[Author's note: This is my first Alias fanfic, and my first fanfic up on this site. This is really an experiment to see if this is something people might want to see more of. At this moment, I promise nothing more. Think of it as a teasing vignette.]
Prologue: Plier (To bend)
She sat languidly in a plush chair, the royal-blue-colored satin of her robe skimming down her bare legs which were crossed, one over the other -- long and lean with strong calves. Dancer's legs. Her hand carefully deposited the crystal goblet she held, still swimming with wine, onto the small table before her. She rearranged the folds of her robe and then took her hands to draw back her long, dark hair, which contrasted nicely against her tan skin. Her golden-hazel eyes, which flitted between brown, green and gold, lent her an exotic air that made her race difficult to place.
A clearing of the throat from the blonde, young man, standing and looking out from the open doors which led out to the small balcony of her room, stopped her primping.
"Stop fussing with yourself," his distinctive British accent lilted lightly as he turned to face her. His ice-blue eyes caught hers for a moment before staring down into his own goblet, taking a calculated drink, and then addressing her again. "You look stunning, as always."
She let her hands drop into her lap as she chuckled softly. "You sound as if you're complimenting me on a job well done. Must it always sound so professional?" she asked, an eyebrow arching to match.
His lips thinned a little, the bottom-left corner curling in just a little more, as it always did, to add to that almost ever-present, light smirk. "Have you ever known me not to be?" He paused for a moment, but didn't allow her to answer, as he continued, taking a few steps toward her. "Being professional allows me to be alert and constantly aware of what's going on. Emotion clouds judgement, and sentimentality is overrated."
"Says the person who's never been in love," she quipped teasingly.
"Love," he paused, finishing his wine and then continuing lightly, "is an emotion." He punctuated the last word to re-emphasize his feelings on that subject, discussed just moments before. He set his empty goblet down next to hers and made his way back toward the balcony, staring back out at the encroaching inkiness of night.
"So then," she stood lightly, not letting the conversation end just there, and approached him, "you're saying you never wish to find a woman in whose embrace you can feel comfort?" She stopped right next to him, turning her face to examine his stoic profile.
Silence surrounded them for a moment, and without turning to look at her, he spoke casually, but in a neutral tone, "A woman's embrace is quite easy to find, and comfort isn't something I need." He said it as if he were merely dismissing a salesclerk showing him an average sportscoat -- one hardly worth noticing.
"I see," is all she said quietly as she dropped her gaze for a moment.
He cast her a sidelong glance, the crystalline-blue of his eyes softening with a slow blink. Quickly, though, his jaw tightened lightly, and he shifted away from the balcony. "Come now, all this talk about love, lust and emotion, sprinkled over passable wine," he slid into the chair opposite the one she had been occupying, and reached for her goblet, "is not the reason for this little tête-à-tête."
She merely nodded, her lips pursing lightly as she returned to her chair. "It's hardly passable. Though, of course, it isn't your Chateau Petrus, in your vintage of choice -- '82."
He merely swirled the wine in the goblet, as if waiting for her to bring up the subject of their meeting.
"Will this really work?" she asked hesitantly. "This is hardly my normal line of work."
He watched her carefully and nodded, "which is why you're perfect for this." His lips formed a self-congratulatory smile. "When your dance company stops in Moscow next month, you will come down with an injury. Shortly thereafter, you and I will meet for, as the world will believe, the first time. And then, of course, a romantic relationship will develop over the course of the next few months." As he paused, she interrupted.
"But what if something happens during those few months? What if they try to come after you?" her eyes were round with questioning and touched with a little trepidation.
"I will keep a low profile, of course," he spoke almost condescendingly. "I will set up a few things here and there, but for all the CIA and SD-6 know, I will just be engrossed in my personal life." He then grinned smugly. "Then a meeting will be set up, where the CIA will be tipped off on my whereabouts, where you will be with me -- as an innocent bystander, of course -- and then, conveniently, it will go awry, and I, being the bastard they believe me to be, will leave my poor little dancer girlfriend behind to save myself."
He gave a self-satisfied chuckle. "After they're satisfied that your story checks out -- which it will, as you are a dancer and have been almost all of your life, and our meeting will seem quite coincidental -- they'll have to put you into some sort of witness-protection program, of course, and you will drop enough clues about me to be useful, so they'll have to bring you in -- at least to gather information from you. The rest will work itself out as we've discussed. They're not the only ones who can have double agents." He shrugged and drank down the rest of her wine.
"Passable," he said again, and then stood, placing the goblet back down next to its twin. He gave her a piercing look and his lips thinned. "I suggest you get some rest, the next few months will require all of your strength."
He then gave a gentlemanly half-bow of his head, and left her room, with only a "see you in a few weeks" as his only goodbye.
[So, what do you think? Please leave any and all feedback. If it sucks, tell me why! Thanks!]