss to take charge of the investigation at the apartment. Sydney watches him leave, sheltering her bemusement beneath a veil of professional sophistication.
"Sydney—how did you find out about this—we didn't want to alert any agents until tomorrow's debriefing," Weiss says, eagerly tip-toeing around the taboo topic of the ambulance's sudden disappearance. Sydney sighs and prepares to leave, having fulfilled her curiosity for the evening.
"There's only one reason why you'd leave your apartment at one in the morning, Weiss," Sydney says with a shake of her head. She swallows the fib and leaves Weiss to wade in his puddle of profanities.
Sydney springs up to the sound of tires rolling to a stop on the parking lot pavement outside. The only sound that breaks the dawn's silence. She pushes herself off the white couch and creeps towards the window, pulling back the pearl colored drapes. A bleak Weiss stumbles out of the drivers seat, the dark expression that he wears enough to tell Sydney how the rest of the investigation went.
The phone's sharp ring shatters her concentration and Sydney bolts to snatch the receiver off the cradle.
"Hello?" she asks hesitantly, the small delusional glimmer in her chest bursting aflame. She holds her breath until she hears his familiar voice, the gentle soothing tone that put her to sleep years ago.
"Glad to see you're finally awake," the caller responds.
The light dies and Sydney burrows her teeth into her lip to keep from screaming out a trail of vulgar words. Strict, professional tone, foreign accent, no, it wasn't him. Why wasn't Vaughn on the other end of the line, full of reassuring answers and calming solutions to all her problems? Then she remembers the wedding band that had forged the large canyon in their relationship and accepts defeat. With somber eyes, she watches the chasm between them grow larger.
"What do you want?" she spits out, carrying the phone with her towards her bedroom. Her footsteps fall down hard on the thin white carpet. She pulls back the curtains covering her balcony doors and spots his infamous black Mercedes parked at the curb beyond the lot. Illegally. As usual.
He is leaning against the passenger's side, glancing idly down the deserted street, at four in the morning. Black fisher's coat with the tilted wide brim collar that fans out at the nape, then swoops back in around the collarbone. Whenever he wears it, Sydney thinks of him as the capable captain of his own steam liner—careful, gracious and skilled.
"So your boy scout has gone missing."
Sydney sucks in a deep breath of air, thinking she can drown out the pain but inhale the musty odor of deceit all at once.
"And you had something to do with it, you son of a bitch."
Her voice is so mellow and uncaring that the brief profanity seems as harmless and as simple as a 'hello'. She glances towards his car again and realizes he's absent from the scene. She can hear his soft breathing and the crunch of gravel beneath his feet. He's moving closer.
"Julian—Julian!" she hollers into the phone.
"…up and dial again…"
She steps away from the window, throws the phone onto the bed, and pulls open the nightstand drawer. The revolver feels heavy and slow in her hands, but it's the only firearm she has in her apartment. She places her thumb on the cylinder release latch, her eyes on her wristwatch, and dropps the empty casings in the ejector into her waste bin. She glances in her nightstand drawer. No more cartridges. She'll let him have fun trying to call her bluff.
Sydney carries the revolver in the waistband of her skirt and waits for any signs of forced entrance.
She slowly moves towards her front door, alerted by the sound of approaching footsteps. They slow as they reach her apartment, then finally cease. The knock on the door sends her scrabbling for the knob. She holds the gun forward, then throws the door open.
"Whoa, Syd, calm down."
It's Weiss, dazed and more alert, but nonetheless, Weiss. Sydney lowers the revolver and sighs with relief.
"Sorry, Eric, I've just been a little worried lately—what, with Mike disappearing…"
He nods his understanding and Sydney steps outside, tucking the revolver back beneath her waistband.
"I'd invite you in to talk, but you look like you need some rest," she says, patting his shoulder amicably. Weiss nods, breathes in, and remains standing like an orphaned child in the middle of the hall.
