AN - Hello ! This was for a fic challenge back in January. Was supposed to be 1000 words in length and mention a ticket of some kind, I got the ticket, but over shot the word limit by a bunch. Anyways, this is really AU, assume Sark and Syd worked together during the "2 years" and Spy Daddy is still alive and kicking, unfortunately, so is Vaughn.
AN - I don't own these characters !
AN - I really don't like all these long lines, but it just would not let me do anything else to split certain areas up and I have no idea why !
Tunnel Of Love
Sydney pushed back her covers and blinked her eyes open. Brushing aside the warm hand nestled between her thighs, she slipped out of bed and into the dressing gown placed neatly over the bed end the night before. A quick glance at herself in the mirror, she wondered if this was how a bride was supposed to look the morning of her wedding. She picked up a now slightly wilted rose from the dressing table, pulling the petals off one by one. He loves me, he loves me not... She glanced back to the man in her bed. Of course he loves me.
"You devil. You know it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding."
"Well," He smiled at her, one arm reaching for her waist, pulling her in closer, tickling her dimpled cheek with a kiss, "I'm willing to take the risk. I will have the rest of my life to make up for it, after all." His voice slightly muffled as his attentions continued along her jawline and neck.
"And just what do you have there?" His reflection in the mirror spoiling his surprise for her, a perfectly pretty ribboned box with a pale pink rose tucked under the bow.
"No need to save all the fun for the wedding night...Try them on for me?"
Untying the long, satin ribbon and placing the flower on the dressing table, she opened the box. Lingerie. The pale fabric so smooth and fluid, like liquid silk against her skin. French knickers and camisole, with a matching gown. 'How very him.' She thought as she moved to the ensuite to change.
Rifling through her jewellery box in search of her watch, a faint glint of light caught Sydney's eye. She picked up two tiny diamond studs and held them to the rising sunshine beginning to skim the curtains of her bedroom. Now, Sydney was not the superstitious kind, but she was most certainly a traditional girl at heart.
"How could I have forgotten?" She shook her head and pocketed the earrings before heading to the kitchen. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. It ran through her head as she poured herself a coffee.
Something Old.
"They were your Grandmother's". Sydney recalled the voice as if it were only yesterday. Taking the studs from her pocket, she rolled them in the palm of her hand. They glittered, as if winking at her in the early morning light. She laughed inwardly as she realized the irony of them. Her Mother using them as a means of contact with Sark during her stay in CIA custody, and now her about to don them as she was settling into her own little prison of married, domestic life. Sipping her coffee, she wondered when she had become so entrenched in this belief when, for the longest time, all she ever longed for was normality.
Something New.
The bride wore white. Simple, elegant, tasteful. The double-sided satin slip clung ever so delicately to her every curve. She was sure the glow of it alone was causing mild cases of temporary blindness to her captive audience as she sashayed, barefoot, along the makeshift sandy aisle. It was love at first sight when she had seen it in the bridal boutique window. She had felt like a princess when she tried it on, but now the virginal white gown made her feel like an imposter to herself. Just another disguise for another alias.
Something Borrowed.
So, that was that. She decided she would borrow the identity of Sydney Anne Bristow one more time. She hadn't felt like that woman in so long. She knew she never would again. But it was who was expected to attend every mission briefing, every lazy Sunday morning sleep in, every Friday night hockey game. Her brightest smile greeted her husband-to-be at the end of the aisle, and of course, that was all he saw. He did not read the nervousness her body was physically showing. Every bride has 'pre-wedding jitters'. White knuckles wrapped around the most dainty of bouquets. This is 'normal'.
Somewhere in the distance she heard the voices of the Priest and Vaughn.
"I do." He said, almost quicker than the question was asked of him.
"Do you, Sydney Anne Bristow..." His voice trailed off in her mind.
Something Blue.
Her gaze shifted to the ocean, the gentle waves washing ashore. Deep blue stretching to cerulean as ocean and sky fused at the horizon. It struck her then, the last time she had been witness to such a vivid display.
She was standing in line, ticket in one hand, fairy floss in the other, waiting. Just as the obnoxiously pink swan boat came streaming through the glowing tunnel, he slunk up beside her, his face lighter, and younger, than she had ever seen. It had been quite honestly, the last place on Earth she imagined he would of asked to set up a meet. Strangely fitting then, it had been their last.
