Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

Raw: Alias (j/v), 1 of 2

So I watched up through the finale of Alias tonight, at last.

o.O

More on that later. Some porn now.



Raw

1.

"These guys are the absolute dregs," Weiss said. "Even for drug dealers, we're talking bottom-feeders. No, they're the *algae* that bottom-feeders feed on." He glanced toward the cell bars, one leg jittering. "This is what's called making conversation, by the way."

Sydney turned. Her face was an icy scrim over deep worry, but none of it was directed his way. "It's been over an hour. What if--" She stopped before saying awful words aloud.

"Hey." He got up and went to her and touched her arm. "They'll be all right. Petra's not going to kill them. He wants bargaining chips."

"Death isn't the worst that can happen," Sydney said, her expression unchanged. The flat voice of experience made Weiss shudder somewhere inside.

"I know," he admitted quietly, looking away. Acknowledging the scope of his fear was what he'd been trying to avoid. He paced the cell for a few minutes. It wasn't the smallest cell he'd ever been in; about ten by ten, with a pair of stained mattresses and blankets on either side of the cement floor, lit only by a ceiling light in the passage. The matching cell on the other side was empty. The guards had taken Vaughn and Jack away for--well, for god knew what. Questioning, torture, a game of kick the can.

Sydney started testing the bars again. She was diligent, he had to give her that. Though wired on worry, at least she was doing something. He'd seen agents, usually newbies, get paralyzed and useless under duress. Personally he tried to conserve his energy and watch for any new angle of opportunity, but everyone had their own thing.

"Is it just me, or does it seem like we've been captured a lot lately?" he asked, coming around for another circuit.

This got her attention again and she frowned, mind visibly working. "You think there's a mole?"

"I don't know," he said, too apathetic to follow through on the idea. "I'm just talking."

The door at the end of the corridor banged open followed by the sound of clinking and dragging. Weiss and Sydney pressed themselves against the bars and craned for a better view. Sydney sucked in a distressed breath when Jack stumbled into sight. Blood trickled down one temple and a shirt-tail was loose. Around one eye, a bruise was rising. Vaughn was being shoved along behind him by another guard, looking about the same. Their faces were alert though, and Weiss felt as if his shoulders had unlocked and dropped a weight away.

They'd been stun-darted earlier and shackled, and the shackles remained on. The guards went through a choreographed routine of locking the cell and having Vaughn and Jack lie face-down, feet to the edge so that their ankles could be freed. Then they tossed the key in and waited until their captives managed to unfasten the cuffs. Face angry but resigned, Vaughn threw the cuffs and key through the bars. They'd just have been darted again if they didn't.

After the guards left, Petra came in and reviewed them all with a smile. Sydney gave him a look of loathing, eyes probing him for weaknesses and promising retribution. She didn't move a muscle but every rigid line of her body said that she would have leapt through the bars if she could have and kicked the shit out of him.

"Relax," he said. "I'm giving you the rest of the night off. Tell me, how do you prefer your steaks--rare, well-done?" He laughed at his own joke.

"You're a riot," Weiss said in disgust.

"Well, perhaps no dinner after all, but I will give you a show." He flashed his teeth in an unpleasant way, pushing the sides of his mustache up, and glanced at the other cell, then left.

Sydney's anxiety was surfacing again. "Dad," she called across. "Are you guys okay?"

"More or less." Jack sounded tense, and he and Vaughn exchanged a grim look that made Weiss's stomach twist. "They gave us something. I don't know what." He pushed a sleeve up and studied his right arm.

"Injections?" Sydney said, alarm raising the pitch of her voice for a moment before it lowered to an even more terrible hush. "Dad. What if it was Drakul?"

Weiss could see that this had already occurred to both men. There was reluctance in Jack's bearing, as if he feared something even worse. "When we were brought in, they took blood samples."

"You think they created a genetic-specific compound." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"What does that mean?" Weiss asked. "If you're locked in a cage together on that stuff, you'd tear each other to pieces anyway." It sickened him to say this, but he desperately wanted to hear someone offer an alternative.

"We won't know its purpose until it takes effect," Vaughn said with an edge. He looked like Weiss felt, but it had to be a thousand times worse for him.

"You've got to keep away from each other." Sydney spoke urgently. "Whatever it is, proximity will set it off."