"Eric—it's been tough day for all of us. Go get some sleep—now," Sydney commands, her voice heightening with authority. The sturdy man finally gives in to the weights on his eyelids and nods his appreciation. Sydney turns around and walks back into her apartment before he can even unlock his door.
She's pushed up against her door as soon as she reenters her dwelling. She's anticipating the perfect moment to attack the intruder but the soft scent of wood and vanilla tempts her to stay calm. It's his scent and it's her scent from time to time too, whenever she climbs out of the bed she knows isn't hers but feels no guilt for lying in. But she has her boundaries.
Where once was fire pounding in her veins whenever he dragged his lips across her neck is now ice. He senses the difference too, the lack of movement, the sudden disapproval. She watches him pull back, his blue eyes always sure of themselves, his hands readily placed on his hips.
"Something the matter?" he asks in his silky smooth voice, pronouncing his 'r's so that they barely exist at all.
"What the hell are you doing here, you two faced, lying bastard?" she asks in response, her voice low and harsh. He over exaggerates a gasp of pain and smirks in his devilish fashion, revealing the boyish dimple at the corner of his lip.
"I believe that I'm trying to seduce you but you're making it terribly difficult," he says, dragging his index finger in circles along her hip.
"You just don't take 'no' for an answer, do you?" Sydney nearly yells. She slaps away his hand and pushes away from him, but he persists and hunts her across the living room.
"Don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about," she hisses when she realizes he has her cornered.
"I'm afraid I'm a little clueless right now, but feel free to fill me in after we're done."
Sydney keeps her temper in check and tightens the fists at her side as he continues to prowl about before her like a wild cat before it jumps its prey. He stops and takes a step towards her, tilting his head to scrutinize some part of her outfit. She's too slow to stop him from lunging forward and snatching the revolver from her waist.
"Lovely little contraption—were you planning to use it?"
"Yes—to blow your balls out your mouth but it seems a little too late for that now," she murmurs, folding her arms across her chest.
"It's not even loaded," he scoffs. Sydney shrugs and watches his expression grow humorless. He runs his thumb along the inner loop of the trigger, marking it as his and erasing any signs that Sydney had once tucked that very revolver into her holster.
"No shit, Sherlock," she sneers and walks around him, can't stop herself from brushing up against his shoulder and grazing his sleeve with her hands. His clothes are always impeccable, fit, soft and comfortable to the touch.
She wants to ask him what he's here for, but she already knows why. She would have wanted the same thing less than twelve hours ago, but now she only wants a cup of coffee to keep her awake until the debriefing.
"So, care to tell me why Lauren Reed called your apartment at one in the morning?" she asks, avoiding his gaze. He walks over to the counter, sets the revolver down in front of her steepled fingers, and takes the stool beside her.
"No, actually, I don't care to tell you about that," he says bluntly, dropping his elbows onto the counter. He looks over at her, runs a hand over his shaved scalp, enjoying the touch of the rough stubble beneath his calloused palms.
"Then get out."
She places her palms against the counter's edge and eases herself off the stool. The conversation has gone too far and his inability to be helpful irks her beyond reason. She drags her fingers off the counter, her fuming expression warning the intruder to take heed. He trails his hand behind hers and before she can leave, his hand reaches out and fastens onto her wrist. She stumbles over her footing, crosses her ankles, tumbles backwards and feels her lifeline pulling her out of the water.
He's caught her, stopped her from falling again, and she despises it. As his hand works it's way under her blouse and before she gives in, her fingers brush against the firearm resting on the kitchen counter like a bright red flag against a blanket of black. His palms are moving up her abdomen—the gun shivers in Sydney's grasp. Before he can inhale her smell and nip the flesh at the base of her neck, she rotates in his arms and brings the revolver across his face. His head jerks to the side, the force of the gun not enough to shatter his jaw but enough break the skin.
He's stunned, his hand nurturing the bruised face. Sydney places the revolver back on the kitchen counter, tucks it beneath a stray pile of letters and papers, then looks at him with faux innocent eyes, as if the guilt she carries is nonexistent.
