Abyssinian
Cadet
Disclaimer: Alias is not mine.
Title: Follow Your Heart
Author: Abyssinian
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: Season Two, post ‘Counteragent’.
Summary: Laura Bristow once told Sydney to follow her heart.
< O >
One of the clearest memories Sydney had of Laura Bristow was being tucked into bed, listening to the rise and fall of her voice with its curious lilt —the husky accent that conjured up the images of far away lands and valiant heroes as she read the tales of their exploits to her eager daughter.
It was a memory Sydney had cherished all her life, that despite her father’s cold abandonment one of her parents had loved her. The memory of that love had given her the strength to live her life as well as she possibly could. It had inspired her to study the literature Laura had taught in the hopes of following in her footsteps. It had made her decision to join SD-6 for her, that she could do good in a world so often embroiled in evil and be even more worthy of her mother’s affection.
One night as Laura Bristow closed the cover of yet another tale she had leaned over and kissed a drowsy Sydney on the cheek. “Follow your heart, sweetheart,” that smooth, accented voice had encouraged, “Don’t let anything keep you from what you want.”
Years later when the truth behind Laura Bristow’s lies had been revealed to her daughter, Sydney still remembered those words and it was the only memory of her mother that she kept free from the sting of betrayal. She still cherished those words, even though the woman who had uttered them was false.
In all that she did, and all that she saw Sydney followed her heart. She stubbornly held to a set of morals that often seemed out of place in the world she lived in and frequently set her at odds with mission protocol. She also had a tendency to choose her men without fully considering the consequences of a relationship with them.
And that was perhaps why she found herself in her current position as she watched raindrops trailing down the nearest window of her apartment. She was curled up on the sofa, a half-empty bottle of wine and a glass on the coffee table in front of her, the soft strains of music filtering through from the kitchen radio that she had forgotten to turn off.
Her current companion lay sprawled across a chair opposite her, a wineglass in one hand and the other idly drawing patterns on his thigh. A comfortable silence passed between them as they took the opportunity to relax without the fear of their work lives to interrupt them. The need for conversation had died away as they both retreated into their own thoughts.
Francie was away for the weekend, at some restaurant conference in Chicago, and had taken Will with her to give him some time away from Los Angeles and the nightmare of his new status as an unemployed heroin addict courtesy of his friendship with Sydney.
So Sydney had found herself alone in her apartment for the first time in weeks, and her first instinct had been to call him and ask him over. But he had already anticipated her and she had barely hung up the phone when his hand knocked on the front door.
He had been passing by, he said, when she called.
She shot him a disbelieving look but invited him in anyway. It would be just like him to know when she was alone. He knew everything after all.
He cooked dinner, protesting vigorously when she offered to order pizza. He would not eat such rubbish, he had stated with distaste, when there was plenty of ingredients in her kitchen.
She gave in and even helped him, cutting up the vegetables and making teasing remarks now and then about his obsessive nature when he took the knife away from her and showed her how to slice the carrots into equal lengths.
He ignored her effortlessly, pausing only to once to comment on her lack of culinary skills when she accidentally let it slip that the reason one of her saucepans was brand new was because she had destroyed its predecessor last week. He gave her an amused smirk, eyes twinkling with mirth, and she responded by sticking out her tongue.
Dinner had been prepared and eaten with surprisingly little bloodshed and Sydney was silently proud of his self-restraint. She had seen the fingers of his hand twitch now and then, as if itching for the trigger of the gun she knew was tucked into the back of his pants. It was always like that, both suppressing the homicidal urges the other provoked on occasion, knowing they’d regret it if they did something drastic.
It was like a game, and the first to crack was the loser. It was just the way they were. They rubbed each other the wrong way, fought constantly —verbally and physically— and still could not live without each other. They had tried it after the first time, brushing it off as a mistake and going their separate ways until their work had brought them together again and neither had been able —or willing— to resist.
The plates had been washed and dried, and now they sat here in silence. Both perfectly aware, and yet content for the moment to ignore, the other. They could both feel the tension in the air, and both could now identify what it really meant. They had barely touched all night but they knew that they would inevitably find themselves in her bed before dawn.
