A nightclub in Paris, France.
Monday, 22:00 GMT.
People everywhere,
A sense of expectation hanging in the air,
Sydney absently blew a hideously complicatedly styled strand of hair from her face and resumed sipping at her sweet, dry martini. She resisted the urge to tap an acrylic fingernail in an impatient and somewhat nervous tattoo on the bar. Or to order another drink.
Her 'Alpha' was late.
Her heartbeat was steady but fast as she discreetly brushed two fingers over her pulse point, using the ruse of playing with one diamante chandelier earring. Her palms were also sweating. Sydney absently hoped that the hideous ring she wore was silver plated and not likely to leave a green mark on her finger. She subtly rubbed one damp palm down her silk-satin clad thigh, supposedly to smooth out any wrinkles, and tried to maintain her practised nonchalant air while taking deep but subtle breaths. The anticipation was affecting her more than it should, lingering in the pit of her stomach and curdling when it met with that edginess that seemed ever-present these days. The way she was feeling now; like a rookie on her first mission, heart palpitations and all and liable to vomit at some stage, she was glad she'd turned down Weiss' offer of a hot dog from the street vendor he'd found near where they'd parked the van.
Setting down the martini, Sydney spun the stool so that it faced away from the bar. She scanned the well-dressed crowd that milled around the sophisticatedly minimalist club for a familiar head of blond hair near the door.
Nothing.
Giving out a spark,
Across the room your eyes are glowing in the dark.
Her eyes lazily trailed the perimeter of the club and she inattentively committed the placement of the doors to memory. She reached behind her back for the martini and had brought the rim to her lips just as her eyes met and locked with a glacier-blue pair partially obscured by shadows that cloaked the corner booths.
"Bingo" she mumbled into the ring.
"Copy that, Mountaineer."
A hand and glass tumbler emerged from the dimness in an arrogant, cocky toast.
A confirmation.
An invitation.
Feeling an electric shock run down her spine, Sydney shakily inclined her head in acknowledgement. She bolted the last mouthful of alcohol, stood, and straightened her dress. She tried not to visibly show that she was psyching herself up for this encounter.
21:27 GMT, earlier that same night
"Now remember that, while you may want to beat on Sark for an answer, you can't" Vaughn sternly reminded Sydney as she put on her earrings.
"Or not until he tells you what you want to know," Weiss chimed in, grinning around a huge mouthful of hot dog.
Vaughn's forbidding expression faltered and, he too grinned. "Or not until he tells you what you want to know," he conceded with a laugh.
Sydney put on an expression of mock indignation. "Excuse me, I'm more professional than that. I could maintain my cover even if Sark were dancing naked in front of me."
Weiss gave a bark of laughter and choked on the gulp of Coke he'd just had. Vaughn started thumping him on the back, turning back to Sydney when Weiss had recovered.
"I hope so," he said, his grave expression returning, "I know how much Sark gets to you, but if you offend him before he gives us the intel we need, I doubt that even a good beating will help us find out where Sloane is keeping all of the Rambaldi artefacts he's collected so far in time."
"Hey, guys, I don't want to poop the party here, but what if Sark doesn't even know? He's exactly the kind of guy who'd string you along before he confesses that he doesn't know anything." Weiss had voiced the same concern before but so far no one had wanted to consider it. Now, with less than an hour to go, they had to think up some kind of contingency plan.
"Then we'll get him to find out," Vaughn stated, "and by 'get', I mean force. That info your mom gave us only leaves us a small window to avert this apocalypse Rambaldi's devices could cause if they're put together. After that, we lose our chance to nip this thing in the bud. If Sark can be pushed into the right kind of corner, we could get him to do anything."
"Do you really think so?" Sydney was sceptical; she'd come face to face with Sark in the field more times than anyone else had and knew that he was more potentially dangerous than anyone else gave him credit for. She also knew that what Vaughn was saying was true; if her mom was right, getting this one small bit of info meant more than most of her missions combined.
"I know so," Vaughn replied, his pause belying his uncertainty despite his even, sure tone of voice.
Attempting to change the subject, Vaughn turned back to the console and picked up the garish ring than shone in the artificial light of the computers. He handed the ring to Sydney.
"Now remember, whatever you do, don't let the stone come out of the ring. Not even once, otherwise the ring is ruined. The stone completes the circuit that enables the whole set of jewellery to work,"
Sydney interrupted. "I know, I know. Otherwise, the bug in the stone won't transmit the audio feed to you guys and the earrings won't pick up your reply," she repeated the spiel she'd had from the CIA tech guys.