"Given the size of the cell, I doubt there's much point." Jack's voice had no inflection. He might have been commenting on the inevitability of weather. But even Weiss could read the guy well enough by now to see that he was on a hair-trigger.

"You have to try!" That was Sydney at her most dictatorial, but who could blame her. If they'd been given Petra's latest lethal synthetic drug, she'd have to watch helplessly as her father and her friend ripped each other to shreds in a vampiric frenzy. Weiss could all too easily picture the cell across from them spattered with arterial blood, Jack gorging on torn flesh like some insane zombie. Somehow he saw Jack winning.

"Of course," Jack replied, curt.

For a while they all sat in silence, isolated by their thoughts. Weiss drank as much tap-water as he could from the sink to fill the hollow ache in his stomach, then regretted it when he had to piss down the stinkhole drain in the corner twenty minutes later. Sydney didn't watch, but it made his face heat with embarrassment. Oh yeah, he was a highly trained agent of the CIA, inured to all forms of hardship. Sure.

Sydney wouldn't sit down. She hovered by the bars, watchful gaze fixed on the opposite cell. Weiss wanted to tell her to let up but he knew how useless that would be. She'd do whatever she was going to do, even if she couldn't do anything.

After a while, when his own tension ratcheted up to the breaking point, he sat up on his mattress, hooked his arms around his knees and stared across too. Jack and Vaughn sat on their own pallets, backs to the wall, facing each other with ten feet of cell between them. Jack's eyes were closed as if he were trying to focus inward. Vaughn was staring at Jack in a brooding way. There was a faint twist to his jaw that Weiss recognized as evidence of his own exercise in self-control.

"How are you guys doing?" he asked uneasily. They were close enough and it was quiet enough that he didn't really have to raise his voice.

"Hungry," Vaughn said. A horrible pause followed his word. Jack opened his eyes and Sydney's widened. Vaughn glanced around. "Not *that* kind of hungry," he said in quick reassurance, and swallowed as if he were seeing unwanted images in his head.

Weiss thought he'd never watch vampire movies in the same way again. This was driving him crazy with fear, and every minute just made it worse. An actual physical pain.

"It's hot in here," Vaughn said a short time later. An edge was back in his voice. "Is it hot in here?"

"Yes," Jack said.

Weiss and Sydney traded a look as even higher spikes of anxiety hit. It wasn't hot. Not at all. He stood up and went to her side, and they both looked intently across the corridor.

"Guys," Weiss said, keeping his voice steady. "How're you doing?"

"I think you should both cover your faces," Sydney said, obviously clutching at any straw she could think of. "With your hands--your blankets. It'll help filter any pheromones."

Vaughn sighed, head dropping back against the wall with an air of resignation, then he drew up his knees and bent his neck to hide his face. After a moment, Jack mirrored his pose. Weiss could hear his own erratic breathing as he waited for awful things to happen. An imaginary clock ticked away, until Vaughn straightened with a restless movement.

"I can't," he said, but didn't finish the thought. He stood, moved toward the back wall of the cell, leaned there and then moved away at once, feet carrying him in an elliptical line toward Jack.

"Vaughn!" Sydney warned. Her tone reminded Weiss of how he reprimanded his dog, but with an undertone of fear. "You have to stay on the other side of the cell!"

He ignored her and continued to wander, while Jack raised his head and trained his gaze on Vaughn, following his movements with narrowing eyes. Weiss felt sick as he watched Jack stand and drift in a dangerous eddy toward Vaughn. They ended up a few feet apart, studying each other in a focused way.

"This is bad," Weiss muttered, close to panic. "This is very bad."

"Dad! Vaughn!" Sydney banged on the bars to try and get their attention.

Both men were controlled but agitated, hands fidgeting, legs shifting their weight. They looked aware of their condition but compelled to confront each other. Their concentration was single-minded. And then Vaughn leaned in and pushed his face against Jack's neck.

"No!" Sydney's voice almost broke.

"Okay, okay, okay, okay," Weiss chanted to himself beneath his breath, gripping the bars with white-knuckled intensity. Stay calm, he thought. If you stay calm, maybe they'll stay calm. Until they shred each other.

Jack stood still and let it happen, head tilting up a little, eyes closing, lips parting as if to draw breath. He didn't seem ready to explode in a maddened frenzy of orgiastic violence, which was good.

"Oh god," Vaughn groaned. His teeth--lips? huh?--grazed the line of Jack's neck and then his jaw and then--wow. Wow. Weiss's eyes widened.

