Trio in Formalwear
Fandom: Alias/Battlestar Galactica
Pairing: Jack Bristow/Laura Roslin
Disclaimer: Moore’s the man with the master plan.
Summary: Around the world, in fancy dress, with all kinds of detours into the prurient.
I. Nevskij Palace (Невский Палас), St. Petersburg
The seduction, such as it is, actually begins in the Hermitage.
Which to Jack, whose enjoyment of Russia has been largely spoiled by its associations with the Derevko family, as well as the heartsore bits of his own past he must declare a mistake, is almost too much of a coincidence.
She’s beautiful, thoughtfully examining eighteenth-century French art with an intensity that signals to Jack that perhaps the woman is a collector.
“Eto ochen kraseevoy,” Jack says to her in Russian. “Kak oo vas z’voot, madame?”
“Oh, pardonnez-moi,” the woman replies. “Ya ne go-vo-reet po-rooski.”
“Pardonnez-moi, madame, je ne parle pas plus bien francais,” Jack says.
“Neither do I,” the woman finally says in good but oddly accented English. “English okay?”
“Yes,” Jack says with a smile. “Are you a collector?”
“No,” the woman murmurs. She’s very attractive close up, in a full-skirted ball gown that’s a shade that hovers between copper and gold, shimmering in a way that highlights the woman’s eyes and her hair, which is only about half up. The rest hangs in waves and curls over her shoulders. “Just another potentate at this rather sedate diplomatic function. And you?”
“American intelligence,” Jack says with a nod. The woman’s eyes light up, and Jack tries to place her. She’s clearly well-known, if she hasn’t given her name, and the outfit, as well as the jewelry, bespeaks wealth. But if she speaks English… “Agent Jack Bristow, madam.”
“Agent Bristow,” she says, smiling at him with a distinctly naughty lilt. “President Laura Roslin.”
She offers him her gloved hand. Jack shakes it, feeling ridiculous.
“Madam President, my apologies,” he murmurs. “You look quite different than in your photographs.”
“Much less dowdy,” Laura Roslin agrees, and her smile is downright wicked. “And you’re the CIA, then? My many friends on Earth tell me to mistrust the CIA. They claim Americans are only helpful when they want something.”
“The interests of the US must come first for the US. Any nation that claims to want to help you out of altruism, I suspect, is playing you for a naif,” Jack replies.
“So the French don’t want to settle my people out of the kindness of their hearts?” Roslin asks, putting a hand to her chest with an air of sly mockery. “Agent Bristow, you impugn the honor of my friends.”
Perhaps it’s the way her eyes sparkle. Perhaps it’s that Jack’s always been a sucker for women named Laura. But instead of immediately thinking of ways to contact APO and exploit his easy rapport with the Colonial president, Jack offers her his arm.
“Who says the US doesn’t want to befriend you, Madam President?” he asks as she takes it. “Maybe we respect you too much to play you for a schoolteacher out of her league.”
“That’s kind of you,” Laura says, her other hand brushing his arm with an almost-innocent gesture. “Do you know much about this art? It’s very different from my culture’s, and I’d appreciate the guidance.”
“It’s not my specialty, but I can give you an overview,” Jack replies, catching her eyes again. There’s a moment of sizzling quiet as a smile grows on her face and touches her face with a slight flush.
“As a friendly gesture, of course,” Laura murmurs.
“My country would be honored by your friendship, Madam President,” Jack says, feeling his pulse speed up slightly.
Her gloved hand brushes against his shoulder.
“Then, if you please,” she says in a voice that is merlot and citrus, rich and delicious and tart. “I’d like the tour.”
Jack has no problem acceding to the president’s requests.
Nor does he mind when she slips him her card, on heavy white stock with embossed letters and her room number at the Nevskij Palace Hotel, a kilometer away. With a gentlemanly nod and bow, he palms it, and none of her crowd of admirers notices him as they spin her away, promising her the moon and stars for a bit of her peoples’ know-how.
He waits until nearly one in the morning, walking to the hotel despite the bitter cold. Jack enjoys the walk, the feel of his heavy fur-lined coat over his tuxedo, the way his breath hangs in the air, and the contrast he imagines between this momentary cold and the warmth of the presidential suite.
