Fic Entry for lunasky's Gender Switch Challenge
I think I'm going to squeak this entry under the wire, it's not quite finished but I hope to get the rest done tomorrow.
No title as of yet...
Pairing: S/V (but not in the good way, unless angst and humiliation is good for you)
Rating: This bit R, later NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine because I wouldn't want to meet this Syd in a dark alley somewhere...
Summary: (Which will be ultralame because I am letired) "That’s what was supposed to happen after Wittenberg…I continue 'not caring' how I was used, or by who. Trouble is I find I do care. I care a fucking lot." She waits until she has control again. Until the anger she can barely manage is leashed again. She smiles ironically, "Now everyone at the CIA will learn what…unpleasantness can happen when their best "tool" starts thinking for herself."
The first thing Vaughn registers when the hotel room door opens is that it is Sydney standing there-glassy eyed, sweaty, wearing only a thin robe-but it is her. Sydney who disappeared months ago, shortly after traveling to Wittenberg, Sydney who now thanks to her impeccable CIA training and a deadly ruthlessness is now on the top ten most wanted list-among others-of the agency responsible for hiring her in the first place. Sydney, the terrorist, Sydney the killer, Sydney whom he still loves, if that is the name for the feeling lodged deep and tight in his chest, swelling like a tumor. Or perhaps it is only fear, he can’t tell anymore. The next thing he notices is that she has a gun pointed at him.
“Your weapon.” Her voice is eager and high pitched like a girl’s as her tongue snakes out to lick away a bead of sweat on her upper lip.
“What?” This seeming non sequitur stops him with his arms half raised as if to hug her, crush her to him.
“Give me your weapon!” The muzzle of the gun never wavers from his heart despite the jittery nervousness. Stick thin arms aim straight and true.
Vaughn feels like his head has stretched and ballooned, Sydney’s voice seems to come from some far distant place, distantly he wonders if he’s awake.
“Syd-what?”
“Give me your fucking gun Vaughn. Now!” She prods him-hard-with her own weapon, a metal finger making her point. Numb fingers slide his gun from the holster-he doesn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved when she ejects the clip and indifferently tosses the gun behind her. She smiles at him. No soft and loving smile from before, everything she felt for him written across her face, no instead just a winter cold slice of mouth revealing teeth that look ready to bite.
“Come in Michael, I’ve been expecting you…” She steps aside to let him pass keeping the gun trained on his face. Her robe parts as she does so, thigh emerging from folds of satin. Aware of the absurdity-the woman has a gun on him hardly the time to be sneaking peeks-still Vaughn is helpless to keep his gaze away from the junction of flesh and stocking crossed by the wide strap of the garter belt she’s wearing. He notes the nylon of the stocking is slightly distorted where the strap hooks into it, he knows from experience that the delicate fabric will retain the imprint of the clasp even after it is removed. The strap itself is rather impressive, wide and retro-looking and glossy black in the light with the unmistakable sheen of rubber. This is new; he’s seen her tarted up in some truly outrageous outfits but always for a mission. He doesn’t recall Sydney ever wearing rubber for him before. The nasty part of his mind speculates who she might be wearing it for now.
She catches him looking and cocks her hip suggestively, mockery on her face. Vaughn feels the embarrassed flush heat his skin as he looks away, taking in her surroundings. The room is decorated in that overly elaborate style meant to convey to middle America a sense of luxury-that the rich in their mansions lead their fabulously wealthy lives in rooms just like this-lots of brocade and gilt and mirrors. The result is stultifying and tacky; exactly what one would expect from the best suite a nationwide hotel chain catering to the middle-class in search of a taste of decadence can provide. The heavy drapes are pulled tightly closed. Vaughn has the sense that they haven’t been drawn merely to block out the light of the city outside but have been closed for days, guarding dark and secret things from prying eyes. Overstuffed furniture squats in the gloom. A hideously ornate table lamp has been switched on, the buttery yellow light it casts-meant to evoke warmth and richness no doubt-seems oily and strange. It makes the translucent orange plastic pill jars on the small side table glow from within, they look harmless, so innocent and cheerful, like brightly colored children’s toys. The labels on the jars are a rogue’s gallery of prescriptions, many end in the word “diazepine” and none are in Sydney’s real name. Even more disturbing are the lines of white powder arranged in neat rows across the surface of a small hand mirror.
