Nine of Cups fic: Echoes (Alias, Isabelle/Rachel)
Title: Echoes
Author: aphrodite_mine
Summary: Like mother like daughter, in so many ways.
Category: Alias, hints of Sydney/Rachel; Isabelle/Rachel
Rating: PG-13 for underage femslash
Tarot: Nine of Cups (written for fandom_arcana)
Note: The italic speech in the last section (you'll know what I mean) represents German. The show uses subtitles, and I thought it would be irritating to either not translate or translate IN text… so we're just using English and pretending that German was there at some point.
Echoes
It was a few weeks after her seventeenth birthday before she finally found the box. It wasn't so hard to find, once she put her mind to it. Isabelle had inherited her parents' abilities in espionage as well as the Derevko good looks, and had honed her skills during the long nights eavesdropping on visitors and the tales of their exciting days in the CIA and all of its variants (she wasn't supposed to know about the black ops stuff).
She found the box up high in the guest room closet, behind a box of her baby clothes. Just the night before she had watched her mother pull out a stool to reach the shelf. Sometimes Isabelle found her height to be an advantage.
A plain shoe box filled almost to the brim. Isabelle was certain (just as she was sure her mother was certain) that her father would never look for any such evidence, after all they lived on a secluded beach, and any visitors that came were entertained by the whole family. A plain shoe box filled almost to the brim; Isabelle knew it was the right one the moment she opened it. There was a scent to the air… a mixture of her mother's shampoo with something lighter and deeper. Isabelle parted her rose petal lips and breathed it in.
The top envelope, postmarked a week ago, was addressed in a fine steady hand. Berlin. Dearest Sydney, she read, following the lines of print on paper with the most feather-light of touches. My new assignment has me working in deep cover here. Thank god I'm not married this time.
Isabelle barely breathed as she read every line, releasing a full breath when she reached the end; I miss you every day. Love, Rachel. She should have figured this out before, after all she did know about the year her mother spent working with Agent Rachel Gibson in APO. Her father had been in hiding, that year, while her mother was pregnant. She'd never known before, but she should have guessed.
A noise startling her, Isabelle replaced the letter quickly, and the box, and dashed from the room.
**
The next night, after her parents had gone to bed, she pulled the box from its lofty shelf and brought it to her room. She arranged the envelopes and letters across her floor in order of postmark, carefully spreading out the pages and reading each one, pressing her face close to the pages and breathing in the foreign scent that she knew must be Rachel.
Some of the letters were smeared with tears, whether from Isabelle's mother or Rachel, she never knew. Do you ever wish that we hadn't chosen the paths that we did? She never asked; she never had to.
There were pictures as well, at the bottom, with their edges creased. In them, her mother smiled, her belly bigger than Isabelle remembered it being with Jack, her arms alternately loose or tight around a thin blonde. And one; the blonde holding a baby; Isabelle brushed her fingers across and smiled.
For two months, Isabelle read the letters every night, memorizing the lines of handwriting (Dearest Sydney, I miss you every day,), replacing them carefully each time, sneaking down the silent hallway.
**
In her dreams, Isabelle explores the desires she is protected from on this secluded beachfront. She sneaks down dark, endless hallways in five-inch stilettos and mini skirts, breaking into highly guarded facilities. She unlaces corsets, unhooks bras, and undoes the buttons on a pair of trousers all with the same finesse. She shakes her own cascade of hair free from wig after wig, smiling at the cowering enemy.
She meets Rachel there, on countless missions. Breathless from a chase, they collide into each other, mouths meeting, biting, licking. Hands tangle, hips buck. She teases Rachel's nipples with her tongue and makes her come with flicks of her fingers.
**
"Isabelle's been acting a bit strange lately, has she said anything to you?" Sydney joined her husband at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee.
"Maybe she just needs to get out on her own," Vaughn offered.
"I could travel abroad," Isabelle called down from her room. "Brush up on my languages."
They laughed. "She is your daughter after all," Vaughn smiled at the thought.
"That's what I'm afraid of," Sydney laughed.
**
"Another beer please," Agent Gibson slid up to the bar and called to the bartender. She had been undercover for three months, keeping a loose trail on some arms dealers here in Berlin. Her alias was as a local shopkeeper, black hair, unmarried, from Southern France but fluent in German. The downside to the deal was that she actually had to work most days in the shop and it was wearing her out.