Madam President Roslin doesn’t disappoint. When she answers the door, her hair has come down, heavy and face-framing, and one of her earrings has been laid on the vanity. The remains of her lipstick beg to be kissed away, and Jack reaches out and pulls her to him to do the honors.
“You’re freezing,” Laura murmurs, her lips traveling over his jaw, to his earlobe, which she nibbles on as he cups her face, smelling the scent of her perfume, vanilla and spice and woman-skin.
“And you’re very lovely,” Jack answers, pulling her mouth back to his for kisses that are hot, feverishly hot and increasingly needy as her hands slip into his coat and push it off his shoulders, one hand slipping around his and guiding it to her waist.
“Lovely?” she says, leading him further into the suite between kisses.
“Hot,” Jack replies with a smile. “To use a bit of appropriate teenage slang.”
“Mmm, hot,” she says with a chuckle. “Definitely starting to be at least warm all over…”
He takes that for an invitation, and before long, fancy bits of clothing are scattered all over the floor and Jack is fumbling with her necklace while Laura rubs against his fly with abandon.
“Will your country respect and honor a female leader who has so little use for propriety?” she’s asking, her tongue trespassing on the inner whorls of his ear.
“I think accommodations can be made on account of your surpassing skills as a politician,” Jack replies, undoing the damn necklace and wishing he could just let it fall. “How much is the necklace worth?”
“Several million,” Laura sighs. “It’s on loan from Van Cleef and Arpels.”
Jack pulls away and sets the thing on the vanity, while Laura watches, smiles, and steps out of the last bit of netting between herself and nudity, gracefully sliding back toward the bed with a come-hither look.
“I like you better with it off,” he says sheepishly, coming hither and drawing a hand over her cleavage.
“Is that right?” Laura asks, pulling him down to her with one confident hand.
“The unadorned truth,” Jack replies, discovering that he’s no longer even a bit cold, and that women named Laura will always be a particular favorite of his.
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” Laura says as they flip over and her hair falls around her face in a shower of loose tendrils. “Truth, like beauty, is rarely something that looks good in the harsh light of day.”
II. The Peninsula (香港半岛酒店), Hong Kong
The American government likes to watch.
Her Agent Bristow has told her this on occasion, his arms around her in some hidey-hole or other that he’s secreted them in. They want to see everything, because they truly believe to see everything is to know everything.
At least, that’s how Jack rationalizes it to her when they’re making love, about to make love, or just finished.
Laura, gazing at the green shot-silk gown she is to wear to the opera tonight, is not entirely convinced of this. The American government certainly likes to watch, and is increasingly dismayed that she and her people are disinterested in settling in that august nation.
But it’s not to know. It’s to see. To simply fill the eyeballs with the most wondrous and appalling sights.
Within their own world, of course.
Laura thinks they should visit Hong Kong.
Hong Kong is a dense city, full of people, lights, and everything the human imaginations could dream up at twenty-four degrees Celsius. The air is warm and dirty on her skin, but for some reason, Laura likes the city. It sets her pulse thrumming in a way some of the clean, European cities of Earth have not.
Not that she doesn’t find Earth endlessly mysterious and exotic. Once, Jack found her staring at Chagalls at MoMA, slightly queasy about the brushwork, but equally certain Kara Thrace would adore Chagall. But Laura does not enjoy New York the way she does Hong Kong.
After the absolute zero of space, every sense must be endlessly stimulated, and it can never, ever be too warm.
They have better sex when they’re not in North America with its relentless middle-class tedium and Jack’s insufferably bourgeois daughter. In the States, Jack is always a father and a grandfather first, and his dignity takes him away from the moment.
Laura craves being with Jack in the moment. The smell of his cologne on her skin as she eases one leg over his shoulder, urging him on in a low whisper. The feeling of his mouth against her shoulder, biting down when he comes.
The way he whispers all sorts of vulgar, romantic things to her as they gaze over Hong Kong harbor. She is his wanton, willing, wet, wonderful secret, and he wants her to wrap her legs around his head while he makes her scream.
