Don’t bother asking how these things happen. Recanting, remembering, looking back, it all doesn’t really matter. Besides, she knows how she got here. She knows how she managed to end up on top of him, her hair in his face, her breathing ragged. That part was one plus two equals three.

He looks straight into her eyes and says her name: Sydney, and she likes it, she does. Beneath the anger, the hurt, the covered up layers of denial, she loves the way it rolls off his tongue. She leans forward, bare breasts touching his stark, crisp shirt.

“I want you to touch me” She whispers, and he does.

**

Will sits at the end of her couch, wine glass wobbling in his fingers, the contents sloshing precariously near the edge. She eyes the glass wearily, knowing it’s a matter of moments before the liquid will be all over her carpet and she’ll be scrubbing it up. No matter, she thinks; Saturday nights are for getting plastered and babbling about the profound and inconsequential until one or all both of her closest friends managed to pass out along with her. It’s ritual, unspoken but concrete, and they adhered to it whenever she was in town. The two of them had gotten officially drunk after Francie had been the first to succumb to the alcohol hours before, leaving Sydney and her bespectacled companion to all the liquor in the house, which they both professed a need to drink.

“Have you ever noticed how….bleak things are starting to become in the world today, Syd?” Will’s tone is morose; he peers introspectively into the deep hollow of his glass.

She nods; she can relate. In between sucking on limes and downing tequila shots, she draws patterns in the soft fabric of her couch and wonders about kissing him again.

Again, yes. It has been nine months since a man has kissed her, and the last man was Will. That kiss had been a failed, furtive attempt. Will. Now, fuzzy from drink and something like reckless abandon she wonders if maybe she had sold him short. After all, his devotion was more than evident. More than that, it shines like a beacon whenever he looks at her, and she needs something that is pure and for the taking. Nine months of solitude gets damned lonely, and alcohol makes it seem as though a friendship would be easy to forfeit for a night of senseless, mindless fucking.

“Will,” she announces, her voice hoarse from the effects of many, many shots of Jose Cuervo- he’s just finished a tirade about the endless pursuit of everything right and how he is lost in the loop somewhere, destined to always be a step behind.

“Syd, I’m so damned tired of being confused, you know. Like you, you’re so together…”

“Will,” she repeats, and gets on her knees, bold, impatient. Nine months, nine months of touching herself with unrequited emotions and unspoken frustrations. Sydney looks at him, a long, long look, and he stops talking – she hadn’t heard anything past the “together” line- there is no use even contradicting him. She straddles his hips, pushes him against the cushions, and takes.

Will Tippin is easy to take from because he gives in such a selfless, undemanding way. His mouth is sweet, all smooth edges and gentle lines. Gripping her shoulders delicately, like she is fragile, like he might break her; his cool tongue slides against hers slowly, delicate laps that explore her thoroughly. He lifts his hands to her hair, then her face, the most easy of caresses. It’s with reverence that he touches her, he holds her as if she is something precious, priceless, revered.

“Syd,” he breathes against her mouth, and she leans into him, taking, taking, not thinking about the meaning behind this, the desperation, the fact that she wants to be wanted more than anything. He kisses her jaw line, kisses her earlobes, runs his hands up and down her back.

“Oh God,” he says when she silently unbuttons her shirt, when she nods to his “are you sure?”

There is a wonder in his eyes when he looks at her, when they rake over her body hungrily. She admires that hunger, mimics it, mirrors it in her glossy brown eyes. He moves his hands to cup her breasts, an act he performs with ill concealed wonder. She arches her back, pushing herself into him more fully.

He gasps, eyes lit with desire. She leans forward, not wanting to meet those crystal blue eyes, so open, so honest. She kisses his neck, his face, back to his mouth where he sucks on her tongue and cups her ass gently, slow circles that cause the tiniest spark of awareness in her pelvis, a burning warmth that begins to spread. Breathing in, he smells like tequila, and detergent, and something distinctly Will. She buries her head into his neck and inhales deeply, finding the underlying hint of leather, and newspaper ink, and the slightest touch of musk. His skin is smooth, softer than she expects, warm beneath her lips.

What she knows is that this is wrong, worse than wrong to use your friend like some second rate whore to make yourself feel better about yourself, but she doesn’t care. She shakes off the guilt when she rationalizes that they both want this, just for different reasons. And she doesn’t want to think about the reasons that she has, half hidden in obscure shadow in the back of her mind. Reasons that lay directly beneath the surface, untouched : a foreboding mass that she refuses to succumb to. He shifts beneath her, pressing his erection into her groin , erasing any and all doubts she might be having.

“I’ve wanted you so long,” His voice is urgent, giddy, breath hot in her ear. And it sends a myriad of sensations throughout her system, something close to desire, perilously close to safety. She nods, letting him unhook her bra, freeing her breasts.

