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New Fic: Oslo Syndrome (Dollhouse, SGA, Bourne Triology)
AN: I hope everyone had an excellent Ramadan! :) Thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lyssie for the beta.
Part the First: In which someone receives a prize they do not deserve
Spoilers: Vague for season one.
Disclaimer: If I did own Dollhouse, Epitaph One would certainly be canon.
Summary: Why should Stockholm have all the fun?
+++++
Adele DeWit did not like to be away from her House. Too many things could go wrong in her absence. Worse, too many things might go right, and then Rossum would decide they no longer required her services, and God only knew what that might mean for her future. She probably didn’t need to worry though. She had left Topher in charge along with that new handler, and was counting on the two men to keep each other occupied enough not to cause lasting damage.
Besides, Norwegians knew how to throw a party.
She had two companions for this trip. The first was Laurence Dominic, tasked with taking care of any problems that might arise. The second was Dr. Adam Sauvé whose pioneering work in the AIDS ghettos in Africa had won him the Nobel Prize for Peace. Dr. Sauvé’s nomination had been rather a surprise, given that the man did not exist outside of the Dollhouse mainframe unless he was implanted in an Active, but it appeared that Topher’s programming had done itself so well that no one could tell Sauvé was not an actual person. When he’d won the prize, the Rossum Corporation had been only momentarily stunned, and had then proceeded with business as usual.
In this case, business as usual involved three executive class flights to Oslo and three very large hotel suites. All Adele had to do was make it through the presentation ceremony without laughing. And keep Dominic’s homicidal impulses at bay, of course.
After it was all over, the three of them retired to Adele’s suite for a final toast to mutual accomplishment. Never before had a Nobel Prize winner been such a group effort. None of this had been mentioned in the carefully edited speech, of course, which was too bad for all the brilliant doctors Topher had cobbled together to make the imprint, and Adele was sure that Dominic was already picturing the tragic death of the good doctor so that the world would understand why such a high profile physician would disappear. For now, however Adele pushed those thoughts to the back of her head and enjoyed a rather lovely champagne that hadn’t cost her anything.
Dr. Sauvé excused himself once his first glass was emptied. The imprint made him think he was, under most circumstances, a teetotaler, so this was something of an extravagance for him. Dominic was pouring her second cup before the door swung shut behind him, and she got the feeling that the evening wouldn’t end until the bottle was well and truly empty.
Adele let her head fall back against the high backed sofa. She felt like she was relaxing for the first time since she’d found out that Rossum had accepted the nomination on Dr. Sauvé’s behalf and this charade would be played out in front of the world. She raised her head to take a sip of her champagne and noticed that Dominic was looking at her with a strange intensity.
“What is it, Mr. Dominic?” she asked, a hint of a slur to her characteristic abruptness.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he rose and came to sit beside her on the sofa, his face never changing its expression. He’d been intense from across the room. Now that he was close enough to reach out and touch, he was almost unbearable. He carefully relieved her of her champagne flute, and she tried not to start too much at the unexpected spark of feeling his touch produced in her.
Still without speaking, he leaned in and kissed her. He tasted like champagne and those little round sandwiches with the meat filling she hadn’t been able to identify from the reception after the award gala. It was not an entirely bad combination.
He pulled back slightly, not far enough that she could see the expression on his face. She didn’t let him get any further away. Bowties did not provide as much leverage as neckties did, but he’d undone his and that gave her just enough material to work with and pull him close. The second kiss was harder and more demanding, and his arms went around her waist.
He tried to shift her weight so that she was straddling him, but the skirt of her gown would not allow it, and they broke apart rather suddenly. She could barely keep from laughing, particularly when she saw how offended her inopportune giggle made him. Something set in his eyes then, and she realized they were rapidly reaching the point of no return.
“If you undo the zipper, I can just step out of it.”
“You realize that this isn’t even the craziest thing I’ve done today?”
“Technically, it is. The award was presented yesterday.”
She had just enough time to kick off her heels before he pulled her to her feet and reached for the zipper.
======================================
Part the Second: In which an alien wins the Nobel Prize for Peace
Spoilers: None, really.
Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis.