Of course, if Agent Bristow thinks the American government doesn’t like to watch them in the act, he is willfully blind. Laura thinks they must know, they must know how Jack has dragged his tongue over the back of her knees so she would fall into his lap, they must know how he tore her expensive black gown because he had to have her against the refrigerator, immediately, right away.
Laura dislikes black anyhow. She much prefers her gown; the green is beautiful and slinky, with a high neck and open back, gold filigree designs traced almost invisibly into the silk so that if you shift your head, you can see leaves. The slit goes above her knee, revealing thigh in a racy move that the international media will photograph to pieces.
President Laura Roslin, proving that political geniuses don’t have to be straitlaced or dowdy or even married to be powerful.
They all like to watch her. But do any of those prim, faux-scandalized journos really know how naughty the Lady President truly is? Laura doubts it. After all, they prefer to imagine creatures like that Paris Hilton or Lindsey Lohan having thin, mewling sex with interchangeable bastards.
Imagining Laura, head thrown back as she moves atop her lover, who is her own age, and inclined to humor her sensualist urges, breathing hard as she builds to a spine-melting orgasm that might take half an hour to reach? Or how Jack runs his hands over her stomach, her breasts, how he nips and licks at her fingers until she gasps and leans in for a long kiss?
“Laura, Laura,” he’ll whisper to her, and sometimes Laura thinks he dreams of his not-exactly-dead not-exactly-wife, and her hips will pump against him faster. Would anyone imagine that turns them both on a little more?
She’s scratched his back so hard that she’s drawn blood, feeling him thrusting in her deep and hard, not looking for her pleasure so much as his own as Laura moans and pleads for him to take her and take her faster.
Jack always obliges her, sucking on her throat as she starts to writhe like a possessed thing. They do care for each other — but the game is much too enjoyable to toss away for the middle-class ideal. Jack likes being seduced, likes coming up with elaborate plots and plans that end with him between Laura’s thighs, thrusting or licking while she urges him on.
No one would even think she’s capable of it.
They’ll photograph her at the opera in her exquisite gown, her arms adorned with emerald and copper bracelets that she acquired in India, a filmy wrap around her shoulders. Scandalous Lady President with unknown male attendant. The look of feral delight on her face at being able to enjoy music again, even though Cantonese opera has not yet made a positive impression on Laura.
But they won’t realize that Jack will be waiting after the performance. Waiting for her in his anonymous tuxedo, the bowtie already undone, the cummerbund discarded.
He’ll put his warm hands on her bared back, the air smelling of jasmine and pollution, drawing his index finger down her spine as electric shudders shoot right down to Laura’s toes.
“I want you,” he’ll say. “As soon as I can.”
“Yes,” Laura will reply, sinking into his body. “Oh, very much yes.”
The thrill, the danger, the sheer pleasure in having risky, passionate sex in every big city in the world? Could any of these paparazzi imagine how much Laura gets off on getting away with it, being risque and sensual and still imagined away as a demure lady schoolteacher in over her head?
Hah. They haven’t the capacity.
III. Unknown Pensione, Buenos Aires
They are supposed to be at the NH Jousten in El Centro. Madam President Roslin has almost come to an accommodation with the Argentinean government concerning the first contract to be made for tylium refinement, and they’ve got her in the nicest suite in the hotel.
Instead, they’re in a run-down old treasure of a pensione, where the layers of paint are chipped and beautiful, a mute history of the city.
It’s sunrise and neither Jack nor Laura is exactly tired, though it might be the sort of weariness that’s too deep to be noticeable.
For once, Jack is naked and Laura is not; his jacket is draped over her as she lies on her stomach, the tulle of her burgundy gown’s skirt fluttering slightly. She’s resting her chin on her hands, looking across the room at nothing.
Or perhaps she is looking at her shoes, which are lying at perpendicular angles to each other, three-inch heels that she could maneuver across a crowded dance floor full of tango-mad tourists and porteños.
Jack’s arm is thrown around her waist.
“You should sleep,” he tells her, kissing her elbow.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” she answers.
