Title: Succession
(1/1)
Author: Rez
Rating:
NC-17
Timeline:
Any time after 2.14, “Double Agent”
Summary: Like
mother, like daughter? Like—
Disclaimer:
Alias and its characters are the property of J.J. Abrams/Bad Robot
Productions.
Archive: Cover
Me, Dark Enigma.
Feedback: Cherished
and always acknowledged: lo_re z@ adelphia.net
A/N: Thanks,
as always, to Meghan, alpha beta.
This piece
follows “Home Before Dark,” for those who care to read
them in order.
He hands
the keys to the attendant, speaking French; it’s common enough in the polyglot
She greets
him pleasantly, even with warmth—no trace of the intensity of
She carved
him out of dirty candle-wax one raw night, grew him from a cracked seed, conjured him out of the roadside muck—an exercise of careless
power, her abilities so great she’s never questioned that he’s hers. And he is,
always will be. She looks into his eyes, stripping him bare with no effort at
all. Her smile grows. “Come in,” she says, touching his cheek lightly.
Her own
eyes are pitiless, at once hot and cold, opening onto insights he has no ambition
to understand. He follows her through the door.
In recent times
he’s found he can see beyond her, something he couldn’t imagine at the
beginning. He acts for himself now, not only for her; doesn’t share her obsessions,
knows an independence of judgment that widens the distance between them. He believes
she’s aware of this, and approves. She’s not possessive, at least where he’s
concerned.
But being
around her recalls him to discipline, if he needs recalling. His mind’s a
spacious room, very clean, beautifully lit and proportioned, aired and maintained
by methods unavailable to the herd. He’s an adept, by now, absorbing the
essentials of each experience, extracting the lessons. The remainder is dismissed,
giving him liberty to breathe.
He learned
this from her as well.
On his back,
an animal, baited and staked, persuaded to something greater by her strong
hands, her soft voice, the essentials of pain—and pleasure. But
not till the lesson’s learned.
*
She straddles
him, letting him feel the sweet, slick heat in store for him. He’s in heaven
but he knows by now it’s not that simple. He can’t care, just at present; he’s
so ready it’s hard to wait. She slides down his thighs a bit further, and he
can’t believe she’s going to—
—She reaches
up for the gimcrack chain he wears with his mother’s little gold-plated cross,
last earthly evidence of that small woman’s existence. She snaps the chain.
He shouts,
seizes her wrist, blind with thwarted sensation and outrage. She breaks his
hold easily, smiling. Strikes him across the face with her
open hand. His blue eyes widen, looking up at her in shock. She holds up
the chain with its pathetic trinket.
“Will you
forget her?” Her low voice is like an angel’s, soft, slow music; but she’s a
devil, a devil, he thinks. He shakes his head, panting. No.
“Ever?”
No.
The hand
that struck him caresses him now, sure and perfect, all he’s ever wanted. He
moans, moves with the motion. It stops.
“Do you
want more?” He’s breathing desperately, straining for her. Won’t
answer. She caresses him again. Another anguished sound. “Want to
finish?”
“Christ. Yes.”
Her smile again. She holds up the chain.
“More than
you want this?”
He writhes,
hating her.
“No, you
bitch,” grinding his teeth. He twists, trying to unseat her. He’s never
succeeded. Doesn’t now.
She strikes
him again, getting his attention.
“Will you
forget—this?” Her touch pierces him again with pure feeling, pleasure no
different from pain at this far boundary of sensation. If he doesn’t answer he
won’t get through this, and he thinks he’ll probably die. She’s almost killed
him before. Another shake of the tousled blond head.
No.
She laughs—throws
back her head and laughs. Looks back down at him, fondly,
smiling just for him, as though she might really love him. She tells
him:
“Beautiful boy, angel eyes. Of course you will.” In that low, slow, slightly distracted
voice, her fingertips brushing his lips. And even that makes him shiver.
“You’ll
forget this every time it happens. Know this, understand it. Don’t confuse
things. Now, right now, you need this—” another intimate caress, another knife
of agonizing pleasure going through him. “You don’t need this,” holding up the
chain. “Do you understand?”
And he does
understand, through the extremity of his desire, his distress. She has such a
clear way of showing him things. Though he thinks she’s wrong about forgetting
the sex; that’s definitely impossible.
She reads
his mind, she always does, and he hears her delicious laugh again, low and
soft. She tosses the chain into a corner like so much trash, leans down to him,
so beautiful; takes him in, finally, helping him to release. He’s almost there—
“I
promise,” she whispers. “You’ll forget this, always, every time, I promise, I
promise—” and he’s gone, a bolt of pure energy aimed at her, the words echoing
in the emptiness as he launches himself from the edge of the world. I
promise.