Franz Hanlen, one of the minor dealers, was a frequenter of this bar, and thus, so was Frau Marie Minot. He was sitting in the back of the bar, surrounded by unknown faces, of which Rachel was silently cataloging in her mind and with a minute camera hidden in her glasses.
She was so preoccupied with this that she hardly noticed when the thin brunette approached her from the right. "Guten Abend, Frau Minot," the girl said, turning to her and smiling.
Rachel blinked. She felt as though she should know this girl, and yet she couldn't place a name in her mind other than one… from her past. Sydney, she thought, but this girl was far too young, and the features were wrong… "Guten Abend," she said cautiously.
"Mind if I call you Rachel?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she growled, pausing a moment to thank the bartender and pick up her beer, but then continued to frown at the girl with the strangely familiar face.
"Maybe we can speak in private? I believe you used to work with my mother."
Rachel's heart thudded. Could it be… "Isabelle?"
The girl smiled, turning to the bartender herself. "A beer please, and I'll pay for hers as well."
They stood, silent while the bartender served up another pint and Isabelle paid. "Over this way," Rachel directed them over to a secluded booth in the back.
"Good to finally meet you, Agent Gibson," Isabelle said as she sat, removing her jean jacket and placing it next to her on the seat. Rachel sat nervously across from her.
"You too," Rachel bit her lip, unable to keep from noticing the subtle curves of Isabelle's body under her revealing tank top. Rachel suddenly felt warm in her floral dress and cardigan.
"I know you are doing important work here, Rachel, but I'm not going to lie to you." Isabelle licked her lips. She took a sip of beer, swallowing it down without making too much of a face, and then placing her hands flat on the table. "I fully intend to distract you from your duty."
Rachel blinked, not sure, and yet absolutely certain she understood. "I could be- I'm old enough to be your mother."
"But you aren't my mother. And my mother isn't here." She tilted her head, leaning forward a little.
"You look just like her, you know." Rachel fingered her drink, taking a slow swallow after a moment. She was avoiding the impending confrontation and would continue to do so for as long as necessary.
Isabelle laughed. "I know enough about you to take that as a compliment." She lifted one hand and grazed Rachel's knuckles with her fingertips. Just enough contact to send electric shocks through Rachel's entire body; straight to her core.
"What will your mother say?" Rachel whispered, holding onto her beer stein for dear life.
Isabelle only smiled. "She made her choice long ago. Now I'm making mine."
Author: aphrodite_mine
Summary: Like mother like daughter, in so many ways.
Category: Alias, hints of Sydney/Rachel; Isabelle/Rachel
Rating: PG-13 for underage femslash
Tarot: Nine of Cups (written for fandom_arcana)
Note: The italic speech in the last section (you'll know what I mean) represents German. The show uses subtitles, and I thought it would be irritating to either not translate or translate IN text… so we're just using English and pretending that German was there at some point.
Echoes
It was a few weeks after her seventeenth birthday before she finally found the box. It wasn't so hard to find, once she put her mind to it. Isabelle had inherited her parents' abilities in espionage as well as the Derevko good looks, and had honed her skills during the long nights eavesdropping on visitors and the tales of their exciting days in the CIA and all of its variants (she wasn't supposed to know about the black ops stuff).
She found the box up high in the guest room closet, behind a box of her baby clothes. Just the night before she had watched her mother pull out a stool to reach the shelf. Sometimes Isabelle found her height to be an advantage.
A plain shoe box filled almost to the brim. Isabelle was certain (just as she was sure her mother was certain) that her father would never look for any such evidence, after all they lived on a secluded beach, and any visitors that came were entertained by the whole family. A plain shoe box filled almost to the brim; Isabelle knew it was the right one the moment she opened it. There was a scent to the air… a mixture of her mother's shampoo with something lighter and deeper. Isabelle parted her rose petal lips and breathed it in.
The top envelope, postmarked a week ago, was addressed in a fine steady hand. Berlin. Dearest Sydney, she read, following the lines of print on paper with the most feather-light of touches. My new assignment has me working in deep cover here. Thank god I'm not married this time.
Isabelle barely breathed as she read every line, releasing a full breath when she reached the end; I miss you every day. Love, Rachel. She should have figured this out before, after all she did know about the year her mother spent working with Agent Rachel Gibson in APO. Her father had been in hiding, that year, while her mother was pregnant. She'd never known before, but she should have guessed.
A noise startling her, Isabelle replaced the letter quickly, and the box, and dashed from the room.
