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Mar. 13th, 2005 09:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dollsomeHahaha! I totally wrote again. It's insane. For Madi's fic meme, even!
Request #7 - fidgeting.
Maybe it’s just paranoia.
That doesn’t seem totally unlikely, actually. After all, he’s been in this business long enough to develop a nice, hearty Fox Mulder-ish approach to heightened suspicion. Hell, this could all be in his head!
But somehow, he doesn’t think so.
Which is approximately twenty-six and a half times more disturbing.
Sloane keeps looking at him.
Judging him, Weiss speculates. Sizing him up, maybe. Deciding if he’s worthy to take his little girl out bowling, or if he ain’t quite up to Poppa Arvin’s standards and will have to be eliminated.
Oh, God. Eliminated.
Weiss gulps, realizes that Sloane will no doubt understand that this means that he’s onto him, and then promptly turns it into a cough.
An unnatural, not-entirely-convincing kind of cough.
Jack pauses mid-sentence – something highly riveting about a new terrorist organization that somehow posed a threat to the general ultimate well-being of humanity; Weiss hadn’t bothered to listen – and looks at him like he’s contemplating his sanity. Well, that’s just peachy. But Weiss doesn’t have time to worry about Jack right now.
Nadia leans over, concern lighting her eyes.
“Are you all right?” she asks quietly, her hand moving unconsciously to his forearm.
He glances up, but knows it even before his highly impressive twenty-twenty vision can confirm this particular piece of unwanted knowledge. Oh, damn it. It’s true. It’s all true. Sloane is looking at them, and, okay, Weiss doesn’t know him especially well, but he likes to think that he’s intuitive enough that he can read this look. And it’s ‘as soon as I have the chance, I will kill you for consorting with my daughter, unworthy scum.’
“Yeah,” Weiss says nonchalantly. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“You sure?” And she’s close enough right now that he can smell her perfume and it’s nice perfume, not that he’s any kind of perfume expert or anything, because that’s the kinda thing that can impugn a guy’s masculinity. Nope, Weiss is no perfume expert – he’ll leave that up to pretty boys like Sark. Who probably knows a thing or two about perfume. Weiss, he just knows a thing or two about good-smelling women. That’s all.
And Nadia is one. Good-looking, too. And good-acting and good-everything-ing. And now her thumb is sort of absently rubbing against his arm, and he really, really wouldn’t mind that except for the part where her evil genius of a dad’s eyes are piercing into him like laser beams.
“Absolutely,” Weiss confirms, perhaps a bit more heartily than necessary, and suavely and subtly pulls his arm out from under her hand and crosses it in front of his chest.
Or maybe not suavely and subtly, because now she’s staring at him in something that looks a whole heck of a lot like confusion.
But that little situation will just have to wait until later.
He clears his throat, all business, and waits for the silence to be filled by more grr-must-crush-bad-guys talk from Jack.
Only there isn’t any.
Jesus. What’s wrong with everybody today?
“Uhh . . . you were saying, Jack?” Weiss ventures.
Jack gives him that look, that really charming one that pretty much ensures you’re the biggest psychotic idiot ever to have walked the earth, but he’s not even going to begin to trek into that particular bit of territory and so instead he’s just going to keep on looking at you until you know just how much of a psychotic idiot you are. And oh, you are one indeed. Weiss personally doesn’t think this is exactly fair. Doesn’t Marshall own the rights to that look? Can he get sued for this?
“I just thought I’d make sure that no further . . .” (insert pause of doom, which tended to compliment The Look quite nicely), “- interruptions would be made before continuing,” Jack returns.
Weiss laughs in a way that he hopes will sound relaxed and casual. It doesn’t. “Yeah, well, no interruptions here.”
Jack nods and keeps talking. Weiss tries to listen for approximately two point five seconds before deciding that maybe he won’t. After all, the guy just made a complete idiot of him. What, is he supposed to hang off his every word now?
