Title: Ambra
Author: CG
Feedback: Would love to hear what you have to say. If criticism, please
make it constructive.
Disclaimer: Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone, and is the creation of JJ
Abrams and Bad Robot productions. Also any characters from and references to
The Usual Suspects are completely borrowed.
Spoilers: None that I know of.
Summary: Anyone else tired of the verbal bitch slapping and character
assassination that has been happening to Marshall? I am, and I felt the need to
express my only irritation with Alias with a farfetched and totally quirky fic.
Ship: Marshall/OC, sort of
Rating: R to be safe. For language and a teeny bit of sexual description
Distribution: Cover Me. All others please ask.
The French name Ambra means jewel.
The goofy grin that he wore daily to the office vanished the minute his front door was closed behind him.
Like every other day once he was inside his home and the eyes of Los Angeles lost privy to his life, Marshall Flinkman's face immediately cleared of expression, almost as if a curtain slammed down.
He figured most out there wouldn't even care; the man who was the epitome of a geek and who made no qualms about informing anyone and everyone that he lived with his "mother" didn't warrant much of a second look. In fact, from what his many planted surveillance devices showed, or the stats that he'd put into place to track searches made about himself on the internet and Echelon reported, he was barely a blip on anyone's radar screen these days.
Marshall Flinkman was just your run of the mill, thirty-something super geeky tech wiz – and that was exactly how he wanted his appearance to stay.
His gait loosened up as he stepped through the front room of his home, soft plush carpet acting like a sponge beneath his feet. Every now and again, he'd shake a hand out in imitation of his favorite character, Verbal Kint, as he lost the cripple act and turned back into the devil himself.
Sure the analogy was a bit off, but not by that much.
Most days he did feel a lot like that character as he'd been interrogated and judged by Agent Kujan. No one at the CIA, and previously SD-6, was innocent in their behavior towards him. The off looks they gave, the barbs they made that he'd let roll off of his back.
"Marshall!"
Fuck you, too, Jack.
"Get on with it!"
"Right, Mr. Kendall."
Oh yeah, and while I have your attention, kiss my pucker, sir.
"He's just so… strange, Syd. I mean, the guy still lives with his mother."
Suck these, Agent Vaughn.
Although it wouldn't be completely fair if he didn't admit that he did indeed act the part of the eccentric on the job. He needed to in order to keep his true life under wraps.
'Cause really, wouldn't Jack Bristow think it droll to know that the man he discounted in every conversation was a top rated thief? And wouldn't Director Kendall shit if he knew that the man who claimed he was afraid to fly had and could pilot his own jet? Or wouldn't Agent Vaughn be forced to eat his words when he found out that the "mother" Marshall Flinkman lived with was really an intelligent computer program that used a combination of voice and hologram, and that his real mother was retired in a villa that he'd set up for her in Bora Bora?
If Marshall himself found the irony of it humorous, they sure as hell might.
He gave his front room the cursory perusal, eyeing the fineness that adorned his walls and tables. The fifteenth-century Ming vase that took him an entire weekend to find and steal from a private owner in Prague still sat on its display table. The authentic Renoir he'd successfully replaced with a perfect knockoff at a home in Monaco so the original could be used to decorate the south wall of his living room was in place. His manuscript edition of Thoreau, which sat between first editions of Chaucer and Hemingway, was safely tucked away high upon his bookshelf.
A few of his worthy accomplishments in the form of decoration.
He felt better knowing that almost everything that he owned was still in place. The priceless acquisitions, famous art, original editions of literature – none of their whereabouts had been compromised while he'd been fulfilling the tedious duties of his life. He let some of his anxiety flow free from him with a heavy exhale.
His relief was short-lived though as the solid metal door across the room that he'd had built over two years ago came into view.
From all appearances it seemed to still be untouched – the red light still blinked just as it had when he'd activated the security system before leaving this morning – but even in a world where genius was the one thing that kept him ahead of the game, there was always someone who could one up him. He was, and had to keep being, prepared for that very day.
He stopped inches from the print verifier and keypad, nervousness filling him again. He couldn't express the importance of this sound proof room and its contents. Few would understand even if he did try to explain. Which was why the state of the art security system that he updated every month had become a necessity. To keep anyone who happened to enter his home from accessing this door.