Sydney makes a charade of civility when she gestures cordially with the gun for Vaughn to sit in one of the chairs grouped around the table and it’s sinister display.
“Doing coke now Syd?”
She sighs scornfully. “You really are a Boy Scout aren’t you? No. I’m not ‘doing coke’” Her voice is derisive as she leans over and dips a finger into the powder and rubs a little along her gum. “It’s meth. High lasts longer than coke. For a federal agent you’re awfully clueless about drugs. Tisk-tisk…can’t have that Vaughn, want to try?”
Tapered fingers slide the mirror over to him. He shakes his head stiffly as she laughs and gracefully sinks into the chair beside his. He loathes that she is able to make him feel humiliated and prudish with his refusal; his fingers dig into the plush arms of his chair.
“Where…” All at once the enormous inadequacy of any attempt at a rational conversation with her nearly crushes him. She is waiting politely, gun resting lightly in her lap, he can almost overlook the hate shining in her eyes. “Where did you go? What happened to you?” His anguish is lost on her, breaking apart on the fortress she has become.
“What happened? Well that’s a long story Vaughn…and one I don’t have the time to tell unfortunately, we have miles to go and I have promises to keep. Suffice it to say I came to a realization. Do you see this gun?”
She holds out the Glock 9mm, it rests sleek and deadly on her palm. Before he really has a chance to check his futile grab for it she has already aimed the gun at his head. He sees the tendon in her hand tighten as she puts pressure on the trigger. The dry sound of his throat clicking as he swallows is audible. Her lips part the tiniest bit; the prospect of violence fills the room, thrumming and sexual in its intensity. He can see her eyes bracketing the barrel; they look almost as black and empty in this falsely cozy light. She decides not to shoot. He can read that much in her eyes but the promise of hurt still remains. The lioness that would toy with prey, maul and maim before the kill crouches there still. He sits back carefully and watches her, aware of the regular thump of his heart in an entirely new way now. It is a clock ticking a countdown, measuring the remains of his life.
She continues, “Just like this gun is used, sometimes for good, sometimes not. So I was used-merely one more tool in the CIA’s arsenal. A gun doesn’t care and apparently neither should I. Why would I? I was fighting for all the right things-for all the right people.” And the bitterness that fills her voice when she says that. “That’s what was supposed to happen after Wittenberg…I continue ‘not caring’ how I was used, or by who. Trouble is I find I do care. I care a fucking lot." She waits until she has control again. Until the anger she can barely manage is leashed again. She smiles ironically, “Now everyone at the CIA will learn what…unpleasantness can happen when their best “tool” starts thinking for herself.” Sydney crosses her legs and smiles primly at Vaughn.
He knows he may be risking his life by saying so but he can’t help himself.
“Is that what you’d call this?” He gestures to the darkened room and the nasty pharmacopoeia on the side table. “Thinking for yourself? You honestly believe the bullshit you talk? Were you thinking for yourself when you set off that bomb in the Operations center? Or have you become a tool for someone else? The Covenant perhaps? Sydney you killed people, agents you’d worked with, talked with every day of your life. Your father-” She cuts in, voice venomous and cold,
“Yes. My father. How is dear old dad?”
“Still in the coma.” He pauses to see if there is any reaction-any remnant of human feeling left in the “new and improved” Sydney. Her face is a pitiless mask, giving away nothing. “If he wakes up NSA and Homeland Security are going to fight over who gets to charge him with treason first.”
TBC hopefully by Saturday, we'll see.