She still was not sure when she had begun to like him through that overwhelming sense of loathing she had felt every time they met. She knew that she had always grudgingly respected him for his skill, but beyond that he had no redeeming qualities whatsoever and she would have gladly shot him at the first opportunity.
All she could say was that working with him, on the same side so to speak, had given her an unwanted but nevertheless deeper insight into his character. She had warmed to him slowly, even found herself attracted to him on a purely physical level. He may have been morally flawed, but there was no way she could deny that he was gorgeous.
Then, after a disastrous mission in Rome when they had both escaped death by no more than a few seconds, she had found herself in his bed. She had regretted it the morning after but the next mission, though successful, had yielded the same result and she could no longer deny her attraction to him. That had been nearly six months ago and he had since become a permanent fixture in her life.
In those months she had often dwelled on her mother’s words, and each time she hoped that the Laura Bristow in Irina Derevko would be proud of her. That the mother in that duplicitous woman would be proud her daughter had chosen a man she could truly love, despite the consequences she would eventually have to face.
His faint sigh broke through her thoughts and she glanced across at him as he carefully placed his empty glass on the table. His pants rustled as he slowly rose and moved around to her with the same careless grace with which he did everything. He bent and brushed his mouth over hers, a hand grasping her arm and drawing her up with him.
Neither of them spoke as she clasped his hand and led him to her bedroom in a ritual that had become familiar to them both in the past few months. They still barely touched, though she could feel the warmth from his body behind her and it sent electric thrills through her own.
She stood in front of the bed and he raised his hand to brush her hair across one shoulder, lowering his head to kiss her throat, his tongue flicking over her pulse. His teeth nipped lightly at her skin and he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her back against his body.
A smile curved her lips and she turned in his embrace. She moved her hands up his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt as she slowly undid each button and pushed the material aside. All the time she was staring up into his eyes, darkened with lust. His mouth descended on hers and this time he really kissed her.
Sydney, he murmured her name like a caress. His fingers tangled in her hair as he lowered her onto the bed.
Julian, she answered later when she could speak again.
< O >
This section didn't seem to have enough Sarkney fics so I decided to post this one.
To the S/V shippers, hi ... please don't kill me.
Title: Follow Your Heart
Author: Abyssinian
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: Season Two, post ‘Counteragent’.
Summary: Laura Bristow once told Sydney to follow her heart.
< O >
One of the clearest memories Sydney had of Laura Bristow was being tucked into bed, listening to the rise and fall of her voice with its curious lilt —the husky accent that conjured up the images of far away lands and valiant heroes as she read the tales of their exploits to her eager daughter.
It was a memory Sydney had cherished all her life, that despite her father’s cold abandonment one of her parents had loved her. The memory of that love had given her the strength to live her life as well as she possibly could. It had inspired her to study the literature Laura had taught in the hopes of following in her footsteps. It had made her decision to join SD-6 for her, that she could do good in a world so often embroiled in evil and be even more worthy of her mother’s affection.
One night as Laura Bristow closed the cover of yet another tale she had leaned over and kissed a drowsy Sydney on the cheek. “Follow your heart, sweetheart,” that smooth, accented voice had encouraged, “Don’t let anything keep you from what you want.”
Years later when the truth behind Laura Bristow’s lies had been revealed to her daughter, Sydney still remembered those words and it was the only memory of her mother that she kept free from the sting of betrayal. She still cherished those words, even though the woman who had uttered them was false.
In all that she did, and all that she saw Sydney followed her heart. She stubbornly held to a set of morals that often seemed out of place in the world she lived in and frequently set her at odds with mission protocol. She also had a tendency to choose her men without fully considering the consequences of a relationship with them.
And that was perhaps why she found herself in her current position as she watched raindrops trailing down the nearest window of her apartment. She was curled up on the sofa, a half-empty bottle of wine and a glass on the coffee table in front of her, the soft strains of music filtering through from the kitchen radio that she had forgotten to turn off.
Her current companion lay sprawled across a chair opposite her, a wineglass in one hand and the other idly drawing patterns on his thigh. A comfortable silence passed between them as they took the opportunity to relax without the fear of their work lives to interrupt them. The need for conversation had died away as they both retreated into their own thoughts.