The door that led to his most prized possession: His jewel.
His most stunning piece had been found amongst the filth in a seedy part of Alencon, France. It had been an unplanned trip – a lead on a treasure that he'd wanted to commandeer. He'd thought he had been so close, but all of his hard work had turned up nothing. So he'd decided to take the opportunity to vent some of his frustration and disappointment.
A decision that he would never regret to this day.
Later that night, as his behavior had become more unbridled, he'd stumbled upon the very object that would become one of his very reasons for breathing. A gem so precious he'd decided that very minute to take it home and hide it from the world. Cherished enough to only be paraded around on special occasions of his choosing.
And that was exactly what he had done. For the past two years.
He breathed a sigh of relief once his code and thumbprint were accepted, and he was given the green light to enter his bedroom. It was the final reassurance he needed to show that today was just another day with no real complications.
Once the metal door was secured behind him he heard the familiar throaty voice break the silence and immediately wash him with calm.
"I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me," she purred with a thick French accent.
He watched the thin white sheet that covered her naked body slip down to her shapely hip as she rolled onto her side. The supple mounds that were just a tad too big for his hands – rosy peaks taut from more than just the tepid room – were begging for his attention, just as they had for hours last night and many a night before.
She was more precious to him than any other object that he owned. More beautiful to him than the rest were also. Her shoulder length mahogany hair was slightly disheveled, but still maintained the gorgeous corkscrew curls that had drawn him to her to being with. Porcelain skin covered her and stayed the same shade year round, her cheeks the only facet that would change when she became flushed in the throes of passion. While he bumbled through his day, he sometimes pictured that ruddiness and those perfect cherry colored lips slightly parted as she panted dirty words of encouragement into his ear.
"Who could forget tits like those?" he replied to her liking and walked across the room.
As he strode over to his closet, he slid off his inexpensive no-brand suit jacket, placing the untailored piece behind his many more costly ones. Ones that, like the real him, would only come out at night. That, if nothing else, was a complete shame, given the amount he'd paid to have them made.
He emerged from the large walk-in rolling his plain dress shirt up his stocky forearms, his attention fixed again on the figure occupying his bed. His look was pensive as he sat beside her on the mattress, one hand reaching to soothe the pink skin under the cool metal cuffs that circled her wrists and kept her in his bed.
Not that she would even consider leaving him if he weren't to use them.
She sighed blissfully when he covered one of her breasts with his other hand, the hard pink pebble in its center poking the middle of his palm. He squeezed the flesh, then closed his hand completely, tugging hard enough on the pliable skin to make her groan.
His body tingled with the warm feeling of coming home.
He stood again and made off to the second closet in the pristine room decorated with chrome and glass. A showroom fit for his jewel. Retrieving a large garment bag and the matching accessories, he retreated to the side of the bed.
"Were you a good girl today, Ambra?" he asked as he sat back down.
She touched a hand to the beginning of stubble on his face and ran two delicate fingers down his cheek. Un-slaked need darkened her cerulean eyes as those same fingertips grazed the inside of his unbuttoned shirt collar.
"Not yet, Marshall."
He smiled, cupping her dainty cheek and stroking the apple with his thumb. The feelings just touching her brought were enough to calm and arouse him even after the roughest of days.
Her body twisted as it reveled in his gentle caress, making the sheet slide down even further to reveal her downy lined soft lips, hints of pink glistening in the strategic showcase lighting. The groan that rumbled in his chest coincided with the escalation of his heartbeat.
"Are we going somewhere tonight, Marshall?" she asked, her glittering blue eyes pointedly looking at the evening dress bag he held.
He laid the bag next to her and removed a small key from his shirt pocket. Only once her arms were free did he answer the question she already knew the answer to.
"As much as coy does suit you, darling, you know very well tonight is special." A hint of a smile played over her ruby lips. "After all, it's not every day that we celebrate the second year that I acquired you."
He lowered his head to place a chaste kiss on her lips. "Now dress, my Ambra. The jet leaves in a little over an hour."