And thank-you to all of you commented on my last entry, I do have an update on that "situation". However I am way too fucking tired and numb to get into it right now. But your comments meant a great deal, so thanks.
No title as of yet...
Pairing: S/V (but not in the good way, unless angst and humiliation is good for you)
Rating: This bit R, later NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine because I wouldn't want to meet this Syd in a dark alley somewhere...
Summary: (Which will be ultralame because I am letired) "That’s what was supposed to happen after Wittenberg…I continue 'not caring' how I was used, or by who. Trouble is I find I do care. I care a fucking lot." She waits until she has control again. Until the anger she can barely manage is leashed again. She smiles ironically, "Now everyone at the CIA will learn what…unpleasantness can happen when their best "tool" starts thinking for herself."
The first thing Vaughn registers when the hotel room door opens is that it is Sydney standing there-glassy eyed, sweaty, wearing only a thin robe-but it is her. Sydney who disappeared months ago, shortly after traveling to Wittenberg, Sydney who now thanks to her impeccable CIA training and a deadly ruthlessness is now on the top ten most wanted list-among others-of the agency responsible for hiring her in the first place. Sydney, the terrorist, Sydney the killer, Sydney whom he still loves, if that is the name for the feeling lodged deep and tight in his chest, swelling like a tumor. Or perhaps it is only fear, he can’t tell anymore. The next thing he notices is that she has a gun pointed at him.
“Your weapon.” Her voice is eager and high pitched like a girl’s as her tongue snakes out to lick away a bead of sweat on her upper lip.
“What?” This seeming non sequitur stops him with his arms half raised as if to hug her, crush her to him.
“Give me your weapon!” The muzzle of the gun never wavers from his heart despite the jittery nervousness. Stick thin arms aim straight and true.
Vaughn feels like his head has stretched and ballooned, Sydney’s voice seems to come from some far distant place, distantly he wonders if he’s awake.
“Syd-what?”
“Give me your fucking gun Vaughn. Now!” She prods him-hard-with her own weapon, a metal finger making her point. Numb fingers slide his gun from the holster-he doesn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved when she ejects the clip and indifferently tosses the gun behind her. She smiles at him. No soft and loving smile from before, everything she felt for him written across her face, no instead just a winter cold slice of mouth revealing teeth that look ready to bite.
“Come in Michael, I’ve been expecting you…” She steps aside to let him pass keeping the gun trained on his face. Her robe parts as she does so, thigh emerging from folds of satin. Aware of the absurdity-the woman has a gun on him hardly the time to be sneaking peeks-still Vaughn is helpless to keep his gaze away from the junction of flesh and stocking crossed by the wide strap of the garter belt she’s wearing. He notes the nylon of the stocking is slightly distorted where the strap hooks into it, he knows from experience that the delicate fabric will retain the imprint of the clasp even after it is removed. The strap itself is rather impressive, wide and retro-looking and glossy black in the light with the unmistakable sheen of rubber. This is new; he’s seen her tarted up in some truly outrageous outfits but always for a mission. He doesn’t recall Sydney ever wearing rubber for him before. The nasty part of his mind speculates who she might be wearing it for now.
She catches him looking and cocks her hip suggestively, mockery on her face. Vaughn feels the embarrassed flush heat his skin as he looks away, taking in her surroundings. The room is decorated in that overly elaborate style meant to convey to middle America a sense of luxury-that the rich in their mansions lead their fabulously wealthy lives in rooms just like this-lots of brocade and gilt and mirrors. The result is stultifying and tacky; exactly what one would expect from the best suite a nationwide hotel chain catering to the middle-class in search of a taste of decadence can provide. The heavy drapes are pulled tightly closed. Vaughn has the sense that they haven’t been drawn merely to block out the light of the city outside but have been closed for days, guarding dark and secret things from prying eyes. Overstuffed furniture squats in the gloom. A hideously ornate table lamp has been switched on, the buttery yellow light it casts-meant to evoke warmth and richness no doubt-seems oily and strange. It makes the translucent orange plastic pill jars on the small side table glow from within, they look harmless, so innocent and cheerful, like brightly colored children’s toys. The labels on the jars are a rogue’s gallery of prescriptions, many end in the word “diazepine” and none are in Sydney’s real name. Even more disturbing are the lines of white powder arranged in neat rows across the surface of a small hand mirror.