"So, not Drakul, I'm thinking," he said in stupefaction when he found his voice.

"Oh, god." Sydney sounded dazed, with a side of mortified. Like him, she hadn't seen this one coming. Plus it had to be even weirder for her, watching a guy she'd once been quasi-not-quite-involved with macking on her father.

Vaughn and Jack had lunged into a groping, busy kind of clinch, kissing as if they'd just stumbled out of a desert and were drinking water from each other's mouths. It was so way past any ordinary level of disturbing that Weiss didn't know how to react. It was Twilight Zone crossed with porn. Gay porn. He'd never seen gay porn. Apparently he was about to.

"Dad," Sydney said, with a high-pitched waver in her voice that made her sound about twelve years old. "Michael. This is--you shouldn't--" She glanced at Weiss, imploring.

"What?" What did she want him to do?

They stared back across. There was definitely some caged-heat action going on now, with a lot of the bad touch. Weiss realized he shouldn't be watching this. No way should either of them be watching this. He said as much to Sydney.

"You're--you're right. We shouldn't--" She hesitated with one last appalled and mournful glance, then turned away resolutely. They retreated to their mattresses.

Unfortunately there was no escape from the audio track.

"Oh, Jesus, Jack," Vaughn said in a low, desperate voice. Even Jack's ragged breath of response was audible. "We can't."

Thank *god*, thought Weiss in relief.

"You're right."

Thank you *Jesus*. Weiss sent his gratitude winging to the heavens.

"Oh fuck," Vaughn said huskily, "I can't stop." He sounded astonished and--god help them all--incredibly turned on.

*No*, Weiss sent him by telepathic beam. Bad. Wrong. No, Mike, no. *Think*: Jack. Bristow. Come to your senses, man!

Telepathy didn't do the trick. It so rarely did. He'd tried it on girlfriends before and didn't have crap to show for it, so he should know better. Talk between the other men had died, replaced by breathing and kissing. Weiss tried not to picture it, but the sounds were close and the whole thing did hold a sort of grotesque fascination. Plus there was no cable. He could hear soft choking moans from Vaughn--*like a fucking cat in heat*, he thought uncharitably--and harsher sounds from Jack, as if they were being pulled from his chest. Then clothing sounds. Unclothing.

He shifted his head to look at Sydney. She turned her own head to stare back, big-eyed, and then they rolled onto their sides and held each other's gazes across the cell. She had a shell-shocked look. Poor kid. A bit late in life for the primal scene. You really wanted to get that over with early.

"Yes," Vaughn gasped, and then cried out as if something incredible had happened. It was harder than Weiss had expected not to look. Way fucking harder. He held very still and hoped it would all go away. He wasn't even looking at Sydney any more. It just didn't seem right. But at least they faced in each other's direction, keeping each other company through the weirdness.

God, Mike was going to fucking lose it when he came out of the purple haze. Weiss hoped for his sake that the drugs made the sex spectacular, because he couldn't imagine any guy's dick getting hard again for at least a year after something like this.

From the sound of it, the sex was...well. Who knew Jack Bristow had that much juice left in the batteries? He'd always thought the guy looked dried up. But whatever he was doing was making Mike pant and give rhythmic little girly cries.

Weiss focused on a crack in the cell floor and decided after several ecstatic groans that it resembled the state of Florida. If you squinted.

He'd almost managed to tune the porn soundtrack out. He was naming state capitals in his head, along with anything else he could dredge up--he still had a brain cell labeled "Wild Canary is the state bird of Iowa"--and was thinking, hey, he *was* a CIA agent, he could roll with the punches.

Then they got loud. Like, surround-sound theater loud. Up until then they must have been trying to keep quiet, but once the drug kicked into high gear--hasta la vista, modesty and dignity and sanity.

"Oh, Jesus, Jack, oh Jesus, oh god, right there, there, don't stop, *don't* fucking stop, don't--"

Weiss could not for the life of him think of the capital of North Dakota. His face was flushed what must be beet-red and the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. It was all he could do to remember how to breathe. Breathing? He was hyperventilating.

"Oh, Jack, please, fuck, please--" Vaughn hitched out a tiny sobbing sound and Jack cried out sharply, and then there was one of those rhythmic crescendos, where if there'd been a headboard it would have been banging. It was horrifying.

