Turquoise Sky (Alias; Sydney/Sark; PG-13)

[foodsthatcan.livejournal.com]

Title: Turquoise Sky
Author: foodsthatcan (mozzarella)
Rating: PG-13 for sensuality.
Fandom: Alias.
Characters: Sark and Sydney.
Summary: Sarkney on a beach.
Disclaimer: Just borrowin' the characters for the story.
Author's Note: Timeframe is ambiguous. 1000 words. Written for picfor1000's third "A Picture Is Worth 1000 Words" challenge, based on this pic. Sorry for the lateness--I was trying something new, and it took longer to get presentable than I thought it would.

TURQUOISE SKY

Turquoise sky meets silver waves on a white beach.

The Moroccan midday sun is scorching your fair skin as you stretch out on your blanket, but you don't mind, because you're watching her.

Sydney.

She's bent over a sandcastle, putting the finishing touches on the dubious piece of architecture, but she's treating it like the Taj Mahal. You're just enjoying the view of long, honeyed legs, leading to a rounded backside that is partially covered by the bottom half of a black bikini. The flat stomach, the touchable breasts tucked inside the top half of the bikini, those are things of beauty, but you love her legs the most.

Last night, those legs were wrapped around you.

Last night, they buckled when she cried your name.

You're not supposed to be here together. You were due in Amsterdam an hour ago to relieve the world of a wealthy banker. She's late for an appointment in Cairo. But the banker's not going anywhere. The appointment can be rescheduled. Morocco seemed like a good compromise.

We'll always have Morocco, you think wryly.

You never meant to be that fellow, the fellow who mixes pleasure with business, the fellow whose pleasure gets in the way of business, because in your work, you can't afford to think about anyone but yourself. You stop thinking about yourself, and someone else who is thinking about himself will step in. You stop thinking about yourself, and you could be dead. You don't want a bullet hole in your ribs, in your heart, in your face. You don't want a knife in your lungs or your liver or your eyes. You know this because you've done it to other people and you know the sounds they make as the air leaves their throats for the last time, before they can make a last request or curse or cry for help.

And yet, here you are, on the beach, in the sun, with the girl. You're stealing pleasure, stealing time.

You could blame it on the red wig. You want to blame it on the red wig, the red wig and the smoky makeup and the trashy lips, the bustier that pushed her breasts to the ceiling. You want to blame it on the song that wasn't meant for you, on the voice that made you hard. You want to blame it on the shower that didn't cool you off and the wine that didn't make you forget.

You touch the scar on your thigh that she left with a blade. You want to blame that, too, the puckered pink skin that reminds you of her lips, the scar you can't get rid of and don't want to.

Last night, she kissed that scar.

You want to blame anyone but yourself.

The first time was in Prague, in a shop, in the back room. She pinned you down and pointed a gun at your head and you thought that being straddled by a beautiful woman was a kind way to leave the earth and then she kissed you and you felt fireworks explode in your veins. When it was over, she leaned against you for support and said, We're still enemies.

The second time, you were in Seoul, and you found her in a hotel room, thirty stories above the concrete streets. The window was open and you could hear the busy traffic playing in the background.

After Seoul, there was Rome. And Helsinki. And Odessa. And you said, Morocco. In three weeks.

And she said, Is that a job?

And you said, Just come, knowing she would.

Last night, she asked no questions.

She pushes a few wisps of brown hair out of her face and looks at you for feedback. Her face is clean and unadorned, beautiful in its plainness. "What do you think?" she asks proudly.

"Looks just like Buckingham," you say, stifling a smirk somewhat successfully. The humor is new to the sex, the not-relationship, the relationsex, and if you were honest, you'd admit that you like it.

She gives you a reproachful look. "Are you pulling my leg?"

"No," you say. "I'd rather be groping it."

You watch the blush creep up her cheeks, and you reach out and place your hand on her thigh, rubbing lightly with your palm. "Somewhat like this, only you're naked," you explain.

She lets you stroke that smooth, firm skin and her lips are slightly parted because she's enjoying it, and then she pulls away.

"I lied to him," she says, not looking at you.

"In this business, you lie to everyone," you remind her.

"He thinks I'm in Vancouver at a seminar on handgun safety."

"Vancouver." Her cover, your cover, is Vancouver. "Of all the places in the world...."

"I didn't want him to be suspicious."

"He's that clever?" you quip, and the edge in your voice unnerves you because you don't play that role, you don't play the secret, you don't feel the jealousy seeping into your gut.

There's silence, and you listen to the waves splashing against the beach, rhythmic, rhythmic, rhythmic.

"I'll race you to the water," she says suddenly. You look up, and she's already on her feet.

"You know you want this," she teases, and her dimples are like stars and she's running toward the waves.

The wind is blowing her hair and she's a picture and she starts pulling at the strings that bind her modesty and you both know she's got you.

You pull off your sunglasses, leave them behind on the blanket, and follow her into the water. It's up to your knees, up to your thighs, tickling your waist, and then she's in your arms, her skin bare against yours, tight against yours, as you kiss her candied lips and taste her sweetness with your tongue.

Last night can't be the end. Tomorrow you'll figure it out.

For now, it's just you, and a beautiful girl, and the ocean, and the sky, and the sand, and the sun.


AN: There is a slightly longer version at my LJ because I couldn't completely bear to lose some of the extra words.