Sydney makes a charade of civility when she gestures cordially with the gun for Vaughn to sit in one of the chairs grouped around the table and it’s sinister display.
“Doing coke now Syd?”
She sighs scornfully. “You really are a Boy Scout aren’t you? No. I’m not ‘doing coke’” Her voice is derisive as she leans over and dips a finger into the powder and rubs a little along her gum. “It’s meth. High lasts longer than coke. For a federal agent you’re awfully clueless about drugs. Tisk-tisk…can’t have that Vaughn, want to try?”
Tapered fingers slide the mirror over to him. He shakes his head stiffly as she laughs and gracefully sinks into the chair beside his. He loathes that she is able to make him feel humiliated and prudish with his refusal; his fingers dig into the plush arms of his chair.
“Where…” All at once the enormous inadequacy of any attempt at a rational conversation with her nearly crushes him. She is waiting politely, gun resting lightly in her lap, he can almost overlook the hate shining in her eyes. “Where did you go? What happened to you?” His anguish is lost on her, breaking apart on the fortress she has become.
“What happened? Well that’s a long story Vaughn…and one I don’t have the time to tell unfortunately, we have miles to go and I have promises to keep. Suffice it to say I came to a realization. Do you see this gun?”
She holds out the Glock 9mm, it rests sleek and deadly on her palm. Before he really has a chance to check his futile grab for it she has already aimed the gun at his head. He sees the tendon in her hand tighten as she puts pressure on the trigger. The dry sound of his throat clicking as he swallows is audible. Her lips part the tiniest bit; the prospect of violence fills the room, thrumming and sexual in its intensity. He can see her eyes bracketing the barrel; they look almost as black and empty in this falsely cozy light. She decides not to shoot. He can read that much in her eyes but the promise of hurt still remains. The lioness that would toy with prey, maul and maim before the kill crouches there still. He sits back carefully and watches her, aware of the regular thump of his heart in an entirely new way now. It is a clock ticking a countdown, measuring the remains of his life.
She continues, “Just like this gun is used, sometimes for good, sometimes not. So I was used-merely one more tool in the CIA’s arsenal. A gun doesn’t care and apparently neither should I. Why would I? I was fighting for all the right things-for all the right people.” And the bitterness that fills her voice when she says that. “That’s what was supposed to happen after Wittenberg…I continue ‘not caring’ how I was used, or by who. Trouble is I find I do care. I care a fucking lot." She waits until she has control again. Until the anger she can barely manage is leashed again. She smiles ironically, “Now everyone at the CIA will learn what…unpleasantness can happen when their best “tool” starts thinking for herself.” Sydney crosses her legs and smiles primly at Vaughn.
He knows he may be risking his life by saying so but he can’t help himself.
“Is that what you’d call this?” He gestures to the darkened room and the nasty pharmacopoeia on the side table. “Thinking for yourself? You honestly believe the bullshit you talk? Were you thinking for yourself when you set off that bomb in the Operations center? Or have you become a tool for someone else? The Covenant perhaps? Sydney you killed people, agents you’d worked with, talked with every day of your life. Your father-” She cuts in, voice venomous and cold,
“Yes. My father. How is dear old dad?”
“Still in the coma.” He pauses to see if there is any reaction-any remnant of human feeling left in the “new and improved” Sydney. Her face is a pitiless mask, giving away nothing. “If he wakes up NSA and Homeland Security are going to fight over who gets to charge him with treason first.”
TBC hopefully by Saturday, we'll see.
And thank-you to all of you commented on my last entry, I do have an update on that "situation". However I am way too fucking tired and numb to get into it right now. But your comments meant a great deal, so thanks.