Disclaimer: Alias is not mine. Alas, alack, etc.
This is a sequel to my earlier Sarkney fic, "Rivalita," but you shouldn't have to read that for this to make sense. It would, of course, delight me if you decided to go and read it anyway. :D
I. The Sharpest Lives
we kept our friends at bay all summer long
treated the days as though they'd kill us if they could
wringing out the hours like blood-drenched bedsheets
to keep wintertime at bay, but December showed up anyway
Even on a sunny day, winter in Wisconsin was nothing to sneer at. All the streets had been cleared since the most recent storm, but ten solid inches of packed snow and ice covered the field around the construction site. Sydney leaned nervously against the rental car in boots and a parka and tried not to feel to exposed against the backdrop of white. Tried not to acknowledge that she felt far more nervous than simply exposed.
She tried to remind herself that she'd had good reasons for keeping him in the dark for an extra five months, but all those reasons were hazy now. Had there really been any point in continuing the deception? Had it actually protected him, or had she just . . . not wanted to deal with it?
That was unacceptable, she chastised herself. Will had been her best friend, two-year separation or not, and he deserved—
"Sydney!"
As soon as he caught sight of her, Will Tippin bolted ahead of his handler and approached at a run. Unfortunately he slipped on a leftover patch of ice on the sidewalk, and ended up crushing Sydney into the car more than hugging her. "Shit! Sorry! Oh my god, Syd! Oh my god it's so good to see you! Where the hell have you been, I—"
"Will!" she choked out through her laughter. "Crushing!"
"Right! Sorry," he half-heartedly apologized, stepping back onto the sidewalk and pulling her with him. For a moment they just stood there, beaming at each other. Then Tippin's handler cleared his throat a little too pointedly, and they both struggled to regain a sense of where they were.
"Do you want to . . . go get coffee or something?" Sydney suggested, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
Will was grinning again. "Love to."
They went to a nearby coffee shop, where they ordered and then discarded their winter coats, as directed, at a table where Will's handler could easily keep an eye on both them and the exits. "I don't even know where to start," said Sydney, once they'd collected their drinks from the counter and taken their seats.
"Oh, I don't know, how about your escape from certain death?" Will suggested, on the verge of incredulous laughter.
"Right… that." She gave him a slightly chagrined smile and nodded once. Where to begin . . . "There's this group. The Covenant."
"Bad guys?"
Another nod. "Very bad guys. They kidnapped me and tried to brainwash me, but—well, to make a long story short, it didn't work. I started working undercover again, but nobody knew, not even—Vaughn. Then there was this, um..." She paused as a few harried-looking college students squeezed between the tables with backpacks and coffee in tow. "A procedure. It didn't go well, and I kind of . . . lost my memories."
"Wh— seriously?" Will's eyes darted across her face as if searching for physical evidence.
"More like it scrambled them, I guess. Next thing I know I'm in London, and I don't know how I got there, or anything until I was . . . found."
"Found, found by who?"
Sydney looked up at him, looked back down at the caribou design on the table, bit her lip, laced her fingers together. "By Sark," she replied, quiet but clear. It was a bombshell she didn't want to drop, but if she didn't start being honest now she'd never get out the rest.
"Oh, god! Sydney— did he hurt you? because I swear to god I will hunt that bastard down myself and—"
"Will, no. No. Sark . . ." A deep breath. "He helped me. He returned me to the CIA, and now he's helping us take down the Covenant."
He scoffed quietly, bitter and low in his throat. "Why? Crazy bad guys? Sounds right up his alley."
"They killed his father," she said, which was completely true but not the answer to Will's question. "I admit, we all had our reservations, but—"
"Reservations? Syd, that guy's a fucking psycho!"
"Will," she snapped, as forcefully as she could without attracting attention. Her friend's eyes widened, and then his expression shifted, just enough for Sydney to know that she'd given herself away. Will shifted in his seat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He was clearly nervous, but it was just as obvious that he was about to ask the question he'd so rarely voiced, the question that had been off-limits in their friendship for years.
"Syd . . . what aren't you telling me?"
Fuck. Fuck. You're a CIA agent, for the love of god, you can do this.
"Sark and I— we—" She spread her hands, palm-up, helplessly. And in a flash of reporter's insight, she knew that he understood. It was almost good, in a way. It kept her from trying to say things like we're a couple or we're sleeping together or I love him so much it's like… and she would have to trail off there, because it wasn't like anything, it just existed, private and perfect and painfully real. (And, thus far, successfully kept secret from the CIA, which was also good.)
But it wasn't good at all, really, because her best friend in the world was staring at her as if she were a complete stranger—or worse.
As if she'd betrayed him so completely he didn't even want to recognize her anymore.
"Will, please. Say something."
"Just . . ." He covered his eyes with one hand and squeezed at his temples. "Give me a minute."