“I know.” Sydney whispers, gripping his shoulders, pulling her body to his and hugging him tightly. Her emotions are jumbled, confused- part of her wants him to touch her. Part of her needs him to touch her, to make her feel whole, to make her feel wanted. His hands dance up and down her back and she shivers, and is aware that she has to make a decision. One step forward or three steps back. Either pull back, walk away or lean back and kiss him.

It’s a matter of morals, and transgressions, and if that feeling in the pit of your stomach is want or something closely related to fear, and she decides she is going to fuck it all and kiss him.

And a millisecond before she makes that move the phone rings, slicing through the sound of their breathing like a knife.

“Ignore it,” Will slurs, and she realizes how drunk he is, and she is, and stands anyways.

“I can’t” she tells him. The room is spinning a little, as she fumbles with the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Joey’s Pizza”

“Perfect. It’s 12: 13 in the morning. Absolutely fucking perfect.” She slams down the phone and whirls around, making herself dizzy, and even more angry. Will’s expression is tragic.

“The bank ?” He says, and she nods. He reaches out to her, grabs her hand, tugs her forward. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t want to but she suddenly lacks the conviction that she held moments before. He kisses her fingers, holds them to his lips reverently.

“Sydney, Sydney”. She thinks that he tells her he loves her.

**

Too drunk to drive, she calls a taxi. Saturday night right outside of LA is just heating up around midnight, and she knows it will take the cab awhile to arrive. In need of air and a non compact space, she stands on her porch, arms wrapped around her midsection; warding off the cold air that blows sporadically through the thin fabric of her shirt. Minutes before she’d been almost hot, body pressed against Will’s, his breathing on her face, and now…now she’d gone cold. Chilled by the reality of her life, her job, of knowing where she’d be in less than an hour. She grips her arms more tightly, thinking of who she would be with, ignoring the tiny shiver of apprehension that trickles down her spine.

Agony is knowing that you want what you cannot have, and yet you keep on wanting it, even more than what you once believed possible. She remembers that it started as an innocent inkling, a strange, bewildering emotion that had puzzled her, a spark of intrigue that she had no control over and had only grown the more she tried to repress it.

Attraction: she supposes that he has always been attractive, because Michael Vaughn is an attractive man. Handsome in a European way. Nice cheekbones. Unique Nose. Arresting eyes. All these things she noticed long before the inkling of attraction appeared on the scene, dark and omnipresent. The first time she most assuredly knew of its undisputed existence, however, would be the picture frame. And if she were honest with herself, then that would be how it started, because if there is one thing that she loved, it had to be the glory of a chase.

The Christmas gift had been the unofficial beginning, it caused her to wonder the motivation behind Vaughn’s purchase. Symbolic of a job well done? Or was Will right- that Vaughn bought it for reasons less savory and far less than professional. Her consternation over the gift only amplified in the weeks to come, as it became an interesting side note to the drama that marked their relationship and made the term “complicated” seem simple in comparison. When their eyes met, however casual, it became electric, charged with the unspoken entity that loomed between them.

She steps inside, shaking off the chill for a moment. Will is asleep on the couch, his cheeks still flushed from their drunken fumbling on the couch. She stands above him, brushing a lock of damp hair from his warm forehead. He sighs, a soft, sweet, angelic sigh that gives her pause for a moment. Unfolding a blanket she shakes it out and tucks it around him, and then carefully pulls the glasses from his face and places them on the coffee table.

Will: unassuming, patient, devoted Will. So simple, so easy. Tears come to her eyes, bitter, self- recriminating tears that she forces herself to swallow. Turning she walks to the front door again and closes it behind her, again swallowed by the quiet night. It’s a quarter til one, and she’s shivering, though not a much from the temperature outside, but from her wanton behavior a half hour before on her living room couch.

She grabs a pillar and leans, cool stucco on her fingertips, she needs….she needs…

Headlights, blinding, pull in to stop that train of thought. And with little stumbling she steps up to the cab, climbs inside, gives directions. Doesn’t speak again until he drops her off and she hands him a wadded twenty that she pulls from her purse and she declines change. He leaves her at a deserted parking lot, about a ten minute jog from the warehouse, and she sprints, ignoring the nausea that could come, ignoring the guilt that may or may not resurface, ignoring the anger that always remains.

Feet sinking into the soft dirt along the side of the road, she runs, the blur of the industrial district filling her vision as she passes factories, sheds, shacks. There are no cars on the street, nothing to disrupt her unfettered view of bold steel and dark night. She breathes, her heart thudding in her ears: steady, controlled, rhythmic.