++++++
John stood on the balcony of one of the nicest hotels in Oslo holding a cup of coffee in his hands and wearing a set of pajamas that could only just be called ratty. Later in the day, he would don a dress uniform that was polished so brightly it was probably visible from the moon, but for now he was content to be completely outshone by his surroundings.
“Come inside before someone sees you, John!” Elizabeth called from inside the room.
“No one can see me up here,” he replied.
“Have you never heard of a telephoto lens?” she demanded. “Put on something decent or drink your coffee in here with me.”
He rolled his eyes. Elizabeth was taking this far too seriously. Yes, it was the Nobel Prize for Peace, and yes, for the first time in history it was being awarded to someone who was not from Earth, but he was almost positive that no one cared what his taste in pajamas was. Still, he knew when to admit defeat, so he headed back inside.
Elizabeth was perched on one of the chairs in their suite. She was wearing a somewhat newer set of his pajamas, and they were far too big for her, but he didn’t mind looking at them. She was drinking coffee as well and reading a newspaper that he was pretty sure was written in French, though it was hard to be sure from across the room.
“Are we still famous?” he asked lightly. She rewarded him with a scathing glare.
Since the revelation of the Stargate Program five years ago, they had both become minor celebrities. Teyla’s nomination had only made them more famous on the world stage. Although Elizabeth and Teyla had brokered the United Worlds treaty together in the Pegasus galaxy, the other woman’s extension of the agreement to include Earth was what won her the prize. John knew Elizabeth wouldn’t mind. She was too focused on her political career to feel overlooked.
She was also, John decided, too focused on the newspaper.
He set his coffee down and moved to stand behind her. His fingers moved across her neck and she rolled her head to the side. The newspaper went slack in her hands, and he watched carefully in case he needed to rescue her coffee cup from a similar fate.
“John,” she protested half-heartedly.
He ignored her. Her hair was much longer now, and most of it was free of the knot she’d tied it up in when she got out of bed this morning. He pushed it away to expose the spot on her neck that always made her react. She set the cup down at that point, and he knew he’d won. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her neck, smiling when she shivered.
“Do you have to do that now?” She was only complaining out of habit.
“Well, if I try anything after you’ve started to get dress you’ll yell at me for mussing you,” he pointed out in his most reasonable tone.
She turned and looked up at him, a smile hovering around the corner of her lips. He took it for the invitation she intended and bent to kiss her. Too late, he realized the impracticality of how he was standing when, in an attempt to reach her chin he accidentally knocked over the lamp.
“Do not laugh at me,” he said, trying not to smile.
“Make me,” she replied, mirroring his own smirk back at him.
He did.
======================================
Part the Third: In which a man of violence prepares for a night of peace
Spoilers: The Bourne Ultimatum
Disclaimer: This might shock you, but I am not Robert Ludlum. As such, I do not profit from writing this story.
++++++
Sometimes, Jason goes on vacation as David Webb. He still picks the seat at a restaurant where he can see all the doors, because he can’t help it, but he does his best to linger over dessert.
Nicky doesn’t change her name. It’s stupid, and they both know it, but at the same time he sort of likes it. Jason Bourne only ever loved Marie Kreutz, but David Webb loved Nicky Parsons so much that they were both stupid enough to trade it in for the dream of patriotism. It’s easier to keep it all straight if he’s allowed to go on thinking of her as Nicky.
They don’t see each other very often. In fact, he was more than a little surprised that he ever saw her again after he put her on a bus in Morocco. He didn’t expect her to find him. He’s a master of stealth and evasion, after all, and sometimes he forgets that even though she can’t kill a man six ways from Sunday using everything from basic office supplies right up through a rocket launcher, she can still erase him from existence after she wires all his money to an untraceable account in the Caymans. They all have their own ways of disappearing.
When she knocks on the door of his hotel room in Oslo, he’s impressed. He’s in town because Pamela Landy is winning the Nobel Prize for Peace for reasons which are almost entirely classified. The watered down version of the story which the press is circulating states that she is being celebrated because of her contribution to “the effort towards international disarmament”. He looks down at his arms and can’t help but smile. Pam Landy still has her share of enemies in the wind, and he is here, very unofficially, to make sure she survives her moment in the spot light.
He doesn’t know why Nicky is here, exactly, but he starts to formulate a theory when she begins to undo the buttons on his shirt before he’s quite through closing the door behind her.
