TITLE: Comfort Challenged
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
RATING: NC-17
POSTED: Oct. 26, 2003
SUMMARY: No bosses, no microphones, no sleep...wouldn't you?
DISCLAIMER: If I own anything, someone needs to let me know.
NOTES: For the Spy Crossover Extravaganza. Post current-season for both series (Alias and MI-5/Spooks). Shrift and Nestra said the crossovers didn't have to be porn, and this one started out innocently enough. Didn't seem right without the porn, though. And I'm thinking about commissioning a tiara for Rez, mistress of the beta.
The darkness doesn't comfort so much as it envelops her.
The darkness, almost as complete as if her eyes were closed, doesn't hide the facts. Life is unfair, especially right now, at this moment, when her breathing comes far too fast even before the bed dips under his weight and she contemplates the virtues of hell as an alternative to here.
"Please tell me...that I'm about to wake up and discover...that you are in fact not here."
"Do you think that's possible?"
"No." Zoe rolls into a tight ball, her back turned to him and her forehead bent toward her stomach. The sheet is rough against her cheek until she tucks her right hand under her head, cupping her ear in her palm as she concentrates on drawing air in and out. She can hear her pulse. "I'm never that lucky."
At Sark's low chuckle, she wraps her left arm tight around her legs and tucks herself in closer.
For the few seconds her concentration holds, she is in her flat. There is the murmur of Danny charming another of his ladies. There is a sheaf of papers lying on the floor beside her bed, waiting for her to finish studying for her latest language proficiency assessment. There is a glow of pride at receiving an essential assignment.
There is no concern for being paired on that assignment with a man who isn't even a legitimate colleague. There is no rough taste of panic clogging her throat. There is no appearance of six adolescent hoods moving in, catching her concentrating on the meet happening across the street and in her ear instead of on her surroundings.
In the field, years of training went right out the bloody window; now in this tawdry motor inn off the M20 in Kent, a pill bug has nothing on her when it comes to self-preservation.
"You know, it could be that this is indeed your lucky night."
"Only if you fell off the bed and broke your neck." Even if he is a liar and a killer, does she need to be that harsh? She tries to soften it: "Agent Bristow warned me about you."
"I'm sure she did. However, the bed would have to be quite a bit higher for that."
Yes, harsh is good; harsh will make him return to the chair. "Or I'd just have to push you harder."
"Come, now."
Focused as she is on turning everything inward, his warm hand on the back of her neck is a shock that makes her jerk to a second of horizontal attention before she curls further toward the edge and possible broken bones of her own -- nothing could hurt more than the awareness of bruises that a scalding shower couldn't keep from forming. But she doesn't get far, not with his hand tightening, holding her there quite literally by the scruff of her neck.
At the sensation, the memory, a slight whimper escapes and she bites down on her knee to prevent another slip. Amazement flashes by, wonder at the flexibility that panic has revealed.
"Shhh."
His hand doesn't lift, but it does release, just a bit, just enough so that he can begin to knead the point at the base of her skull -- too high, it should be too high, except that's exactly where tension now sits and her shoulders hunch further toward her ears at his touch, making her wonder if it's possible for a person to actually crack in two. He begins to stroke down her spine -- long, slow strokes, and she'd strike out, she really would, but she can't get the right neurons to fire on her command -- and then it's as if he's stroking the knots right out of her, dragging them down, down and away. She is horrified to hear a sigh and realize it's hers.
"Don't." His voice is soft, even as his hand presses deeper into vertebrae, forcing muscles to twitch.
"Wh-what?"
"Don't tighten up again."
"I'm--" She begins to turn to her back, but his free hand settles on her shoulder blade, preventing her attempt to look at him for a clue as to why.
"No, just lie there. Or curl up there. Whichever you're more comfortable with, although I could guess which that would be."
A strangled giggle slips from her throat and he pats her shoulder once before bringing that hand down to join the other in the circling strokes at the small of her back.
"That's it."
She can hear the smile in his voice and she blinks in the darkness. The thin light running around the edges of the window blind highlights a twisted pile of quilt on the floor -- no wonder she's so cold. Concentrating on the stitching that runs in jumbled dark lines across the white, it doesn't seem so bad that a man that everyone has told her no one should ever trust is soothing her into sleep.