"You're bleeding," she reminds him, reaching out to wipe some of the trail of red off his cheek. He grabs her hand before she can pull away, flicks his tongue across the pad of her finger, tastes the coppery flavor of his own blood. Sydney flinches.
The sound of her pounding footsteps resonated through the empty avenue.
The French countryside, as breathtaking as the panorama was, provided difficulty for Sydney's escape. The cobblestone roads were rutted and her heels threatened to fracture beneath her as she darted crookedly back and forth. She spotted her oasis, a small coven between a bakery and a butcher's. With her fingers wrapped tightly around the semi-automatic, she hid, waiting, watching.
Footsteps approached and the sound of slowed breathing brought her senses back to life. The large moon cast his shadow across the road, giving her enough of a description to identify him.
"Miss Bristow, do we really have to keep playing this game of cat and mouse? It gets rather redundant after a while," her follower called out. Sydney placed her gun before her, weaver position, and waited for him to turn the corner. Her eyes failed to notice his shadow as it receded, burrowing back into the folds of a plot.
She finally grew restless, stepped out from her alcove, and realized her target had vanished. With the gun before her, she took several confident steps towards the way in which she'd ran from, saw nothing. No shadows laced with the overhead clouds. She flinched, felt the slight breeze, and pivoted too late.
Cold steel brushed against the back of her neck, in between the strands of the tacky blonde wig on her head. She felt his body brush up against her back, unneeded physical contact that should've set her off like a ticking bomb but didn't.
"I have to say, this is a slight disappointment. I was under the impression that our last fight would have been a little more exciting," he said icily.
She scoffed and felt him press his gun harder into her nape, biting into the flesh. His head appeared beside hers, inhaling the scent of her dress, the smell of the hair beneath the wig, the touch of perfume she'd spritzed on for added authenticity. It unnerved her, brought both of their guards down, touched some part of her that hadn't been reached in years.
She broke out of the trance and snapped her elbow back, colliding with the gun and knocking it out of his hand and onto the cobblestones. Before she could turn her own firearm on him, his body brought hers to the ground, her bones and muscles screaming as they crashed onto the solid pavement below her. She scraped her elbow along the road, grazed her leg, cut her brow, but still had the adrenaline and energy to receive her attacker with a backhand.
He quickly turned his face back towards her, a blotch of red forming on his cheek. He snatched the gun from her hand and threw it into the empty street alongside his. Her body quaked as he pinned her down, stroked the area of flesh between her shirt and waistband, dragged his tongue across her neck.
Then his mouth was on top of hers, pleading for a response, massaging them until she sufficed and daunted his tongue with hers. His hard breathing mixed with hers and soon they'd forgotten that they had fallen into a muddled stupor in the middle of the night on a deserted road. She bit his lip and drew blood when she felt the stirrings of his reaction below, gasped when the taste of metal dripped along her lips and onto her tongue.
He pulled away, realized the blood had no intention of ceasing, and bent forward, drops of it plunging into her mouth. She swallowed, hated the taste of it but couldn't get enough, and writhed beneath him in response. Her actions felt crude and she was unaccustomed to the rocky bed beneath her, but it was the passion between them that sparked her attention. He brought his mouth down on hers again, gently drew his tongue's tip across her bottom lip, tasted his own blood and lost control.
She felt him fidgeting to pull her pants down, then realized the circumstances of their environment and pulled his hands away.
"This is ridiculous," she suddenly whispered, watching him roll off in realization of their erratic decision. He quickly stood up, held a hand out for her, pulled it back when she slapped it away. She forced her legs to work and finally moved her body into an upright position.
"You've got a little bit of blood on your lip," he mentioned, patting his own in reference to hers. Quite ironic.
She ran her tongue across, cleaned the spill, and watched him yearn for her scent again. He turned to grab the guns from the pavement, a stupid move on his part. By the time he turned back around, she'd disappeared.
She feels his eyes digging into her, drops her hand and lets the heat between them register. Her undeniable streak of stubbornness refuses to give in and she finds herself turning away again.
