It's that time again—the time she can't sleep and it's the middle of the night and she's worrying, worrying, worrying about everything that's wrong but she is powerless to change.
1:47 AM, she reads on the green digital display of the alarm clock Weiss lent her. She doesn't even have a clock to her name. The room around the bed is full of boxes of things from her father's, more loaners, and she longs for the scent of the sheets she no longer possesses. More than just their comforting, familiar smell, she longs for him, for the feeling of his body warming the sheets and the solid feeling of his body as she curls against him to sleep.
She can't seem to fall asleep, and when she can, her slumber is interrupted by terrifying dreams full of the sounds of wings flapping, bells tolling, and a giant marble figure like Justice looming above her. She wakes from them sweating and shaking, clutching the sheets and crying like she hasn't cried since she was a little girl and her mother died, and worst of all, she has no idea why the dreams even frighten her.
She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling; her eyes are so relaxed she can see the veins and capillaries on the backs of her eyes, through the dim red and yellow haze that she knows is the blood moving through her eyeball. Absently she moves her hand to her ribs, under her nightshirt, feeling each one in turn, counting them without really hearing the numbers in her head. She is skinnier than before. When she looks in the mirror, her eyes seem sunken, and her hair is an even duller brown than it was. Her ribcage shows a little above her breasts, she's so skinny.
And nothing, but nothing seems to be going right; even making an obvious one-for-one trade in the desert managed to go awry. Now Sark is in the hands of the Covenant—whoever they are—and their agent is still missing. She had almost missed him, a little. Goodness knows nothing else is the same.
Despite the inexplicable fear of the dreams, she can feel the heavy undertow of sleep beckoning her, pulling her deeper into the mattress, and she lets herself go. She is so very tired…
He speaks to her, in her dream: My life is in danger, isn't it?
She wants to warn him, tell him to flee, that something bad is going to happen, but she can't—like someone has tape over her mouth and he can't read her eyes to know he should run—and she wakes shuddering and nearly screams when she feels the hand, warm over her mouth.
"Sydney," he whispers, his hands firmly over her mouth and on her shoulder, "Please, don't scream—I mean you no harm."
Her eyes are wide, frightened, and he can feel her breath, rapid, shallow and hot on the back of his hand. She blinks in understanding, and he slowly eases off her, sits up straight up next to her on the edge of her bed.
In her half-conscious state, she wonders illogically if she summoned him to her with her dream. Or maybe, this is part of the dream? She reaches out from under the covers and pokes his side under his leather jacket with one cautious finger, recoiling when her flesh connects with living, warm tissue. His gaze follows her finger and he smirks a little at her reaction.
"What are you doing here," she whispers as harshly as she can, "How did you get in?"
"Your side door is unlocked by the carport," he says matter-of-factly, his voice very low, nearly a whisper, "You're lucky it's only me who came in."
Despite herself, she smiles a little at him; he is the last person she wants next to her, but at least she knows him. His face softens a little then, and she feels herself flush as his eyes travel down from her face to her chest under the sheet. Her nipples are cold in the night and she is acutely aware of the cloth moving over them.
"Why did you come here?" she asks, trying to distract him.
"I need to share some information with you," he says, his gaze never leaving her chest, which still heaves a little—she's breathing hard from the surprise of him waking her up. Finally he looks up and notices the blush that's risen to her cheeks, and hesitates for a second before continuing, "The Covenant—they want me for my money."
"What—I don't understand," she says, obtuse. "What money?"
"It turns out I'm due a small amount of money from my father—Andrian Lazarey."
Her eyes widen and her mouth opens a little, but he presses his fingers against her lips. "Don't say anything, he was no more a father to me than Irina was a mother to you," he says, "I haven't come for revenge. Tomorrow I'm due to withdraw the funds from a bank in the Caymans—if the CIA can freeze the account before then, the Covenant will be between a rock and a hard place." He lets his hand slid away from her lips then, but not before his fingers stick just a little to the moisture on her lower lip and it turns out ever so slightly.
She grabs his wrist without thinking and pulls his hand back towards her mouth, and he starts ever so slightly as her lips purse against the tips of his fingers.
"Sydney…" his voice fails him when he sees the look in her eyes. Her brown eyes look bruised, grey-purple hollows under them, above her cheekbones.
