It's nearly too good to be real: slim body, long brown hair. Turn around, Anna thinks, turn your head away from the shelf of moisturizers, look at the perfumes. Just for a moment, let Anna see your profile. Good girl, there she is. Pretty, pretty Sydney Bristow.
Now Anna waits: only a few seconds more before her prey will look up to check her surroundings. They all do it, no matter how safe they should feel, surrounded by people, past security, mission done. There: she sees the movement begin and lowers her own head, pusing the loaded cart before her. Let Sydney believe she's the hunter here. Sydney won't be fooled by the cleaner's uniform and the mops and buckets.
Anna imagines that she can hear the box Sydney was holding hit the counter, over all the shouting parents, the crying children, the announcement of someone's flight 44, departing to Chicago from gate 36. Her cart squeals and Sydney's heels click behind her. She beats down the urge to hurry her feet, to race to match her racing pulse. Don't let Sydney see, she thinks to herself, don't let her know she's not in control. They're near the far end of the waiting area, past the last newsagent and duty free outpost, and if she keeps going she'll wind up in front of the transfer desks. Ah. There. She takes a sharp left turn into a set of bathrooms. One woman is going out as she comes in, and by some early-morning miracle only three stalls are closed. Anna slaps the "closed for cleaning" bar into the doorway; it won't stop the only person she cares about. Then she waits.
Sydney will careful, but Anna has a knife under her uniform. She will have to do this quickly and quietly, because she is not at Heathrow for Sydney Bristow, and if she cannot finish the job she is here for, her employers will not be pleased. A footfall at the door, stepping under the sign. A toilet flushes, and Anna begins to count. One: she grabs Sydney's arm as she comes through the door. Two: the knife out. Three: she pulls her agaisnt her body, holds the knife at her throat. Four, five, six: she walks them both further into the bathroom. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a stall door swing open. Sydney's foot twists around her leg to bring them down and Anna almost falls against the stall door, he shoulder slamming against the metal divider as the door swings behind her. She hears a gasp as Sydney's leg hits the toilet and has to tighten her grip to hold her up. "Not a word," she hisses.
Sydney freezes in Anna's arms. Then, as door of the other stall swings shut, and the automatic toilet flushes again, she drives an elbow into Anna's gut and crashes her back into the metal divider. The blow knocks a gasp of air out of Anna and her knife-hand jerks away, not even for a second but it's enough for Sydney to twist around and press her back against the wall. She has the advantage, but Anna still has the knife; she twists it in her hand, ready to bring it up when Sydney, eyes open, presses her mouth against Anna's lips.
It takes her a moment to realize that they are, in fact, kissing. Surprise loosens her jaw and Sydney takes the advantage, brushing her tongue against Anna's teeth. They're the same height, and pressed together Anna can feel Sydneys nipples hard against her body as her own tighten in response. Sydney's mouth is demanding, her tongue pushing in past Anna's teeth as her hands grasp Anna's wrists and hold them against the stall divider. This is it, some part of Anna thinks, she's trapped. There's nothing to keep Sydney from calling security, bringing in the British, and that would be that for Anna, no pay-off, no nest-egg, no jail, even, just a garotte and a shallow grave somewhere lonely... and Sydney's mouth is moving, down the line of her jaw, down her throat, licking and sucking. Anna can't keep herself from moaning.
It's a mistake: Sydney draws back and stares at her, blank-faced despite her swollen lips and the pink in her cheeks. As if this hadn't been her idea at all, as if it was all Anna, so unbelievably innocent that Anna can't bear it. She jerks her arms to free her wrists; the knife drops to the ground as she takes hold of Sydney's shoulders and pulls her back.
Sydney's throat tastes like sweat and expensive foundation; she gasps and wraps a hand around Anna's head. Anna isn't holding Sydney in place any more, and this is crazy--she doesn't trust Sydney Bristow, she doesn't even like her, but oh it feels good when Sydney pushes a knee between her legs. She's kissing Sydney's mouth again, rubbing her crotch into Sydney's hip, and she's sure this wasn't what she planned when she lured Sydney in here, but it's so good, her tongue between Sydney's lips and her hand pushed down below Sydney's pants. Now it's Sydney's turn to gasp, Anna's fingers light along her folds and then in; the way Sydney bucks when Anna finds the button of her clit nearly knocks them both off-balance. There's no finesse and barely any rhythm, just her fingers rubbing Sydney and Sydney's hips shuddering and her lips mouthing some word Anna can't make out, her head back against the stall and her eyes squeezed shut. She's using her thumb now, sending her fingers lower and deeper into the slippery heat where she can feel Sydney convulse around her when she comes.
Anna stands awkwardly as Sydney blinks and staggers; she's unsure of where to put her hands now. If this were a job, her target would be dead before this stage, but that's not what Anna thinks she's missing. The heaviness in her belly subsided while she was working Sydney but it's back now, and it's all she can do to keep from rubbing the ache away against Sydney now, as Sydney's hands move from Anna's shoulders to her hips.
And then Sydney is on her knees, opening the snap and pushing the elastic band of the uniform trousers down, and the plain cotton of Anna's briefs, nothing like the lace triangle she found under Sydney's suit, not for Anna, raised to do the people's work, and she's thinking back to the narrow beds and scratchy sheets of the institutions that raised her, because it will take all that discomfort to keep herself from coming right now, as Sydney licks her, her tongue working down her belly, down to her hair and then in and fuck but it's her head banging on the stall that's making her see stars, and if Sydney's tongue doesn't find her clit soon she's going to scream, but she's licking and licking and mother of god, there. Sucking and licking and pushing with her tongue against the bone of Anna's pelvis, her strong hands holding Anna's hips in place so that the shuddering is all inside, the tension building and building and she can't move and Sydney is really trying to kill her because she keeps getting tighter and tighter, her vision going dark because she can barely breathe until one last flick of Sydney's tongue and she comes bursting and shaking apart, sliding gasping to the dirty tiles of the bathroom floor. Sydney sits back and wipes her mouth.
They stare at each other for a few seconds; they've never been this close without violence. Then Anna scrambles to her feet, the metal cold and reassuring against her back, and Sydney does the same. It's a small space, and the stall door swings in to separate them. Sydney pauses in the doorway where Anna can't see her. "This doesn't change anything," she says.
By the time the door opens again and Anna gets out of the stall, Sydney is gone. What could change? She washes her hands and checks her watch: the man she's here to kill will be arriving from Rome in five minutes.
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Alias is owned by JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Production, and ABC. No copyright infringement intended, and no profit made. Original story elements my own.