"Sydney—," he says, earning her attention for the time being.
"I need to find Michael," she snarls in response.
"Come on, Sydney! He left you three years ago! He didn't care, Sydney, he went for the next thing he could find capable of wearing a skirt!" he yells. He can't understand her love for this man, but he envies it, envies it until it bleeds.
"Shut up!" she roars back, spinning around on her heel. "Like you're any better! You're a god damn puppy looking for any master willing to give you a pat on the head for a job well done!"
She's struck a nerve and she can tell by the way his tacky smile drops back to its crooked sneer.
"That's ironic, coming from the woman who'll do anything to get what she wants. If you'll recall, your trashy stage performance in France which I had the luck of being at—and apart of. Like I told you're father, you've got a lovely singing voice," he snaps back. She's speechless, realizes both of them are alike, and hates it so much that she can't stop thinking about it.
Suddenly, she's thrown herself onto him, arms latched around his neck. The sexual tension is boiling out of its cup and Sydney isn't willing to hold it anymore. They bump foreheads as he hurriedly rushes to claim her once more. Strands of hair curtain both of their faces as she leans forward, her nose nestled alongside his. Masculine lips ravage hers, bruise them, make them warm and cold at the same time. He pull her hips towards him, considers the kitchen counter, selects a more comfortable setting, and takes her hand to lead her towards her bedroom. The bedroom that smells of wood and vanilla from time to time.
They struggle to undress each other, their ensembles suddenly unimportant. His Armani suit is worth nothing as her hands claw them off, wrinkling and ripping them. He welcomes it, helps her, even. Her palms run across his defined abdomen in her haste to unbuckle his belt, his tie, shirt, jacket and coat lying around them like empty corpses. He fidgets with her slacks, pulls the zipper down, lets the piece of clothing pool around her feet, another defeated obstacle. The belt finally surrenders and she easily pulls it from the belt loops, throwing it to her bedroom floor to join it's matching accessories. He steps out of his pants, lets them drop down, a pair of boxers separating Sydney from his arousal. Before she can pull them down, one hand is on the curve in her back, pulling her towards him, the other placed on the band of her panties. And at the same time, both fragments of clothing are wrenched off. She wraps her hand around him, strokes, tempts him with her coven, then pushes him onto her bed.
She's on top of him for seconds before he places her beneath him, his body taut and sturdy atop her. She clutches onto his back with her nails, his masochist side groaning with bliss. She admires the distinct lines of his muscles, traces them with her eyes, compliments them secretly. He kisses her, sighs with contained passion, feels her thigh brush against his companion. His fingers lead a beeline across her stomach towards her lower lips and suddenly they've broken past, testing, swirling. She squirms, then moans and he covers her mouth with his own. While his eyes keep her distracted, he plunges his shaft into her, earning himself a brief cry of pleasure. Slow thrusts that gather speed to the rhythm of their names called out louder and louder. She clings to his back, licks away the blood on his cheek, leaves her impression on his skin. His blue eyes are all she needs to convince her that there is no guilt associated with their unity. He's just as innocent and naïve at her, clueless of a missing two years of his life. Her back arches as she reaches her climax, her body experiencing a moment of nirvana, lips forming his name and nearly screaming it when she reaches her pinnacle. He buries his face into her neck as she softens and calms, lets him reach his peak and collapse beside her. He remains inside her, lets her rest her cheek against his chest, doesn't feel deserted any more.
"You know, a woman's never called me that, before."
"What? Julian?"
"No. Michael."
She stiffens, regrets her mistake, and glances up towards him. His eyes are looking over her head, deep in thought, too late for her to say sorry.
Author's Note: Yay, my first Sarkney fanfic begins. Comment, review, read, spread the word, be a fan? I'm going to try and make this a short fanfic, 5 chapters tops—just because its angst and I'd really like to write something not sad. Hopefully, it's not too confusing. The little random bits of details will make sense later, if not now. Keep reading, hope you enjoy, and thanks.