"The Tunnel of Love? Sark. Really, we have to work on your grand, romantic gestures." He merely rubbed his chin and shook his head, helping her into their ride. She laughed nervously.
As the boat entered the tunnel, she could feel his mood change, the deep red glow of the tunnel fueling his darker impulses. He had always been able to read her, whether she knew it or not. He could see the indecision masking her face, was she going to turn to face him, or continue to ignore his presence. Sark shifted, relaxing back into the hard seat of the boat, his thigh brushing hers. She froze, felt his eyes boring into her back, willing her to turn her to face him.
"I am so not sharing my fairy floss with you, Sark." She turned to smile at him, trying to lighten his mood. Storm clouds, the deepest, darkest blue she could imagine. That was how she would describe and remember the look in his eyes. She felt like a schoolgirl caught checking out the teacher, her head moved so fast.
Even now, remembering the intensity of his gaze on her, she felt her cheeks begin to burn.
No sooner had it all begun, the metal bar raised from their laps, and light returned to their view. He passed her a small disc. One small disc, the culmination of their partnership, the work they had started during her time as Julia Thorne.
"Thank-you, Sark." He merely nodded. Their partnership had ended. Offering a hand to her, he helped her out. Ever the gentleman.
She removed a small silver charm from her necklace, a present he had given Julia. She never told him she knew it was a tracking device, he never told her he knew she knew. Placing it in the palm of his hand, she turned and walked away.
"Bristow."
"Sark?" Turning her head back to him.
"Good-bye."
"Syd? Syd?!" Vaughn's voice snapped her back to reality.
In the back of her mind, she thought she had said "I do, or yes, or okay", or something to stop the questioning infiltrating her day dream.
"Sark!" She turned to the voices of her Father and Dixon, their guns cocked and aimed at the young man. He merely stood half way down the aisle, hands in pockets, oblivious to all but the woman before him.
"Sark?" She barely formed his name through her astonishment. "What are you doing here?" She felt her voice crack.
He walked toward her, as she closed in on him. The guns tracked his every movement; eyes tracing hers. She could hear the warnings of her colleagues but only saw him. Shorn golden hair giving him an angelic aura in the bright sunshine. Black leather and dark fatigues immediately erasing that idea from her mind.
"Bristow." He stood inches from her now.
"Sark?"
Vaughn grabbed at her arm, but she pulled away. For all she knew, Sark had come with a bullet for her, but she had to know.
"I watched you walk away once." He paused a beat, "I am not of the mind to let that happen again."
Snaking one hand through her hair and around her neck, he pulled her closer. She stumbled into him, her hands clutching at the leather of his jacket. The guests stared in stunned silence, paralyzed. Their lips touched, gently at first, never taking their eyes off each other.
He could not remember feeling anything as smooth as the fabric of her gown as he ran his hands up and down her back, along the curve of her hips. The dress gathered and fell with every movement he made, as if he simply had to touch every inch of her.
Reciprocating his intentions, her hips danced across his, as she took him by the collar of his jacket, deepening their kiss. The smell of leather and the ocean would be burned into her memory forever. She could feel the grip he had on her, her pristine white wedding dress, scrunched in the titan grip of his hands. She imagined the marks they would leave on her skin. Her hand moved to stroke the back of his head, the short bristles tickling the palm of her hand. His hold on her loosened, relaxing into the feel of her caress.
She pushed him away then, marvelling at the phenomenon of the infallible Mr. Sark, smiling, at her. She didn't know how long they had been standing there, and she realised she didn't care. The only certainty in her mind, she had never felt so alive. The look on his face told her, that just maybe, neither had he.
They didn't turn to face the spectacle of the audience confounded, or perhaps dumbfounded at the display they had just witnessed. Her Father and Dixon rightfully mortified. Marshall and Carrie, trying desperately to look everywhere but at them. Vaughn's face ablaze with fury and disbelief. They had all the time in the world for consequences, so they walked away; the lady in the white satin dress, with a man obviously overdressed for the seaside.
"So, Bristow, was that a grand enough gesture for you?" All she could do was laugh. She wasn't Sydney or Julia, but Bristow she could deal with.