Zoe wakes wrapped around warmth. She is doing the clinging, she notes that, rubbing her nose against soft, warm cotton--
Her eyes snap open to see her fist curled on Sark's chest, rising and sinking ever so slightly with his even breathing. She holds her own breath as she becomes aware of his arm under her head, hard muscle cushioning her in place of a pillow. But he's not holding her in place; he's not holding her at all. He's just...there. She is the one with her arm flung across his torso, her bent leg resting across both of his.
Afraid to do more than swallow, she slowly tilts her head up, ignoring the hair that slides into the corner of her mouth with the change in position. Her stomach jitters to see his eyes open and staring at the ceiling, or perhaps at nothing at all.
At least they were. At her movement, he drops his gaze to hers. When his eyes fall lower, her lips tingle and she presses them together to keep from wetting them in response.
Shifting, he braces his shoulders up against the headboard and brings them both to an incline. Looking up at the gleam of his eyes in the weak light, she sees his head lower toward her. Would his kiss be as comforting as his hands were before, or hard as the body she is draped against now?
Startled at the thought, she yelps and tries to sit up completely, separate herself from him. But now his arm comes up around her, holding her in place as he says, "There is no surveillance here, no one to see that you fell asleep instead of keeping an ever-vigilant eye on me. They had no way of knowing we would end up in a hole like this rather than the hotel they arranged."
Damn, he probably meant only to speak. What the hell is she thinking?
Then his words sink in and she concentrates on taking no more than a shuddering breath as she thinks about the microphone in her jacket collar. It's lying somewhere on the street now, where she shed the extra layer while struggling to get back into her car. She hadn't even noticed its absence until well after she had looked up from her stupor to find he had stopped the car here instead of at the hotel Sam arranged. She knows she should have put up more of a fuss; she wishes she had, at least a token, more than "What are we--?" But she didn't have the energy then, and it certainly makes no difference now.
"They...they know where we are..." Oh, yes, she's in control, can't you tell? She clears her throat and tries again. "I phoned Danny earlier. And they'll be expecting another check at six."
"It's barely three."
There are no clocks -- this is a bring-it-yourself kind of place -- but she sees the time in the faint glow of the watch still on his wrist when he holds it up for her to read. A gesture of good faith, she supposes. There are indeed three more hours before she must check in again and let Tom and Danny know that the pieces are in place for her and Sark to go ahead with the follow-up meeting. There is still one more step in this attempt to set up the intercept of U.S. military arms that Sark, through the CIA, tipped them off to. The others -- particularly Agent Bristow -- weren't happy to wait that long to hear a confirmation from her. She had, however, made it clear that while tonight had not gone entirely as planned, all they needed was more equipment, and that would not be able to be in place until morning in any case, so she'll talk to them when it arrives.
She can't admit to failure this time.
At midnight, hyperventilating in the middle of the bed, she hadn't been positive about her decision. A bit of comfort and several hours of sleep later, and she feels much more confident about her ability to continue.
She is, however, less certain about what her next decision should be.
As if reading her mind, a half-smile crosses his face and he raises his left hand to brush her hair from her mouth. "With that much time, would you like to try to sleep again?"
"Is there another option?"
"There are always other options."
That there are. Sleep would be the easiest and possibly the best. Tomorrow she must join him in the meet, play the part of deaf-mute glamorous lackey, there to do no more than look smashing while holding the bag of "M. Delaine." She can't look like she's spent the better part of the night tossing and turning.
Sark is silent, tipping his head back against the padding, seemingly willing to let her drift off again. It's tempting. Her other thought would be no better an idea -- perhaps a worse one -- than Carlo. She still can't believe Tom did that to her. That afternoon, however, did remind her of why not everyone cuts themselves off, holds themselves apart from those around them, and after tonight...
Her fingers tingle as she sweeps them up his bared throat, coming to a stop against the pulse at the base of his jaw. Wondering at his thoughts when his breathing stops, she hitches herself up with a hand against the mattress, her breasts flattening on his chest as she leans in to place her tongue against that pulse point and feel it jump. His arm slips down to her waist and his hand clenches there when she hums approval of his scent -- clean, dark, a heady contrast to his tendency to slip through the hard lines of the world -- and runs her lips forward along his jaw, up to tease his mouth.
"Is this the other option?" Her whisper makes her tremble, shocked at her need to use him for another form of comfort. At least this is one that she can be fairly certain won't make it back to the office. This is nothing more than...a night. A bad, but not lonely, night. The real question is: will he let her take it?
