Ellipsis
Title: Ellipsis
Date posted: 04-16-05
Fandom: Alias
Disclaimer: Not mine, not ever.
Spoilers: None to speak of.
Notes: Written for the WowWrongBadHot ficathon for carrelh She requested an argument and a getaway scene/car chase, but no smut. I, uh, kinda hit the argument.
Ellipsis:
1.a.The omission of a word or phrase necessary for a complete syntactical construction but not necessary for understanding.
They do not sleep together, because neither of them has enough trust for that.
She'll lie beside him, quietly (usually,) sometimes curled up to him, other times a straight arrow with her hands folded. She is, somewhere deep, anxious to please him, and silence is what he lives by, so she is happy to oblige.
Tonight they are in Maracaibo, in the grey hours of the night before their flight, when the Agency pays for two rooms and a detailed report is not required. She will sleep on the plane, neutral territory. He will watch her, like she watches him now.
There's something in the air here- she is more restless than normal, twisting and releasing the sheets, looking at him and away from him, her eyes dark and unreadable. If he was another man he would try to placate her; as he is not, he leaves her alone.
Finally, she props herself up on one arm to look down at his face. It is Irina's eyes that glimmer in the darkness.
She says something in a light tone, but he ignores it, looking up at her. He is trying to remember and separate, peel the layers of his memories apart and create some reason in his mind for why he is in bed with his wife's daughter.
"... But you're just using me for my body." She finishes, and she beams at him. She's aiming at playful, but there is something underneath- something she has carried with her from childhood, the same looks Sydney gave him when she was young and still missed her father. When he doesn't reply, the smile falters, and then turns wry. "I know it's true. You pretend I'm her."
In the nights where she's silent, it's easy to pretend. He doesn't always- he is genuinely fond of her. Her unbridled enthusiasm in various aspects of her life is refreshing, and when he wants the silence to be filled, she makes it brim with promise.
(This is how he appeases his conscience.)
"Now is not the time, Nadia."
"When is the time, then? You don't talk to me." She stops here, hurt, but blaming herself. "I don't want explanations. I just wish-" She stops again, and bites her lip. At his expression, she hurriedly adds, "I won't cry."
It is her objective to keep people.
He scrutinizes her face as she fights herself on continuing this one-sided argument- for that's what it is, she’s trying to fill the ellipsis, she's fighting for whatever they have and he's not sure what it is, and he doesn't like betting on the unknown, not anymore.
Lies, he likes; and something is pained at seeing her expression.
"Nadia," he starts, and his voice is softer than he intended. She raises her eyes to him, and he is struck with her similarities to her mother, as he always is. These eyes are not Irina's, they're Laura's, secrets and sadness and something he could never identify at the time but now realizes were lies, or hope. (They can be, he has found, interchangeable.) He pets her hair back and repeats her name.
He hasn't lied to her, and he knows that this is significant, just as kissing her like this, in the strange night air of Venezuela, is. Truth, or something like it, will come later.
Date posted: 04-16-05
Fandom: Alias
Disclaimer: Not mine, not ever.
Spoilers: None to speak of.
Notes: Written for the WowWrongBadHot ficathon for carrelh She requested an argument and a getaway scene/car chase, but no smut. I, uh, kinda hit the argument.
Ellipsis:
1.a.The omission of a word or phrase necessary for a complete syntactical construction but not necessary for understanding.
They do not sleep together, because neither of them has enough trust for that.
She'll lie beside him, quietly (usually,) sometimes curled up to him, other times a straight arrow with her hands folded. She is, somewhere deep, anxious to please him, and silence is what he lives by, so she is happy to oblige.
Tonight they are in Maracaibo, in the grey hours of the night before their flight, when the Agency pays for two rooms and a detailed report is not required. She will sleep on the plane, neutral territory. He will watch her, like she watches him now.
There's something in the air here- she is more restless than normal, twisting and releasing the sheets, looking at him and away from him, her eyes dark and unreadable. If he was another man he would try to placate her; as he is not, he leaves her alone.
Finally, she props herself up on one arm to look down at his face. It is Irina's eyes that glimmer in the darkness.
She says something in a light tone, but he ignores it, looking up at her. He is trying to remember and separate, peel the layers of his memories apart and create some reason in his mind for why he is in bed with his wife's daughter.
"... But you're just using me for my body." She finishes, and she beams at him. She's aiming at playful, but there is something underneath- something she has carried with her from childhood, the same looks Sydney gave him when she was young and still missed her father. When he doesn't reply, the smile falters, and then turns wry. "I know it's true. You pretend I'm her."
In the nights where she's silent, it's easy to pretend. He doesn't always- he is genuinely fond of her. Her unbridled enthusiasm in various aspects of her life is refreshing, and when he wants the silence to be filled, she makes it brim with promise.
(This is how he appeases his conscience.)
"Now is not the time, Nadia."
"When is the time, then? You don't talk to me." She stops here, hurt, but blaming herself. "I don't want explanations. I just wish-" She stops again, and bites her lip. At his expression, she hurriedly adds, "I won't cry."
It is her objective to keep people.
He scrutinizes her face as she fights herself on continuing this one-sided argument- for that's what it is, she’s trying to fill the ellipsis, she's fighting for whatever they have and he's not sure what it is, and he doesn't like betting on the unknown, not anymore.
Lies, he likes; and something is pained at seeing her expression.
"Nadia," he starts, and his voice is softer than he intended. She raises her eyes to him, and he is struck with her similarities to her mother, as he always is. These eyes are not Irina's, they're Laura's, secrets and sadness and something he could never identify at the time but now realizes were lies, or hope. (They can be, he has found, interchangeable.) He pets her hair back and repeats her name.
He hasn't lied to her, and he knows that this is significant, just as kissing her like this, in the strange night air of Venezuela, is. Truth, or something like it, will come later.