Weiss snatched the ring out of Sydney's hand and held it up to the overhead light, wincing as the reflected beams shone right into his eyes.
"God, if I were you, I wouldn't wear the jewellery even if it cured cancer, abolished world debt, ended all wars and mowed the law. It's damned ugly," he said, wrinkling his nose. Sydney laughed, grabbing back the ring and sliding it onto her finger.
"Well it was decided that Sark would be more forthcoming if I were the one seeking intel. In order to get said intel, I had to comply with a number of conditions, or at least look like I'm complying with them. No weapons, no back-up and I have to act like we're a couple, not that I'm actually going to be making nice with him or anything like that." She shrugged, turning to Vaughn. "If it were up to me, it would be you in this dress, wearing the ugly jewellery." Weiss laughed hard at that. Vaughn grinned.
"It's lucky it's not up to you then, but I bet I'd fill the dress better than you do, even with the nasty, dime-store jewels."
Weiss's laughing escalated in volume and intensity and he tried to talk around the laughter.
"I thought maybe it came from those vending machines outside grocery stores, you know, those ones for kids. You put in a dollar and you get a fake Rolex or 'diamond' ring," he explained, noting Sydney and Vaughn's confused expressions. "I think you've got a couple of dollars of A-grade Taiwanese plastic there at least."
They all laughed and Sydney held out her hand, considering the ring. "Even if the ring's origins are somewhat dubious, one thing's for sure; those CIA tech guys have nothing on Marshall. They completely lack his subtlety or panache."
Weiss pulled a face. "Listen to little miss snobby SD-6 girl, insulting the humble efforts of Uncle Sam's boys," he said, nudging Vaughn, who smiled. Sydney sobered at the reminder of who she now worked for.
"You're right. Maybe the CIA tech's could get a consolation prize for working on the side of good."
"Well they're not going to get a prize for anything else."
Sydney laughed in response, looking over at the time display on the computer screen behind her. 21:37, it read in sickly green numbers.
Weiss saw the direction of her gaze. "Time to go," he said.
Giving her hair one last pat, Sydney pushed open the back doors of the van and stepped out into the crisp night air. From the inside of the van, Vaughn gave her shoulder a 'good luck' squeeze as he gave her a meaningful look.
"Good luck in there, even if you don't really need it. But just remember," he said, "Sark's a master at what he does, even if he's always working for someone else." With that, Vaughn slammed the back doors shut from the inside of the van and Sydney was left to consider his parting words as she walked into the club, her stomach feeling queasy.
And here we go again,
We know the start,
We know the end;
As she wove her way through the sea of tables, Sydney summoned up the sexy confidence shared by each and every one of her aliases. Even the shy, retiring ones knew how to flaunt what they had, to swing their hips in a certain way as they walked, drawing every male eye in the room. Tucking that troublesome strand of hair behind her ear with a gaudily bedecked hand, Sydney covertly noted that she did indeed have a fair amount of male attention at the moment. Looking over to her quarry's booth, she watched him lean into the light, a self-important smirk adorning a deceptively innocent looking face that was cradled by two dangerously capable hands. She smiled a little in response to cover her anxiousness. This was not going to be easy.
Looking mighty proud,
I see you leave your table,
Pushing through the crowd.
As she drew closer to his booth, Sark marvelled at both the CIA's audacity in calling this meeting and his own bravado in attending it. Only an idiot would ignore the risks and yet he'd somewhat casually sauntered in here, forcing himself to focus on the imminent joy of getting Sydney riled up. To be fair to himself, he had made some stipulations before he'd agreed to meet her; no weapons, no back-up and just to play with Sydney a bit, their cover had to be that of a couple. She'd reluctantly acceded, adding in a spiteful tone that pretending they were an item was worth what she hoped to get out of their meeting. He'd rejoined, telling her that pretending they were an item could have other benefits, one eyebrow raised. She'd slapped him, telling him she'd see him later like a wounded soldier would tell the surgeon to cut off his leg.
She may have portrayed this as her meeting him for her own gain, but he knew that she wouldn't associate with him voluntarily. She'd be reluctant to even do it for a good reason, so this private meeting, outside of the US and thus away from Sydney's comfort zone must have a significant cause behind it, indeed. It was unfortunate that she only ever had the most altruistic of intentions in mind. The two of them could have had a beautiful partnership otherwise.
Oh, well.
