Dedications: Reeka cuz this is like the 50th fic that I forced her to beta and she has yet to ditch me for someone less bossy. Fawkes for willing to beta my first ever Alias fic, thank you, thank you, thank you.
Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of Alias and its colourful assortment of characters and dialogue. I love JJ … except for the LTFH that he forced on me.
Sydney took her time as she dismantled the gun and ran the patch down the barrel. She methodically cleaned the various parts and examined it carefully. Her eyes scanned for unexpected flecks of dust.
In truth, there was no real purpose to her action. She hadn't fired this gun recently, and there was no need to clean it. There was simply nothing there to clean. Yet, she did it anyways, because she needed an excuse to avoid him.
Simon.
The crew had settled down in this little safe house on the outskirts of San Antonio where they awaited their next set of instructions from Sark. Thankfully, Sark had flown out earlier, thereby eliminating the possibility of any further disastrous chance encounters between him and Sydney. But that only took care of one of her problems.
She pushed a brush down the bore.
Ever since they had gotten here, Simon had been casting her lingering glances. Just because she refused to acknowledge or reciprocate his attention, it didn't mean that she didn't feel it. Of course she could feel it. It made the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It made her toes curl up involuntarily. It made her heart beat erratically.
Yes, he had that kind of effect on her.
But she refused to give in. She kept telling herself that the reason the hairs behind her neck were standing was because of static electricity. Her toes were curling up because there was an inexplicable itch there. And her irregular heartbeat was due to the excess of adrenaline in her system.
Deep down, she knew none of that was true. But for now, she chose to believe it.
The atmosphere had become so stifling that the rest of the crew fidgeted uncomfortably with their gear, and the air thickened with tension. Russert went outside under the guise of a cigarette break to escape, and Javier only stayed was because he wanted to keep an eye on her. Simon finally had enough of it and approached her.
"Can we talk?" He leaned down and whispered next to her ear. He didn't need the rest of the crew to be privy to this conversation.
"I don't feel like talking."
That was the truth. She had just shoved a knife into her ex-boyfriend, whom, despite everything she claimed, she still had intense feelings for. Though similar scenarios had run through her head when she first heard of his current marital status, she never meant to really impose physical harm on him. She couldn't help but wonder if Weiss would find him in time. She had to admit that she had deep concerns for his well-being.
Sydney didn't feel like she could keep up with playing "Julia" while so obviously distracted by Vaughn. So she went on cleaning her gun and maintaining her silence.
But Simon interpreted her silence differently. He thought she was shutting him out because he had doubted her loyalty earlier, and he was determined to explain himself to her.
Suddenly, before she could realize what was going on, he snatched the various gun parts lying in front of her and assembled it. If she weren't so stunned by his action, she would have realized that he assembled the parts perfectly with cool efficiency in less than 10 seconds. He then threw it over his shoulder and allowed it to land on the nearby couch with a soft thud.
"I think it'd do us some good if we talk." His posture was tightly coiled as he enunciated each word clearly. But his tone was that of a hurt lover rather than a furious interrogator.
Even though Sydney had only known him briefly, she realized that there was simply no room for argument. She could see the strained composure cracking before her eyes. "Fine," she replied reluctantly.
"Good. There's this charming little tapas bar in town." He relaxed a bit as he waited for her to grab her jacket. He threw on a jacket before he encased her hands in his and tenderly led her out of the house. "We'll be back soon." He yelled out to no one in particular before they left the house. Russert might've rolled his eyes and mumbled something along the lines of, "finally!", but they didn't hear him.
During their short walk to the car, she couldn't help but notice the soft gentleness of his hands. And for a brief moment there, she almost fooled herself into believing that she was being whisked away by her lover.
This felt wrong.
It felt wrong not because she had just gutted a fellow CIA officer and allowed Simon to kick him down the mountain. It felt wrong not because she had had to discard the laser mic before the already suspicious Javier could discover it. It felt wrong not because she was sharing a bottle of 1988 Chateau Cheval Blanc with a man that had nearly killed her.
It felt wrong because he was holding her hand on the table in the entirely affectionate manner reserved for two people in love. His thumb caressed her palm with feathered lightness. An odd surge of electricity ran through her.
This was wrong!
And yet it felt good.
At first, she had agreed to come with Simon because she wished to find out more about Julia. Her ambiguous response to his questions did little good. She still didn't know what happened in Algeria. She still didn't know the intimate history between Simon and Julia. She still didn't know her role in The Covenant. She had learned nothing from this man.
To be honest, she knew she should be experiencing a myriad of conflicting emotions. The anxiety for Vaughn's personal health, the fear of being discovered, the frustration of not knowing what happened between them, the exasperation of this seemingly fruitless pursuit, compounded with her concern regarding the success of her mission.
But she felt none of that.
Disregarding the fact that she was supposed to be in deep cover, and had to balance the fine line between revealing too much and knowing too little, she might, just might, be having a good time.
In fact, this felt like a … date.
She mentally shook her head and retracted her hand before the warm pit in her stomach precipitated into something more serious. Sydney took a sip of her wine just so it didn't look too awkward.
