Title: A Devil's Bargain
Author: Sigma
Email: Sigma13_2000@yahoo.co.uk
Rating: R
Summary: What if you find something unexpected and then you are forced to give it up?
Spoilers: Possible early Season 2 spoilers, but this is VERY AU. You have been warned.
Ship: Syd/Sark, brief mention of Syd/Vaughn
Disclaimer: I own nothing! Nothing! Unless you want to take my fridge. So please don't sue me. As with all true Alias fans this is merely a pitiable attempt at homage, rather than copyright theft.
Notes: This is very AU and spans a period of about twenty years. It's unashamedly sappy. It also jumps all over the place in terms of time and canon has gone completely out of the window. For ease of reading pleasure, just try and take each bit as it comes, otherwise you'll be hopelessly confused. Oh - and I apologise in advance for any confusion caused by the spelling, as I'm British and we're weird that way.
A Devil's Bargain
I have the best Dad in the world. When I was growing up he was always there, bedtimes and stories, hugs and toast soldiers on Saturday mornings, school plays and riding lessons.
As I grew older my priorities changed but he remained constant, through boyfriends and break-ups, defensive driving classes and exams. The only problem I ever had was dissuading him from breaking a few ex-suitors arms when they bruised my heart.
He taught me all the things a girl would want to know from her Dad and a little bit more. I think I'm one of the few who really know how to use my stilettos as an offensive weapon. I can hotwire your car in 60 seconds and incapacitate you in 10. I'm fluent in 4 languages and able to get by in 2 more.
And the one thing I have always known for certain is that my father loves me more than anyone else on the planet. I am the centre of his heart and his empire, his precious pearl, his baby and the jewel in his crown.
I have deep brown hair and hazel eyes. My Dad says I look just like my Mother.
And yesterday my Dad finally sat me down and told me who I really was.
My name is Elena Sark and I am the product of a Devil's Bargain.
*******************
It's difficult to keep your guard up 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. As weeks turn into months it becomes even harder. And even as you know you are being handled it becomes increasingly difficult not to relax into the illusion of safety, of concern for your well being - even as the illusion changes into reality.
The first sign is when the hand brushes your shoulder and you forget to flinch. Hours become days and you accept that causal touch, forgetting that domestication always did start with the little things. Little intimacies follow each other, gentle invasions of your personal space, and each first time you startle like a feral animal and then slowly, slowly accept. Until the hand on the shoulder, the palm in the centre of your back, the gentle caress that tucks your hair out of your eyes become familiar and therefore accepted. Comfortable. When does the illusion of relaxation become the real thing? When do you first lean into the caress instead of holding yourself rigidly erect? When do you first realise that trust has grown from a feigned commodity into a genuine, solid reality?
And only sometimes, as he holds you in your bed, as you bite at his lips in playful passion, and he pours himself into you and you curl yourself around him in real honest-to-god desire and undeniable joy, do you wonder how you got here, how it came to this, to this man, in this bed, at this time. And then he slams into you harder and you arch in ecstasy, calling out his name, and he gasps into your neck, voice hoarse and demanding.
"Say my name again, Sydney -say my name!" And as you crest the wave, clasping him hard between your thighs you keen out his name to the sky.
"Andrew - GOD, Andrew, SARK!"
*****************
Headquarters of SD-6, 18 months earlier
"Currently we are working on the assumption that this latest expansion of Sovanov's network into the Middle East.." Sydney found herself slowly drifting off as Sloane's voice continued his monotone in the background. Across the table Dixon caught her eye and the merest hint of a smile curled up his lips as he acknowledged the look of abject boredom on his partner's face.
It had been remarkably quiet at SD-6 lately. Admittedly quiet was a relative term when working for an evil organisation with fingers in every pie - but still, it had been.uneventful. And even if she only admitted it to herself the lack of her normal diet of high speed chases and life and death situations had left her feeling a little restless. And unfortunately it was nothing even the most hard core work out at the gym could allay. She pouted slightly. Yes, she was a founder member of AA - Adrenalin Anonymous, and just now she was craving her habit. She shifted slightly in her seat and attempted to focus on Sloane's monotone delivery.
Sark caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and mentally chuckled as he took in the carefully attentive look that was plastered across Agent Bristow's face. She was such a bad liar. Unless she was on a mission everything she though or felt tended to flow across her face like clear water, infinitely easy to read for a man like him. Just now she was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Not that he could blame her, for the manipulative genius the man undoubtedly was, Sloane gave a truly monotonous briefing.
Sydney was drifting again when the change in timbre of Sloane's voice jerked her back into focus ".long time insertion and operation in the central belts of Asia and the Middle East." What?
She sat upright in her seat and tucked her hair behind her ear in concern. "Excuse me, could you just repeat that?" Sloane frowned in mild irritation. "As I just said, Agent Bristow, we are considering the possibility of a long term insertion mission into Sovanov's network." She frowned. And this was relevant how? Operations didn't generally deal with long term insertion. That was for Intelligence, with its posse of sleeper agents and their softly, softly approach. She and Dixon were more of a smash and grab team, both by training and disposition. Short periods of intense action, that was her thing, not the long, mind numbing tension of living day to day in the enemy camp, unable to make a move and surrounded by people who would kill you as soon as look at you. She caught that thought as it streaked through her head and smiled internally at the irony. Not so different from her situation now after all, but at least here she had Will and Francie and her Father.
And Vaughn. She had Vaughn.
She didn't know how she would deal if she didn't have at least one person to whom she could trust her back.
************
She managed to stay focused for the rest of the meeting but Sloane didn't mention anything further about insertion into Savanov's network. But as she got up to leave, thankful to be getting out of the stuffy room with its inadequate ventilation, she felt the unwelcome pressure of Sloane's hand on her shoulder.
"Sydney, Mr Sark - if you could stay for a minute?"
Dixon raised an eyebrow in mild enquiry and her Dad flashed her a concerned glance. She gave them both an almost imperceptible shrug - no, she had no clue what he wanted, and settled back into her uncomfortable chair. God - after this she was so going to go for a run.
Sark watched her from across the room, lounging in his own chair like a great cat, all limbs and feline languor. She was restless again; he could see it in the minute shifts of her body, the nervous tuck of the hair behind the ears, the slight frown between her elegant brows. He noted each twitch and categorised it, placing it neatly in its file for future playback. Just one of his own little games, categorisation of a possible enemy or asset. Sydneywatching he called it when he was feeling frivolous.