She licks her lips and she can taste the light salt of his skin on them; it is strangely comforting, the only thing familiar from her life before. It makes her want to taste more of him. His hair is the color of new straw in the darkness, like the gold of a harvest moon. They cut his hair short in custody, it surprised her when she first saw him, but she likes it, likes how he looks older. He is older, of course, but now he looks like he might be legal instead of completely statutory.
"Thank you," she finally croaks, "I'm surprised you came to me like this." And maybe a little pleased, she thinks.
He shakes his head wordlessly, looks a little petulant before he says, "Maybe I didn't come only for this."
She looks away, slightly embarrassed. Is he… flirting with her? You and I, we're destined to work together—I truly believe that.
Before she can even stop herself, she blurts it out: "Vaughn got married to someone else." She can't help it as she feels the water pricking in the corners of her eyes, feels the burn of the unshed tears along the edges of her eyelids, "Everything's changed and I can't remember anything, and I'm so lonely and scared I could die," she sits up suddenly, "I feel like it was yesterday I was here."
He nods, still silent, but he can feel her desperation, as if it were a thing he could reach out and touch, like the clock glowing on her nightstand.
"Sark," she whispers his name, but not his real name, they know that now; she feels like she should feel like this is a huge mistake, but it doesn't stop her. "Please?"
The single word tears at something small and lonely, near where he supposes his heart is, and he moves towards her as if an invisible arm is pushing him forward. He leans most of the way towards her, leaning his head to the left and stopping just short enough that he can feel her warm, moist breath against his lips. She pauses for nearly five agonizing seconds before she mirrors him and presses her hot mouth against his, her lips parted and her jaw a little slack. The instant her tongue sweeps against his, deliciously slippery and eager, he can feel the blood begin to pool in his groin, the urgency of which surprises him, though he doesn't know why—it has been two years. It's not as if inmates in CIA custody get conjugal visits; besides, Allison disappeared after her fight with Sydney. He puts his hand up, his palm against her cheek, and she flinches at his touch.
"Are you alright," he murmurs, his lips not really leaving hers.
"Uh, huh…" is all she can reply before his mouth is on hers again. This is so strange, and yet… familiar. He's never laid a hand on her except to cause her pain, but now he's being so gentle that it threatens her sanity and she doesn't know how to react, not at all. Her hands go to his chest and slip under his jacket; he's surprisingly warm as her hands travel down his sides and her fingers ripple over his gun in its holster at his side.
"Mmpf," he breaks their kiss, "Sorry about that." He leans his forehead against hers, and God—is he breathing hard? How old are you, 15? He stands for a second and slips off his shoes, tosses his jacket onto one of the boxes. It shines even in the darkness, like the skin of a snake. Places his gun on the nightstand and slips his arm out of the holster. A sudden rush of cold air hits the material of his shirt, and he shivers a little. He sinks back down onto the bed cautiously, waits as she slides over to make room for him next to her. He feels… like he is out of his body. She is Irina's daughter. Her mother would kill him if she found him here. It makes him want her that much more.
She is curiously, furiously aware of the weight of his body next to her, and she longs to feel him on top of her, his weight pressing her down against the sheets, back down to earth almost. She notices, as he moves towards her, that she is trembling, and she realizes she is nervous. She can't remember the last time she… As hard as she tries, her memory of Vaughn is even slipping away like the memory of a dream once she is awake. The harder she tries to remember him, how he felt, the sound of his breath as he slept next to her, it slips away that much more quickly. If there was someone in her missing two years, she has no memory of him, either. Probably better, since she was apparently working as someone else. Sark's hand goes to the span of flesh between her neck and her shoulder and there is a pleasurous flash of pain as his thumb works against a knot that is always there, one that never seems to go away.
It is the middle of the night, but neither of them is aware of being tired at all; an energy not unlike the one they both feel when they fight each other is coursing through them, a current so strong they are powerless to stop it from moving them forward.
