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Title: Office Politics Are a Bitch Author: automatic_badgirl Ships: Syd/Sloane Rated: NC-17 Timeline: S2 Summary: Sydney has to deal with some unwanted repercussions of a failed mission in Paris. Disclaimer: Not mine/never were/no profit intended Author's Notes: This story is dedicated to Annie and Alana for putting the damnation that is Sloadney into my head in the first place. Y'all are evil. Evil! Also I must thank Incomparable ALI for the beta reads and edits, despite her intense personal squickiness for all things Sloadney. You are a rare jewel. | ||
She forgot how successfully her sense of smell burrows right to the base of her brain, curls up and begins giving birth to memories. She recalls how a faint scent of some heavy and exotic perfume trapped in an old sweater had summoned forth her mother once like some nasty magic trick. Never mind the emotions that particular scent triggered. She tucks a stray lock of hair back behind her ear and instead concentrates on the smells that she associates with safety, security--gun oil and the sharp reek of metal polish. Sydney is tired--exhausted actually--but neglecting to clean and lock up her weapon is as unthinkable to her now as forgetting to brush ones' teeth is to other people. Finished with the task that she is dully amazed to find has become routine to her, Sydney is finally able to give in and have that bath she has been promising herself for three time zones now. Sinking deep into the plain steaming water--she was even too tired to fuss with the--girly bath crap--as Will called it--she felt every bruise, every blow she had taken shift and mutter and think about working up to some serious hurting. Her stomach is still sour from the aftereffects of too much adrenaline dumping into her system, too often. Other women her age have long soaks in the tub as a way to nurse the hurts of relationships gone awry or workday stresses that your ordinary Jane Doe employee shouldn't have to put up with: rude customers, crashing computer systems, middle-management with shit for brains. Sydney barks out a harsh laugh when she realizes she is lucky enough to have all of these problems only juiced up to the max with the big fun that is serious gunplay and deadly enemies. Her voice sounds hollow in the humid air of the bathroom. "Hey honey how was work? Oh you know the usual--kill or be killed--got fucked over by the boss." Sydney isn't very surprised when her tears melt her bitter humor. She sits up so suddenly that water sloshes onto the floor. She scrubs angrily at her face and removes the stopper from the drain. As she steps out of the tub she catches a blurred glimpse of herself in the steam-shrouded mirror. Her hand trembles only slightly as she wipes a spot clear. She thinks it's probably for the best that she can't see too clearly the eyes that reflect hers in the mirror. Weariness presses down on her and everything is over bright. I'm tired. I wonder when I'll be able to stop doing this. If I'll ever be able to stop doing this. She hopes she can sleep on the plane. Right now she has to pack for an engagement in Japan. She turns and heads for the bedroom, moving in a daze through the memories of her day. ~~~*~~~ ~Earlier~ Arvin Sloan sinks deep into the leather of his chair and watches the grand opera of death as it plays out silently in the flickering blue tones of the surveillance video. He serenely ignores the small group gathered in his office and only glances once at the woman seated before him before turns back to the monitor on his desk and watches the same woman as she makes the opening moves in a dance of destruction. He watches her bright hair fan out as she spins and grapples with one of the security guards. The man was larger and landed several blows Sloan knew had to be painful. He was proud to see her take it--take it and give back as good as she got. It was a shame really that the video had no sound; he would've liked to hear the sound of flesh striking flesh. Her breathless cries. This--this was the part he liked best. Sydney seems to be getting the better of one guard when two more round the corridor corner and charge into the fray, determined to annihilate this intruder in their midst. She has no choice now but to draw her gun. Still she hesitates, long enough that the guard she was fighting with lands a kick that drives her to her knees. Her head is bowed, her hair, two silk curtains hiding her face. He can only see her hand as it curls around the gun--what he would give to see her face, her eyes at that moment. She rises drawing so fast the gun just appears there--like an extension of her hand--one blue-black finger lengthened in a deadly point. There is the vivid lightning of muzzle flashes as she reaches out with that steel finger and taps each guard, sending them to the ground silently despite the sounds of pain he can see their lips forming. Robbing their deaths of even the dignity of a final utterance. Sloan's eyes gleam and a cool smile curves his lips as he watches the beautiful machine he has helped to create as she finishes her agenda of ruin. "Sydney" His voice is studied and deliberate, as if the syllables of her name compose some rare taste in his mouth that he wishes to savor slowly. She straightens and looks squarely at him; her face is a practiced mask hiding deep emotion. She looks as if she is about to be asked for the time by a random passer by with her brows arched in a pose of polite inquiry. "You were unable to retrieve the objective of this mission." It's not a question, more of a chastisement. Gut deep something stirs involuntarily as she replies. "Unfortunately no. The data on the diskette was corrupted, some kind of latent security device, Marshall has the disk--he's trying to recover the information." Sloan's tranquil lizard gaze lands on the Op-tech. Grinning in that lunatic fashion he has, Marshall launches into a convoluted and socially painful exegesis on the disk's chances of usefulness to SD6. A lifted hand from Sloan slows then finally stays the outburst of geek speak. Sloan continues, "I suggest you continue working to recover that information--it is crucial to our understanding of Rimbaldi." Sydney can see he is in his element; even in defeat Sloan still possesses the imperial self-assurance and arrogance of a Roman Emperor. The hauteur that comes from the bred in the bone knowledge that one is meant to rule others. "I expect a report by tomorrow morning." Even a complete space alien like Marshall can recognize the dismissal in Sloan's voice; he scurries after the broad and silent back of Dixon as they leave Sloan's office. Sydney rises, smoothes down her skirt and prepares to follow. "Stay a moment Agent Bristow, if you would." Again--not a request--though