Warehouse in her view she leans forward and sets her palms on her knees. She had made it there in fifteen- better than expected. In the night, still, quiet, the warehouse seems so innocuous, unassuming, benign. Breathing heavily, she tugs the shirt that now clings to her chest, sweat pooling between her breasts, the thin line of moisture still slick between her thighs. She’s wet all over, a dampness that is uncomfortable, making her feel almost sticky. Feet crunch when they hit gravel, and she slows her steps to dull the impact of sound. Opening the door cautiously, she takes a deep breath and holds it before she rounds the corner.

“Sydney.” Vaughn looks relieved – dressed in the perpetual suit shirt, pants; she stares. He stands beside a long, stainless steel table, leaning against it slightly. Her eyes fall on manila folders that he clasps in his right hand. The back wall is flanked by chain-link, some sort of customary, universal warehouse design, she supposes, as the rest of the walls are solid, drab, unpainted concrete. Long strips of florescent lights above cast an eerie glow around them, and her tennis shoes squeak with a slight echo on the empty concrete floors.

“It’s Saturday, actually, no- Sunday.” Her tone is acerbic, and his face registers confusion.

“And?”

“I thought we were doing a dead drop on the mission specs- so, why the phone call? Why the suit?” She moves closer, not too close, because she isn’t stupid enough to do that. Besides, she is still catching her breath.

He gives her a perturbed glance. “Are you okay?”

She takes a step forward, sighs, and hates him for wearing that suit, the evidence of their separation. She’s sure he wore it just to piss her off, to remind her that this job didn’t know the meaning of Saturdays.

**

She closes her eyes and remembers Thursday afternoon, this same warehouse, the air inside the hangar-like environment close and hard to breathe. Nearly hot. They were having what could be labeled a “professional disagreement” but she preferred to just call it an argument. An argument that left her bitter and angry and not wanting to even speak to him.

“I think it’s simple” He’d said, sliding a photograph across the stainless steel table. “All you have to do is get him undressed.”

“Undressed” She had stuttered – undressed was Anna’s forte’- not hers. She didn’t mind licking her lips and raising her eyebrows and coming up with coy expressions to make her appear beguiling and sexy. She even was fine with wiggling her ass when she walked, but getting men undressed was where she drew the line.

“Was I unclear?” Vaughn’s expression had been priceless, one of those beguiling I –just- don’t- seem- to -get -the -problem -here looks that she wanted to smack him for.

“Have you even looked at this picture?” She held the edges of the glossy with the tips of her fingers, a growing sensation of distaste in her stomach. “This man makes “disgusting” a compliment, Vaughn. Besides, isn’t there an easier way to do this?”

“Sydney, the alarm combination is tattooed on his lower abdomen. Tell me another way to get it.”

“I’m not sure” She’d said prettily, then- “I could knock him out. Or drug him. That’s more logical.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach and let the picture fall back to the table. The man looked like an obese snake: beady eyes, balding, greasy head covered with an unflattering toupee. Gross.

“That’s true. What could you drug him with? ” She’d heard him ask, but her eyes remained fixed on the photograph.

“Isn’t that your part of the deal, the planning end?” She’d snapped, eyes flashing at him.

“You just shot down my plan, if I recall correctly, which was getting Oybek undressed..”

“No, your plan was for me to come on to him. To get him in a room and to get him to disrobe, which takes flirtation and persuasion and my touching him, all of which repulses me.” Voice rising with each syllable, she’d given him a penetrating look that screams her abhorrence. He seems to ignore her, or not care.

“What’s going on here, Sydney?” he’d asked, voice level and almost sanguine.

“Nothing” She’d muttered, and then exhaled loudly. “You could have just thought this through a little better, Vaughn. I don’t know who you think I am, but –“

“Wait a second..” He reacted, approaching her with something like anger in his hazel-green eyes.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.” Sigh. “Figure it out. I’ve got a class in an hour.”

“Fine.” Had been his reply, staccato, emotionless. “I’ll be in touch with details”

“Excellent” She replied, turning on her heels, the sound of shoes on concrete reverberating and filling the large space.

Slamming her fists on the steering wheel before she drove off, she watched him standing in the warehouse doorway, looking at her, his expression unreadable from the distance.

**

HEAVENS EARTH : end part 1

feedback always appreciated: flames disregarded and laughed at J

A/N: special thanks to: JESSICA, who has built a shrine to version 1.0 and refuses to listen to any reason pertaining to it. Therefore, I’d like to mention that if things were her way then Sydney would tell you that she’d blow Oybek and Vaughn could fuck off. A twist that the lovely THORNE who took a moment to read through and tell me what she thought, which included some distaste for the plot persuasions in version 1.0. And lastly, thanks to KATE, who pushed this story out of me, & got peanuts in her wine glass while she did it. Her advice and input has been invaluable, since she is, after all, the absolute goddess of smut.