They are nearly nose-to-nose now, his blue eyes barely an inch from her brown ones, and he notices how gaunt her face looks; her cheek is nearly concave where it spans between her cheekbone and her jaw. This time, she moves first and her mouth presses against hers, more demanding this time, and he lies still, accepting her advances. He has wondered what she would be like, what it would feel like to hold her without hurting her, to hear her whisper his name close to his ear. He may finally get his wish, he realizes, as her teeth hold his lower lip and he feels her small, even teeth begin to cut into his flesh just a little. In warning he increases the pressure on her shoulder, and she moans delightfully.
"Ow," she says, but her eyes tell him that she doesn't want him to stop. He can taste blood, just a little, on his tongue, and he's surprised at her.
She can tell what he's thinking, that she's supposed to be a nice girl, but the truth is she's not ready to know him like that anyway. She knows he can be rough, but she wants to know what he's like when he's tender. And not to mention, being rough with him would remind her too much of Vaughn, and the thought of him lying next to that tiny, slender blonde-headed body is enough to make her go out of her very mind. The mind may forgive, but the body cannot forget.
"You have too many clothes on," she murmurs, and her fingers go to his shirt where it's tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Jeans, she's never seen him wearing jeans before. She bites her lower lip a little as she undoes each button, working from the bottom up. Moving, she hopes, agonizingly slowly. He's seen her naked—now it's her turn. Her eyelids are heavy, so heavy, but she forces her gaze up at his face and watches him watching her hands. Midway up his body, she stops and slides her hands down his stomach, her fingers trailing over the soft skin covering his lower belly, between his belly button and where his pants are—he barely has any hair, even there. He inhales sharply as her fingers play at the button on his jeans. She can feel his erection even through the thick denim of his jeans, just below her hand.
She is teasing him, but he doesn't resist. Her clever fingers go back to his shirt—what a pity—and finish unbuttoning it. He can't stand it anymore, and reaches his hand down, to cup the globe of her perfect breast, his hand over her top. She meets his eyes as he lazily strokes his thumb back and forth over her nipple where it juts up from the center of her breast. He closes his eyes for a second and his thumb is still as she starts to slide his shirt over his shoulder; he is mildly self-conscious of the fact that he has less hair on his chest than some people do at birth. He snaps out of his reverie, though, and moves in to kiss her again. He pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and she makes a sound that would be a laugh except that no sound comes out. He pauses for a second as he feels her hand again at his waist, then at the button of his jeans. Dear God, he wants it to last forever and yet he is afraid he might simply ravish her. Her hand is warm but her fingers shake as she undoes the metal button and grasps the pulltab of the zipper, slowly eases it down so that the offending material separates away from his aching, swollen cock where it lies just under her fingers. He pulls back from her and looks at her, his eyes hungry, pleading her not to stop.
His mouth tastes good, like a hard butterscotch candy, and she can hardly get enough of him, but she is suddenly overcome with the desire to feel his skin against hers, all of him, not just the tiny bit of them that is exposed. She sits up and crosses her arms in front of her, grasps the hem of her tank top, and pulls it over her head in one smooth motion. She is about to toss it away when she feels his lips on the small of her back, moving down towards the impossibly soft skin at the top of the cleft in her buttocks, where her spine ends. She draws her knees up to her chest, hugging her shins, and she shivers in the still night air as his fingers tug at the elastic of her panties, dragging them down a little so that he can nip at her skin, taste her skin right where her tailbone is. His restraint is making her crazy—she longs to feel him inside her, any of him. She is not picky at this point—his fingers, his tongue, his manhood so soft and yet hard like a stone—anything to fill the aching lack she feels.
He pulls away and she turns to him without lying back, straddles him and she is magnificent: her muscles are corded over her frame like the fibers of a taut rope, but she is soft in all the right places. Despite the groove that runs along her torso below her ribcage to her belly button, she has the tiniest paunch just below it, her breasts are high and firm, but the skin is so, so soft. She pulls him towards her, her hands pushing his shirt down off his shoulders as he sits up, and he buries his face against her chest, between her breasts, just breathing, smelling her scent. She tilts her head down so that her forehead is against the top of his head and her long, slender fingers are stroking the back of his neck, ruffling through his hair at the base of his skull, grasping his upper arms as she pulls back from him a little and quirks her finger under his chin, raising his face to hers so that her tongue can flick between his lips and taste him again. His arms are around her back, grasping her tiny waist, and he can feel her heat through the cloth of her underwear and his.