phrased as one. A smile ghosts onto her full mouth, hiding the cold fear that's crawled into her gut. Fear of this man, of what he is capable of, what he's made her capable of. She waits. "You felt the use of deadly force against those guards was necessary?" He lets the facade of concern slip and Sydney can see something bright and avid coiled there as he waits for her to answer. She dips her head feeling the flush rising on her flesh. "Are you questioning my methods?" "No. It's just--Sydney, you killed three men today. Are you okay?" Hanging in the air was the shared knowledge that if she wasn't okay with that she was well on the way to becoming okay with that--dealing death as casually as he did. His hand settles on her shoulder, she resists the urge to shrug off the weight of it--her flesh remembers what cravings his hands have unleashed in her. She stares deep into those eyes, killer cool and amoral despite the warmth of their color. The monster she never knew was in her is starting to recognize that look in her own eyes. She smiles wide. Her beauty is heartbreaking and a little bit terrifying. "I'm fine." Despite the lie, some part of her is fine. That part is getting larger every time she kills; every time she follows Sloan down the path he is leading her. He leans in close and her belly tightens with anticipation. The scent of his aftershave--cool limes and spice--surrounds her as he kisses her gently on the forehead. A benediction or a Judas kiss? I can't tell anymore. His hands tighten on her arms as he grips her, "Good work today." He lets her go and turns away. She can escape; she doesn't move. "Something else Agent?" The hint of mockery she hears in his tone shames her but not enough to make her leave. For a moment she can't speak, anger and disgust choke her. When she does speak her voice is low and deadly,
Sloan is absurdly pleased at her spare economy--no long scenes, no weak sniveling. Shame she hasn't learned the rules of this game yet, she's usually quite bright. Instead of replying he sits and watches her over his tented fingertips. His eyes--ancient and pitiless--silently remind Sydney of that night; her eager need, her willingness to surrender. Sydney lifts her chin and tries to hold fast against the insect fascination of her tormentor; his poised stillness weighs on her resolve until it collapses into insignificance under the cold gravity of his gaze. Refusing to admit defeat she storms up to his desk and slams her fists down, leaning right into his face. "You disgust me, if my father knew what had happened, what we did, he would--" "He would what?" He interrupts calmly. Brazenly he reaches up and his hand caresses her breast--ownership expressed with every move--he strokes the nipple until it tightens. She is struck mute by the unmitigated gall of him, rooted to the spot by his nerve and her own appalling desire for this. Just this, the mastery of him, the need for submission in her. She tries hard to suppress the moans he is drawing out of her. He persists. "I wonder what Jack would do--he is very inventive--why don't you tell him and see?" His smile carves a new shape of cruelty as he watches her struggle not to give in--not admit the bluff--to deny the wanting. Her lovely face reminds him of the agonized expression of a saint as she begins to appreciate just how much his creature she actually is. Sloan rewards her understanding with a kiss. Sydney pulls back, shaking and weak and so very hot. Go Now! This is the last chance you'll get-- Hesitation is her undoing. Sloan rises, locks the office door and stands in front of her; Sydney feels the edge of the desk bite into her thighs, she wasn't aware she had backed up. She thinks of Vaughn, how sweet and earnest he is. He would never make her feel this way--make her forget her training and allow herself to be cornered--why is it the man she most despises is the only one who knows exactly what she needs. She tries once more to extricate herself, appealing to a sense of mercy he doesn't have. "Please--don't. I can't. The things you do--we do are wrong. Don't make me." Unsaid is Beg. Beg and scream and come so hard my mind is blasted apart and all I can think about is the next time you'll touch me. She is shaking her head and her eyes are like wounds--shining with unshed tears. Everything she still has to lose is in her eyes. His mouth twists; blood colors his cheeks, mottles the flesh of his neck. At first she thinks he is angry; she knows he'll be ruthless with her now. Her eyes widen and she waits to be attacked by his mouth and cunning hands; anticipation makes her wet and boneless. Astonished, she realizes it is shame that he is feeling. The great Director Sloan is ashamed. But only for a moment. Her heart pounds so hard, the blood slams through her body. Her vision skips in time with the wild beat of her pulse. It's almost painful and always exciting. He lets her see it, that small glimpse of tender feeling, something precious and rare that raises the stakes between them to new levels. Then he tucks it away, to be brought out and used later, when he needs it again. Sydney appreciates him enough to realize he'll punish her for being aware of his shame; seeing the man still left inside the monster. When his cool hands slide up her skirt, her eyes drift close and she leans back, surrendering herself to him. She can hear the muted hum of the office just outside his door, electronic chatter from phones and faxes blending with the low tones of conversations. Inside, here with him, every sound is magnified, the rustle of cloth, the rasp of nylon against skin, her panting breaths, her groans as he impatiently shreds her stockings and rudely shoves her panties aside. Brutally he twists his fingers inside her, juice slides down her thighs. Sydney shudders and arches her hips driving his fingers deep into her. "No. No don't stop." She bites her lip in hopes of silencing herself. When he enters her, she buries her face in the smooth fabric of his suit; he hasn't even bothered to remove his jacket. This is a quick and dirty fuck intended to establish the ground rules. He thrusts slowly as he croons nastiness into her ear, one hand possessively wrapped in her hair as it spills across his desk. She comes in seconds. ~~~*~~~ After, Sloan tells her of a meeting he has arranged with a contact in Hokkaido for later that night. She is expected to be there. Afterwards she is to accompany him to a safehouse just outside the city. She stands mute and chastised in front of his desk, the sticky evidence of their encounter leaking out of her, soaking into her underwear. He is calm, unruffled. She wonders dully how something as hot as their fucking can still leave him so cold. She heads home to pack. END | ||
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