Weiss had used to have a whole lot of pity for Mike – because he was dating Jack’s daughter, and all. Yeah, Sydney was a great girl – probably worth all of the agony, even – but Weiss wasn’t sure he would’ve kept pursuing that particular romance, if it meant he had to deal with the looming possibility of the ultimate formidable father-in-law. He’s still a little surprised that Jack didn’t just take Mike out back somewhere and shoot him for the whole marrying-Lauren-and-crushing-Syd’s-soul deal. Maybe the wife-killing created some deep spiritual bond, or something.
But the thing is, Jack seems almost (and Weiss thinks this in the straightest and most masculine of ways, mind) appealing as of right now. Because Jack? Okay, yeah, scary as hell. But at least he hadn’t been the head of an evil organization who seemed to hold a whistle-while-you-work mentality about offing innocent people.
It just figures, Weiss guesses. The first girl he’s really crazy about in ages, not to mention the first girl that’s shown something like interest in him in even more ages, and her dad makes Darth Vader seem like Mr. Rogers with a trifling asthma problem.
And now he’s looking at him and thinking about just how easy it would be to murder him to next Tuesday and back if he doesn’t wind up meeting all the right qualifications. What is it with Nadia’s parents and their desire to inflict upon him as much potentially fatal agony as possible, anyway?
But this doesn’t faze him. Not at all. Well, okay, maybe a little. Or a lot. But he’s not going to let it show. He’s smarter than that. He’ll sit here, looking focused and attentive and like the kind of guy who doesn’t give a damn if Arvin Sloane hates his guts because he could take him any day of the week. Even Sunday, when he tends to be a little tired because he stays up watching Cheers reruns until the wee hours on Saturday. Yeah. That’s right.
He’s here. He’s good. He’s paying attention.
. . . Right.
“Sydney,” Jack is saying, “you’ll go to Vienna and retrieve the device; Nadia will accompany you.”
Weiss tries to look politely interested. And unaware that he’s having daggers glared at him.
Sloane throws in a “Good luck, Sydney. Nadia.” that’s enough to scare the socks off of anyone, and everyone disperses.
They’re free. Praise God almighty.
Weiss stands up and nonchalantly bolts from the conference room as quickly as humanly possible; he thinks he notices Jack shooting The Look his way again, but doesn’t pause to make sure. He’s just got to get away from Sloane; he figures that way, he might be able to hold a touching temporary reunion with his sanity.
He’s nearly made it to his desk when doom spells itself out for him in three nifty syllables.
“Agent Weiss.”
Hey, he’s escaped death once. Who’s to say he couldn’t survive another gunshot wound to the jugular?
Somehow, this doesn’t seem very comforting.
As a funeral march cues itself up in his brain, he turns around. Sure enough, there’s Sloane, standing there and looking appropriately evil beyond all reason, and –
Nadia next to him. Weiss resists a sigh of relief. Sloane can’t do too much damage with his daughter right there. That’s no way to go about convincing her that he’s no longer a diabolical fiend, which he seems real keen on doing, from what Weiss has observed.
“Yeah?” he asks, absently shoving his hands into his pockets. Conversing with malevolent masterminds tends to inspire in him a compulsion to fidget.
“I suggest you see someone about that cough,” Sloane says, his eyes glinting in a way that seems to suggest dark and sinister subtext. Weiss tries to ignore it.
“Okay,” he agrees instead. “Will do.”
Sloane nods and murmurs something to Nadia, squeezing her shoulder briefly, before heading back down toward his office.
Well, that hadn’t been entirely bad.
Whoo.
He’s too busy marveling in how remarkably unscathed he is to pay a whole lot of attention to Nadia until speaks.
“You’re not really okay, are you?” she asks teasingly, and smirks a little as she takes a few steps closer.
Damn it. The girl’s too smart for her own good. (It probably, he decides, comes with the whole ‘being perfect’ thing.)
“What gives you that idea?” he asks, as indifferently as possible.