"So, Agent Bristow," he says with a lazy smile, "What now?" He lies back on her pillows and laces his fingers together under his head, laying his midsection bare for her and inviting her. He will let her take the lead.
He is being coy, this refusal to tear her panties aside and plunge himself into her, but two can play that game, she thinks. She shimmies down the bed and grasps the waistband of his open jeans, tugs them down over his hips and thighs, but doesn't take them all the way off—this way he is hobbled, cannot move around too much under her. Sliding her open palms up his thighs, she is careful to avoid touching him exactly where he wants her to, and leans forward to kiss his soft belly, allowing her breasts to graze his cock. She shivers with pleasure as he bucks a little under her, and she nips the skin of his stomach in warning, lie still.
Her hair tickles his stomach as she tastes his skin, gives him little love bites down to the edge of his boxers. She looks up at him, her eyes full of want, and doesn't break their gaze as she sits up and gently hooks her fingers in the elastic band of his shorts. She smiles, slow and naughty, as she pulls the cloth down off his hips and he lifts them a little so that she can slide them down to his thighs. He bites his lower lip as she takes him in her hands, stroking him firmly, possessively.
She tries not to let her eyes close and just roll over and beg him to satisfy her. The skin on his cock is silky smooth, like the softest sheets she's ever lain in, but he's as hard as steel in her hand. She holds him firmly and moves her hand back and forth, feeling his skin move ever so slightly over the hard muscle. She can tell, by the way he's biting his lip, that he wants her to do more than just hold him in her hand, though.
She slides down his body and leans over, props herself on one elbow. She looks up at him as she flicks her tongue out and licks up the tiny bead of clear moisture that is threatening to roll towards her hand where she has circled her thumb and her forefinger just around the head of his cock. He tastes… not bad. She feels like it's been forever since she did this, like a kid again. Cautiously at first, but then harder, she swirls her tongue all over his rosy red head, lets her tongue play in the groove on the underside as she strokes her hand up and down his shaft.
Her mouth is making him crazy, and he doesn't know how much longer he can go without touching her. As she squeezes the base of his cock and takes him into her mouth as far as she can, he knows he is dangerously close to coming, but he doesn't want to yet—it's too soon, it would be so amateur to let himself go this early.
"Sydney," he whispers her name, and beckons her with his hand to slide up to him. She pouts for a second but releases him and he kicks off his pants as she slithers up his body so that they are nose-to-nose. He kisses her roughly now, loving the feeling of her body pressed along the length of his. His hand traces the groove of her spine down to her panties, and he slips his finger under the waistband to trace his finger back and forth in the soft cleft between her buttocks. She moans softly into his mouth, and he rolls them over so that he is on top.
Oh, at last—the weight of a man on her, and she thinks she might just come right there under him without even getting her panties off. He has other things in mind, though, as he nibbles her earlobe and then bites her neck, all the while his nimble fingers working their way around to the side of her hip, where his thumb strokes the sensitive, baby-soft skin next to where her hipbone juts up between them. He looks at her, his eyelids half open, as he pulls down first one side of her underwear, then the other, and his hand moves between them to cup her softness. She looks away, mildly embarrassed that she doesn't seem to have had even a bikini wax in months, but she looks back when his middle finger slides between her aching legs, just testing her, not probing her.
Her slit is slippery wet, like the juice of a ripe mango, and she is so eager that she is soaked from front to back. She shivers as she puts her hands on his shoulders, pushing him suggestively, and he doesn't hesitate to move down, kissing her breasts and her stomach as he goes before he finally reaches her sweet, hot center. He pushes her legs gently further apart so that there is room for his shoulders, and then he bows his head to nuzzle her clit with the tip of his nose. She laughs softly then, and he knows it's alright, that she's not nervous anymore and that she desperately wants him to keep going. She is so aroused that his tongue slips easily between her lower lips, and she cries out as he tastes her, draws in her essence and laps it up, hungry to make her feel alive the way she made him feel just minutes ago. He caresses the soft skin on the back of her thigh, near the curve of her rear, with his thumb as he strokes every curve and crevice with his tongue, nibbles her with his teeth, and finally grants her wish by slowly slipping his slender middle finger into her.
