Title: "have the lambs stopped screaming?"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Alias" (spoilers for S3's "Taken")
Rating/Classification: PG-13, Sark/Robin (non-ship), filler, head games.
Disclaimer: Bad Robot!
Summary: It's the journey, not the destination.
"Don't you want to know," he murmured, conversationally, "why it was you?"
Her eyes were large and dark in the rear-view mirror. Steady, not even the hint of an unshed tear. The boy had cried. Non-stop. He imagined the cozy CIA medical lab had him hooked up to a saline drip just to replace what he'd lost. But not the girl...no. Just that richness of anger, of youthful defiance. Locked in that tiny room as they'd created the tape loop...she had never broken. A comforting hand rubbing circles on her brother's back, stories told about school and video games and their father bursting through the door in a heroic rescue attempt.
That same hand had simply clenched into a fist when they'd come to take Steven away.
And..."You're an asshole," she'd whispered, as he ushered her into the back seat with the snub-nosed revolver teasing the base of her spine.
"Tsk tsk, Darling...what a quality education you've been receiving, hmmm?" Her father would be so proud. He smiled, glancing at her again, catching her watching him. She wasn't going to answer his question. Cheeky child. She was waiting him out.
"Oh, all right...I suppose I'll tell you." His hands were loose on the wheel, relaxed for story time. "Girl children have value. Worth. Your fathers all want to protect you and fall on their swords for your virtue. Boys...? Boys are nothing. Merely commodities." His lips quirked as she shifted, scooting away from his associate, almost leaning forward to better attend to his revelation. "Besides...your brother was a crier. And I can't abide that. I would've shot him eventually," he added, lying effortlessly.
She automatically rocked backwards, and oh...oh, there was something far more profane than "asshole" balanced on the edge of her tongue.
*Say it. Come on*. But she resisted temptation. She refused to give him that satisfaction. Or perhaps...perhaps she simply didn't know what she stood on the brink of.
He'd been considerably more corrupt at thirteen. He swore fluently in six languages, had all ready been sexually initiated by an accommodating older woman. Fifteen and wise beyond her years. Every once in a while, he sent her flowers. He was sure they looked lovely on her grave.
"Don't worry," he continued, turning the car smoothly, guiding it where it needed to go, "They *will* save you. They're terribly predictable. You were never in any real danger."
This, too, was a lie. And she knew it.
He supposed he could have told her that he was once a crier. That he had been young and useless, like Steven, and pretending to be a brave little man was so trying, such a struggle. But where was the sense in such disclosures? In truth?
"Does it bother you...? Knowing that your father and his task force would waste countless government resources, contemplate releasing ten of the most notorious killers in the world, just to save you?" Silence, still. Of course. "What have you done that's so important? You breathe. You take up space. You smile and kiss your daddy in the morning before you run off to school." He cocked his head. "They destroy their worlds for you. Are you worth it?"
Suddenly, she scooted back up, leaning forward over the seat. "Do you have a dad?"
"I did. Once." He didn't waste a beat...but, still, the tiny victory was there, on her face. It reminded him, oddly, of Alison and how she used to look when she brought him off.
They were almost at the rendezvous point. He could see the three heroes standing, tense, in front of their vehicles, the silver case gleaming. See No Evil, Hear No Evil, and Speak No Evil.
"He never saved you." It wasn't a question. "That's why."
She smiled, coldly, at her own reflection in the rearview.
Robin Dixon was, no doubt, going to grow up into a spectacular woman.
Daddy's girl.
And his.
--end—
March 22, 2004.
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Alias" (spoilers for S3's "Taken")
Rating/Classification: PG-13, Sark/Robin (non-ship), filler, head games.
Disclaimer: Bad Robot!
Summary: It's the journey, not the destination.
"Don't you want to know," he murmured, conversationally, "why it was you?"
Her eyes were large and dark in the rear-view mirror. Steady, not even the hint of an unshed tear. The boy had cried. Non-stop. He imagined the cozy CIA medical lab had him hooked up to a saline drip just to replace what he'd lost. But not the girl...no. Just that richness of anger, of youthful defiance. Locked in that tiny room as they'd created the tape loop...she had never broken. A comforting hand rubbing circles on her brother's back, stories told about school and video games and their father bursting through the door in a heroic rescue attempt.
That same hand had simply clenched into a fist when they'd come to take Steven away.
And..."You're an asshole," she'd whispered, as he ushered her into the back seat with the snub-nosed revolver teasing the base of her spine.
"Tsk tsk, Darling...what a quality education you've been receiving, hmmm?" Her father would be so proud. He smiled, glancing at her again, catching her watching him. She wasn't going to answer his question. Cheeky child. She was waiting him out.
"Oh, all right...I suppose I'll tell you." His hands were loose on the wheel, relaxed for story time. "Girl children have value. Worth. Your fathers all want to protect you and fall on their swords for your virtue. Boys...? Boys are nothing. Merely commodities." His lips quirked as she shifted, scooting away from his associate, almost leaning forward to better attend to his revelation. "Besides...your brother was a crier. And I can't abide that. I would've shot him eventually," he added, lying effortlessly.
She automatically rocked backwards, and oh...oh, there was something far more profane than "asshole" balanced on the edge of her tongue.
*Say it. Come on*. But she resisted temptation. She refused to give him that satisfaction. Or perhaps...perhaps she simply didn't know what she stood on the brink of.
He'd been considerably more corrupt at thirteen. He swore fluently in six languages, had all ready been sexually initiated by an accommodating older woman. Fifteen and wise beyond her years. Every once in a while, he sent her flowers. He was sure they looked lovely on her grave.
"Don't worry," he continued, turning the car smoothly, guiding it where it needed to go, "They *will* save you. They're terribly predictable. You were never in any real danger."
This, too, was a lie. And she knew it.
He supposed he could have told her that he was once a crier. That he had been young and useless, like Steven, and pretending to be a brave little man was so trying, such a struggle. But where was the sense in such disclosures? In truth?
"Does it bother you...? Knowing that your father and his task force would waste countless government resources, contemplate releasing ten of the most notorious killers in the world, just to save you?" Silence, still. Of course. "What have you done that's so important? You breathe. You take up space. You smile and kiss your daddy in the morning before you run off to school." He cocked his head. "They destroy their worlds for you. Are you worth it?"
Suddenly, she scooted back up, leaning forward over the seat. "Do you have a dad?"
"I did. Once." He didn't waste a beat...but, still, the tiny victory was there, on her face. It reminded him, oddly, of Alison and how she used to look when she brought him off.
They were almost at the rendezvous point. He could see the three heroes standing, tense, in front of their vehicles, the silver case gleaming. See No Evil, Hear No Evil, and Speak No Evil.
"He never saved you." It wasn't a question. "That's why."
She smiled, coldly, at her own reflection in the rearview.
Robin Dixon was, no doubt, going to grow up into a spectacular woman.
Daddy's girl.
And his.
--end—
March 22, 2004.