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monanotlisa - Alias FIC: Tourist (1/1)
24 Feb 2006 04:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kangeikoI would have posted this as a comment, but it exceeded the max. word count, so -
As requested - albeit, very late - a ficlet with the first line given as a prompt. It's meant to be J/N, I swear! Only, erm, Arvin wanted to talk instead. The J/N is, erm, subtext. And it was done in, like, five minutes, so, er, you are not to deny me food in retribution!!
Title: Tourist
Set post-S4, but no spoilers for S5.
*
He hadn't actually considered it - but it was, he supposed, a good city to die in. Emily had always been fond of it, in any case, and that would have to be good enough.
Sloane had never had any particular issue with feeling insignificant, although Dr Barnett had done her best to imply that some deep-rooted complex might have been at work this whole time. No, Sloane did not hold with such nonsense. The tussling of several of the world's secret powers over him would be proof enough for even the most insecure individual and Sloane did not think himself as particularly insecure, despite Dr Barnett's infuriating claims.
Still. There was something to be said for majesty of St Paul's, its great dome filling the sight of the beholder with false light. Sloane knew the physics at work - the refraction of light; the marvels of engineering - that made the cathedral's dome fill with inner light, but it made him shiver nonetheless. Men had died and been buried here and, fast on its heels came the thought, greater men than I. Was this choice purely aspirational, then; a last grasp at greatness?
The rain fell fitfully, as if the clouds could not make up their minds, but it was a lot of water nonetheless. The attendant wind whipped up the droplets so that they were almost horizontal and the wide black umbrella was really no use at all against the deluge. Sloane's trousers were soaked through, and his expensive Italian leather shoes would probably begin to leak any second. I hate this city, Sloane thought, just as he had thought it every time Emily expressed an ineffable delight in an upcoming visit to London. I hate it and I will never stop hating it. This was the place that Emily had discovered her pregnancy, those many years ago, and Sloane could not quite dash the irrational blame from his mind. It was London, not Florence, to blame for his daughter's death, and such things are not easily forgiven.
It is ironic, then - although Dr Barnett would not stop, let alone appreciate, the irony - that this murderous city is his only chance of saving Nadia. A rendezvous, in a little over fifteen minutes, inside St Paul's while the service continued apace; the choir boys and congregation oblivious. It was almost perverse, Sloane thought, and smiled a little. His hands were cold from the snap of the late winter's chill and a part of him - the part that thinks he is possibly too old for this - longs to be inside the building already, warmed by the crush of bodies singing to the heavens.
He checked his watch impatiently. It is nearly time, and he is too old for this, he thinks, eye catching the flecks of blood against the timepiece. Time was, he wouldn't have been so sloppy in the clean-up. Time was, he would have found another way.
Time was, London would take his daughter and give him nothing in return, and Sloane will not allow the possibility of it happening again. Not when Jack's blood was still spattered on his wristwatch and he wasn't sure that the blow had been as precisely as he had intended. He thought it had been. He hoped it had been.
(Insecurity, the traitorous part of him whispered. It sounded like Dr Barnett. This is what insecurity feels like. Did you kill your best friend?)
He'd always had the best intentions, really. That is what is most worrying of all. If he had meant to kill Jack, he could be sure of his aim. But a blow to disable but not too badly; drugs to incapacite, but not cause cardial arrest; restraints to keep him still but not indefinitely - no, he could not be sure. All he was sure about was what would happen if Jack came here, alone, and attempted this damned fool mission.
No. It would all turn out just as planned. Sydney would find Jack, but too late for them to do anything to jeapordise Sloane's plans. Nadia would be cured, and Jack and Sydney would be safe, and what more could he wish for? Checkmate - and all the vulnerable pieces were far across the board, where they couldn't be threatened.
Emily had used to joke about dying, and capitalism, and shoes. Sloane had always smiled past the lump in his throat because he understood that she was trying to be brave. The part that broke his heart was that it was all for him - the smiles, the bravery, the light in her eyes. It is a rare thing that he would be forced to reconsider Emily's bravery this long after her death, but it presses at him nonetheless, through the spatter of rain and sleet. It was stupid to think of it now - should he be composing a soliloqui? - but it came to him, all the same - Whoever has the most surviving loved ones when he dies, wins.
The wind tugged at his coat and Sloane hugged his arms more tightly against it. Three more minutes, and he would go inside.
Two.