Just now she was in Sydney State B - twitchy. He was still covertly watching her when Sloane started his brief.
"Sovanov has recently been in contact with these two figures." Photographs of a man and a woman, both dark haired, flashed up on the screen. "Elena and Ruslan Baranov. Ex-KGB, both recipients of the KGB version of Project Christmas. Paramilitary types with expertise in a variety of sub-specialisations.
"Currently we have reason to believe that Sovanov intends to establish these two as his permanent emissaries in order to extend further into the Middle Eastern market.
Sark raised an eyebrow in curousity. "A Khasinau situation then? A disguise to conceal himself behind his agents?"
"Essentially. Although an interesting development is that in order to establish intermediaries than he believes he can trust he has arranged to go completely outside his own organisation. And hence - these two." Sloane gestured to the screen. "And a valuable opportunity for us."
Warehouse - South Central LA
"..so Sloane has this idea that if we can infiltrate Sovanov's organisation, we can turn the information gained into a huge strategic advantage. And of course the fact that Sovanov is also reputed to hold a large private collection of Rimbaldi artefacts might explain why he's so eager to move in." Vaughn turned his head to follow her as she paced restlessly in front of him.
"He may have a point." He held up his hands defensively as she glared at him. "Sovanov has been increasing his power base in the Urals for the last four to five years. But this is the first time he's tried to move out of his home region." He stuck his hands into his pockets. "Information on his operatives and organisations could be invaluable."
She glared at him for a moment more and then her face softened. "Maybe. But I still don't like where this is going. He had Stark and I in that room for an hour today. Going over these two independent operatives."
"The Baranovs, right?"
"Mhhmm. Giving us intel on their likes, dislikes, past history, family background, all that stuff. "
"So? He briefs you on contacts every day."
"Yes, but normally he gives us a mission as well. This time it was just information. Lots and lots of information."
"So?"
"I just get the feeling that there is something he's not telling us. Like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"Well, it wouldn't be the first time."
She flashed him a rueful smile. "You're right. If I got upset every time Sloane lied to me."
He smiled at her gently, ".you'd never be cheerful. Anyway I'm sure you'll find out soon enough."
"Yeah. Goodnight Vaughn."
"Night Sydney."
*************
For hours after my Dad's little bombshell I had elected to remain curled up on my favourite window seat, staring out at the gardens but not really seeing them. After a period of time my cat Arthur had joined me, loudly complaining about inconsiderate individuals that evaded their petting obligations. I gave in to him absentmindedly, the feel of the plush fur soothing beneath my hand.
I didn't know what to think. I mean the fact that my Dad had secrets was something I'd always known and accepted. He'd always been scrupulous about admitting there were things that he considered me too young to know. And as I got older that list grew shorter. I knew my Father. I knew all about the assassinations, the Machiavellian tendencies, and the absolute anal need for control. I was the daughter of a man who believed fundamentally that morality was flexible according to the needs of the moment. The only two things I had always believed he held an absolute allegiance to were the safety of the country we lived in and me. And the only reason the first was there was due to some very clever men in SIS who had decided that it was infinitely better to have my Dad on their side. In exchange he had given them a level of loyalty which I knew had before only belonged to me.
But now it turned out that someone else had had that loyalty before me. And that someone was a woman named Irina Dereverko.
***********
Vaughn had been shaving when the agitated message from Sydney came through on his voicemail. With a curse and a frown at the breach in protocol he lunged for the phone, but it was too late, she was gone.
By the time he got to the warehouse she was pacing back and forth like a woman possessed, heels clacking on the floor with the force of her fury. He hurried to her side.
"Sydney - what's wrong?"
She glared up at him, the normally wide and expressive eyes narrowed and blazing. "You said it was probably nothing! Nothing!" she stopped dead in her tracks. "A really big nothing!"
He reached out to take her by the shoulders.
"Syd, you're not making any sense. Now what's nothing?"
She focused on his face and visibly pulled herself together.
"Remember the Baranov's?"
He nodded in affirmation. "Yeah, the Russian freelance couple from the briefing. So what?"
"Sloane", she almost spat the name, "wants me to consider going deep cover and posing as Elena Baranov."
"And?" And then he remembered - Elena Baranov didn't come singly. Instead she was part of a pair. A husband and wife pair. Husband and wife. And it couldn't be Dixon - he was too dark to pass. Oh no.
She nodded in grim satisfaction as she saw comprehension pass across his face. "Yes. And guess who my darling hubby to be is?"
They looked at each other in mutual disgust as the same name floated foremost in both their minds.
Sark.
************
He was still waiting patiently for me when I pulled myself out of my self imposed exile. I leaned against the doorframe to his study, watching him work, the sunlight hitting the fair hair, now threaded with strands of silver. This was one of my constants, so many times I had stumbled out of bed in the middle of the night and made my way to this room, to spend the rest of the night asleep on his lap or on the couch nearby while he worked on until dawn.
He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, waiting for me to make the first move. I did, crossing the room and curling into a chair opposite from him. For a moment we just looked at each other. It was at times like this that I could see the resemblance between us most strongly. It was there in the shape of the face, the cheekbones, the jut of the chin, even in the identical cynical lift of the eyebrows. He constantly said I looked like my mother, but never having even seen a picture of her, I naturally couldn't see the resemblance. To me it was clear that I was my father's daughter. We be of one blood, thou and I.
He smiled lopsidedly at me and threw me an opening.
"I'll bite. What's on your mind bear cub?"
I shifted further in my chair, drawing my feet up to my chest and drew a deep breath. "Dad, I know you've already let me into a lot of stuff, but I need to know more." He waited silently for me to finish.
"I need," I glanced uncertainly at him, but his face was as blank as ever, his "business face" as he called it.
"I need to know.. Dad, please tell me about my mother."
*************
Sydney crouched against the wall, hidden behind the oil drum, gun at the ready. Across the alley Sark was poised in a similar position in the shadows; gun carefully blacked so no betraying gleam would be seen. They tensed as the door opened once again and the guard slipped out, looking furtively up and down the darkened street before lighting up his cigarette. Sydney mentally wrinkled her nose in disgust. Amateur. That little burst of flame was like a bull's-eye to anyone with proper training. And Sark never had been one to waste an opportunity. There was a snick and before her eyes the guard fell boneless to the floor. She nodded to Sark, no, to Ruslan, and moved out, securing the open door while he worked to further disable the cameras. After all they didn't want to announce their arrival. Without a further sound from either of them they moved further into the complex, already working together like a well oiled machine.
But it hadn't always been that easy.
