Title means: "The Switch"
Written for The Multifandom Soap Opera Cliche Challenge started by storydivagirl on LiveJournal. Cliche I chose was "Evil Twin" cliche.
Rated: Hard R, almost NC-17 for language and sexual situations.
AU - After Prologue, begins in S1 "The Coup" and veers off in almost my own direction from there. Since it is AU, some characters/things that have happened in S2 and S3 might show up.
I usually post fics when I'm done, but this one is still in the works. (Many more chapters to go) It's due soon, so I wanted to try to motivate myself. And I swear to all that is holy that I used the word "proclivity" months before Sark used it on the show. Just check my LJ for verification. ;)
Lo Scambio
Prologue
Early 90sThere was just something about a good ole' randy fuck that made him want to smile. A slow moving, full penetration, excessively vocal, hot and heavy romp that left him feeling empty and full at the same time.
Some nights it was almost what he lived for.
Like any of his species, a top-rate lay could match that of a rich and delectably warm cognac as it slid down the throat, a languorous lounge in his extra-hot penthouse hot tub – high speed jets pulsing against just the right muscles. Or even a lengthy jaunt on a topless beach with the hot sun beating down on him while surrounded by supple breasts a plenty.
Too bad it would take all of the last three to get him to even hint at even a smirk, since that good fuck didn't seem to be in the cards tonight.
He looked down at the willowy limbs splayed awkwardly on the bed as he banged into her from behind, and rolled his eyes in exasperation when he heard her muffled squeal.
This woman. She was sloppy and just…too much.
Too much hair – blonde and curled and teased – making her look like one of those prize show poodles he'd seen on television. Too utterly drunk, after she'd imbibed countless white wine spritzers – it was a fucking shame that these American women had such proclivity for a wicked tasting cocktail – and a strong highball for a nightcap.
Worst of all, she was just too loose. His cock felt like it was sloshing in and out of lubricant filled roadway – no, a tunnel – that had seen one too many vehicles. No useful friction inside her to help get him off.
Which did not, at all, reflect on his size or his virility. But the comparison to major highway did almost make him smile.
"Oh God," Ms. Autobahn slurred, her cheek flush against the sheet as he kept slamming into her almost brutally. "Say my name again, Robert. I love the sugary way it just rolls off your tongue."
His fingers pinched into the pale skin of her hips at her request. Bloody Americans.
Of course, he gave her no satisfaction of a reply – he'd never – but how droll of her to ask him to perform party tricks at a time like this. Especially when all he really wanted to do was pick her up by the scruff of her neck and throw her out of her own room.
Instead, he thrust into her harder. A loud smack echoed in the room as his hips hit her ass like his hand was just itching to do, resulting in her poodle head ramming right into the plain wood headboard. Small consolation, but he did smile.
"Sorry love," he gritted out between his teeth, trying his hardest not to laugh. Her moan seemed to be her apology, and him saying her name now was ancient history.
Good. He'd forgotten it hours ago anyhow.
This would be the last time he'd pick up a stranger, foreigner specifically, in a bar. No more drunks who resembled different breeds of dogs or cats, and were barely able to stimulate him. No more, 'Say my name you foreign man', like Irish speak was a forgotten language. There had to be another way to slake this need, another way to find a warm body to pound his daily frustrations and concerns and anger into.
Growing more bothered by the second – and unfortunately not in that good way – he repeated the three-word mantra he'd created for times like these. Times when he had to pretty much jackhammer his way to at least a moment's pleasure, with a woman who could wilt an oyster filled he-man.
Just come already. Just come already.
"Robert!" she cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. Just. Come. Already.
She did. Heavy wailing grated on his ears as loose insides barely grasped hold of his hard cock in a pitiful attempt to milk an orgasm out of him. But that wasn't even a passing thought or the point of the mantra. No matter how hard he tried or what he thought about with this woman, he just couldn't let himself go.
Just. Come. Each word punctuated a thrust.
He nearly gave up, was just about ready to toss his hat in without completion, but at the last moment he felt that welcoming warm tingle, that telling itch, generate first in his balls and then up to the base of his shaft.
Finally.
Gratification dawned on the horizon. One straining thrust inched him closer, the next that much more, another, this time harder and faster, and then the crescendo. Sweet deliverance.
He collapsed on top of her back, gasping for air, giving less than a shit if she could breathe with her face smashed into the mattress.