“Do you have any specific targets in mind?” she asks, trailing a hand down his chest.
“No,” he replies, working on the buttons of her overcoat. “Mostly I am just being careful.”
“You mean paranoid,” she corrects him, stepping back to let him pull her shirt over her head.
“I didn’t write the training manual,” he means it as a joke, but it strays a hair too close to things they’ve unspokenly agreed to never speak of.
Her hands pause on his shoulders, and she looks uncertain when she meets his gaze. He kisses her, then, because when she looks uncertain it reminds him of the time in Berlin when he thought about killing her, and she looked at him with full awareness of what he was capable of doing to her. When he kisses her, he remembers all the times before Treadstone.
Her hands move again, discarding his shirt and sliding down to his belt buckle. He lowers his mouth to her breast, leaving a trail of kisses along the top of her bra. She moans and falls back half a step. He follows her as fast as he can with his trousers around his knees and presses her up against the door.
He manages to step out of his pants and boxers without losing his balance, something he is reasonably sure the CIA did not think of when they invested all that time and money into his spatial awareness training, and rucks her skirt up to reach for her panties. She’s wet already, and he is suddenly very conscious of the ache hardening between his legs.
Somewhere in the city, Pamela Landy is safe enough for now, so David Webb allows himself to forget everything but the woman whose hands are wrapped around his cock. He pulls her panties out of the way, taking a moment to admire her own spatial awareness as she steps out them despite wearing a pair of shoes he thinks he could use to topple several foreign governments but probably not walk three steps in.
He pulls her thighs apart and she wraps her legs around his waist. He makes sure the door will actually support them, and then he’s inside of her. She gasps in his ear, and tightens her hands on the back of his head as he pushes into her. He is rising fast, and slips a hand between them, brushing against her clit, to make sure he isn’t leaving her behind. He holds on just long enough to send her over the edge and then he follows.
His knees almost falter as he carries her to the bed. There is work to do later, but there is time for the important things in his life as well.
He is on vacation as David Webb. That means he gets to linger.
++++++
finis
AN: Why did I think it was a good idea to write smut about a guy who steals city maps before getting into car chases? :)
Gravity_Not_Included, September 19, 2009
lyssie for the beta.Part the First: In which someone receives a prize they do not deserve
Spoilers: Vague for season one.
Disclaimer: If I did own Dollhouse, Epitaph One would certainly be canon.
Summary: Why should Stockholm have all the fun?
+++++
Adele DeWit did not like to be away from her House. Too many things could go wrong in her absence. Worse, too many things might go right, and then Rossum would decide they no longer required her services, and God only knew what that might mean for her future. She probably didn’t need to worry though. She had left Topher in charge along with that new handler, and was counting on the two men to keep each other occupied enough not to cause lasting damage.
Besides, Norwegians knew how to throw a party.
She had two companions for this trip. The first was Laurence Dominic, tasked with taking care of any problems that might arise. The second was Dr. Adam Sauvé whose pioneering work in the AIDS ghettos in Africa had won him the Nobel Prize for Peace. Dr. Sauvé’s nomination had been rather a surprise, given that the man did not exist outside of the Dollhouse mainframe unless he was implanted in an Active, but it appeared that Topher’s programming had done itself so well that no one could tell Sauvé was not an actual person. When he’d won the prize, the Rossum Corporation had been only momentarily stunned, and had then proceeded with business as usual.
In this case, business as usual involved three executive class flights to Oslo and three very large hotel suites. All Adele had to do was make it through the presentation ceremony without laughing. And keep Dominic’s homicidal impulses at bay, of course.
After it was all over, the three of them retired to Adele’s suite for a final toast to mutual accomplishment. Never before had a Nobel Prize winner been such a group effort. None of this had been mentioned in the carefully edited speech, of course, which was too bad for all the brilliant doctors Topher had cobbled together to make the imprint, and Adele was sure that Dominic was already picturing the tragic death of the good doctor so that the world would understand why such a high profile physician would disappear. For now, however Adele pushed those thoughts to the back of her head and enjoyed a rather lovely champagne that hadn’t cost her anything.