He gulped down the last of his brandy and stood to greet Sydney. An impulse, a veterans instinct to reinforce their cover he reasoned (as well as a mistake), made him grab her and kiss her hard on the lips when at last she stood before him, but a sudden jolt of desire made him continue the kiss, to pursue her tongue as his went charging into her mouth when it opened on a gasp. He fought for control as he tasted the crisp martini she'd just drunk still lingering in the warm, wet cavern of her mouth and finally, he released her and set her away from him so suddenly that she staggered backwards.
"You son of a bitch," she hissed, pretending to adjust her hair while she wiped her hand across her mouth.
Sark shot her his naughtiest grin in reply.
Glaring at him, she sat on the bench seat opposite the one he'd vacated, waiting. Her hostility was palpable. Summoning up his cocky demeanour, his 'game face' and persona, to cover the sudden lapse in judgement and behaviour, he loosened his tie slightly and sat down. Boy, was this going to be a long night.
I know what you think:
"The girl means business, so I'll offer her a drink"
"Agent Bristow, I sense from your manner that this is not a social meeting." Sark's training dictated that he try to get the upper hand as soon into an exchange as he could and during this particular exchange, he knew he couldn't afford to let his guard down.
That while he fortified his own defences he must also work at lowering Sydney's. Unfortunately for him, Sydney's defences were not the only thing he wanted to lower. He gave Sydney a leering up and down look that clearly stopped at her low neckline, barely hiding her magnificent cleavage.
"What a pity," he added, investing the last word with all the seductive cadence he could muster, "for there are any number of other things you and I could be doing in Paris if not for whatever business has called you here." He let the obvious implication stand unembellished.
Sydney didn't reply.
He sighed in an exaggerated way to convey his mock disappointment.
"Alas, as they say, there's no rest for the wicked; no respite, as it were, from business. Perhaps a drink then, before we get down to business?" he signalled the waiter, ordering her another martini and himself another brandy.
"By the by, I hope you stood by our agreement regarding electronic backup." he waved his hand in a broad encompassing gesture so that she understood he meant all of her ostentatiously ersatz jewellery as their waiter walked away. "I wouldn't want our intimate conversations broadcast for all the CIA to hear."
Ignoring her look of shock at his words, he took her hand in his and slid off her ring before she could protest. He quickly and easily prised the stone out of the setting to analyse it from different angles. Taking a bug sweeper out of his jacket pocket, he ran it over the stone, pleased to see the negative reading. He put the ring back together and handed it back to Sydney, watched her slide it back onto her finger with an odd expression on her face, almost…dread? He was looking forward to the next part.
I'm really glad you came,
You know the rules, you know the game
"I'm going to have to ask for your cooperation now, so that I can complete a full bodily sweep. Without arousing too much suspicion."
Sark seemed to be going a little overboard with the innuendoes tonight, Sydney thought as she shot him her most potent glare, or maybe her anxious state made her more receptive to his implications. He acknowledged her glower with a charming smirk and gestured like a game show hostess towards the inner bend of the horseshoe shaped booth. God help her, but he oozed invitation tonight.
Sydney was fighting hard to cover her dismay at Sark's accidental disconnection of the bug in the ring. How he'd accidentally done the one thing that would put the whole set out of action was a sign of his mastery. She'd come in here with only her fighting skills to defend herself, that jewellery and the vague promise from Weiss that she'd have some back-up floating around the club unobtrusively, which wouldn't do much good if Sark had something which could disable her fast. Hell, her back-up wouldn't even know to help her now unless they were standing right in front of the booth, watching. Sydney hoped that this 'interview' with Sark wouldn't degenerate into a fight, as their encounters usually did, not only for her own virtually unarmed sake, but also for the sakes of the other people in the club. God only knew what Sark would do if he were cornered, she thought, watching him.
"If you'll just slide into the centre of the booth," he requested, and out of the light, as he obviously meant, "I can undertake a complete exploration."
There he went with that tone again, the one that was like audible sex. Sydney wondered where you could learn that tone. She did as he bid and slid into the centre of the padded vinyl bench, feeling all the time like the rabbit being tricked by the fox into hopping straight into his open jaws. She knew, however, that this fox was especially dangerous, not only to her life but to equilibrium.
As if he knew the direction of her thoughts, Sark smiled in a thoroughly alluring manner. Denying this fox was going to take all of the rabbit's resolve.
Sark pulled her closer to him when he moved close enough, positioning her so that he could subtly run the bug sweeper over her without it looking too odd should anyone chance to look in their direction. To the casual observer, their position would look as if they were embracing; exactly what Sark and his reluctant companion wanted them to think. He caught her eye and held it as he angled her shoulders in his direction with gently caressing hands. He swept his hand over her arms and chest first, brushing the soft pale skin of her bared shoulders. No telltale beep. He continued, leaning over her and running his hand down both of her legs, all the time keeping their eyes locked. Nosound yet. He slanted her thighs towards him with both hands on her hips and swept her thighs and torso. Nothing.