8 weeks earlier
"You want me to do what?!" Sydney almost screamed at him, before remembering where she was. It didn't do to scream at your boss even when he couldn't fire you. She bit her lip to get herself under control. God, two outbursts in as many days. She was really going to have to get a better control of her temper. She shut her eyes for a second to maintain her composure and then determinedly faced front.
Kendall smiled in ironic amusement as his top double agent struggled to contain her shock at his suggestion.
"I'm sorry, Sir. But can I just point out that what you've just suggested sounds completely insane."
He raised an eyebrow. "Agent Bristow, let me remind you that the CIA is not in the habit of giving out Assistant Directorships to those who are mentally ill. And if you looked at this scenario logically, rather than emotionally, you would see that it has a number of advantages towards our ultimate goal."
She flushed at the reproof and looked at her hands, folded neatly in her lap, the only sign of her tension the change in colour over the knuckles. She was very aware of the bulk of her father to her left, present but as of yet silent throughout the meeting. "I'm sorry Sir." God she was repeating herself now. "I'm just finding it a little hard to assess this scenario objectively."
"With the history you have with Mr Sark that's understandable. However your father and I both believe that your participation in this operation could lead to the downfall of Sloane and the Alliance. And also the removal from the international scene of a credible threat to US security."
She looked from one to the other of them, puzzled. What were the two old foxes up to now?
*****************
8 weeks later
Cautiously she slid along the corridor, gesturing Sark on with her gun, covering him as he inched around a corner. She had to admit, as much as she loathed him personally, professionally he complemented her perfectly. He knew what she was about to do almost before she did herself. And surprisingly she found it was mutual. When they weren't actively trying to be at odds with each other they made a very efficient team.
*****************
The warehouse - LA - 8 weeks earlier.
"I can understand Kendall's reasoning, but yours? Have you just decided it would be better not to have me around?"
She was hurt and it showed. Kendall could at least claim objectivity when it came to her placement, but her Father? Didn't he want her around? Didn't he want to know she was okay? Some of her hurt must have shown on her face, for Jack Bristow put out a hesitant hand to briefly touch her shoulder.
"This isn't about what I want, Sydney. You know if I had what I want you would be out of the game right now." She ducked her head to acknowledge the truth of that remark, embarrassed to meet his eyes. "It's about what is safe and about the best option for you." She looked up, surprised. That was the last reason she would have expected him to give.
"Sydney, if you keep operating under his nose as you are doing, sooner or later, and probably sooner, Sloane is going to peg you as a mole. You're good at covering yourself, but everyone's luck runs out eventually, and despite what you may sometimes think, Sloane is anything but stupid."
"But how does that."
"Shush. Let me finish. This posting will allow you to legitimately gain access to and destroy the organisation of an avowed enemy of the US, while still successfully maintaining the integrity of your cover with SD-6. So essentially, you will still be working for both SD-6 and the CIA while you are working for Sovanov. And if you succeed your trustworthiness to Sloane will be set in stone."
"But, it's two years." She sounded childlike, even to herself and his face softened slightly.
"I know, but it's two years out from under Sloane's eye. And it might be for the best."
"And with Sark." She almost pouted and he grimaced faintly in agreement.
"That's true. And without Will, or Francie, or myself."
Or Vaughn, floated unspoken between them.
"Which is why only you can make the decision. On this one, with this period of time at stake, even Sloane won't force you into it."
She sighed in resignation at the truth of his statement.
"Why don't we get some food and you can sleep on it. You don't have to make your decision tonight." But it was evident to both of them that it had to be soon.
******************
For Sydney it was a very long, sleepless night. Could she do this? Should she do this? Could she work with Sark for that period of time? Wouldn't she kill him? She chewed her lip glumly. She probably would at least try, undoubtedly within the first week. And her Dad, and Will and Francie! How would she cope without them? And Vaughn... Vaughn. Not that they were likely to actually do anything even if she stayed. Ever since Weiss had been shot he had been reserved. Cool. Professional. Ever so slightly distant. And all the burning warmth of her feelings for him had begun to die just a little, like any fire will when there is a lack of fuel. She still loved him, still wanted him passionately but every time he looked away from her it hurt a little more.
Suddenly all she wanted was for life to be simple. Not to have to deal with a tangled web of complicated alliances every time she woke up, with love and duty, desire and friendship, obligation and responsibility wrapping her up so tightly that sometimes she felt she couldn't breath. She just needed something concrete, something to focus on to the exclusion to all else, something simple for once in her ridiculously complicated life, where the only choices were straightforward and her only lies were to strangers. She hugged her knees into her chest, wrapping the old tatty quilt around her feet in the darkness. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise, a chance to just leave these complications and start again. Perhaps Noah had had the right idea when he left her. Break your life down to the most basic components and it simplified things wonderfully. Kill or be killed, live or die. And never have to lie everyday to those that you loved.
SD-6 headquarters
Sydney knocked firmly on the glass door to Sloane's office, her stomach curling in knots. At his murmured "Come," she slipped inside and closed the door firmly behind her, meeting the slightly surprised gazes of Sloane and Sark and her father. Sloane cleared his throat before speaking.
"Sydney, what can we do for you?"
She locked eyes with her Dad for a second before taking a deep breath and fixing her gaze on Sloane, firmly ignoring Sark. God knows she would see enough of him in the near future.
Sloane looked back at her, obviously waiting for her to get to the point. She took another deep breath to quell her stomach.
"I'd like to take you up on your offer. I'll be Elena Baranov."
******************
There it was. The last door. With a roll to shoot the last guard and the quick deployment of C4 against the steel they were in, ready to shoot, taking out the door guards inside the room with casual ease. The object of their attention was huddled against the far corner, gun pointing steadily at Sark, the only sign of his nerves the sweat rolling down his brow. She shifted and his head flicked around as if he hadn't noticed her before and tracked her movement with his gun.
She glanced over at Sark for confirmation and when he nodded uncocked her gun, showing the dart pellets that had taken the place of real bullets, dropping them on the floor. Sovanov looked at the two of them in complete confusion.
"What - who are you people? What do you want?" His Russian was elegant and strongly accented, but his voice was rough with fear and confusion. Sark strolled forward, leaving his sidearm holstered, the only weapon his also unloaded dart gun. The underground lighting gleamed on his newly chestnut hair. He replied in the same language, his Russian fluid and idiomatic.
"Who are we? Well that's easy to answer. We are the Baranov's. That is my lovely wife Elena, and I am Ruslan." He gave a small bow and strolled a little nearer as the other man cowered back slightly.