Dr. Sauvé excused himself once his first glass was emptied. The imprint made him think he was, under most circumstances, a teetotaler, so this was something of an extravagance for him. Dominic was pouring her second cup before the door swung shut behind him, and she got the feeling that the evening wouldn’t end until the bottle was well and truly empty.
Adele let her head fall back against the high backed sofa. She felt like she was relaxing for the first time since she’d found out that Rossum had accepted the nomination on Dr. Sauvé’s behalf and this charade would be played out in front of the world. She raised her head to take a sip of her champagne and noticed that Dominic was looking at her with a strange intensity.
“What is it, Mr. Dominic?” she asked, a hint of a slur to her characteristic abruptness.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he rose and came to sit beside her on the sofa, his face never changing its expression. He’d been intense from across the room. Now that he was close enough to reach out and touch, he was almost unbearable. He carefully relieved her of her champagne flute, and she tried not to start too much at the unexpected spark of feeling his touch produced in her.
Still without speaking, he leaned in and kissed her. He tasted like champagne and those little round sandwiches with the meat filling she hadn’t been able to identify from the reception after the award gala. It was not an entirely bad combination.
He pulled back slightly, not far enough that she could see the expression on his face. She didn’t let him get any further away. Bowties did not provide as much leverage as neckties did, but he’d undone his and that gave her just enough material to work with and pull him close. The second kiss was harder and more demanding, and his arms went around her waist.
He tried to shift her weight so that she was straddling him, but the skirt of her gown would not allow it, and they broke apart rather suddenly. She could barely keep from laughing, particularly when she saw how offended her inopportune giggle made him. Something set in his eyes then, and she realized they were rapidly reaching the point of no return.
“If you undo the zipper, I can just step out of it.”
“You realize that this isn’t even the craziest thing I’ve done today?”
“Technically, it is. The award was presented yesterday.”
She had just enough time to kick off her heels before he pulled her to her feet and reached for the zipper.
======================================
Part the Second: In which an alien wins the Nobel Prize for Peace
Spoilers: None, really.
Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis.
++++++
John stood on the balcony of one of the nicest hotels in Oslo holding a cup of coffee in his hands and wearing a set of pajamas that could only just be called ratty. Later in the day, he would don a dress uniform that was polished so brightly it was probably visible from the moon, but for now he was content to be completely outshone by his surroundings.
“Come inside before someone sees you, John!” Elizabeth called from inside the room.
“No one can see me up here,” he replied.
“Have you never heard of a telephoto lens?” she demanded. “Put on something decent or drink your coffee in here with me.”
He rolled his eyes. Elizabeth was taking this far too seriously. Yes, it was the Nobel Prize for Peace, and yes, for the first time in history it was being awarded to someone who was not from Earth, but he was almost positive that no one cared what his taste in pajamas was. Still, he knew when to admit defeat, so he headed back inside.
Elizabeth was perched on one of the chairs in their suite. She was wearing a somewhat newer set of his pajamas, and they were far too big for her, but he didn’t mind looking at them. She was drinking coffee as well and reading a newspaper that he was pretty sure was written in French, though it was hard to be sure from across the room.
“Are we still famous?” he asked lightly. She rewarded him with a scathing glare.
Since the revelation of the Stargate Program five years ago, they had both become minor celebrities. Teyla’s nomination had only made them more famous on the world stage. Although Elizabeth and Teyla had brokered the United Worlds treaty together in the Pegasus galaxy, the other woman’s extension of the agreement to include Earth was what won her the prize. John knew Elizabeth wouldn’t mind. She was too focused on her political career to feel overlooked.
She was also, John decided, too focused on the newspaper.
He set his coffee down and moved to stand behind her. His fingers moved across her neck and she rolled her head to the side. The newspaper went slack in her hands, and he watched carefully in case he needed to rescue her coffee cup from a similar fate.
“John,” she protested half-heartedly.
He ignored her. Her hair was much longer now, and most of it was free of the knot she’d tied it up in when she got out of bed this morning. He pushed it away to expose the spot on her neck that always made her react. She set the cup down at that point, and he knew he’d won. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her neck, smiling when she shivered.
“Do you have to do that now?” She was only complaining out of habit.
“Well, if I try anything after you’ve started to get dress you’ll yell at me for mussing you,” he pointed out in his most reasonable tone.