Her answer comes when his head tilts and the touch of lips turns deep, wet, full of flavor as his tongue pushes in to stroke hers with a talent that shouldn't surprise. He takes her ability to sigh, moan, or do anything but kiss him back, and it gives her a freedom that she reaches out to grab and hold. Her other hand comes up so she is bracketing his face, then both slide up to catch in his hair.
He lifts her fully over him, pulling up a knee briefly so her legs part when she comes down on him. She shudders at the feeling of that knee and then of him rubbing against her through layers of cotton and denim -- so fast, how can it take over so fast? -- and she wriggles against him, seeking the sensation again.
His chuckle penetrates the buzz in her head, in her body, and she tries to pull back, but her hands don't want to come loose. That's only slightly more disturbing than discovering that it wouldn't matter because he has a firm grip on her waist and plenty more leverage than her with her knees spread far too wide on the bed. She tears her mouth from his, gasping, their eyes meeting. Although there is no trace of it now in the intensity of his gaze, she knows she heard that amusement and with it, the caution that never really left her comes to the forefront.
"This is--"
"Don't think." He lifts his hands, but then they are hot against her cheeks, her ears, her jaw, holding her less than a breath from him as her heart skips. "This is just tonight."
"Why?" That, she realizes, is what looms in her mind. Nothing in their world is done without a purpose, without some sort of price.
A wicked smile this time, clear and gleaming with her so close. "You need someone to make you scream in pleasure instead of fear."
Even as the tingle expands from her chest outward, she frowns. "That's not an answer. And it's awfully arro--"
"Oh, I can do it." He releases her head and cups her breasts, rubbing her nipples through the cotton of the camisole she had left on in place of a nightshirt, but the layer doesn't seem to matter to her body, which arches into the sensation. "You had already forgotten everything except being so wet you're prepared to come before we remove our clothes."
It's mortifying, how close he is to the truth. And frustrating to know that he knows it. Positioned where she is, it is far easier to contemplate making him regret such a comment than to look him in the face.
His smile, however, isn't just wicked. There is, as she has discovered there always is, a sense of watchfulness behind the outer layer.
And she hasn't felt, really felt this burn that proves you're alive for so long.
Testing, she runs her hands down his chest to take the edge of the simple white t-shirt he's wearing and tug it up. He raises his arms long enough for her to pull the cloth over his head and, when she tosses it away, he returns his hands to her. She does nothing more, busy admiring the sleek muscle that lines his chest and flows through his shoulders, revealing a tempered strength so well camouflaged by silk and suits. He gives her the smug smile of one who knows his challenge will not be met, and starts to shift away.
That's when she straightens, pushes closer, rubbing against him as sensually as she knows how.
His smile freezes and his eyes widen -- ahh, called your bluff -- and he thrusts up against her. More than willing to be pulled back into the moment, she lets her head fall forward, so their foreheads touch. Breath coming faster, she whispers, "Okay, but we'll see who screams first."
Not giving him a chance to respond, she nips his bottom lip between her teeth, delighting in his slight wince before she sucks on it, laving the pain away with her tongue. When he leans back murmuring, "No cheating," she follows. No way is she going to lose the advantage after breaking a crack in his wall; not often that a girl like her gets a chance like this.
He reaches down and pulls at her jeans, and the way his fingers fumble at the button boosts her confidence further before he gets both it and the zipper open and starts rubbing circles on her lower abdomen. Shuddering, she releases his lips and raises up as well as she can because oh, yes, lower please, lower. Her own hands reach for the closure on his trousers.
He doesn't give her the chance to get there. With a shake of his head, he shifts and forces her up from her knees to her feet. The move pulls her hands away from him and leaves her precariously straddling his hips, clutching for him, moaning her disappointment. He holds her there, his grip growing stronger on her hips, and her sight clears enough to notice his eyebrows raised in mock amazement. Right. Think beyond the moment.
Working together, they soon have both her jeans and her panties off, leaving no barrier for his fingers. Eyes closed, she grips his shoulders, trying to anchor herself, preparing...and he brushes against her once, twice, then a finger slips into her, sliding easily into the wetness, and she clenches around it, wanting more. He complies with another finger and a hard and fast rhythm that makes her hiss his name as the pleasure spears through her, her own fingers tightening on his shoulders, so tight she can feel muscle pressing against bone.