**
The next night, after her parents had gone to bed, she pulled the box from its lofty shelf and brought it to her room. She arranged the envelopes and letters across her floor in order of postmark, carefully spreading out the pages and reading each one, pressing her face close to the pages and breathing in the foreign scent that she knew must be Rachel.
Some of the letters were smeared with tears, whether from Isabelle's mother or Rachel, she never knew. Do you ever wish that we hadn't chosen the paths that we did? She never asked; she never had to.
There were pictures as well, at the bottom, with their edges creased. In them, her mother smiled, her belly bigger than Isabelle remembered it being with Jack, her arms alternately loose or tight around a thin blonde. And one; the blonde holding a baby; Isabelle brushed her fingers across and smiled.
For two months, Isabelle read the letters every night, memorizing the lines of handwriting (Dearest Sydney, I miss you every day,), replacing them carefully each time, sneaking down the silent hallway.
**
In her dreams, Isabelle explores the desires she is protected from on this secluded beachfront. She sneaks down dark, endless hallways in five-inch stilettos and mini skirts, breaking into highly guarded facilities. She unlaces corsets, unhooks bras, and undoes the buttons on a pair of trousers all with the same finesse. She shakes her own cascade of hair free from wig after wig, smiling at the cowering enemy.
She meets Rachel there, on countless missions. Breathless from a chase, they collide into each other, mouths meeting, biting, licking. Hands tangle, hips buck. She teases Rachel's nipples with her tongue and makes her come with flicks of her fingers.
**
"Isabelle's been acting a bit strange lately, has she said anything to you?" Sydney joined her husband at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee.
"Maybe she just needs to get out on her own," Vaughn offered.
"I could travel abroad," Isabelle called down from her room. "Brush up on my languages."
They laughed. "She is your daughter after all," Vaughn smiled at the thought.
"That's what I'm afraid of," Sydney laughed.
**
"Another beer please," Agent Gibson slid up to the bar and called to the bartender. She had been undercover for three months, keeping a loose trail on some arms dealers here in Berlin. Her alias was as a local shopkeeper, black hair, unmarried, from Southern France but fluent in German. The downside to the deal was that she actually had to work most days in the shop and it was wearing her out.
Franz Hanlen, one of the minor dealers, was a frequenter of this bar, and thus, so was Frau Marie Minot. He was sitting in the back of the bar, surrounded by unknown faces, of which Rachel was silently cataloging in her mind and with a minute camera hidden in her glasses.
She was so preoccupied with this that she hardly noticed when the thin brunette approached her from the right. "Guten Abend, Frau Minot," the girl said, turning to her and smiling.
Rachel blinked. She felt as though she should know this girl, and yet she couldn't place a name in her mind other than one… from her past. Sydney, she thought, but this girl was far too young, and the features were wrong… "Guten Abend," she said cautiously.
"Mind if I call you Rachel?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she growled, pausing a moment to thank the bartender and pick up her beer, but then continued to frown at the girl with the strangely familiar face.
"Maybe we can speak in private? I believe you used to work with my mother."
Rachel's heart thudded. Could it be… "Isabelle?"
The girl smiled, turning to the bartender herself. "A beer please, and I'll pay for hers as well."
They stood, silent while the bartender served up another pint and Isabelle paid. "Over this way," Rachel directed them over to a secluded booth in the back.
"Good to finally meet you, Agent Gibson," Isabelle said as she sat, removing her jean jacket and placing it next to her on the seat. Rachel sat nervously across from her.
"You too," Rachel bit her lip, unable to keep from noticing the subtle curves of Isabelle's body under her revealing tank top. Rachel suddenly felt warm in her floral dress and cardigan.
"I know you are doing important work here, Rachel, but I'm not going to lie to you." Isabelle licked her lips. She took a sip of beer, swallowing it down without making too much of a face, and then placing her hands flat on the table. "I fully intend to distract you from your duty."
Rachel blinked, not sure, and yet absolutely certain she understood. "I could be- I'm old enough to be your mother."
"But you aren't my mother. And my mother isn't here." She tilted her head, leaning forward a little.
"You look just like her, you know." Rachel fingered her drink, taking a slow swallow after a moment. She was avoiding the impending confrontation and would continue to do so for as long as necessary.
Isabelle laughed. "I know enough about you to take that as a compliment." She lifted one hand and grazed Rachel's knuckles with her fingertips. Just enough contact to send electric shocks through Rachel's entire body; straight to her core.
"What will your mother say?" Rachel whispered, holding onto her beer stein for dear life.
Isabelle only smiled. "She made her choice long ago. Now I'm making mine."