"And what do we want?" Sark shrugged and released a dazzling smile. "I thought the issue was what you wanted? I believe you were trying to contact us to offer us a job? Well, consider this the interview." He gestured around at the destroyed bunker, the smoke and the downed guards, and Sydney had to bite her lip very hard not to laugh at the expression of complete incredulity on Sovanov's face. That was one thing you had to say about Sark. He certainly had a sense of humour.
******************
She was running and running, but she couldn't get away and bit by bit they gained on her, until she was dodging, diving, jack-rabbiting, as they drew down on her, shots ricocheting off the floor. And then she tripped over something soft, something that gave beneath her frantically moving feet, as she fell in a cascade of limbs and hair and they caught her. And as they dragged her away all she could see was the carcase she had fallen over, a mangled, bloody wreck of a human body - and it had Vaughn's tortured face.
She woke up screaming.
Sark woke instantly, one hand reaching for the gun strapped to the headboard, the other ready to strike. But within seconds he had identified both the source of the sound and the likely reason for it. Nightmare. Not that he didn't have his own, but he was better at keeping them quiet.
She was sitting bolt upright next to him, chest heaving, eyes glazed with panic, panting like a trapped animal. Cautiously he put down the gun and reached out to touch her shoulder, always wary of reflexes as hair triggered as his own. She stiffened, then started to struggle a little as he took her firmly by the shoulders, facing him and shook her gently to pull her out of it. He couldn't afford to have her crack up now.
"Sydney. Sydney! Wake up. It's over."
Her forehead crinkled in confusion as she regained her awareness, scanning the darkened walls of the hotel room without recognition before coming back to focus on him, some glimmer of self sneaking back in. He gave her another little shake and full consciousness flooded in, leaving her bleary eyed and rumpled, but awake.
"Sark? What happened? Why are." She looked suddenly, instantly wary, and he had to hold back a smile at the speed of the change from sleep to suspicion. That was his girl.
"You had a nightmare. You were screaming."
"I did? I was? I don't remember.." Her voice trailed off as she reached up to rub her forehead in confusion. "I was running, I think."
He gave a wry smile. "Not surprising, considering how much time we spend doing that."
She ignored him, still focused on trying to capture the details.
"And then I tripped over something. And it was, it was," her shoulders stiffened as she remembered exactly what, or who it had been. Her lifeline. The one man she had always felt she could trust. Dead. Talk about symbolic.
Sark was still watching her with that steady, assessing gaze, looking as though he was just waiting for her to fly off the handle. Normally it would have just irritated her. Everything about him normally irritated her. But tonight she just felt drained. Drained and tired and absolutely without resources. It had hit her over the last few days how totally alone she was in this situation, no back up, no family, no friends. No trust. No one but this stranger, an enigma who wouldn't even tell her his name. She swallowed frantically over the lump in her throat. She was not going to cry, she was not going to cry.
Sark caught the tell tale signals, the slightest quiver of her bottom lip, the hitch in her breath and mentally shook his head. She didn't do well in situations where she had no emotional support structure and he had watched analytically as she had started to crumble and frantically attempted to shore up her defences, over and over again throughout the last three months. He couldn't afford for her to break apart. For one thing Irina would never forgive him, and for another.well he didn't want to analyse that too closely just now. But first he had to fix this situation as best as he could. He gave her another gentle shake to focus her attention, noting clinically the mask of self control she was trying vainly to hold onto.
"Sydney, let it go. You need to let it go. Remember, they mentioned this in the briefings."
And they had. Sudden bouts of melancholy and depression due to forcible uprooting from familiar structures. Tension that would expression itself in emotion. She was a textbook case.
"I need you to be able to function. I want you to let this go."
She glared up at him mutinously; the shimmer of unshed tears visible in the moonlight. Sark went to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear and stopped halfway, putting his hand back on her shoulder awkwardly. He sighed.
"I know you don't trust me. I know you don't like me. But if we want to stay alive and sane for the next 20 months you are going to have to let me in. Just a little. So as your partner I want you to let this go. Understood?"
She meant to pull away, to disagree, but suddenly she couldn't hold it any longer and the tears started to flood, silently and against her will as she tried to stem them with the back of her hand like a child. He sighed and pulled her closer, ignoring the stiffening of her body, pulling her into his chest, the solid beat of his heart infinitely comforting, infinitely human and close after the enforced isolation of the last three months. And as she continued to cry he pulled her down onto the bed, wrapping his arms around her, pulling the bedclothes around them both, until she finally fell asleep, with the beat of his heart and an almost inaudible voice muttering comfort in her ears.
********* 3 months earlier - LA
"You have to do what?!"
Sydney straightened up from her suitcase and pushed her hair out of her eyes in a resigned gesture. Here it came. She watched as her best friend stalked around the room, hands flying everywhere.
"The Bank needs me to go and set up a subsidiary operation in Khurdistan."
"I heard you the first time. I just didn't believe it! And you couldn't just say no?!" Francie stopped and glared at her. "You know - just say no?"
She sighed. "I couldn't, Francie, really. It was either agree to it or be out the door."
"Then going out the door seems like a really good option! You know, you can quit that job. It doesn't own you." She was really upset now, eyes glimmering with unshed tears and it made Sydney's heart ache to see it. She put her arms around her friend and pulled her into a tight hug.
"It kind of does, you know that. And if I do this they've promised me they'll cut down on my trips abroad afterwards"
Francie huffed through her tears. "Oh, that's really generous, after sending you into the middle of nowhere for two years! Will you be able to come home in the middle at all?"
Syd pulled back to look her friend in the eyes, and shook her head, hating herself as Francie face further crumpled.
"But I can write, and maybe phone - the lines are a bit erratic, but I'm sure the Bank will work that out. And they'll pay all my bills while I'm away."
Francie scowled through her tears. "I don't care about the money! I'll just." her voice almost broke down into a wail, "I'll just miss you so much!"
Syd hugged her closer, burying her head in her shoulder, the tears now starting for both of them. "I know, Sweetie. I know. Me too."
******************
Sometimes she wondered why God had chosen her for this job. But not now. God, no, not now. Sydney felt the adrenaline pump even faster into her muscles as she rounded the corner and dived for cover, Sark a millisecond behind her. Pop, get the bad guy, get up and dive again, on your back, in the air, see the gun, take the gun, take the bad guy, bring him down.. Up again, now she was just behind him, she had his back, as the explosives they had set went off and the entire building shuddered. The ceiling started to come down and she stumbled on debris, a hand steadying and pulling her up, gone before she noticed, and all the time they were still running, in constant motion, no time, no time, no time. At times like this, when everything was shot to hell and life had narrowed down to pure survival and the race to continue living, when she could be what her mother and father had made her, pure speed and pure reaction, dispensing violence and grace with equal facility, god, at times like this she LOVED her job.