Jack yawns, perhaps more tired than he wants to let on, though his hand continues to move in slow circles on Laura’s back.
“Son las siete de la manaña,” Jack tells her, leaning in to kiss her ear, her hair, which has all come down again, the bobby pins lost in the sheets and on the floor and in a few bits of her hair. “And you’re not tired?”
“No,” Laura replies, rolling over so that she is spooned against Jack. “I’ve been up too long to be tired. Too much dancing, too much champagne, too much running away from glitzy hotels and fancy diplomatic functions, too much sex…”
He rests his chin on her shoulder. Laura sighs out, her stomach rising and falling under his hand.
“Too much sex?” Jack inquires dryly. “For you? No such thing.”
“Es la verdad,” Laura says. “I have been too well-frakked to be sleepy now.”
Her hand rests atop his for a moment before guiding it to her breast. Jack chuckles before kissing her neck, slowly, but not passionately.
“Incorrigible,” he whispers, his thumb making smaller circles over her nipple. “Don’t you ever get tired? Or overcharged?”
“I was cold and isolated for a long, long time, Jack,” Laura says in a blurry, longing voice. “Untouchable. Untouched.”
“And now?” he asks, his other hand sliding up the back of her skirt and stroking her thighs.
“Now I’m going to live until I die, and not worry about the way things look,” she says in that low purr of a voice that reminds him of Irina.
“Carpe diem,” he says, kissing her shoulder damply.
“What’s that mean again?” she asks, her back arching against him as her thighs shift and part slightly.
“Seize the day,” Jack says.
His fingers trespass on her inner thighs, which are very warm already, and she whimpers. The early-morning sunlight is flickering on her hair and the wine-red of her dress, changing the color of both, her hair into a deep copper, her dress to cabernet.
Jack slides his hand further up her thigh, finding it softer, warmer, starting to be damp. Laura half-moans, shifting down.
It’s so easy to find himself aroused, even though Jack is much tireder than he wants to admit, and even with a willing woman shifting against him, he still needs sleep more than sex.
But he also doesn’t mind making her whimper and moan and cry out as the sun changes the colors of her hair and skin and gown as they move against each other.
The air is humid around them as Jack’s other hand releases Laura’s breast and instead pulls her hips back, so she is flush against him, unable to move without difficulty, as his fingers find the right spot and circle as she starts to keen, immobilized and inconvenienced and being brought closer and closer to orgasm.
He wants to whisper dark, almost-ugly things to her, but she’s not Irina, never was Irina, she’s a different Laura who is almost exactly the same. Laura Bristow liked it rough, liked it gentle, and Laura Roslin likes her constantly, a thrill a minute.
They like similar perfumes, spicy and vaguely Oriental; but Laura Roslin dabs hers behind her ears, in the hollow of her elbow. Laura — Irina — still prefers anointing the spot between her breasts.
She wants to move so much that Jack can almost feel Laura vibrating out of her skin, but he keeps her pinned, rubbing his thumb over her clit in rough strokes as she gasps and whimpers and sucks down air in greedy gulps before moaning again, thighs practically rigid.
Her dress is stuck and sticky between them, and Jack, despite the early morning exhaustion, feels long-banished need surge up and he finally bites down on that spot between her neck and shoulder. And Laura screams and comes, convulsing helplessly in his arms as Jack continues to stroke her toward another climax, which follows in short, sobbing order until she’s slowing down, cries turning into sighs.
“You ruined another one of my pretty frocks,” she finally murmurs as his hands circle her waist and her body relaxes into the mattress. “That makes at least three now.”
“You like when I ruin your gowns,” Jack replies, unable to think of anything further than coaxing Laura to sleep at last.
“I love when you ruin my gowns,” she agrees, sleepiness as palpable as anything in her voice.
His fingers track over her face. “Sleepy now?”
“Finally, yes,” she answers.
Her breathing slows not long after, even and soft as her hand loosens and drops away from Jack’s, like a child who has finally, finally been satisfied.
Jack smiles and presses a kiss into her hair.
Then he’s asleep before he can think of anything else.