[MitS] 043 - Unfulfilled Desire
Nov. 10th, 2008 11:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elementof_risk"Why would God fill me with this desire if I wasn't meant to be with her?" - (quoted from Detective Dehling in the movie One Night at McCool's)
- - -
Three years later, and every time he tastes tequila he tastes her underneath it. How sad is that, he wonders, as he gives the client across the table a lazy smile and does the shot. There are no lips holding the lime, just his own fingers, and no coppery aftertaste of blood or sting of citrus in the wound it came from, either, but she's there just the same. The sun beats down on the cement providing the heat instead of the press of bodies moving in synchronicity, hers pressed against his, settled on his lap, against him. Chlorine from the pool scents the air rather than smoke, alcohol, perfume and gunpowder, but it's immaterial.
She's there in the lime and the salt and the slight burn of the alcohol, in the smirk on his lips as he negotiates the deal for a greater single payday than he's had in eighteen months, for a job that's sure to put his name back on the map, and back across her desk. A second shot in celebration of their accord, and he remembers the feel of her tongue against his, frustration and fury making as convincing a show of passion as real desire would have, the way her teeth bit harder than strictly necessary and how his lip had stung every time he smirked for the next week, so deep was the wound, the reminder. If she was angry at that, this job will make her furious, and he wonders if she'll just kill him outright and be done with it, or if she ever gets tired of it all, of playing by all of those rules.
Because he isn't delusional, and he isn't blind. He knows faked passion, and he knows when it is something else, and under her fury, under her repulsion, things shifted in that kiss, and they were never quite the same after. He wasn't the only one to feel it, and he didn't imagine it, and he wants to know what it will take to make her cross the line. Everyone has a breaking point, even Sydney Bristow. Just once, he thinks, later, standing on the balcony of his hotel, looking out at the dark ocean, thinking. Just one time is all it would take, one time for her to let curiosity and fury both collide. It would hurt, he has no doubt. She would make him pay, in spades, for making her fall, with scars and bruises. Neither of them would walk away unscathed or unchanged.
His fingers curl more tightly around the glass of water in his hand and he closes his eyes as he allows himself to think of it, for just a few moments. The taste of her lingers on his tongue in memory, the press of her lips. He knows her body from countless battles. This would be different, and yet so much the same. In his mind, he gives her the control; he needs her to know she wanted it, wanted him, as clothes fall, and then they are just there, just them, bare and moving and joined and there are no jobs, no lines, no barriers for as long as it takes, and for once she admits that she needs him, needs what he gives her, needs how he pushes her, needs what he offers her that no one else can...
The ring of the phone interrupts, and, as always, he finds himself still waiting for Ms. Bristow's regard.
- - -
Three years later, and every time he tastes tequila he tastes her underneath it. How sad is that, he wonders, as he gives the client across the table a lazy smile and does the shot. There are no lips holding the lime, just his own fingers, and no coppery aftertaste of blood or sting of citrus in the wound it came from, either, but she's there just the same. The sun beats down on the cement providing the heat instead of the press of bodies moving in synchronicity, hers pressed against his, settled on his lap, against him. Chlorine from the pool scents the air rather than smoke, alcohol, perfume and gunpowder, but it's immaterial.
She's there in the lime and the salt and the slight burn of the alcohol, in the smirk on his lips as he negotiates the deal for a greater single payday than he's had in eighteen months, for a job that's sure to put his name back on the map, and back across her desk. A second shot in celebration of their accord, and he remembers the feel of her tongue against his, frustration and fury making as convincing a show of passion as real desire would have, the way her teeth bit harder than strictly necessary and how his lip had stung every time he smirked for the next week, so deep was the wound, the reminder. If she was angry at that, this job will make her furious, and he wonders if she'll just kill him outright and be done with it, or if she ever gets tired of it all, of playing by all of those rules.
Because he isn't delusional, and he isn't blind. He knows faked passion, and he knows when it is something else, and under her fury, under her repulsion, things shifted in that kiss, and they were never quite the same after. He wasn't the only one to feel it, and he didn't imagine it, and he wants to know what it will take to make her cross the line. Everyone has a breaking point, even Sydney Bristow. Just once, he thinks, later, standing on the balcony of his hotel, looking out at the dark ocean, thinking. Just one time is all it would take, one time for her to let curiosity and fury both collide. It would hurt, he has no doubt. She would make him pay, in spades, for making her fall, with scars and bruises. Neither of them would walk away unscathed or unchanged.
His fingers curl more tightly around the glass of water in his hand and he closes his eyes as he allows himself to think of it, for just a few moments. The taste of her lingers on his tongue in memory, the press of her lips. He knows her body from countless battles. This would be different, and yet so much the same. In his mind, he gives her the control; he needs her to know she wanted it, wanted him, as clothes fall, and then they are just there, just them, bare and moving and joined and there are no jobs, no lines, no barriers for as long as it takes, and for once she admits that she needs him, needs what he gives her, needs how he pushes her, needs what he offers her that no one else can...
The ring of the phone interrupts, and, as always, he finds himself still waiting for Ms. Bristow's regard.
