Alias drabble: Closure
Aug. 24th, 2005 01:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fan_eluneBefore the drabble, let me quickly say - sorry to anyone who got double comments from me tonight. Connexion's been all wonky (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cinnamongrrl can testify to that!). Now on with the fic!
Title: Closure
Fandom: Alias
Spoilers: none, really.
Summary/notes: This was written foryahtzee63, who prompted me with this: Sloane in the desert with one of the "good guys" (well, she phrased it another way, but said other way would be S4-spoilerish).
Closure
"Stop right there," the voice says, as sound and sure as rock.
Sloane complies, because he can well guess the gun that is aimed at his back, and where would he run anyway? This is the desert, there is nothing for hundreds of miles around; he made sure of that when he picked the location for his hidden base of operations, not so hidden now that it has been sacked. Where would he run...
"I can't say that I'm too happy with the location," he dryly comments, "but the identity of my executioner could not be more fitting."
The sand whips at his face, his throat is dry, he is about to be shot, and yet he feels no fear, no anguish, no discomfort, only a satisfying sense of closure. He turns around to face the gun and the one that holds it, and thinks of all that they have shared, the original friendship and intimacy that allowed for the lies and the wounds that bind them together now, in this time and place. The lies and the wounds that make this end so fitting.
"I happen to agree," Jack Bristow stoically remarks, and pulls the trigger.
cinnamongrrl can testify to that!). Now on with the fic!Title: Closure
Fandom: Alias
Spoilers: none, really.
Summary/notes: This was written for
yahtzee63, who prompted me with this: Sloane in the desert with one of the "good guys" (well, she phrased it another way, but said other way would be S4-spoilerish).Closure
"Stop right there," the voice says, as sound and sure as rock.
Sloane complies, because he can well guess the gun that is aimed at his back, and where would he run anyway? This is the desert, there is nothing for hundreds of miles around; he made sure of that when he picked the location for his hidden base of operations, not so hidden now that it has been sacked. Where would he run...
"I can't say that I'm too happy with the location," he dryly comments, "but the identity of my executioner could not be more fitting."
The sand whips at his face, his throat is dry, he is about to be shot, and yet he feels no fear, no anguish, no discomfort, only a satisfying sense of closure. He turns around to face the gun and the one that holds it, and thinks of all that they have shared, the original friendship and intimacy that allowed for the lies and the wounds that bind them together now, in this time and place. The lies and the wounds that make this end so fitting.
"I happen to agree," Jack Bristow stoically remarks, and pulls the trigger.