We've done it all before
And now we're back to get some more,
You know what I mean.
"Good. You seem to have kept your side of the back-up bargain." He put the bug sweeper back in his pocket.
"Now to do a weapons search."
He tried not to let his enjoyment show too much as he smoothed his hands over her stomach, sides and back. He patted her thighs and then walked his fingers up her knees and under her skirt. She permitted the search without speaking and he alternately watched his hands searching and her reaction to the exploration. Her expression got harder and harder, her jaw clenching tighter and tighter, as his hands traced the part between her legs, widening the divide to trace her toned inner thighs and then caress their backs. Then she licked her lips without seeming to notice and his pulse leaped in reply. He let some of his regret show as he withdrew his hands from under her skirt and bit back a fully-fledged grin as she slid away from him huffily.
"Now we can talk."
Sydney went to slide away from Sark, to put some distance between her edgy self and his wandering hands and angelic handsomeness, when he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. His expression was smugly telling her to stay where she was and she crudely attempted to cover her gaffe by reaching for her martini and sipping. Sark's already raised left brow crept further into his hairline and Sydney resisted the urge to slap that smug expression off his face.
How weak and damsel-esque.
Instead, she slid the swizzle stick slowly out of her drink, pulled the two olives off it with her teeth, ate them and then turned back to Sark who watched her with overt interest.
Sydney swallowed hard at his predatory expression and steeled herself for whatever was to come, promising herself that she'd try to fight to the best of her abilities.
"Before you try to toy with me any further, let me just say that while I came here without any weapons, I'm not completely unarmed."
Sydney congratulated herself on a well-delivered, subtly couched threat.
Perhaps too early
Sark grinned naughtily, an expression that especially suited his innocent façade and virtually promised sin.
"Do you mean that you have something stashed away after all?" His hand insinuated itself up her dress again and Sydney fought the urge to break each blunt-tipped finger individually as they unmercifully caressed her, making her squirm helplessly. "Perhaps I should re-commence my weapons search," Sark said, both of them watching his cuff disappearing under the black silk satin of Sydney's dress, "maybe extend it to a strip search? I think I could make it so we both enjoy that."
Sydney's breath caught in her throat as one finger traced the floral pattern of her black lace panties. Sark had overstepped the boundaries by about a mile but for some unknown reasons, Sydney couldn't stop him, didn't want to stop him, or his wayward fingers, from going any further.
"What are you doing?" Sydney hissed at him sharply.
I have absolutely no idea, he answered mentally.
She tried to edge away from him until he stopped her by increasing the pressure of his index finger over her pubic mound. She shuddered and he burned in response, feeling his skin catch fire. How he came to have his hand up her dress and her virtually panting for him in the booth of this nightclub he couldn't remember. He couldn't think past the knowledge that he had to make this good or else she'd pull away.
The fervent desire to take her somewhere more private to relieve the godforsaken tightness in his pants was almost overwhelming. Sydney gasped softly, her eyes closing slowly and Sark realised that he'd unconsciously slipped his finger inside her panties to touch her more intimately. He seized control of himself and gently separated her labia, running two fingers up and down in the utterly arousing moisture of her. As he circled her clitoris, he strategically pushed down firmly, watching her head tilt back and her mouth open on a quiet whimper.
"Oh, God. I have to stop this."
He hadn't realised he'd spoken aloud until Sydney shook her head, licking her lips.
"No," she breathed, "don't stop."
God give me strength, he prayed, bringing his other hand up Sydney's dress to catch the top of her panties, pulling them down. He managed to get them down her thighs before she opened her eyes and used her lax hands to help him get them down her calves and off her feet. He was stuffing them into his pocket when Sydney caught his hand and pulled it up her dress.
He didn't need any further urging; he probed her soft, heated cleft and began rubbing the nub of her clitoris resolutely with his thumb.
With his other hand he caught the strong curve of her jaw and tilted her face forward, wanting to look into her eyes and have her look into his, to acknowledge who he was and what they were doing.
She was gasping and moaning alternately when she finally opened her eyes. She regarded him with night-dark, half-lidded eyes; watching him. He positioned his thumb below the firm nub he'd been stroking and nudged it determinedly at the same time as he slipped two fingers inside her. Sydney's eyes rolled shut and one of her hands grabbed at his thigh, clutching it with a death grip.