"Yes!" Vaughn yelled. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, oh god, yes!" Like a sleazy hustler, like a broken record, like a guy getting really, really spectacularly laid, the kind of laid you should in all decency only be able to get with three supermodels and a lid of Acapulco gold.

Jack gasped and cried out again, and then the porno reel snapped and the noise ebbed and there was blessed quiet.

Feeling sick, Weiss made himself look at Sydney again. She was pink-faced and crying, and wasn't that swell, wasn't that just the kicker. He thought about pushing his mattress across the cell near hers. He had a vague idea of holding her hand, offering her comfort. But would that be creepy? There was no chapter in the etiquette book for this.

His body cramped into a curl, Weiss continued to lie there and do nothing. Doing nothing was incredibly effortful these days.

"I'm sorry," he heard Vaughn whisper. It wasn't clear who he was talking to, but it made Weiss's heart clench with renewed pain. This wasn't good for them. This wasn't good for any of them.

"It's all right," Jack said. He didn't sound very credible, though. He sounded angry as hell and it made Weiss jack-knife straight up with his own sudden anger.

"Why don't you get the fuck away with him?" he yelled, moving to the bars. "Leave him alone!"

They were naked on one of the mattresses, clothes strewn around them. Vaughn lay on his back, a hand over his face. It looked as if Jack had been on top of him and just shifted off. He sat against the wall with a leg drawn up, face etched in weary disgust. At Weiss's shouts, he turned his head. The look in his eyes made Weiss step back from the bars.

"Have you ever heard of a polite fiction?" Jack asked, voice dripping with a scorn that made it clear he expected less of Weiss than he did of your average German Shepherd. Fanning the scorn was a feverish intensity that had to be the drug. "I'm not raping him," he went on scathingly, "and you're only making things worse."

Weiss's shoulders slumped and he turned away with a sense of helplessness. Jack was right. There was nothing he could do. He glanced at Sydney, who'd sat up to observe. She ducked her head and lay back down, hair falling to curtain her face. He went back to his own mattress and copied her. But without the benefit of all that hair.

Round two started a minute later. Weiss's heart stuttered like a lawnmower as they got back into it--he was angry, sickeningly angry, but he couldn't focus it on Jack any more, and the diffusion of his anger felt like despair.

"Oh god," Vaughn said. His voice was breathy and eager. And then there was heavy breathing and muffled sounds, and flesh sounds that went on and on and built gradually back into another symphony of soft, shared cries.

"Oh my god, you're so fucking good," Vaughn said in a tone of reverent amazement.

Weiss's gaze shot up in reflex to meet Sydney's. Her tears had eased to sniffling but her cheeks were still pink. For a second he came close to laughing. Hysteria would do that to you. There must have been something in his face. As he watched he saw her choke down a giggle. He made himself look away. Laughing would be bad. Mean.

He stared at the crack of Florida again and listened. He might as well stop pretending he wasn't listening. They were going at it frantically, gaspingly. Neither one of them seemed less eager than the other. He could hear them trying various things. He knew, and wished he didn't, the exact period of time Vaughn spent giving Jack a blow-job, and when Jack returned the favor.

When they began fucking, he clenched one hand around his blanket and kept it there to anchor himself. The rhythmic sounds of hands and knees pushing against mattress were unmistakable, chased by the slap of flesh.

"Please don't--*god*--don't stop," Vaughn half-sobbed, and then said, "Oh god, please shut me up. I can't--"

There was a sound Weiss couldn't interpret, a kind of bodily thrash. Vaughn gasped and then his voice was muffled again, absorbed in kisses. It didn't stop the rush of awareness Weiss had of their pleasure, and too soon they began gasping and keening and crying out in a way that made the hair on his body stand up in gooseflesh. Worse. It was making his dick hard.

The sounds coming out of them were just too good, too urgent, too *happy*, the kind of happy you get when a tidal wave of orgasm is building in your body, unstoppable. It was too much for any man to take. He was diamond-cutter hard and desperate to jerk off. He didn't dare look at Sydney now. After pulling the blanket higher to hide the indecency, he adjusted himself. Mistake. Once his hand came in contact with his dick he caved and slid his hand inside his pants and worked himself with anxious strokes, eyes closed tight, face burning with shame. His head was filled with sounds he couldn't shake loose. He let them merge into the whipping pleasure of his hand until they broke.
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