She gasps and looks down at him where he lies between her thighs. His finger is in her, and she squeezes him as best she can, but she wants more, wants to be full of him, feel him covering her. "Sark," she whispers, her voice sounding strangled, "Please?"
He raises his head and moves back up a little, enough to kiss her lower belly and tickle her with his nose, but he won't remove his hand until he's ready. When she relaxes a little, he slips his ring finger in her as well, moves his thumb over her clit, and works his hand slowly and insistently against her. Her juice is running down his fingers into his palm a little; he doesn't know whether to chalk it up to his skill, or the fact that it's been a really long time for her—for him, for that matter—but she is crazy with desire for him. He is so ready himself that he feels like he might pass out the second he slips inside her, but he is torn again by the polar urges to make her wait and to just stop postponing the inevitable.
She moans as he refuses to give her what she wants the most and her hand goes to her breast to pinch her own nipple, anything to take her mind off of his hand driving her wild. Doesn't he see that she desperately wants him to stop teasing and just do as he pleases? She's never been one to be submissive, but she feels like she would let him do just about anything he wanted with her right now. He's working his hand in a 'come here' motion between her legs, his middle two fingers—his longest, of course—planted firmly in her wet, aching sex. And god, does it feel good: he's got just the right mix of pressure and urgency to make her absolutely crazy. She opens her eyes and looks at him, and he's watching her, watching as she plays with her tit and finally, he removes his hand.
Finally.
Then, he surprises her, pushes her away, onto her stomach, and slides onto her, pinning her to the bed. His body is very warm along the length of her back, but she shivers as he brushes her hair away and lightly kisses the back of her neck, the tops of her shoulders.
"You have the most beautiful back," he murmurs against her skin, and he means it. From the way she's trembling under him, he knows she's terribly sensitive as well. She turns her head to the side and he stretches up to kiss the side of her face, her cheekbone, down the line of her jaw, and then somewhere close to her mouth. "Don't worry, I won't hurt you," he promises as he nibbles her ear, and she laughs a little.
"Why does that not make me terribly reassured," she whispers, and she looks at him over her shoulder a little.
He slides his hand down her side and cups her hip with his hand, his fingertips stroking the inside edge of her hipbone. Kisses her between her shoulderblades, back up her spine to her neck. He slips his forearm under hers and they lace their fingers together as he nuzzles the side of her neck with his upper lip. Without removing his hand, he lifts his weight off her a little and nudges her knees apart with his own knee. With his free hand, he reaches down to guide himself into her.
She tenses inadvertently when he pushes his head against her, not knowing if he'll hurt her this way, but a second later, he's in her in a hot, hard rush. She is so slippery that he is already all the way in her, and she can hear in his sigh that he is dangerously close to coming again. He traces the outline of her shoulderblade without moving, and whispers her name: "Sydney."
She turns her face to the sheet and tries not to feel the lump that his beginning to form in her throat, the hot burn of the tears in her eyes. She can feel his breathing in his stomach, soft against her buttocks, and he is kissing her again, all over her back. He isn't supposed to be like this, she isn't supposed to be like this; his tenderness reminds her less of Vaughn and more of Danny with every passing second, and she bites her lower lip, hard, to keep from sobbing. She knows she asked for it but god, why does he have to be so gentle? Like he can read her thoughts, he shifts his weight then, and with his hand on her hip, he pulls her towards him as he kneels on the bed.
She lets go of his hand and grasps the edge of the headboard as he pulls her hips towards him; she is on all fours, and he squeezes her tit on the way to cup his hand between her legs, in front of her. Her hair is curtaining her face, he can't see her expression, but he almost doesn't want to. Her desperation is making him feel both tender and violent at the same time, and he can't decide whether he wants to hold her softly or slip his arm around her throat to strangle her. He shakes his head to rid himself of the thought and thinks better of his stance. She cries out a little as he slips out of her, and he lies beside her and beckons her to ride him hard and put him up wet.
She is surprised again by his unwillingness to dominate her, but she doesn't hesitate to straddle him. He holds his cock still and this time, she is in control as she slides down onto him, feeling the slow, sweet sensation of his swollen manhood parting her. When she is full of him she sits up straight, shaking her hair back over her shoulders, and she looks down at him. His right hand goes to her rear, and he squeezes her left cheek so hard that she knows she'll have bruises from his fingertips. She traces a lazy circle around one of her nipples with her fingertip, then bites her finger like a schoolgirl trying to decide what kind of milk to have in the cafeteria.