She sipped carefully at her coffee — it wasn't hot anymore, but her fingers were trembling. She'd known this might happen, but she couldn't stand the idea that Will might never want to see her again. What did you expect, she berated herself, setting down the cup before she could spill latte everywhere. You're sleeping with the man who had Will abducted and tortured, who helped kill Francie . . . and you honestly expect to be forgiven? 'Oh, that's nice, Syd, how do you like my haircut?'
Sydney opened her mouth to say something, she didn't know what, but just then Will raised his head and looked her in the eye, and her mouth snapped shut.
"Just tell me one thing, okay, and then, that's it."
She just nodded. Her long-fingered hands were wrapped, white-knuckled, around her coffee cup.
"Are you happy? Honestly."
Soft, shaky exhalation. Steady breath in. "Yes."
"Okay. Okay." He ducked his head for a moment, and she was almost certain he was going to bolt. But then he looked up again, with a clear expression only belied by the tightness around his eyes. "So, how're things with your dad? He must be glad to have you back."
She wanted to hug him, or burst into tears. Get it together, Bristow, this is a thousand times harder for him than it is for you. "He's . . . about the same, I guess," she said, with only the tiniest crack in her voice. "To hear Marshall tell it, he raised all kinds of hell trying to find me."
Will actually snickered softly at that. "Yeah, that sounds like Jack."
"He, uh, ended up in prison, actually."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. He got in contact with my mom, tried to pool resources."
"Let me guess. You're the one that got him out."
Sydney just smiled, because she'd be damned if she'd tell him it had been Sark's doing. Not when things were so painfully delicate.
"So what about you, what've you been up to?"
"Uh . . . freezing my ass off?" he offered, and when they started laughing together, something deep in her chest started leaping for joy over the fact that they just might come out of this all right. "Well, y'know, I've got the construction gig and all. Every once in a while they let me sort through some files for old cases or whatever. Not the most exciting thing I've ever done, but it's closer to investigative journalism than hitting my thumb with a hammer."
"I heard about that! They said you've been really helpful."
"Eh, well, I try," Will shrugged, even though the praise made his ears turn pink.
"Met any nice Midwestern girls?" she teased, and grinned broadly when the blush consumed Will's entire face. "Oh, I knew it!"
"Her name is Michelle. She's, uh, an artist, mostly does stuff around here, and, uh . . . Iactuallyproposedlastweek." The last words were thrown out so quickly she almost didn't catch them, and were followed by a smile that was half-giddy, half-guilty. "Maybe I should have, um, led with that . . ."
"Oh my god, Will!" she exclaimed in the whisper tone of someone who would really rather be shrieking. "That's amazing! How did you— when are you— oh my god—"
"Slow down, Syd, you're gonna give yourself a heart attack," said Will, clearly trying not to laugh at her babbling.
"I can't believe you just now told—"
"Agent Bristow."
The tone got Sydney's attention immediately, and the laughter died in her throat. Will's handler was standing next to their table, just removing his fingertips from his earpiece, and through his continued no-nonsense demeanor she sensed urgency.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but there's a situation. Your car will be arriving in approximately one minute, and you will proceed to the airport."
"What, is—is Will in danger?"
"No, ma'am. You'll be debriefed en route."
"All right." She stood reluctantly, purse in hand, and knew her forehead was creasing in concern. "Will—"
"Hey, no need to apologize. I'm used to it, remember?" he teased, grinning lopsidedly. And maybe the expression was a little forced, and maybe it was just her imagination, but one thing Sydney knew was that she couldn't deal with it now. "Go save the world, Syd."
It was impossible not to smile in return. "I'll do my best," she murmured, and left the diner without looking back.
The car pulled up with impeccable timing as she reached the curb. It was the sort of thing she'd come to expect from the black-ops CIA operative to whom she'd been assigned as a handler—and who therefore was her responsibility. She slipped smoothly into the backseat and closed the door immediately. Their driver hit the accelerator before she'd even buckled herself in. "The Covenant?" she asked by way of greeting.
"Naturally," Sark replied, watching her with his customary neutral expression. "It seems the time has come for Arvin to make his move."
Sloane. He'd been abducted by the Covenant almost six months ago now, and had seemed to drop off the face of the earth. Considering the things he was capable of getting up to, it was enough to make anyone nervous. Sydney's throat constricted instinctively, and her voice came out low and tight. "What did he do?"
"We can't be certain, at the moment. But I believe this may have something to do with the Rambaldi artefact demanded by the Covenant in exchange for your release."
"Demanded by you," she couldn't help pointing out.
He shrugged with his eyes, something she would never admit she'd practiced in front of a mirror and still couldn't get right.
"How is dear William?"
Her lips thinned, ever so slightly. Will had been a forbidden topic between them, once upon a time, but their relationship was already enough of a tightrope walk; if there were things that couldn't be spoken of, secrets kept, honesty kept in check, they would have parted ways or killed each other long ago. "Settling in," she replied. "He's getting married."
"Well then, I suppose congratulations are in order."
Sydney turned her head until her temple rested against the headrest, facing him fully for the first time. With practiced ease, she managed to make a sarcastic face despite the way his eyes were quietly devouring the curve of her neck. "I don't think you'd better send a card."