They screeched away from the downed complex in a blur of tyres and Sydney grabbed the seat edges in reaction, left over adrenaline still coursing through her system. Now was when she usually got the shakes. She snuck a quick glance at Sark who was driving like a maniac, pale skin flushed and artificially brown hair mussed at all angles and covered with plaster dust. In the heat of an operation she forgot to detest him, forgot how he represented everything she despised. Instead they fitted together like two well greased pieces of machinery, and unlike Vaughn she never felt she had to look out for him. Sark could look out for himself.
She bit her lip to try to regain her equilibrium and noticed Sark had turned his head to glance at her in return. She cocked her head in enquiry as she attempted to disguise the reaction shakes that were suffusing her body. He was grinning. Not just smiling, or smirking like usual, but grinning. An outright, shark tipped grin, edged with things she didn't want to think about, snapping with an almost childlike glee, matching the dance in his eyes. He opened his mouth and she steeled herself for some critique, to the instant task of analysis that Dixon had always required of her. She could concentrate through this. She could.
"So", he drawled, in that annoying English accent of his, "was it good for you too?"
And he grinned again. And as she stared back at him in blank astonishment, a tiny bubble of hysteria bubbled up irrepressibly inside her and sneaked out in a stifled snicker. And when Sark met her snigger with nothing more than another knife edged grin, the chuckle became a flood and she leaned back in her seat and gave herself over to a full blown case of slightly hysterically edged laughter.
And Sark just smiled and turned the radio onto the Beach boys as they careered further and further away from the scene of their latest exploit.
********
All I could do was stare at the envelope I held in my hands. My Dad had given me the packet after dropping bombshell number three on me. First I find out that the circumstances of my birth were less than usual, then that my father used to be the right hand man to one of the world's most feared crime bosses. And now finally that my mother, the woman who I'd always been told, had "had to go away", wasn't in fact dead, as I had so cynically assumed in my early teenage years, but alive and kicking. In this instance "gone away" turned out not to be a euphuism for death, but the real description. She had had to go away, and in exchange my father had been allowed to keep me. I was the price of his collusion and assent to matters he had not seen fit to reveal to me. I was his Faustian temptation: his Devil's Bargain.
*************************
Typically it was right in the middle of a mission that the epiphany happened.
Savanov had the two of them gathering information on arms shipments through central Columbia. Just a simple smash and grab at a very exclusive party. But when she had dressed and presented herself for Sark's - Ruslan's inspection he had looked unconvinced.
"What?" She twirled round in front of him, the slight bias in the skirt causing it to flare out around her legs. He frowned. "Something's missing."
"What?" She checked herself over. "I can tell you it's not my gun. And I don't think anything else would even fit under this dress."
"It's this." He reached out to a side table and handed her a flat parcel. She eyed it dubiously. What was he up to?
"Happy Birthday Elena."
Her eyes widened comically as she finally took in the significance of the date.
"Ruslan!" She took the parcel and pulled off the wrapping, Sydney watching suspiciously from behind Elena's eyes. Sometimes she really hated working in bugged hotel rooms.
It was a soft velvet topped box. A jewellery box. She raised an eyebrow at him in enquiry, but he simply waited, blank faced. With a slight shrug she opened the lid - and gasped.
It was a Tiffany's necklace, a form fitting choker created from swirls of elegantly branched platinum and studded with diamonds. In the dim light of the hotel room it glittered and sparkled like a piece of the rainbow come down to earth.
She opened her mouth to protest the extravagance of the gift and he put a finger over her lips, rolling his eyes in the direction of the listening devices. "Sshh Elena. Can't a man buy his wife a present on her birthday?"
She shut her eyes in momentary frustration. "Of course Ruslan. It just surprised me, that's all. It must have been very expensive."
"It was nothing. I wanted to get you something that shone just like you. Now why don't you let me put it on."
He took the box from her unresisting hands and slid the necklace around the slender column of her throat. Still unsettled by this development Sydney assisted by lifting the mass of her hair as he slid the necklace into place. It was a close fit and his fingers were warm and steady against the back of her neck, brushing against the hairs there as he deftly worked the catch. She was suddenly very aware of him, standing there, the almost animal heat of his body through the immaculate tuxedo, worn with that particular relaxation that was positively feline, the small puffs of his breath against her neck as he leaned in to fasten the clasp, the surety of his touch against her skin. He settled the choker more firmly against her, his fingers brushing up against her nape and she shuddered, the spasm running down her skin and glowing at the base of her spine.
He stilled, fingers tightening momentarily, and then moved away, hands glancing over the edges of her shoulders as if he couldn't help himself.
Sydney shut her eyes, biting her lip in an attempt to get her traitorous body under control. When she opened them again he was still watching her, something in his eyes that was dark and unpredictable and alluring all at once. Lifting her chin she turned her head and met his gaze head on, while her cheeks coloured and she had to fight the urge to turn away.
Surprisingly he turned away first, moving away into the bathroom, running a hand through his artificially brown hair, breaking the tension. With a mental sigh of relief and worryingly mixed feelings Sydney hurried to get her wrap and the bag they required for this evenings snatch and grab.
*********
In my hands I held the first concrete proof I'd ever seen for the existence of the woman who had given birth to me. I suppose I should have been furious, distraught, raging, but really all I felt was a burning curiosity. Who was this woman, and how could she have been persuaded to give me up? And why when my father talked about her did his face lose all its animation and his eyes close down? Was she the reason that no girlfriend lasted beyond a few dates and the demands of the body? I had always smugly assumed that it was his overwhelming attachment to me that had prevented him from forming another relationship, but perhaps it had been someone different all along. I opened the envelope, spilling pictures of a brunette beauty onto my lap. Perhaps it had been this woman all the time. This woman, Sydney Bristow. My mother.
**********
Her job had few benefits and numerous disadvantages, but what it did have in spades was surreal moments. And this was certainly one of them. She leaned against Sark as they danced, both of them seemingly caught up in the moment, but in reality keeping a close eye on their respective areas of the ballroom. Around them swirled the glittering throng, dressed to the nines in silk and taffeta, diamonds and rubies sparkling, the majority of the men decades older than their partners. No one paid any attention to the young couple on the dance floor, judging them oblivious to anything except each other and consequently no threat.