Francie was away for the weekend, at some restaurant conference in Chicago, and had taken Will with her to give him some time away from Los Angeles and the nightmare of his new status as an unemployed heroin addict courtesy of his friendship with Sydney.
So Sydney had found herself alone in her apartment for the first time in weeks, and her first instinct had been to call him and ask him over. But he had already anticipated her and she had barely hung up the phone when his hand knocked on the front door.
He had been passing by, he said, when she called.
She shot him a disbelieving look but invited him in anyway. It would be just like him to know when she was alone. He knew everything after all.
He cooked dinner, protesting vigorously when she offered to order pizza. He would not eat such rubbish, he had stated with distaste, when there was plenty of ingredients in her kitchen.
She gave in and even helped him, cutting up the vegetables and making teasing remarks now and then about his obsessive nature when he took the knife away from her and showed her how to slice the carrots into equal lengths.
He ignored her effortlessly, pausing only to once to comment on her lack of culinary skills when she accidentally let it slip that the reason one of her saucepans was brand new was because she had destroyed its predecessor last week. He gave her an amused smirk, eyes twinkling with mirth, and she responded by sticking out her tongue.
Dinner had been prepared and eaten with surprisingly little bloodshed and Sydney was silently proud of his self-restraint. She had seen the fingers of his hand twitch now and then, as if itching for the trigger of the gun she knew was tucked into the back of his pants. It was always like that, both suppressing the homicidal urges the other provoked on occasion, knowing they’d regret it if they did something drastic.
It was like a game, and the first to crack was the loser. It was just the way they were. They rubbed each other the wrong way, fought constantly —verbally and physically— and still could not live without each other. They had tried it after the first time, brushing it off as a mistake and going their separate ways until their work had brought them together again and neither had been able —or willing— to resist.
The plates had been washed and dried, and now they sat here in silence. Both perfectly aware, and yet content for the moment to ignore, the other. They could both feel the tension in the air, and both could now identify what it really meant. They had barely touched all night but they knew that they would inevitably find themselves in her bed before dawn.
She still was not sure when she had begun to like him through that overwhelming sense of loathing she had felt every time they met. She knew that she had always grudgingly respected him for his skill, but beyond that he had no redeeming qualities whatsoever and she would have gladly shot him at the first opportunity.
All she could say was that working with him, on the same side so to speak, had given her an unwanted but nevertheless deeper insight into his character. She had warmed to him slowly, even found herself attracted to him on a purely physical level. He may have been morally flawed, but there was no way she could deny that he was gorgeous.
Then, after a disastrous mission in Rome when they had both escaped death by no more than a few seconds, she had found herself in his bed. She had regretted it the morning after but the next mission, though successful, had yielded the same result and she could no longer deny her attraction to him. That had been nearly six months ago and he had since become a permanent fixture in her life.
In those months she had often dwelled on her mother’s words, and each time she hoped that the Laura Bristow in Irina Derevko would be proud of her. That the mother in that duplicitous woman would be proud her daughter had chosen a man she could truly love, despite the consequences she would eventually have to face.
His faint sigh broke through her thoughts and she glanced across at him as he carefully placed his empty glass on the table. His pants rustled as he slowly rose and moved around to her with the same careless grace with which he did everything. He bent and brushed his mouth over hers, a hand grasping her arm and drawing her up with him.
Neither of them spoke as she clasped his hand and led him to her bedroom in a ritual that had become familiar to them both in the past few months. They still barely touched, though she could feel the warmth from his body behind her and it sent electric thrills through her own.
She stood in front of the bed and he raised his hand to brush her hair across one shoulder, lowering his head to kiss her throat, his tongue flicking over her pulse. His teeth nipped lightly at her skin and he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her back against his body.
A smile curved her lips and she turned in his embrace. She moved her hands up his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt as she slowly undid each button and pushed the material aside. All the time she was staring up into his eyes, darkened with lust. His mouth descended on hers and this time he really kissed her.
Sydney, he murmured her name like a caress. His fingers tangled in her hair as he lowered her onto the bed.
Julian, she answered later when she could speak again.
< O >
This section didn't seem to have enough Sarkney fics so I decided to post this one.
To the S/V shippers, hi ... please don't kill me.
Everyone is entitled to their opinion... LOL, such words of wisdom, i sound like my prinicpal in assembly this arvo... boring