"Whoa," he blew out, completely spent.
He was still young. Barely twenty-two. It just shouldn't take that much effort to feel good.
"Mmmm…Robert," the woman said in a gravelly voice, her bottom softly swishing against his softening dick. "It is so true what they say about Italian men."
Italian? Confusion drew his brows together, but his mind was drifting much too slowly back down from Satisfaction Land and was still too tired to form any sort of response. Okay, maybe he could have, but he didn't think it worth the exertion.
Only seconds passed before a thought struck him. Surely, the woman didn't think just because he had an accent and they were in Italy that he was Italian.
"I just love your country," she murmured.
Dear God, she did. How… utterly pathetic.
Sated as best the situation was going to offer, he untangled her legs and arms from around his and rolled off her to the far side of the bed. Reaching down to a small pile of clothes for his black slacks – his fitted black t-shirt still covering his torso – he fought the urge to sigh dejectedly.
Where was the elation? The soft humming in his end nerves he could always count on? He looked back at the bed, watching this woman twist and purr like a contented cat, and squelched a pang of envy.
Well, didn't that just chafe?
Caring not for his roughness, he hurriedly stuffed his feet into the rumpled pants, all the while wondering if this was how it felt to hit bottom.
A twinge of old pain shot from his shoulder down to his fingertips as he zipped up, leaving a light tingle in its wake. It was a reminder, an old one that had him rethinking his careless thought. This wasn't bottom. Not even close.
He'd been there, maybe even lower. Five years now he'd been steadily working his way back up.
"Robert?" Ms. Poodle asked, turning over and revealing herself in the moonlit room. She wasn't that bad looking, for his sanity they never were, but a beauty queen she was not.
"My flight leaves early, Connie."
"Carlee," she corrected with a hint of perturbation in her voice.
"Whatever," he replied, dismissing her real name just as he was just about to dismiss her. "It's been… great."
He had to bite his tongue to keep the scathing comment concerning her promiscuity from leaving his mouth – double standard be damned.
"But…" she sputtered, pulling the sheet up to cover her bare breasts. Good show, he laughed, like modesty would color her different in his eyes now. She tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth, looking more foolish than seductive, probably expecting him to at least kiss her goodbye.
Well, wasn't that too fucking bad. He was disappointed in this entire affair, why shouldn't she be left feeling the same way? Inserting his hands into his pockets, fisting his car keys, he promptly walked to the door.
"Thanks for this, Carla," he called out over his shoulder as he opened her hotel room door to leave. "Really."
He stepped into the posh hallway and heard the brat scream out in frustration as the door clicked shut behind him. Silly chit. Her antics were as laughable as her lay, so absurd in fact that he found himself chuckling less than a minute later when he heard her scream for a second time through the thin walls.
"It's Car-lee!"
Right. Like it really mattered. Like "Robert" wouldn't forget about "Carlee, the prized poodle" come tomorrow night and the next warm body he'd stumble upon in an attempt to lose himself again.
A star-laden night ensconced him as he emerged from the woman's hotel. The summer Roman air – a warm saltwater tinged breeze wafting in from the ocean – fondly caressed his senses, welcoming him back to its comforting embrace after months of absence.
As he began down the sidewalk, he heard his phone shrill. Oh bother, just what he needed. More needless yapping to make his first night of vacation that much fucking better. He stuck to his first impulse: ignore the obnoxious jangle and let it go to voicemail.
Second impulse told him to turn the thing off once it had stopped, but a niggle of responsibility from some deep recess told him to nix that. On rare occasions, he did receive calls of extreme importance. If that had been one of them, he'd get a recall.
Until then, he had a vacation to start and a city to relish.
Since he'd headed straight to the nearest pub once his plane had touched down, his first thought to find a stiff drink and a ready woman and be on with it, he hadn't taken the time. In his hasty descent upon Rome's nightlife, he'd forgotten to savor the other things unique to this country that kept him coming back.
Or would soon keep him here, once he'd saved up enough to buy a small villa.
Euphoria filled him to the core, and it showed in his smooth, leisurely gait. He inhaled a deep breath, his lungs ballooning until they nearly burst, only releasing it in a strong gust once his body had absorbed everything familiar in the air. A satisfied smile curved his lips and lit his eyes – the contrast between him now and the man who, moments ago, had been daunted by a horrific display of sex astounding.
