Title: "Beyond the Pale"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Alias"
Rating/Classification: PG-13, S/L, future, angst.
Disclaimer: Bad Robot!
Summary: A ficlet that picks up after S3's "Solace". Together, they blend.
Together, they blend into the crisp, white, sheets. Their winter pale skin flashes in the tangle like dolphin tails above the surface of the sea. It has been so long since he's held someone fair that he has to stop and marvel at the very English freckles on her very American shoulders...kiss each one and listen to the variation in her gasps and moans.
When she arrived, he asked her to call him "Mikhail" and she wept as she turned off her pager and took off her clothes. It is only later that he remembers who she came here to forget.
He is lucky. Nothing about her sparks a memory. Nothing about her is the same. Her practical, blunt, nails do not dig into his shoulders and cut strips. She is a vocal lover, telling him what she wants *here* and *there* instead of silently demanding that he all ready know her desires and punishing him with bruises when he doesn't fulfill them.
She curls against his chest when they are finished and strands of her fine blond hair catch on his lips.
She doesn't look him in the eye.
He doesn't ask her to.
Two hours later, when the NCS sends their representatives to meet with the Covenant's fair-haired boy and cash cow, he barely recognizes her. He only remembers pressing the muzzle of his gun to her soft skin...listening to her heart thud...watching her pupils dilate as she flipped through a selection of photos and he left her with the warning of death.
"Ms. Reed...how nice to see you again. You're looking quite lovely."
"Nice? Lovely? Mister Sark, you must have me confused with someone else. Someone who cares."
He gallantly kisses the inside of her wrist. And as he plants a tracker inside the sleeve of her severe blue suit, he promises, "Never. Never that."
They meet again in Tuscany and drink wine until dawn.
Vodka in Leningrad.
Beers in St. Louis.
Chased with skin and sweat and solace.
In Kingston, drizzled in rum, she asks, "Is your name really Mikhail?"
"No," he admits, smiling against her mouth.
She clutches the sheets and him and says to the ceiling, "My divorce was finalized today."
"You mean we're no longer committing adultery?" He traces circles on her hips, grasps them, and stops...just on the brink of her. Enough to tease, to tempt...to test. "Does this mean you want to stop?"
She gently kisses the hollow of his throat and closes the inches between them...brings him deep inside her. "Never. Never that."
Their bodies are golden now, suntanned for summer. The sheets have been cast aside in favor of the warm breeze filtering through the mosquito netting and hanging heavy above them.
He is lucky.
Nothing about her sparks a memory.
Nothing about her is the same.
Together, they blend.
Into one.
Into nothing.
Chased with skin and sweat and solace.
--end--
November 12, 2003.
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Alias"
Rating/Classification: PG-13, S/L, future, angst.
Disclaimer: Bad Robot!
Summary: A ficlet that picks up after S3's "Solace". Together, they blend.
Together, they blend into the crisp, white, sheets. Their winter pale skin flashes in the tangle like dolphin tails above the surface of the sea. It has been so long since he's held someone fair that he has to stop and marvel at the very English freckles on her very American shoulders...kiss each one and listen to the variation in her gasps and moans.
When she arrived, he asked her to call him "Mikhail" and she wept as she turned off her pager and took off her clothes. It is only later that he remembers who she came here to forget.
He is lucky. Nothing about her sparks a memory. Nothing about her is the same. Her practical, blunt, nails do not dig into his shoulders and cut strips. She is a vocal lover, telling him what she wants *here* and *there* instead of silently demanding that he all ready know her desires and punishing him with bruises when he doesn't fulfill them.
She curls against his chest when they are finished and strands of her fine blond hair catch on his lips.
She doesn't look him in the eye.
He doesn't ask her to.
Two hours later, when the NCS sends their representatives to meet with the Covenant's fair-haired boy and cash cow, he barely recognizes her. He only remembers pressing the muzzle of his gun to her soft skin...listening to her heart thud...watching her pupils dilate as she flipped through a selection of photos and he left her with the warning of death.
"Ms. Reed...how nice to see you again. You're looking quite lovely."
"Nice? Lovely? Mister Sark, you must have me confused with someone else. Someone who cares."
He gallantly kisses the inside of her wrist. And as he plants a tracker inside the sleeve of her severe blue suit, he promises, "Never. Never that."
They meet again in Tuscany and drink wine until dawn.
Vodka in Leningrad.
Beers in St. Louis.
Chased with skin and sweat and solace.
In Kingston, drizzled in rum, she asks, "Is your name really Mikhail?"
"No," he admits, smiling against her mouth.
She clutches the sheets and him and says to the ceiling, "My divorce was finalized today."
"You mean we're no longer committing adultery?" He traces circles on her hips, grasps them, and stops...just on the brink of her. Enough to tease, to tempt...to test. "Does this mean you want to stop?"
She gently kisses the hollow of his throat and closes the inches between them...brings him deep inside her. "Never. Never that."
Their bodies are golden now, suntanned for summer. The sheets have been cast aside in favor of the warm breeze filtering through the mosquito netting and hanging heavy above them.
He is lucky.
Nothing about her sparks a memory.
Nothing about her is the same.
Together, they blend.
Into one.
Into nothing.
Chased with skin and sweat and solace.
--end--
November 12, 2003.