In fact Sydney was having trouble concentrating on the mission herself.
The feel of Sark's shoulder under her cheek was distracting, but the burning warmth of his hand as it slid over her exposed back was almost maddening. Despite all her best intentions her mind kept veering abruptly off course, distracted by the scent of his skin, the pressure of his fingers, the warmth of his breath as he leaned down to rub his face against the mass of her hair. It was as if all her nerve endings had fired up all at once.
Sark breathed in sharply, inhaling the scent of her hair, like something green just broken. Five months now and this was the most relaxed she had ever been. When he had first agreed to this assignment he had little motivation beyond the furthering of his and Irina's operation, that and getting himself out of from under Sloane's eye for a while. But he had to admit his interest had been piqued at the idea of spending so much time with the lovely Sydney Bristow. She was after all, one of his favourite specimens for analysis. He was curious to see how she did under continuous pressure, what her weak points were, if the outer strength masked a hidden fragility. After all wasn't it always said that a wise man kept his friends close but his enemies closer? But then Irina had passed down a command from on high. He was to watch her daughter for her, support her, do whatever was required to keep her stable. And with that the game switched to a completely different level. Firstly he now had proof that Sydney Bristow had value to the woman he had believed cared for no one. Human weakness. A vulnerability. And secondly, he was reminded that this slender young woman was actually her mother's daughter. Irina's Deverko's child. And Jack Bristow's - altogether a formidable pedigree. Perhaps she could genuinely be useful, genuinely be a piece in play. And with that motivation his focus had shifted from clinical to self motivated, and he actually started to actively reach the woman who hid behind the mask of Elena Baranov.
And he had discovered how devastating fire and fragility could be together in one slender package.
These days he had a far greater respect for Jack Bristow. If Sydney was anything like her mother the man had never stood a chance. The idea of all that fire and passion actively engaged in seduction was faintly scary, like sitting on top of a volcano and waiting for it to go off. They all treated her like something fragile, too delicate to touch, as if she might break, but he could see beyond that to the wildness and fury underneath, the grace in motion and the dark parts of her that delighted in the violence and destruction. And unlike the others he knew he could always reach her there, for the dark areas of her soul were warped mirrors of his own.
Carefully he tracked around the ballroom, scanning for the target. Seeing no sign of Senor Gomez's incipient arrival he allowed himself to indulge in the moment, brushing his cheek down the side of her neck and pressing his lips for the briefest of instants to the graceful line of her exposed collarbone. She shuddered almost imperceptibly against him and he smiled just above her skin. So he was getting to her. Finally.
The touch of Sark's lips on her skin almost destroyed what was left of her composure, and she couldn't prevent the shudder that momentarily racked her frame. She was completely conflicted. It had always been easy to despise him, safe in the comfort of labelling him the enemy, purely evil, the opposite in every way of the man she truly wanted. But, as she had discovered over the last five months, things were seldom as black and white as that.
Sark was amoral, expedient, a killer. All these things were true. However he was also thoughtful, intelligent, a genuine connoisseur of art and fine wine and unpredictable in a number of ways. For example, small children seemed to like him, something which would have been an almost Darwinian argument against their continued survival, except for the fact that he repaid their trust with the nearest thing to gentleness she had ever seen him show, hunkering down to their level and talking to them as adults. She had seen him ruthlessly torture an informant and the next day pick up a fallen child from the street. Like the man himself his actions were often an enigma.
And in the five months they had been working together he had never once attempted to touch her in any way that could be called aggressive. He watched, but recently even that felt more like concern than analysis. And when they worked together he was unfailingly professional and supportive. In only 5 months she had already lost count of the number of times he had come through for her. Although in their profession life and death situations were almost normal, she had enough honesty to admit to herself that if he hadn't kept his half of the bargain on numerous occasions she wouldn't be dancing here now. In his arms.
She bit back that thought, scanning the ballroom for Gomez, wishing for once that the target would just hurry up already! With no other outlet her mind started churning again. Admittedly she had saved him as well, but to her that was normal partnership etiquette. In all honestly she had never expected Sark to hold up his side of the bargain. But he had. And more than that he had looked after her in a way Dixon or Vaughn never had. She felt secure in his presence. He made her feel.. She frowned in consideration. Yes, he made her feel.safe. Not that it made any form of logical sense that she would feel safe in the arms of a merciless killer. But her feelings never had been particularly logical. Perhaps it was that part of her that realised that nothing she could do would shock Sark, that all the darkness in her would never cause him to turn away, that had responded so strongly to him. He could see all of her and not wince. Vaughn now. She thought she could love Vaughn so very easily, in all honesty she loved him already, but what she loved most about him was his gentleness, the fact that little darkness lurked inside him. She felt drawn to his goodness, his light, like a moth to a flame. But she knew that she would always have to keep some part of herself from him. She would always have secrets from the man she loved. In this she was truly her Mother's daughter. And Sark.Sark would need no secrets. Nothing in her would be distasteful to him. They were alike in that if nothing else. And he was strong. Strong enough so that for once she could lean on him, rather than always being the one that others leaned upon.
But even if it was true, how could she ever balance being with Sark with the other parts of her life? She sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder. Maybe she should just accept things as they were now. For the next 19 months she would be with him 24/7. Perhaps it would be enough; maybe she could take a time out from everyone's expectations and demands and just live for herself for a change.
Sark almost stopped dancing when he felt her sigh and the pressure of her head on his shoulder. But thankfully his feet were on autopilot so she didn't notice his momentary lapse. What was this? Was it capitulation? Was she finally letting him in? Well whatever it was he had never been a man to let an opportunity slip by. With that in mind he slipped his arms more securely around her, pulling her into his chest, acknowledging the shiver that passed over both their skins when his hand grazed the bare skin of her back. With an inaudible growl of frustration he brushed his lips over her hair and maintained their vigil for the appearance of the illusive Senor Gomez.
He had always wanted her, right from when he had first heard of the rumour of her existence. The child of Irina Derevko, the one woman to whom he had sworn his loyalty. What a trophy to have, what a prize. And then when he had seen her, singing in that ridiculous cabaret, holding Khasinau hostage with her gaze, rolling them all with sheer bravado, well when he had made the connection between the almost legendary Sydney Bristow and the kick ass chanteuse, he had been momentarily speechless in admiration. And with that want changed to something harder, more concrete and less abstract. And every time they met, or fought, or exchanged barbed words that want had solidified further. But until this job, and his orders from on high, that want had been the desire of a child to possess something or maybe to take it and break it. To remake something to please himself.