That was his favorite thing about Italy, the fresh scents of ocean air, the best goddamn authentic dishes anywhere he'd visited, and the overlay of life and earth all combined into one. It smelled raw and exhilarating, and never failed to take his troubles away.
To his immense enjoyment, as he reveled in the magnetic pull this country had on him, his phone kept silent. Anyone who really knew him knew full well he rarely ever retired before dawn – but also knew exactly what he'd likely be doing right about now.
It was probably only Walker anyway, he guessed. And given that the last time he'd seen that degenerate they'd ended up tearing a small bar in Paris, and each other, to pieces, did he really want to fucking talk to him?
Taking a fag from his personalized metal case, he slipped the stick between his lips, rolling it once as was his habit, before igniting it with his matching lighter.
His first drag eased the last morsel of tension from his post-sex rendezvous – okay, disaster – and instantly cured him of any doubts about what he chose to do some evenings.
Why should a terrible lay determine whether he tupped a hot chick if he felt the need to? The appalling behavior was solely a problem on her part – tonight being a prime example. He, a lustful, hot-blooded male, functioned just fine. The only mistake he saw was in choice, which was easy to remedy. Next time, he'd just have to take more time before making his final selection.
And of course, there would indeed be a next time; after all, from what he'd been told sex without attachments saturated his blood.
Pleased with his conclusion, likely to rarely think about it again, he kept on down the walkway and back to his waiting vehicle. But as soon as he cleared the late night crowd surrounding the row of beachside buildings, his cell rang again.
"Fuck," he grumbled around his cigarette.
The temptation to let it keep ringing again was overwhelming, knowing full well now that it was important and likely bad news to boot. But in the end, that last hint of accountability etched in his inner workings that had kept him from turning the blasted thing off in the first place – created probably sometime in his stint with the Garda – kicked in and made the decision for him.
"'Allo," he drawled into the receiver, his Irish accent more pronounced than normal.
"Ah… the fucking bloke is still awake, eh?" a heavy Irish brogue – raspy from one too many fags, but still undeniably female – grated loudly in his ear. The familiar sound of the middle-aged woman made him smile internally. "How's the pussy around the world feeling these days?"
Tedious and much too loose, was on the tip of his tongue, but even though she had asked, she needn't know that.
"Faye, love." He chortled into the phone instead. "So nice to hear from you."
"Right, laddy," Faye Donovan replied, not even bothering to mask her acerbic tone. "And my cunt sprouted its own cock companion last night, solving all my problems."
He laughed again, recognizing that if any female was on his level, it was without a doubt Faye. Completely crass, foul-mouthed, and the kind of woman he felt had an honorary set of cajones.
"Ah… always the sweet talker, Faye. Your voice and candid talk always manages to get my blood a balmy, even at 0200. So, tell me, love, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
There was an odd intermitted silence between them, disrupted only by a rustle of paperwork heard above the static filled connection. Strange, he thought, Faye was rarely ever one to have problems finding words.
Before he could call her on it, though, she came back on the line. "How do you feel about blondes?"
He smiled, his mind traveling back to the hazy memories of his many sexual conquests – nameless faces and, in some cases, faceless bodies – but then paused uneasily as he took into account the woman he'd left minutes ago.
"Mmmm… I'd say my experiences with them have been quite mixed. Spotty at best. But, hey, you should know by now that I have no prejudice for such trivial matters. I'd stick it in just about anything that strikes my fancy at the time. Why, you gonna set me up?"
He rounded another corner – entering the dark alley he'd left his car in – finding the Saab he kept in storage while he was away unscathed, as usual. It was funny, almost like the thieves knew what would befall them if they were to even touch it.
Keys secured in his hand he approached and unlocked the sleek black sports car with a push of a button, paying little attention to what drivel Faye was spitting at him.
"… you oversexed son of a… Men, you ox," Faye amended frustratingly. "I'm talking about blonde men!"
That one word caught his ear and he choked back a full laugh. She was talking about men. His cocky grin faltered at her silence. She wasn't joking. The realization caused him to stutter step a few feet from his car door and the last drag of tobacco he took to catch awkwardly in his throat.
What the? He looked at the receiver incredulously. Men? Surely, she was jesting. Coughing, he dropped the used fag, perplexed over what she'd just asked.
"Whoa – ho – ho, Donovan," he rambled emphatically once he regained control. "When I said anything, I was referring to anything female. Bloody hell. You know I don't swing that way."