He hadn't actually considered it - but London was, Sloane supposed, a good city to die in.
*
fin
As requested - albeit, very late - a ficlet with the first line given as a prompt. It's meant to be J/N, I swear! Only, erm, Arvin wanted to talk instead. The J/N is, erm, subtext. And it was done in, like, five minutes, so, er, you are not to deny me food in retribution!!
Title: Tourist
Set post-S4, but no spoilers for S5.
*
He hadn't actually considered it - but it was, he supposed, a good city to die in. Emily had always been fond of it, in any case, and that would have to be good enough.
Sloane had never had any particular issue with feeling insignificant, although Dr Barnett had done her best to imply that some deep-rooted complex might have been at work this whole time. No, Sloane did not hold with such nonsense. The tussling of several of the world's secret powers over him would be proof enough for even the most insecure individual and Sloane did not think himself as particularly insecure, despite Dr Barnett's infuriating claims.
Still. There was something to be said for majesty of St Paul's, its great dome filling the sight of the beholder with false light. Sloane knew the physics at work - the refraction of light; the marvels of engineering - that made the cathedral's dome fill with inner light, but it made him shiver nonetheless. Men had died and been buried here and, fast on its heels came the thought, greater men than I. Was this choice purely aspirational, then; a last grasp at greatness?
The rain fell fitfully, as if the clouds could not make up their minds, but it was a lot of water nonetheless. The attendant wind whipped up the droplets so that they were almost horizontal and the wide black umbrella was really no use at all against the deluge. Sloane's trousers were soaked through, and his expensive Italian leather shoes would probably begin to leak any second. I hate this city, Sloane thought, just as he had thought it every time Emily expressed an ineffable delight in an upcoming visit to London. I hate it and I will never stop hating it. This was the place that Emily had discovered her pregnancy, those many years ago, and Sloane could not quite dash the irrational blame from his mind. It was London, not Florence, to blame for his daughter's death, and such things are not easily forgiven.
It is ironic, then - although Dr Barnett would not stop, let alone appreciate, the irony - that this murderous city is his only chance of saving Nadia. A rendezvous, in a little over fifteen minutes, inside St Paul's while the service continued apace; the choir boys and congregation oblivious. It was almost perverse, Sloane thought, and smiled a little. His hands were cold from the snap of the late winter's chill and a part of him - the part that thinks he is possibly too old for this - longs to be inside the building already, warmed by the crush of bodies singing to the heavens.
He checked his watch impatiently. It is nearly time, and he is too old for this, he thinks, eye catching the flecks of blood against the timepiece. Time was, he wouldn't have been so sloppy in the clean-up. Time was, he would have found another way.
Time was, London would take his daughter and give him nothing in return, and Sloane will not allow the possibility of it happening again. Not when Jack's blood was still spattered on his wristwatch and he wasn't sure that the blow had been as precisely as he had intended. He thought it had been. He hoped it had been.
(Insecurity, the traitorous part of him whispered. It sounded like Dr Barnett. This is what insecurity feels like. Did you kill your best friend?)
He'd always had the best intentions, really. That is what is most worrying of all. If he had meant to kill Jack, he could be sure of his aim. But a blow to disable but not too badly; drugs to incapacite, but not cause cardial arrest; restraints to keep him still but not indefinitely - no, he could not be sure. All he was sure about was what would happen if Jack came here, alone, and attempted this damned fool mission.
No. It would all turn out just as planned. Sydney would find Jack, but too late for them to do anything to jeapordise Sloane's plans. Nadia would be cured, and Jack and Sydney would be safe, and what more could he wish for? Checkmate - and all the vulnerable pieces were far across the board, where they couldn't be threatened.
Emily had used to joke about dying, and capitalism, and shoes. Sloane had always smiled past the lump in his throat because he understood that she was trying to be brave. The part that broke his heart was that it was all for him - the smiles, the bravery, the light in her eyes. It is a rare thing that he would be forced to reconsider Emily's bravery this long after her death, but it presses at him nonetheless, through the spatter of rain and sleet. It was stupid to think of it now - should he be composing a soliloqui? - but it came to him, all the same - Whoever has the most surviving loved ones when he dies, wins.
The wind tugged at his coat and Sloane hugged his arms more tightly against it. Three more minutes, and he would go inside.
Two.
He hadn't actually considered it - but London was, Sloane supposed, a good city to die in.
*
fin