But now.he shifted again, touching the very edges of her skin, shivering in response to the shudder that wracked her frame. He wanted her. All of her. Not the façade that he could create with enough brutality and pressure, or the shallow mask of a woman that she showed to strangers. No, he wanted all of her, the bundle of contradictions, desires and delicate fire that made up Sydney Bristow.
And so in a strange way he had set out to woo her. In some ways it reminded him of trying to tame squirrels when he had been a boy. Contrary to what people might have expected, he liked animals. Animals and children. Neither had any real choice in who they were involved with and so he afforded them latitude he would never have extended to adults. After all, he did not consider himself to be a sociopath; rather he was a man who had formed his own personal and moral code from the circumstances and opportunities that had been extended to him. And so now, rather than breaking Sydney, as he could have done so easily, he was using his memories of taming wild things to slowly work his way inside her barriers.
He knew that any violent act towards her would send her retreating so fast he would never get close again. So instead, it was all going to have to be her. She would have to instigate, to come to him willingly. Only then could he be assured of really having her. And as a falconer he once knew had said, the proof of his hold over her would be in the freeing. For if you let a wild thing go, and it returned to you of its own free will, no matter how long it took, then it would be yours forever.
In the meantime he would watch, and wait and use all of his considerable self control not to just take her. Which at certain times was easier than others.
Now was certainly not one of those times. He closed his eyes momentarily as she shifted in his arms, one hand rested on his chest, closed around the lapel of his tux., the other curling around his shoulder. God, this was one of those times when she drove him nuts. Then she shifted again, with real purpose this time and he tensed as she whispered in his ear.
"Gomez at 6 o'clock, Ruslan." And with that reminder Sark flicked once more into mission mode. Feelings could wait, this was work.
******* 5 months earlier
"You're doing what!"
Syd tucked a strand of hair and glared at him.
"Keep your voice down!" she hissed. "Francie might hear you!"
Will was pacing up and down in front of her, running his hands through his hair distractedly.
"I can't believe you agreed to this." He shot her a glance. "And with him!"
She met him glare for glare. "I didn't really have much choice in the matter."
Which although not technically true, was essentially correct. A "suggestion" from Sloane was seldom ignored. For a second they matched identical glares, hurt and irritation obvious on both sides. Then he stopped pacing and sighed, all the fight draining out of him.
"I'm sorry. You're right. It's not as if you probably really had any choice. I suppose when both SD-6 AND the CIA say, jump - the only thing you can really do is ask how high."
"Something like that, yeah." She looked down at the rug. She really hated lying to him, but if he knew she had volunteered there was no way he would be so understanding. He moved towards her, pulling her into a tight embrace and she responded, wrapping her arms around him gratefully. Her ever dependable Will. He sighed into her hair.
"But you watch your back with Sark, Syd. Don't ever make the mistake of trusting him. He's a scumbag."
She burrowed deeper into his comforting embrace. "I know. I won't. I promise."
"I'll worry about you every day, you know that, right?" His voice was worried and not quite steady as he embraced her.
And as she buried her worries and fears in his arms for a minute, she allowed herself to bask in the warmth of his affection. At least she would always have that, no matter how far she travelled.
*******
They stumbled together along the corridor, pretending to be more than slightly drunk, conscious of the eyes of the guards. The bag with the stolen manuscript was tucked between them. It had been the work of moments to break into the safe, once Sydney had danced with Gomez to gain the necessary items to fool the fingerprint and voice recognition scans. She still felt faintly dirty, as if Gomez's oily touch had left its mark on her skin, and she really wanted a shower. Now if they could just get out of here undetected.
Of course, that was easier said than done.
******************
She was tall and slender, with hair the colour of the very best mink. Her eyes were chocolate brown and I suddenly understood what my Dad meant when he said I looked just like her. The colouring was identical, the same pale skin, the aquiline shape of the eyes. I reached up to touch my face hesitantly - I had her nose. Physically we had the same build. She was a dancer, or a runner, built long and slim, with a swan like neck.
In the early photos she seemed self contained, serious. In later ones there was the occasional break in the storm clouds, the edge of a smile, but never a full one, as though she would shatter if she relaxed too far. She looked permanently on edge, as if something had stripped all the ease out of her years ago. I traced the edges of her face with my finger. I was a fundamentally optimistic person, in sharp contrast to my father's jaundiced view of life. I had always thought I had inherited that from my mother. But after seeing these photos I really wasn't sure any more. What had happened to her? Who broke her and why?
******************
The alarm had gone off just as they were nearing the exit. Quick as thought Sydney pulled them both into an alcove of the hallway, hiding them from the guards who poured out the entrances like water. They were pressed against each other and the wall, the alcove only really big enough for one. Sydney felt the steady rise and fall of his chest as he leaned against her, his back to the hall, shielding her while giving a pretty good imitation of ravaging her neck with his mouth. She shut her eyes and went along with the façade, biting her lip back on an all too realistic moan as his lips seemingly accidentally grazed behind her ear. Thankfully their little show seemed to convince the guards.
As soon as the initial rush had passed they went to work, removing the manuscript from the bag and slipping it under Sark's shirt. Then they bundled themselves back into the corridor, Elena laughing and falling over slightly, obviously drunk, waving a champagne bottle, as her long suffering husband steadied her and raised an amused eyebrow at the guards.
For Sydney it was one of the longest evenings of her life. For two endless hours she and Sark danced, nibbled and flirted their way through the party, ignoring the scanning guards, as Gomez, visibly agitated, surreptiously watched his guests. They knew that he would never dare to admit to losing as valuable a piece as the manuscript, especially not from his own house. And any overt search or announcement to this bunch of piranha's masquerading as guests would be considered weakness - blood in the water. So the only thing Gomez could do was watch for atypical behaviour and hope that the thief would make a mistake that would make his or her identity obvious.
So Elena and Ruslan Baranov danced and flirted, and seemed oblivious, smiling until their faces ached, before making their exit with the majority of the crowd.
**************************
I took copies of all of the photos back to my flat with me. I had given the originals back to my Dad and he had taken them carefully from my hand, as though they were unbearably precious. That he had cared for her was plain to me, even if to others he would have seemed expressionless. But did he still? I was still musing on that and other things as I kissed the top of his head and left to go back to London and Uni.