"Stuff it, you blathering idiot. I meant you. How do you feel about going blonde? Short blonde."
Looking at his light brown hair reflected in his car window, pulled back from his lean face and secured by a leather tie, he felt a strange stitch of sorrow about what she was asking.
Deep cover.
Due to him being raised in Ireland, his SIS underground op experience thus far had consisted of short ops dealing with contacts to IRA members in his homeland. Nothing like what she was asking. Covert, deep at that, meant a great deal to agents young and old.
From what he'd heard through the MI-6 grapevine, these sorts of jobs were either an agent's dream come true or his worst nightmare. He didn't know much of the latter first hand in relation to his job, but had much experience with nightmares in his real life.
Real life nightmares. He shook himself, going back on track since even thinking about that would be too much digression for his blood.
He never thought that the opportunity to go underground for an extended period would arrive so soon for him. So, until Faye had mentioned it, he hadn't known that he sort of wanted to take on the challenge. Part of him was screaming, "yes!", while the other had more questions.
His calloused fingers rubbed over the short stubble of his goatee and he sighed. So long to the man reflecting back in the tinted glass, so long to the man he knew and, surprisingly enough, had grown to respect more in his early adult years despite the degree his upbringing taught him to not.
"How blonde and how short are we talking, love?" And for how long, he wondered.
Again she was silent and he nearly went off on the tight-lipped cunt. Just get to the fucking point, you old, idiotic, half-witted…
"Does the name Julian Lazarey harden your cock much these days?"
His hand stalled mid-rub on his face, blue eyes that were hidden by brown contacts visibly widening in disbelief. He ignored her crass statement about the condition of his appendage, too overwhelmed by what she was really saying to quip back, even knowing it likely stroked her to near crest to hear him speechless.
"No," he whispered through the knot in his throat in utter disbelief. Julian?
"Ah, but yes," she intoned. "Six fellow MI-6 agents apprehended him not even an hour ago just outside of Zurich. We're holding him at one of our compounds until we can transport him to a more secured location. The pretty little fucker was all by his lonesome." She paused, then added. "No offense."
"None taken," he stated absently. This was just… God.
"The decision to send you in his place was handed down to me not even ten minutes ago, but we need your answer now. Julian Lazarey is our in to the blooming underworld."
Julian. The name itself was like an apparition; one that he'd thought was dead, buried, and long, long ago forgotten. Then again, there had always been that bit of him that felt like something was missing. A link separated.
A part of him residing within that was unreachable by all but one person. The part that one would say was the driving force in his many successes, on and off the job, and in his notoriously reckless behavior.
The same part he'd always blamed on his loveless upbringing, raised apart from his paternal side as a constant reminder that he was merely second best. Yet, he knew in the back of his mind that it was more, something more close to the heart.
"So?" Faye posed the unasked question, waiting for an answer.
"So." She wanted an answer, but a thousand questions jumbled his mind, almost not allowing him to form even that word.
Could he do this? Could he reopen the harsh wounds he'd put a shoddy salve on years ago? Could he delve into the minuscule component of him that longed to be a part of a legacy spoke about with such reverence and fear? Could he do all of this and retain his identity, his mostly honest resolve, and separate himself from the corruption, the arrogance, the filth that was included in the title?
Could he do this?
There was no doubt if anyone was made for this job, it was him. That wasn't even a question of ability in his mind. After all, who else could do a better job of taking over this man's life; become Julian Lazarey, until the vicious organization the young man had just begun working for was taken down?
Who knew the intricacies of the elusive prodigal son – the only known heir to the Romanov Empire – better than the only person who'd shared a womb with the man for almost ten months? Even if his interaction with his older twin lacked consistency, and had always been extremely turbulent, no one else could do this.
Just like sex without attachments, this was in his blood.
But did he want to? The question reverberated in his head, tormenting and teasing him in ways that were, bizarrely, almost as exciting as foreplay with a tight, mindless, sex-bot. His body tingled over the possibilities that lay before him.
He didn't give her any sort of preamble. No "I'll do my best for my government and country". No "send me the info on the target and I'll look it over", since he and she both knew just by looking at him that he would do his job flawlessly and already had everything he needed.
The only thing Judd Lazarey, a man nicknamed "Sark" by the handful of people that worked with and knew him – including his real name and denied heritage – said to Faye Donovan before he ended the call was a resounding:
"Fuck it. I'm in."