"Mm. Perhaps not." Sark's eyes, caught right between blue and grey in this light, slid back to the papers in his lap.
"Where are we headed?" The we, she knew, was probably more wishful thinking than anything else. With what she'd overheard Director Devlin call 'the most elaborate CIA tap-dance number since the shit we pulled for the Warren Commission,' they had thus far managed to conceal Sark's defection from the Covenant, but as more Covenant operations failed across the world suspicions were bound to arise, if they hadn't already. Her father and Dixon had extraction plans in place, and at this point it was only a matter of time. But for now, despite her position as Sark's handler, they often went weeks at a time with no more contact than his mandatory check-ins.
"After you receive your official orders and op-tech in Los Angeles, you'll be going to Melbourne to meet with a Covenant mole. Leonid Lisenker."
"Huh." She leaned over to get a closer look at the blurred satellite image of a dark-haired man in nondescript clothing. "Name doesn't ring any bells."
"Given the recent losses and setbacks suffered by the Covenant, they appear to be playing things a little closer to the vest."
The corners of Sydney's mouth turned up in a small, almost predatory smile. "We've made them nervous."
Sark raised his head. She hadn't realized how close they were until his breath fell lightly on her cheek.
"It would appear so," he agreed quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. And she thought he would have seen it coming, but his breath still stuttered when she kissed him, bracing one hand uncomfortably on the center seat. Having coaxed Sark's mouth open, she decided that they would probably be safe enough for the remainder of the drive and unbuckled her seat belt to move closer. It was a rather gratifying, really, the way the folder of intel seemed to have been completely forgotten.
Unfortunately . . .
"One more… small detail," Sark whispered, breaking the kiss but not his hold on the back of her neck.
Well, that was the problem with the CIA, wasn't it. Always butting in with pesky vital information when she was doing her level best to make out in the backseat like a teenager. Which had nothing to do with a current need for closeness and reassurance. Her partner just happened to be fucking beautiful.
She held back a sigh and settled into a position that was slightly less on his lap. "What is it?"
Sark pressed his lips together as if trying not to smirk and gave her the big innocent blue eyes and she just knew she was not going to like this.
"I've been asked to join Mr. Sloane in whatever it is he's planning to do. Director Dixon approved the orders about an hour ago."
"Sark!" she snapped, and then gritted her teeth to hold back all the uncomplimentary things she was just dying to say. Also the unnecessarily protective things about breaking every damn bone in Sloane's body if he even touches you. "If you get yourself killed . . ." she finally said, letting the threat trail off menacingly.
"Now, Sydney." His smirk was utterly unconcealed at this point. "Don't be ridiculous."
She smiled weakly in return and tried very hard not to remember the litany of people she'd loved and lost. Now was not the time for that. Instead she reached over and brushed a bit of imaginary lint from Sark's shirt. "Remember, I promised you pancakes next time you visit. You won't get any if you're dead."
The flash of morbid humor made his eyes crinkle at the corners, which was the closest he generally came to laughing when they were on the clock. "I will keep that in mind."
"Anything on Sloane since he left Omnifam?" Sydney glanced down at the papers, but the picture of Lisenker was still on top.
"Unconfirmed reports suggest that Arvin has formed an alliance with Kazari Bomani. Are you familiar with him?"
"Only a little," she mused, leaning absently into Sark's touch as his fingers stroked her neck. "African arms dealer, mercenary. Went underground for a while."
"He was never a known follower of Rambaldi, which suggests he's been offered some kind of compensation for his trouble."
"Are you meeting with both of them?" People who ran afoul of Bomani had an alarming tendency to accumulate missing limbs, or missing heads, and she did not relish the idea of that man's explosive temper (and machete) combined with Sloane's capacity for true evil.
"I'm not sure."
Sydney sighed quietly. He could take care of himself, and she had her own work to do.
"Approaching the airstrip," said their driver, brisk and efficient over the intercom. "Agent Bristow, you will be dropped off first."
She leaned forward to press the backseat's com button. "Thank you."
While the car entered through the secure gate and pulled in as close to her plane as it could safely get, Sydney pressed a last quick kiss to Sark's lips. God only knew how long he'd be occupied with whatever crazy plan Sloane had come up with now. "I'll see you," she told him hopefully as she stepped from the vehicle.
"Not if I see you first, love."
AN: Oh my god, it's really happening! The sequel. In fact, if I don't run out of steam, I'm planning to write ten chapters of this, a follow-up one-shot tentatively subtitled "That Crazy Mission to Bring Down Elena That Involved Everyone and Their Mother," and a little set of three ficlets—one each for Irina, Sark, and McKenas, three of my favorite villains. If I do run out of steam, I'll… cry. So let's keep our fingers crossed on that front.
All the Rivalita reviewers are my favorite people, but this chapter's for Agent Sam, who gave me a very sweet review a few weeks ago. Hope you like it!