“That cough was very unconvincing,” she informs him, and the smirk is turning into a smile and she’s standing even closer now, and you won’t see him complaining.
“What are you talking about?” he demands as her shoulder brushes lightly against his. “That was a genuine cough.”
“There was nothing genuine about that cough,” she argues, and should anyone have a smile that nice? Is it even healthy?
“Oh, so you think I’m faking it?”
“I think you’re faking it,” she confirms.
“So even if I happen to be wasting away from tuberculosis, you won’t give me the time of day?”
“You aren’t wasting away from tuberculosis,” she reminds him, eyes shining with amusement as she looks up at him.
“Well, yeah, okay, you got me there,” he confesses, and he’s very aware in the back of his mind somewhere that this just might be the stupidest conversation known to man, “but if I was wasting away—”
“—then I’d take care of you,” she cuts in, and suddenly she’s not just looking at him; instead, they’re gazing at each other. It’s a funny transition, Weiss thinks dimly. And once upon a time, he’d had a field day mocking Mike and Syd about this.
Maybe he’ll have to mock himself later.
But now, he’ll just focus on looking at her, because it’s a good hobby to have, he thinks. Probably slightly healthier than building ships in bottles, though he firmly maintains that that was impressive. Mike’s probably just jealous.
She reaches up, then, and straightens his tie absently; he can tell he’s grinning at her like an idiot and doesn’t really care all that much at the moment.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” she confirms gently, and God, she’s got the most amazing smile.
And then she pulls away. “I should go find Sydney. We’re leaving in two hours.”
That leaves plenty of time for lovestruck gazing, in his opinion, but he doesn’t voice this. Instead, he offers a “good luck on the op” and makes a mental note to be sure his tie is always crooked in the future.
She smiles and leans in to kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you when we get back.”
“Great,” he responds truthfully, and doesn’t throw in that part about counting down the minutes until her return since it seems slightly pathetic. And as he watches her walk away, he decides that having a twisted son of a bitch of a father in law can’t be that bad, can it?
Nah.
Some things are worth it.
Request #7 - fidgeting.
Maybe it’s just paranoia.
That doesn’t seem totally unlikely, actually. After all, he’s been in this business long enough to develop a nice, hearty Fox Mulder-ish approach to heightened suspicion. Hell, this could all be in his head!
But somehow, he doesn’t think so.
Which is approximately twenty-six and a half times more disturbing.
Sloane keeps looking at him.
Judging him, Weiss speculates. Sizing him up, maybe. Deciding if he’s worthy to take his little girl out bowling, or if he ain’t quite up to Poppa Arvin’s standards and will have to be eliminated.
Oh, God. Eliminated.
Weiss gulps, realizes that Sloane will no doubt understand that this means that he’s onto him, and then promptly turns it into a cough.
An unnatural, not-entirely-convincing kind of cough.
Jack pauses mid-sentence – something highly riveting about a new terrorist organization that somehow posed a threat to the general ultimate well-being of humanity; Weiss hadn’t bothered to listen – and looks at him like he’s contemplating his sanity. Well, that’s just peachy. But Weiss doesn’t have time to worry about Jack right now.
Nadia leans over, concern lighting her eyes.
“Are you all right?” she asks quietly, her hand moving unconsciously to his forearm.
He glances up, but knows it even before his highly impressive twenty-twenty vision can confirm this particular piece of unwanted knowledge. Oh, damn it. It’s true. It’s all true. Sloane is looking at them, and, okay, Weiss doesn’t know him especially well, but he likes to think that he’s intuitive enough that he can read this look. And it’s ‘as soon as I have the chance, I will kill you for consorting with my daughter, unworthy scum.’
“Yeah,” Weiss says nonchalantly. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“You sure?” And she’s close enough right now that he can smell her perfume and it’s nice perfume, not that he’s any kind of perfume expert or anything, because that’s the kinda thing that can impugn a guy’s masculinity. Nope, Weiss is no perfume expert – he’ll leave that up to pretty boys like Sark. Who probably knows a thing or two about perfume. Weiss, he just knows a thing or two about good-smelling women. That’s all.
