Title: Fire and Ice (1/12)
Author: riane
Email:
Ratings: M
Spoilers/Timeline: Spoilers from Phase One. Futurefic. Dark, dark, dark.
Summary: 'But she's broken now. What's left of her soul no longer needs any reasons.'
Disclaimer: Alias and its character are the property of J.J. Abrams/Bad Robot Productions.
Ship: S/V, S/S
Feedback: Please? I'm addicted to it.
Author's notes: This fic is finally complete. My heartfelt thanks goes out to each and every one of you for sending me feedback! Special thanks goes to Mnemo, Eliza and Rez for being my betas through this incredible journey, and for the talented Rhien Elleth's support.
--
He is ice.
A nod of his head and a bullet is dispatched. Grins while he kills - not because he likes to, but simply because he can. Cold blue eyes shine from a face that is ironically angelic.
He is gorgeous, and knows it. The easy swagger and confident smirk go well with bloodstained hands.
--
She is fire.
Scalding tears are her ever-present companions. Much like betrayal and grief, death and despair. Warm brown eyes backlit by an inferno, stoked by the anticipation of revenge.
She knows she was beautiful once. Before she slit her wrists .
--
'And how is our lovely Agent Bristow?'
'Released from the psychiatric ward. Suspended from active duty, but recently reported missing.'
'Ah.' Cold blue eyes glimmer with amusement. 'Sydney's gone a-hunting.'
--
They had Francie killed first. She knows that now, when it is far, far too late. Vaughn was next. Then her father.
If only her mother had died with them. It would have made things so much easier. Now she would have to kill her, too.
The scars on her wrists are a sweet reminder. Oblivion is her only hope now.
Not yet. Not yet.
She remembers to breathe.
--
Days before collecting the last Rambaldi artefact, Arvin Sloane unfortunately — or fortunately, depending entirely on your perspective — died by poison. His last drink was a glass of Petruse.
Sark hides a smile. He had grown tired of the old man and the order to dispatch him was a profound relief.
He is in charge of the old man's operations now. Naturally.
She will arrive soon. Very soon.
--
She hurriedly shoves what she needs into her battered suitcase and stops only to weep into her palm when she remembers Vaughn's last words.
'I'll see you tomorrow.'
Her father's are even more poignant. 'Be careful, Sydney.'
She can't remember Francie's.
--
He expects no mercy from her, and prepares himself accordingly.
The Sydney he once knew would not kill him (or anyone else) without careful deliberation, admirable hesitation, and woeful resignation.
But she's broken now. What's left of her soul no longer needs any reasons.
A cold smile dances across his lips as he cocks his gun.
He can barely wait.
--
She presses her back against the cold brick wall and opens her mouth, but does not scream.
They know she is coming.
And she does not care.
--
'Target sighted. Estimated time of arrival, one hour.'
He has been ready for two.
--
She slips into the warehouse, gripping her gun tightly, agony forgotten as she focuses on one thing and one thing alone - the man standing by the window, sunlight glinting off his hair.
Her breaths are rapid and shallow and beads of sweat glisten on her forehead. She edges closer.
She wants him to bleed.
She wants to tear his golden curls into bloody scraps and scream her wordless fury to him. She wants to punch bullet holes into his perfect form and watch him bleed to death on the wooden floor. She wants to kneel beside him and caress his face with the barrel of her gun while she waits for his last tortured breath -
'Hello, Sydney,' he says, turning around, training his gun at her.
The strangled breaths she has been holding back explode from her lips in a ragged cry, and only sheer force of will prevents her from pulling the trigger.
'You bastard,' she gasps, 'spare me the niceties. Words can't express how much I despise you. You killed Vaughn and my father. Didn't you? Didn't you?'
Her sentence ends in a scream.
'If I said no,' he says mildly, 'would you believe me?'
She howls and lunges towards him, and he manages to wrench the gun out of her hand before she shoots him at point blank range.
That doesn't stop her.
She mindlessly throws punches at him, wanting only to hurt him, make him bleed. He seems to expect the ferocity of her onslaught, expertly matching her, blow for blow.
It's her unanticipated tackle that knocks the wind of his lungs as he hits the ground. She straddles him and relentlessly throws vicious punches at his face before he grips her by the wrist and flings her on her back, pinning her down.
'I didn't kill them,' he says simply. His breathing is laboured and blood drips from his split bottom lip. His expression is unreadable.
'You're lying,' she whispers, staring into his glacial eyes.
'I know who did.' He rises in one fluid motion, and proceeds to dust himself off. 'And you need my help to find them.'
She gets groggily to her feet and feels the dull ache of protesting muscles. 'I don't believe you.' Her voice isn't as firm as she'd like it to be.
He shrugs, and she is almost satisfied with his chaotic hair, rapidly bruising jaw, and bleeding lip. 'Believe what you want. My offer stands.'
He picks up her gun and tosses it at her. He walks away.
'I could shoot you,' she calls out.
'I don't think you could shoot anyone in the back, Sydney,' he replies, not turning around. 'That's the difference between you and me—' he glances over his shoulder and she catches the ghost of a smile.' —Supposedly.'
He is almost out the door when she tells him she's in.
--