He leaves
the chain where it fell, when they go.
He was a
child then. He’s never since proved her wrong.
*
They have a
drink: vodka, a tradition she ignored for a long time, but the point of that
discipline has dulled. Later, the Indonesian cook
serves them spiced meat and rice.
She studies
him, saying little; asks an occasional question. He’s familiar with the silence,
always watchful in her company. He answers, observing while she considers what
he tells her. Her potential has never been greater, and will go on increasing,
he knows, as long as she lives.
He’s a
power in his own right, now. He could still die at her whim on any day at all.
Not today.
*
Never
refuse pleasure, she’s told him. He never has. He still takes whatever she
gives, always gives her what she asks. Though he’s a
connoisseur, lately, less easily pleased.
She hardly
notices. Knows him so thoroughly it’s almost as though she believes he could
never surprise her. A failure of the imagination; a symptom, he thinks, of the
isolation in which she lives. He crushes the sudden, clear memory of her
daughter, the American, and their odd, clumsy encounter, barely a week ago.
And he
responds to her automatically, conditioned by all that time in which she
schooled his body along with his will. It’s been years since he knew how to
distinguish one from the other, or cared to.
*
He lifts
his head, drugged on the smell and feel and taste of her. She rarely allows
this particular pleasure. Earlier, he got a few words of Russian out of her, a more
frequent victory as he grows more skilled and her seclusion increases. So he ventured
to insist. He rests his head against her knee, breathing hard. Hears her voice,
slow and distracted:
“And the
“Fuck the
She smiles
back, indulging him. He rolls over, pulls her onto him. Kisses are another thing
she doesn’t often permit; nor does he, the
vulnerability too great. He has another troubling flash of Sydney Bristow, her
ripe mouth against his, and the gulls crying. His hold tightens, briefly.
*
He flexes
his hands, arms outstretched, gasping. She says:
“Anselmo called … there was a 24-hour delay in
“He’s such
a bore. I couldn’t bear the thought—ah—”
She smiles,
relenting. Rakes a nail down the long muscle of his thigh.
His sudden breath hisses through his teeth. She does it again, harder this
time.
*
“But—there
was a woman … he thought.” She’s sliding onto him,
long legs stretched against his, slow, heavenly torture. Then, more slowly
still, up again till she barely holds him inside, flirting, exquisite sensation
exquisitely prolonged. And down again—but not quite—
“—Ah—” But he’s
fighting it. “—When—” He can’t breathe. Flexes his hands again, reaching for
control: “—did that ever—matter—to you?” And she’s fully in command, every
advantage on her side.
But he’s possessive,
this once—determined to keep something for himself—since he still has no idea
why it all happened, that afternoon last week. He’d never lie. But it’s nothing
to do with Irina—
—And she
plunges onto him, leaning forward, her silk-velvet skin electrically charged
against his belly. She drags herself up again. He moans through clenched teeth,
looking up at her, knows she sees the resistance in his eyes. She lets her
weight intensify the sensation, presses her hands against his chest. She
quickens the rhythm, so tight and so slick around him, forcing another low
sound from his throat. Her long hair teases his skin. He moves, involuntarily.
She always
does this. He still won’t speak. She won’t need him to. Her voice is less languid,
breathier:
“—It was sudden. He said. Someone you knew—”
His head
goes back as she forces him toward release. He sees her blurred face above him,
through his lashes, so close now—
—The dragon-fire
eyes looking inward, where the solution shimmers through the surrounding noise.
A half-smile, signal that she’s on the track, sees a supposition approximate to
the ragged, empty space where the answer should fit.
A special
smile, not one he’s ever seen before. She looks at him, yields to his ruthless hands
directing her as he thrusts urgently into her. The tender smile widens and she throws
back her head on a sudden breath of pure pleasure. Her soft voice floats down
to him:
“—
He comes
hard:
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
*
“There’s
something I want you to remember,” she tells him before he goes. He’s still, focused.
This is the teaching voice. He hasn’t heard it lately. She touches his shoulder,
trying how solid he is, maybe; how strong. She says:
“Between want
and have, that’s a straight line.” She smiles. “You know that, by now.”
He looks back at her, listening.
“But need
is never satisfied. Remember that—if there should come a time when you aren’t
satisfied.” And, as if to herself, “You’re still so
young.”
It’s not
what she told him, years ago. He has no idea what she’s talking about, but he
files it, knows there’ll be a moment when it’s clear. She finishes:
“When you take
what you need …” She brushes her fingertips against his mouth. “…You should remember
that it takes you, as well.” And she pulls his head gently down for a kiss. He’s
unnerved, a little shocked by the anomalous gesture,
with its taste of benediction, its hint of farewell.
“I’ll see
you in
She smiles
and shuts the door.
[End]