She turned and looked up at him, a smile hovering around the corner of her lips. He took it for the invitation she intended and bent to kiss her. Too late, he realized the impracticality of how he was standing when, in an attempt to reach her chin he accidentally knocked over the lamp.
“Do not laugh at me,” he said, trying not to smile.
“Make me,” she replied, mirroring his own smirk back at him.
He did.
======================================
Part the Third: In which a man of violence prepares for a night of peace
Spoilers: The Bourne Ultimatum
Disclaimer: This might shock you, but I am not Robert Ludlum. As such, I do not profit from writing this story.
++++++
Sometimes, Jason goes on vacation as David Webb. He still picks the seat at a restaurant where he can see all the doors, because he can’t help it, but he does his best to linger over dessert.
Nicky doesn’t change her name. It’s stupid, and they both know it, but at the same time he sort of likes it. Jason Bourne only ever loved Marie Kreutz, but David Webb loved Nicky Parsons so much that they were both stupid enough to trade it in for the dream of patriotism. It’s easier to keep it all straight if he’s allowed to go on thinking of her as Nicky.
They don’t see each other very often. In fact, he was more than a little surprised that he ever saw her again after he put her on a bus in Morocco. He didn’t expect her to find him. He’s a master of stealth and evasion, after all, and sometimes he forgets that even though she can’t kill a man six ways from Sunday using everything from basic office supplies right up through a rocket launcher, she can still erase him from existence after she wires all his money to an untraceable account in the Caymans. They all have their own ways of disappearing.
When she knocks on the door of his hotel room in Oslo, he’s impressed. He’s in town because Pamela Landy is winning the Nobel Prize for Peace for reasons which are almost entirely classified. The watered down version of the story which the press is circulating states that she is being celebrated because of her contribution to “the effort towards international disarmament”. He looks down at his arms and can’t help but smile. Pam Landy still has her share of enemies in the wind, and he is here, very unofficially, to make sure she survives her moment in the spot light.
He doesn’t know why Nicky is here, exactly, but he starts to formulate a theory when she begins to undo the buttons on his shirt before he’s quite through closing the door behind her.
“Do you have any specific targets in mind?” she asks, trailing a hand down his chest.
“No,” he replies, working on the buttons of her overcoat. “Mostly I am just being careful.”
“You mean paranoid,” she corrects him, stepping back to let him pull her shirt over her head.
“I didn’t write the training manual,” he means it as a joke, but it strays a hair too close to things they’ve unspokenly agreed to never speak of.
Her hands pause on his shoulders, and she looks uncertain when she meets his gaze. He kisses her, then, because when she looks uncertain it reminds him of the time in Berlin when he thought about killing her, and she looked at him with full awareness of what he was capable of doing to her. When he kisses her, he remembers all the times before Treadstone.
Her hands move again, discarding his shirt and sliding down to his belt buckle. He lowers his mouth to her breast, leaving a trail of kisses along the top of her bra. She moans and falls back half a step. He follows her as fast as he can with his trousers around his knees and presses her up against the door.
He manages to step out of his pants and boxers without losing his balance, something he is reasonably sure the CIA did not think of when they invested all that time and money into his spatial awareness training, and rucks her skirt up to reach for her panties. She’s wet already, and he is suddenly very conscious of the ache hardening between his legs.
Somewhere in the city, Pamela Landy is safe enough for now, so David Webb allows himself to forget everything but the woman whose hands are wrapped around his cock. He pulls her panties out of the way, taking a moment to admire her own spatial awareness as she steps out them despite wearing a pair of shoes he thinks he could use to topple several foreign governments but probably not walk three steps in.
He pulls her thighs apart and she wraps her legs around his waist. He makes sure the door will actually support them, and then he’s inside of her. She gasps in his ear, and tightens her hands on the back of his head as he pushes into her. He is rising fast, and slips a hand between them, brushing against her clit, to make sure he isn’t leaving her behind. He holds on just long enough to send her over the edge and then he follows.
His knees almost falter as he carries her to the bed. There is work to do later, but there is time for the important things in his life as well.
He is on vacation as David Webb. That means he gets to linger.
++++++
finis
AN: Why did I think it was a good idea to write smut about a guy who steals city maps before getting into car chases? :)
Gravity_Not_Included, September 19, 2009
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