The eroticism of the situation was washing over him in throbbing waves of fire, threatening to drown him. He needed something, anything, to ground him, to help him last. He thrust into her with his fingers, wishing to God that it were his erection instead, or his tongue toying with her clitoris. He pushed into her hard with his fingers, feeling her, unbearably wet and textured like velvet, spasming around his fingers; contracting in waves that made him shiver. Her hand on his thigh unclenched and her fingers began to trail aimlessly. He barely noticed them until they cupped him through his pants. They squeezed and he started, groaning. His thumb pressed down harder in reaction, his fingers sought to burrow further into her rippling warmth.
She was close, he thought feverishly, and so was he. He watched her expression closely then looked down to where his arm disappeared up Sydney's dress. His other hand had found its way to her stomach and he pushed in, feeling her abdominal muscles shifting; tensing further and further. And suddenly relaxing just as she moaned, long and low. His eyes shot to her face, closing briefly as her hand tightened its grip on him. Around his fingers he could feel her climaxing and seeing her, watching her come apart, feeling her hand on him, sent him over the edge. He came in a shuddering rush, resting his sweaty forehead against Sydney's as she slumped back against the wall and he followed.
He was slow to remove his fingers from where they were, she was equally slow in lifting her limp hand from his lap. He gathered her against him, tugging her onto his lap, hugging her close. Sydney could feel his warm breath on her head, whispering through her hair as she nestled, boneless, against his chest. His hands chafed her arms. She wondered how he knew that she needed this silent recuperation time after she orgasmed, if he knew at all. Maybe, she thought absently, he was like this with all his lovers; happy to further intimacy after sex.
The thought of being Sark's lover should have dragged her from her sated reverie, but she was lost in it, floating on the waves of blissful aftermath. She let herself turn her head, seeking kisses. She nuzzled Sark's jaw and he obligingly dipped his head, laying whisper-soft kisses on her lips and all over her face. She looped her hands around his neck, buried her fingers in his thick hair and encouraged him to focus his attentions on her mouth.
She'd coaxed his tongue into her mouth when she heard an amused throat-clearing sound. Looking up, she saw a suited man standing in front of the booth, grinning at them as if he knew very well what had just occurred there.
"Excuse me," he said in French, "but is either of you the owner of the red Citroen parked across the street?"
Sydney froze.
It was the signal, from Weiss and Vaughn, checking to see if she needed back up or extraction.
Sark evidently felt her withdrawal and knew the question for what it was. Turning her head towards his, he kissed her lightly and disengaged her hands from around his neck.
"That's you, my love," he told her in French. He ushered her off his lap and onto her feet. He followed her and the suited man to the door, halting her by catching her elbow as she was about to receive her coat.
"If you wish to continue our…conversation, shall we say, you've only to contact me." He was gone before she could react.
"Mademoiselle?"
Sydney turned, giving the coat-check girl an apologetic smile as she collected her coat. She joined the suited man at the club door as he spoke quietly into a head set. He held open the door for her when he finished, waiting with her for extraction. She suddenly realised that she had nothing to show from her interview with Sark, or nothing she could share with Vaughn and Weiss anyway. Her intentions to keep the meeting strictly impersonal had fled the moment Sark had put his hands up her dress. It had been so easy to give into him, to let his forcefulness overwhelm her.
Now because of that, she'd jeopardized the CIA's chances of averting the Rambaldi apocalypse. It was hard not to regret what she'd done with a consequence that significant looming over her. She knew she could say that she spent the entire time trading barbs with Sark, urging him to share his secrets, without success. She likely would as well, mostly because it was a convenient excuse and a believable one at that. It just felt so unfair to Sark.
She was still rather dazed when she got into the van and faced her anxious team.
"What happened in there?" Vaughn demanded.
"You know," Sydney told them, "I'm not entirely sure."
In the shadows of a nearby alley, Sark watched the van and raked an unsteady hand through his hair. He could still smell her on his hands, still feel the ghost of her hand on his thigh and it was driving him mad. He edged further into the shadows as the van finally pulled away from the curb and drove away, resting his aching head against the wall behind him. What had just happened was the most glorious mistake he'd ever made and while he cursed himself for a fool, he longed for an opportunity to repeat his folly, extend it.
Nothing can come of this, he recited to himself, over and over.
Nothing can come of this.
But he knew it could, given the right conditions.
"Witness all, the scene of Julian Sark's biggest mistake," he muttered self-mockingly into the night.