And Nadia is one. Good-looking, too. And good-acting and good-everything-ing. And now her thumb is sort of absently rubbing against his arm, and he really, really wouldn’t mind that except for the part where her evil genius of a dad’s eyes are piercing into him like laser beams.
“Absolutely,” Weiss confirms, perhaps a bit more heartily than necessary, and suavely and subtly pulls his arm out from under her hand and crosses it in front of his chest.
Or maybe not suavely and subtly, because now she’s staring at him in something that looks a whole heck of a lot like confusion.
But that little situation will just have to wait until later.
He clears his throat, all business, and waits for the silence to be filled by more grr-must-crush-bad-guys talk from Jack.
Only there isn’t any.
Jesus. What’s wrong with everybody today?
“Uhh . . . you were saying, Jack?” Weiss ventures.
Jack gives him that look, that really charming one that pretty much ensures you’re the biggest psychotic idiot ever to have walked the earth, but he’s not even going to begin to trek into that particular bit of territory and so instead he’s just going to keep on looking at you until you know just how much of a psychotic idiot you are. And oh, you are one indeed. Weiss personally doesn’t think this is exactly fair. Doesn’t Marshall own the rights to that look? Can he get sued for this?
“I just thought I’d make sure that no further . . .” (insert pause of doom, which tended to compliment The Look quite nicely), “- interruptions would be made before continuing,” Jack returns.
Weiss laughs in a way that he hopes will sound relaxed and casual. It doesn’t. “Yeah, well, no interruptions here.”
Jack nods and keeps talking. Weiss tries to listen for approximately two point five seconds before deciding that maybe he won’t. After all, the guy just made a complete idiot of him. What, is he supposed to hang off his every word now?
Weiss had used to have a whole lot of pity for Mike – because he was dating Jack’s daughter, and all. Yeah, Sydney was a great girl – probably worth all of the agony, even – but Weiss wasn’t sure he would’ve kept pursuing that particular romance, if it meant he had to deal with the looming possibility of the ultimate formidable father-in-law. He’s still a little surprised that Jack didn’t just take Mike out back somewhere and shoot him for the whole marrying-Lauren-and-crushing-Syd’s-soul deal. Maybe the wife-killing created some deep spiritual bond, or something.
But the thing is, Jack seems almost (and Weiss thinks this in the straightest and most masculine of ways, mind) appealing as of right now. Because Jack? Okay, yeah, scary as hell. But at least he hadn’t been the head of an evil organization who seemed to hold a whistle-while-you-work mentality about offing innocent people.
It just figures, Weiss guesses. The first girl he’s really crazy about in ages, not to mention the first girl that’s shown something like interest in him in even more ages, and her dad makes Darth Vader seem like Mr. Rogers with a trifling asthma problem.
And now he’s looking at him and thinking about just how easy it would be to murder him to next Tuesday and back if he doesn’t wind up meeting all the right qualifications. What is it with Nadia’s parents and their desire to inflict upon him as much potentially fatal agony as possible, anyway?
But this doesn’t faze him. Not at all. Well, okay, maybe a little. Or a lot. But he’s not going to let it show. He’s smarter than that. He’ll sit here, looking focused and attentive and like the kind of guy who doesn’t give a damn if Arvin Sloane hates his guts because he could take him any day of the week. Even Sunday, when he tends to be a little tired because he stays up watching Cheers reruns until the wee hours on Saturday. Yeah. That’s right.
He’s here. He’s good. He’s paying attention.
. . . Right.
“Sydney,” Jack is saying, “you’ll go to Vienna and retrieve the device; Nadia will accompany you.”
Weiss tries to look politely interested. And unaware that he’s having daggers glared at him.
Sloane throws in a “Good luck, Sydney. Nadia.” that’s enough to scare the socks off of anyone, and everyone disperses.
