Equilibrium — Chapter 3

She thinks meeting in the bloodmobile is a bad idea, but cannot tell him why. They've met only once since the warehouse. He did not touch her then, and she thought it would be okay. It was not.

She stood next to him at a store window and felt her whole body hum because they were close enough she could feel the heat of him. His voice sounded sexy, she thought, but she knows it sounded no different than usual. One step sideways, one little foot darting out, she considered, and her calf would collide with his. They would mix heat, and maybe that would help with the balance.

The balance that is now absent.

Confusion and uncertainty have gone as well, and the cold metal table in her mind. Vaughn from the table remains, but now she thinks about them making it warm together. About the ache that has worsened. The balance is gone, but she knows where the fulcrum is.

There where he was. There where she wants him.

And so she stands outside the door for a second. Takes a deep breath and it does little to help the blood pounding through her. Looks down at her clothes and decides that, on second thought, maybe forcing the issue wasn't such a good idea. They look classy, she tells herself. Simple gray knee-length skirt, blue silk blouse, black sandals. Classy until she reminds herself of the white lace underneath, that she put it on and thought about him running his hands over it. Nobody knows about that but you.

She tells herself she needs to keep it that way and opens the door. Careful to lock it behind her, because she is supposed to. Keep out the good Samaritan students, and all that. Up the steps — breathe — around the curtain — breathe — and she takes a seat opposite him at the small laminate table. Crosses her legs carefully, and tries not to feel it, but the table is too damn small.

"Hey."

"Hi." He nods, and she is thankful for the professionalism he has been working on — painfully — of late. "The photos you took came out fine. They're still in Analysis."

Eyes, she tells herself. Focus on eyes. But she trails down to his lips, thinks about them sliding down her neck. Realizes she is wound so tight she doesn't know what she'll do if he touches her. That is a problem, because he is holding up some new lipstick-tube gadget and she is going to have to take it from him.

"Do you know how to use one of these?" She thinks he said it was a camera, says no in case it wasn't. Stares at his fingers and do you know how to use oh god. Realizes quickly she should have said yes, because now he is talking but she can only focus on his fingers, moving over it, twisting it until it clicks. Yes, Syd, very bad idea. And then he is staring at her. Right. Take the fucking lipstick-gadget-thing already.

Her hand shakes a little as she reaches out, and surely he must notice, but says nothing. Nails click on it first, carefully and she extracts it from his grasp once again without contact. Rolls back into her chair, tries to find a way to position her spine that minimizes the heat welling in her. Forces her eyes back to his, although she thinks the tabletop would be much safer.

Insects, she thinks. It feels like a thousand little ants are crawling all over her body. Little red fire ants, leaving little points of burn in their wake. This is beyond out of balance. This is fearing her skin will fly off and loose her pulse all over the inside of the fake bloodmobile.

Irony, she thinks. That is irony, and tries to draw her mind into literature class, any distraction. Any distraction at all. But she is beyond distractions, watching him work his lips through some mundane statement and thinking there is only one way this can end without her going insane.

He talks about the importance of her mission. She thinks there are more important things than the mission. Considers modes of attack. Push him backwards. Throw him on the floor, see what kind of reaction she gets to that. See how he fucking likes it.

He is close enough now for her to snatch his gun, whip it right out of his shoulder holster. Have it pointed at him in a second. She pictures herself holding him hostage. Hands in the air. No. Hands on me. Hands on me until you make me come, you fucking oblivious asshole. She thinks about how he would react to that, smiles a little at her suddenly sick sense of humor.

Vaughn is not oblivious to this. Notices right away, in fact. "Sydney, are you all right? You seem a little distracted." He rests his hands on the table in front of her, leans a little closer, and she thinks perhaps every muscle in her body is acutely aware of him. Breath on her face, heat so close, hand moving to her shoulder, just like —

Everyone has a breaking point, and this is hers.

Her hands snap at him, not for the gun, but the holster itself. They lock around the leather, pulling him to inches in front of her face.

"I seem a little distracted, huh? I can't focus on the mission? Let me clue you in, Vaughn. I don't care about the fucking mission."

"Sydney?" That he is startled would be an understatement. He tries to back away, but she maintains her hold, standing and walking around the table to take that obstacle out of the equation. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She slips herself into the scant space between him and the table, sitting against it for now. Leaning in until she is inches from his face. "There's nothing wrong with me, Vaughn, that you're not going to fix."

"What are you talking about? Sydney?" He looks a little afraid of her, face up close to his, hands wrapped around the leather at his shoulders, and she finds this pleases her. At the same time, she wishes he would be half as aggressive as he was in the green-tiled room. They would be a lot further along in addressing her problem right now, she thinks.