Even while her hips thrust forward, seeking more, more, she struggles to open her eyes. She needs to--
She gets them open in time to see his blond head move forward and a second later she feels his tongue on her clit, pressing, flicking, making her bite her lip to keep from crying out. Can't. Can't make a sound.
Her hands are in his hair again. She gathers what's left of her willpower and yanks his head back. He growls, "Oh, no, not that easy," and she almost collapses from the shock as he immediately replaces his tongue with his thumb. After a moment, her balance does give way and she falls back to her knees, his fingers, still buried in her, forced even deeper.
He takes advantage of her new position to suck deeply on a nipple, the damp cloth continuing to provide sensation when he moves on to the other. Mouth open to catch all the air she can, she tears at the zipper on his pants. Off. Now. He winces and withdraws his fingers from her heat just long enough to carefully, quickly lower the zipper himself. Relief is almost as strong as the pleasure when he returns to her, driving her up, and she trembles as he presses his open mouth to her collarbone.
Climax builds, pushing her tighter and higher, but he's not right up at that edge with her, he's still holding back, she can feel it, damn him. She shakes her head. "Not yet, not yet--" She takes his cock into her hands, enveloping it, and he groans, the vibration against her neck setting off shivers. Trying to regain control, she drags her thumb across the head, thrilling at the feel of his instant response in the silky drops that she now uses to coat him.
He grabs her by the neck -- isn't that how this all started? -- and pulls her forward, taking her earlobe between his teeth.
"Standard...precautions?"
The harsh demand for her to acknowledge the protection every field agent should use takes a moment to sink in, a moment in which he bites down hard and her head falls back, a sound edging dangerously close to a cry emerging. He hauls in a deep breath and asks again, and she nods, whispers, "Yes," to make sure.
He withdraws his fingers entirely and she whimpers. Yes, now, now right now. One of his hands settles over hers, and with the other he pulls her up and forward until he's rubbing against her and she can feel her own wetness mingling with his on their fingers. He pulls her hands away and pushes her legs further apart, forcing her to sink down onto him. Desperately trying to adjust, she leans forward and draws up her knees, taking him deeper as their mouths meet in a brutal kiss that muffles both of their groans.
It's good, so good, too good to allow it to end, not yet, not ever. He grits, "No," against her mouth and she gasps, but she can't stop to think about saying that out loud, can't stop moving, raising, lowering, tightening around him and feeling him all the way through her. Distantly, she feels him take one hand from where it's been digging into her hip and he grazes and then presses against her clit and--
She finally does crack -- right down the middle, with a scream.
When the pieces reluctantly return to forge a whole again, she is cradling his head. She holds them both together and shudders as he comes with his face buried against her neck -- without a sound.
The sun wakes her this time.
Zoe blinks in the glare coming under the open shade -- and then blinks at it.
It's February. The sun's up.
It's well past six a.m.
"Shit!"
Sark is gone. Reaching out, she can feel the chill of the sheet beside her and admits that Sark has been gone for some time. But the door is still intact and she wasn't pulled out of sleep by sirens, so Tom hasn't gone berserk on her yet. Why not?
She shoves upright and hears a crackle. A quick pat-down of the sheet tangled around her turns up the note, scrawled on the back of a receipt.
Called Quinn. Went to the meet. Will notify you of the results to pass on to the interested parties.
Sleep well.
No signature needed, obviously, and the receipt is for a cheap snack, paid for in cash; nothing will be gained from further study. She stares at it a bit longer, though, wondering what slick excuse Sark produced to get by Tom for not having her on the call.
Scrubbing her hands over her face, she knows she'll catch hell for letting Sark disappear into whatever world he runs. The shouting will most likely come from the CIA, however. If Sark actually kept the meeting, the operation will continue forward, and Harry had succumbed to his twisted humor from the start in his opinion of the American's ability to hang on to the man they considered part of the prize. So there will be yet another nick on the relationship between sister agencies -- sisters make some of the most fascinating rivals, Harry always said -- and barks far louder than any bites from her own mother agency.
She will have a memory, though. One of comfort that she can hug tight without sharing or feeling shame. That's something, at least, she thinks as she rises and retrieves her cell from where it's resting on the jeans that are folded neatly on the chair.
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