They’re free. Praise God almighty.
Weiss stands up and nonchalantly bolts from the conference room as quickly as humanly possible; he thinks he notices Jack shooting The Look his way again, but doesn’t pause to make sure. He’s just got to get away from Sloane; he figures that way, he might be able to hold a touching temporary reunion with his sanity.
He’s nearly made it to his desk when doom spells itself out for him in three nifty syllables.
“Agent Weiss.”
Hey, he’s escaped death once. Who’s to say he couldn’t survive another gunshot wound to the jugular?
Somehow, this doesn’t seem very comforting.
As a funeral march cues itself up in his brain, he turns around. Sure enough, there’s Sloane, standing there and looking appropriately evil beyond all reason, and –
Nadia next to him. Weiss resists a sigh of relief. Sloane can’t do too much damage with his daughter right there. That’s no way to go about convincing her that he’s no longer a diabolical fiend, which he seems real keen on doing, from what Weiss has observed.
“Yeah?” he asks, absently shoving his hands into his pockets. Conversing with malevolent masterminds tends to inspire in him a compulsion to fidget.
“I suggest you see someone about that cough,” Sloane says, his eyes glinting in a way that seems to suggest dark and sinister subtext. Weiss tries to ignore it.
“Okay,” he agrees instead. “Will do.”
Sloane nods and murmurs something to Nadia, squeezing her shoulder briefly, before heading back down toward his office.
Well, that hadn’t been entirely bad.
Whoo.
He’s too busy marveling in how remarkably unscathed he is to pay a whole lot of attention to Nadia until speaks.
“You’re not really okay, are you?” she asks teasingly, and smirks a little as she takes a few steps closer.
Damn it. The girl’s too smart for her own good. (It probably, he decides, comes with the whole ‘being perfect’ thing.)
“What gives you that idea?” he asks, as indifferently as possible.
“That cough was very unconvincing,” she informs him, and the smirk is turning into a smile and she’s standing even closer now, and you won’t see him complaining.
“What are you talking about?” he demands as her shoulder brushes lightly against his. “That was a genuine cough.”
“There was nothing genuine about that cough,” she argues, and should anyone have a smile that nice? Is it even healthy?
“Oh, so you think I’m faking it?”
“I think you’re faking it,” she confirms.
“So even if I happen to be wasting away from tuberculosis, you won’t give me the time of day?”
“You aren’t wasting away from tuberculosis,” she reminds him, eyes shining with amusement as she looks up at him.
“Well, yeah, okay, you got me there,” he confesses, and he’s very aware in the back of his mind somewhere that this just might be the stupidest conversation known to man, “but if I was wasting away—”
“—then I’d take care of you,” she cuts in, and suddenly she’s not just looking at him; instead, they’re gazing at each other. It’s a funny transition, Weiss thinks dimly. And once upon a time, he’d had a field day mocking Mike and Syd about this.
Maybe he’ll have to mock himself later.
But now, he’ll just focus on looking at her, because it’s a good hobby to have, he thinks. Probably slightly healthier than building ships in bottles, though he firmly maintains that that was impressive. Mike’s probably just jealous.
She reaches up, then, and straightens his tie absently; he can tell he’s grinning at her like an idiot and doesn’t really care all that much at the moment.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” she confirms gently, and God, she’s got the most amazing smile.
And then she pulls away. “I should go find Sydney. We’re leaving in two hours.”
That leaves plenty of time for lovestruck gazing, in his opinion, but he doesn’t voice this. Instead, he offers a “good luck on the op” and makes a mental note to be sure his tie is always crooked in the future.
She smiles and leans in to kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you when we get back.”
“Great,” he responds truthfully, and doesn’t throw in that part about counting down the minutes until her return since it seems slightly pathetic. And as he watches her walk away, he decides that having a twisted son of a bitch of a father in law can’t be that bad, can it?
Nah.
Some things are worth it.