But she has enough aggression for both of them — more than a week of walking around with the dull ache between her legs, the meetings with him when only she can remember his hands on her. She releases her grip on the holster long enough to pull at the skirt, slide it up her thighs.

Then she moves from the table to his lap, straddling him and do you see now why I can't fucking focus on anything but you, Vaughn?

Back close to his face, and she speaks again, shifting as she does. Making sure he understands just how hot she is. "I'm talking about when you threw me on that table and put your fingers in me. Does that clear it up?"

His expression turns quickly to pure shock, and she enjoys the juxtaposition.

"You said — you said nothing happened!" She can hear his feet scuffling at the floor, feel his thighs moving beneath her as he tries to create more space between them and the table.

"I lied. What exactly was I supposed to tell you?"

Guilt now, panic-guilt like she knew would come. I know you, Vaughn. I do. "Sydney, oh, Sydney. I'm — "

" — don't — " she slaps a hand over his mouth " — say you're sorry. Just finish what you fucking started, Vaughn." She can feel his lips move under her hand, waits until they stop to remove it. Swoops in with her other hand at the same time and grabs his loosened tie — see how that feels, Vaughn — and pulls him into a kiss that is familiar, to her at least. She wonders if it triggers anything in him, and he responds, regardless.

It feels even better, she decides, when she is on the offensive. And this time, he is the one to pull away. "Sydney, we can't do this. There's — "

" — there's what, Vaughn? Protocol? You told me protocol didn't include following me to Taipei. Protocol, Vaughn, does not include doing what you did and then just dropping it."

"Sydney, we can get you counseling. You don't have to do this." She grinds her hips into him now, impatient. Runs her hands up his arms, down his chest and she thinks he won't be able to take much more of this. Knows she can't.

"Yeah, Vaughn, and you think they'll let you keep your job when I tell them why? I don't need counseling. I need this." She picks up the tie again, pulls him close and this time, instead of flailing at his sides, his arms come up to wrap around her back. Your lips feel so good on mine, don't you get it? This is what I need. This. So much more of this and maybe we can fix everything. His hands reach the small of her back now, momentum carrying them further south, but he stops at her waist. Go ahead, Vaughn. I think jumping you means you have permission to touch my ass.

He does, finally, but breaks the kiss. "This is wrong, Sydney. This is so wrong, and you've got class, and your cover — "

" — if anyone asks, I'll say I got dizzy and had to lie down for awhile." Fucked-up context, but not a lie at all. How refreshing. "And I've missed class for less."

"This is still wrong." If it's so wrong, Vaughn, maybe you should take your hands off my ass.

"No, Vaughn, this is not wrong. You want to know what wrong is? Wrong is me walking around like a crazy person. Wrong is being around you and thinking I'm going to lose it." She slips a hand between them and there, that's a start. "Don't tell me you don't want this, Vaughn. That's pretty damn obvious."

If he says it's wrong again, she decides, it might be time to punch him. He doesn't, pulling her closer until her heat reaches his hardness, and she thinks there are a billion fire ants now. Too much heat and she is going to explode and they don't have much time anyway and —

— his hands start moving again, over the bunches of her skirt, and she shakes a little as he reaches the back of her thighs. Touches skin there, and his hands are hotter, even, than her skin. Impossible, she thinks, but they are. Halfway down, and she gets the feeling he wants to go further, to draw this out more. I can't handle that and we don't have time. He must know this, she thinks.

He must know her like she knows him, because he removes one hand, brings it up to push at her shoulder, encouraging her to lean against the table. Then it slips around to her back, supports her as the other slides around to her knee. Her pulse was fast before, but now she feels it pounding, impossibly quick. Thumping in her chest, loud in her eardrums as his other hand slides further up her leg, making more bunches in the skirt.

He reaches the white lace nobody was supposed to see, seems to approve. Seems to want to linger, but he doesn't, slipping it to the side, and she decides quickly that she likes this Vaughn even better than Vaughn from the green-tiled room. Slowly into her, two fingers, and damn the man is good with his hands.

"Sydney." Because now he has encountered — understands finally completely totally fully — her reality of the last week. Hot and wet and waiting for him. Not waiting much longer, because the hand on her back pushes harder, gives her more support, and the other starts in earnest now. This is Vaughn and this is it this is finally it and it feels so good because it's really him and his fingers and really Vaughn and his thumb oh god his thumb again and —

She is silent, save for a gasp, when she finally comes. The hand on her back is suddenly more necessary, as she quakes against the other one, then goes loose, the tension flowing from her. He removes it, pulls her back to him, holds her limp body for a moment. She's impressed by the gesture, but there's still you Vaughn and I've been on fire for a week and that is not nearly enough.