She had to keep reminding herself that she was Sydney, not Julia. And she was here to extract information on her two lost years, not to recover from a lover's quarrel in a dimly lit corner of a restaurant. She reminded herself that Simon's profuse apology for his previous action should mean nothing to Sydney.
But it felt like it meant something. There was an undeniable attraction in the air that was utterly out of the realm of her control.
And this scared the shit out of her.
Once the waiter cleared their table, Simon pulled two cigarettes out of the packages and handed her one. He didn't ask if she wanted a cigarette, he didn't hand over the package and allow her to pull out the cigarette herself. He handed her a cigarette. The languid motion suggested that it wasn't the first time he had offered Julia a cigarette.
Sydney panicked. She didn't smoke. In fact, she had never smoked. Not even in college when everybody experimented with everything. She couldn't believe something as simple as a cigarette-induced coughing fit would be what blew her cover. But she had no other choices. Luckily, he didn't see her split second hesitation before she took the cigarette from him.
He reached for a pack of matches, the ones that had the restaurant's logo printed on the package, and offered to light her cigarette. She leaned forward and allowed him to light her cigarette. The action was deliciously old fashioned. The smell of sulfur and tobacco intertwined briefly before they dissipated.
She braced herself for the onslaught of smoke burning through her lungs. She was prepared to hold back the inevitable coughing.
But the moment never came.
Instead, the smoke coursed through her lungs flawlessly. She was deeply aware of the way the nicotine tickled her senses. But there was no coughing. There was, however, an unexpected sense of familiarity. She flicked the ashes into the ashtray and let the smoke leisurely billow out of her nose. It was a smooth subconscious gesture that betrayed her experience and practice.
She looked at her cigarette in disbelief. What other habits had she picked up during her stint with the Covenant?
They continued this way for a while. They both refrained from dialogue, instead settling into the almost non-existent rhythm of silence. Each taking turns puffing their cigarettes and exhaling the smoke. There were no fancy smoke rings. Just repetition of a motion that is disgustingly ordinary.
The silence was deafening.
"Nicotine is quite an interestingly addictive substance." She tried to think of something that Julia would say. "The pleasure only lasts briefly … give or take a few weeks. Rapid pleasure followed by rapid tolerance to rapid addiction. The next thing you know, you're a slave to it. It becomes a primal, savage need. There's almost no pleasure derived from that."
He thought of the truth behind it and shrugged at its accuracy. His eyes followed the silhouette of smoke as it escaped from his cigarette.
"You always wanted me to quit smoking."
"You obviously were not listening."
He sighed. "To be honest, I can't find a good reason to quit. It's not as if grotesque pictures of diseased lungs would repel me. In our line of work, the prospect of lung cancer is a trivial threat." The orange glow of his cigarette edged towards the filter. He took a long drag before he snubbed it out. She followed suit.
She wanted to tell him about carbon monoxides, and how it could decrease the oxygen-carrying capacity of blood. She wanted to tell him that they couldn't afford to justify that risk, when every molecule of oxygen was necessary for them to perform those roundhouse kicks that allowed them to dismiss their enemies with a flourish.
But she held her tongue. Because Julia was obviously a smoker and it would be rather hypocritical of her to criticize his behavior.
Instead, she asked him another question.
"What do I mean to you?" It was a tactlessly naked question. But she was tired of skirting around the topic, receiving questions as answers. She wanted definitive information. Now.
But to Simon, it sounded like she was putting him on the spot. Instead of answering her, he skirted around the issue.
"Let's dance."
What she wanted to say was: Dammit! No! I don't want to dance. I want you to sit down and explain everything about us, preferably in graphic detail. I want you to tell me what the fuck happened in Algeria and what the fuck happened after Algeria. I want you to tell me who in the fucking hell Julia is!
What she said was, "Sure."
As he pulled her against him, the warm pit resurfaced in her stomach. There was something undeniably sensual about the way her body gently pressed against his. She could feel the firm muscles relaxing against her. It felt natural to have him lead her through the hypnotic melody of the soft music. She allowed herself to rest her face on his broad shoulder and for once, imagined what it was liked to be Julia.
Sydney felt his heaving chest and knew that her lavender shampoo did not escape his senses. She felt his fingers drawing circles at the small of her back as they danced perfectly to the rhythm. Funny, the last time she had danced, it had been with Will, and it had been so disastrous that they'd both have bruised toes by the end of the night. She hadn't known she could dance like this. But she apparently could.
And it was with a stranger whom she felt like she had known since forever.
When the music stopped, they didn't go back to their table. Instead, they stood in the middle of the dance floor. She looked into Simon's face and realized that the colour of his eyes was that of finely aged whisky. She felt him leaning in and she realized that she, too, was leaning in.
Just before their lips touched, the chirp of his cell phone brought her out of the trance. Sydney was almost … disappointed about the interruption. She then chided herself for losing her head. Her fingers subconsciously brushed against her lips. She couldn't believe that she'd thrown rationality into the wind and nearly kissed this man … this stranger.
But he wasn't really a stranger … was he?
After he told the waiter to recork the bottle of wine, he then explained the next step of their plans. In the middle of his instructions, it suddenly dawned on her.
She hadn't thought of Michael Vaughn or the CIA for the last ten minutes.
She had been too preoccupied by someone else. By Simon Walker.