"Oh, God," he says, his voice a half-whisper. "You are so naughty."
"Yeah?" she feels encouraged. She knows he's into it now, and she begins moving her hips in a small circle, feeling the delightful twinge in her lower belly as her cunt moves around his cock. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth as she moves up and down, up and down ever so slightly. She's already so close she doesn't want to go too far, and she can sense that he is on the brink as well.
God bless America, he thinks as he opens his eyes and looks at her. She is teasing him still, how can she not be over the moon by now? After several minutes of letting her have her way with him, he puts his other hand on her hip, stilling her motion. She stretches one leg out behind her, so that she is in a half-splits on him, and leans over. Her lips are hot and hungry and punishing as they crash against his, and he quickly rolls toward her leg that is still folded. She gasps in surprise but looks pleased that he is lying on top of her, and shows him how pleased she is by wrapping her long, lean legs around his waist.
"Fuck me," she whispers, and he doesn't hesitate to oblige her.
There are so many ways she could overthink this, like she overthinks everything, but she clears her mind of everything but how good it feels to have him on top of her, of the fact that she is willing to let him have his way with her six ways from Sunday, and that he is enjoying it immensely. His face is pressed against her shoulder, and he is thrusting so hard that they are moving ever so slowly towards the headboard and her buttocks are getting a little burned from rubbing on the fabric. He reaches between them and squeezes her breast, his fingers uncomfortably tight as he mashes his palm against her tit, flattening it to her ribcage.
As she feels the pressure of his sharp, even teeth nipping the span of muscle between her neck and her shoulder, she lets herself go. She arches under him, and with a cry, she shudders and shakes and feels him go still. Each second she feels like a lifetime is passing, and as she spasms around his cock, she finally learns the meaning of a fuck so good it curls her toes.
He refuses to let go of her shoulder with his teeth as he finishes in her. She is so tight he would swear she squeezed the orgasm right out of him, and he feels like he might break her in two as he thrusts into her one last time, so punishingly hard he expects her to slap him. He shudders then too, and between his clenched teeth, he laughs without making a sound. She actually clings to him a little tighter as he finally comes, her hand around the back of his neck and the other under his arm and around his middle back.
They lay still for several minutes without moving, listening to each others' ragged, open-mouthed breathing as it slows to a more normal pattern. When he finally moves, it is to kiss the spot where he has bitten her so hard there will surely be a mark.
Eventually she uncrosses her ankles and relaxes her legs, feeling her muscles tremble as she does. His hand goes to the side of her hip and massages her buttock, the side of her thigh.
"Mmmm," she murmurs against his hair, "That feels good."
He finally raises his head and looks at her, his blue eyes wide but relaxed. He's not terribly sleepy, and lying between her legs like this is making him want her all over again. He forces himself to move, though, and slowly slides away from her, feeling her spasm around him even still, like tiny aftershocks from a major earthquake. She bites her lip but doesn't break eye contact as he finally slips out of her, and watches as he kisses the place where the sides of her ribcage join together, down to her belly button. Tentantively, he swirls his tongue around the lip of her navel and feels her stomach move under his chest as she laughs softly.
"Sark, that tickles," she whispers, realizing she calls him by his last name, too, and wondering what she calls Vaughn in bed. It makes her sad, and she shoves the thought out of her mind.
Like he can read her thoughts, he asks, "Why don't you call me Julian?" He wonders silently how she addressed Vaughn in their private moments, but thinks better of asking.
She studies him carefully, and ruffles her fingers through his short hair. "It has too many syllables. You're a one-syllable kind of guy. Sark."
He raises his eyebrow but makes no comment. "What happens if someone finds out I was here?"
"They won't," she assures him. She certainly isn't about to go trumpeting his visit to the world. It seems like something better left in the shadows, in the realm of dreams.
Soon, he dresses and leaves her with a kiss on her forehead. When she hears the door click shut behind him, she lies very, very still and can still feel where his hands were on her body. And she laughs.
Her sleep is almost immediate, and it is blissfully void of dreams of any kind.