So she kisses him — less than energetic but that is returning quickly — and slides her hands between them until they find his belt. Tricky, she thinks, it shouldn't be this tricky, but her head is swirling and it's not quite sending out the right signals yet. Triumphant when she finally releases the leather, slides it from his belt loops, and works through the button and zipper with better speed. He catches her wrists after this and for a second she wants to ask him what the hell he is doing, tell him that he's backing out a little bit fucking late in the game.

They slip up her arms, tighten at her shoulders again, and he is lifting her — almost like but no it's not like that at all and this is Vaughn — back onto the table. It is attached to the counter, slightly uneven, and the edge of the countertop digs into her back. She wonders briefly how stable everything is, how much more it will dig with his weight on her. And then decides she doesn't give a damn, as he rakes his hands up her legs one last time before sliding the white lace off. She thanks herself silently for not choosing the sandals with the chunky heels, and then stops thinking of inane things like good sandals for impromptu sex as he lowers himself onto her.

A tender kiss now, and his hands at her breasts and he is trying, oh how he is trying, but Vaughn we're on the table in the fucking bloodmobile. She slides her hands down his back, skims them under his pants, boxers — which she cannot see and wanted to, but moving on, Syd — pushes both down as far as she can. Slides her hands back around his thighs, thinks there are more things there she would like to see but you have no fucking time Syd and there are senses besides sight. Takes him in her hand with that thought, hears him groan, and thinks she knows all of Vaughn now.

Almost all, and she gets the rest as he enters her. Slow and cautious, and she knew that is how this would go, and it feels just right when he finally fills her. What comes next surprises her a bit, and she thinks maybe it's just the time factor, or maybe it's because he knows she is well beyond ready, but he starts hard and fast, and it only grows more intense. His breath and hers mingle together, rapid little pants in unison, the table swaying beneath them, and she wonders if they're shaking the trailer. That just maybe might be bad for your cover. Decides she will care about that later, but not now.

Now is for more important things, like being fucked harder by him here in reality than she has been in her imagination all week. Now is for doing this and realizing that her head is clearer than it has been in a long time. Now is for finding balance, equilibrium, and she comes again with that thought.

He follows her a second later, spilling hot into her, and she is comfortable with the heat now. He never asked about birth control, she thinks, then remembers a few meetings into their relationship. There was that question then, and a lot of "ums," and something in there about Agency policy. She watched him struggle for awhile, fought the grin that wanted to take her face, and finally, mercifully, told him she was on the Pill. He seemed relieved, and now that she thinks about it, it was about as hot in that room as it has been here today. So Vaughn knows her too.

He says nothing as he slips from her, nothing as he tugs at his pants and moves awkwardly from the table. Nothing when he turns away after his feet hit the ground, but she can see hear his hands hasty on the zipper. She is busy with similar tasks, pulling the skirt down, finding a path off of the table. Searching for her underwear on the floor, successful eventually. Silent also as she pulls them back on, then searches the floor again and finds her purse, the lipstick-gadget and his belt.

Eventually, he turns around and she hands it to him. Wants to say something, comes up with only "Vaughn?" and he stares at her until it becomes painfully apparent to both that she has nothing to say. She tries to tell him with her eyes that this was important, that it is okay. That she has balance now, because of him. That she forgives him for knocking her off balance in the first place. She thinks he understands, but this Vaughn is a little harder to read. Finally, she steps toward the curtain to leave.

"Hey, wait." He opens the cabinet to search for a Band Aid, and she almost laughs out loud at the thought of that. I think you already gave me a fucking Band Aid, Vaughn. Her fingers brush his as she takes the tiny circle, and the contact reassures her. There are no jitters.

The expression on his face, she thinks as she leaves, is still strange. Not as guilty as she expected. None of the panicked future-talk and fear of consequences she would have anticipated, had she anticipated any of this. So what, Syd? So he can roll with it. It's not like you have a lot of precedents to base this on. So he can surprise her a little, she thinks. She still knows Vaughn, and that was Vaughn.

Her feet are solid on the stairs, although her body is tired, legs especially. A new soreness between them, much more welcome than the old ache. She looks down at her clothing, checking for anything askew enough to give her away. Wipes at the thin layer of sweat on her forehead, which will be okay, she decides, because it is hot enough outside for it to have appeared naturally. Runs a hand through her hair and rolls her shoulders back to square. Ready now. Balanced.

She turns the door lock, pulls at the handle until it snaps open, and pushes it out a few inches. Slowly, because it gives her a final few seconds to make sure her thoughts are in order. It is now that he speaks again.

"Good luck in France, spy girl."