When I reached my flat I huddled down into the coach, feet in ancient socks tucked up underneath me, vintage Ramstein t-shirt pulled down over my knees. I studied each photo with obsessive fascination, desperate to find an iota of meaning in the grainy images in front of me. I was still deep in concentration when a sudden blast of tuneless singing and the slam of the front door broke my train of thought. Sitting back I smiled as a green haired, highly pierced vision bounced into my field of vision and halted her singing to enquire:
"Hey 'Lena. What's up with the world today?"
Fiona Hartley-Barton was my flatmate, technically Lady Fiona, Mensa level intelligent, addicted to hard core 1970's punk music and a highly competent hacker. She was also my best friend and had been since we were 14 and at boarding school together. And at times like this a computer geek was a truly useful friend to have. True - I could have pulled in a few of my father's contacts, (don't look so surprised, after all I AM his daughter) but if I didn't want him to know I had to keep it within the family. And Fee was the closest thing I would ever have to a sister.
I gestured her over.
"You know how I always said my mother was dead?" She cocked her head at me, an oddly birdlike gesture, and nodded sharply.
"Well, it seems that I wasn't technically correct."
"Holy shit. Really?" Swearwords always sounded out of place in her cut glass accent. She bounded over the side of the couch and landed heavily on the cushions, peering in fascination at the photos on my lap. "Are those her?"
"Yup. And Fee - " I looked at her imploringly, "I really need your help on this one."
She pulled me in to a rough hug.
"Whatever you need, sweetie. Whatever you need."
And with that I settled down to explain to my best mate the plan that had been fermenting in my mind since my Dad had dropped his latest bombshell.
************************
They had spent the ride back to the hotel in silence, continuing the charade in the bugged room, murmuring endearments to each other in the way of married couples, while never quite meeting each others eyes. And when they piled into the double bed together, acres of space separating them, all Sydney could think of was the man who was sleeping so close, but in reality was as far away as the North Pole.
And those thoughts felt strangely like betrayal.
5 months ago - the warehouse - LA
This was the last one. She would see her father once or twice during the operation, at one of the 6 monthly debriefings that Sloane had set up, but none of the others. And even though it was hard to say goodbye to her friends, at least she had the reassurance that they would be beneath the notice of anyone who wanted to kill her. In fact her moving away almost guaranteed their safety, a thought she took out of storage and wrapped around herself whenever she felt in need of reassurance. But after this meeting she wouldn't see Michael Vaughn for two long years.
And it hurt.
She had been wobbly even before he arrived at the warehouse, and the sight of him stalking across the floor to meet her hadn't helped. He had noticed, his forehead furrowed in characteristic anxiety, but had remained strictly professional. They discussed the mission like it was any other 3 day jaunt, talking about variables, emphasising again her counter mission for the CIA. But they both knew it was just talk. And eventually they ran out of things to say.
Syd glanced up at him. He was staring at the floor, forehead creased, giving off such a palatable feeling of worry that it made her heart clench just a little. She didn't want to say anything, didn't want to end the meeting because then that really would be the end. And she didn't know if she could bear it.
He broke the silence first. "I'll keep an eye on Will and Francie if you want."
She sighed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'd like that. Thanks"
She shot a quick glance at him. "Will you be changing assignments?"
"Not really. I'll still be your handler, just on.suspended..duty. I'll still work the SD-6 detail; maybe help out your Dad. I'll just have to wait until you get back before I can go back to operations."
His "wait until you get back" hung on the air between them, igniting feelings that she had thought were dying.
"I'm glad. I mean that you'll still be here when I get back." It came out in a rush and she found herself blushing slightly in vexation. Glancing up she saw he was watching her, his eyes warm and speaking for the first time in months, and she blushed some more.
"I promise, Sydney. I'll be waiting."
She smiled at him shyly, suddenly uncomfortable with such a loaded conversation. "I know. I'll try to make it back in one piece."
He took a step nearer, his hands burrowed in his pockets as though he was trying not to reach out to her.
"I'll hold you to that. And don't trust Sark. That piece of slime always has a hidden agenda." His open face was screwed up in distaste at even mentioning Sydney's new "husband".
"I won't. And look after yourself Vaughn. I want you here when I get back."
He smiled slightly and suddenly leaned down to brush a kiss on the side of her cheek. For a second they held the position, the heat from their skins suddenly and painfully erotic. Then he backed away, breaking the tension, keeping his distance. His eyes were burning with all the things he would not allow himself to say. I miss you already; I need you to be safe. I love you. But all he said was: "Be safe. I'll see you soon."
"Me too". She watched as he made his way out of the building, watched until even the echo of his footsteps had died away. And all the time she could feel the burning imprint of his kiss on her cheek. It had been meant to be affection, she recognised, but it had felt like abandonment.
***********************
It had been three days since they returned from their latest mission, three days of trying not to acknowledge the new thing that appeared between them, as if by pretending it wasn't there they could somehow erase its presence. Yeah, right. It was like trying to ignore the famous pink elephant shitting in the middle of the living room. They were cautiously, carefully polite to each other, and spent as much time as possible in separate rooms.
When Sovanov phoned them with another mission they jumped on it with mutual sighs of relief.
************************* Fee had spent the last ten hours trying to track down one Bristow, Sydney, last address, date of birth etc, all entirely unknown. I had spent the last ten hours keeping her primed with junk food and extremely strong coffee, familiar with her requirements from years spent rooming together at school. I had finally dropped off to sleep on the couch for a few hours when she finished, only to be woken up by the pressure of a heavy body landing firmly on the cushions beside me. She groaned and I cracked open one eyelid in response.
"Any luck?"
She was rubbing her forehead with the backs of her hands, always a bad sign.
"Man, your Mum is a ghost. You do know that right?"
I sat up, all my feelings of giddy anticipation quickly draining away. "So, nothing?"
"Nothing. Nada, nyet, etc, etc. I've looked everywhere, Sweetie, and she just doesn't exist."
"So that's it then." I slumped into the cushions, abruptly deflated. Fee eyed me with concern and struggled to sit up straighter.
"No, no. We just have to go after it from another direction. Now what information do we have?"
"Well, we know she was Caucasian, going by the photos, mid to late twenties."
"Maybe a little older. Let's make that up to mid thirties."
"Sure. Also that she is brunette, has brown eyes."
"Both easy to change."
"True. And that she had some connection to an international mercenary leader my Dad used to work for, named Irina Derevko."
"Hah. Now that last I can use." She stood up and started cracking her stiff fingers in anticipation. "Even if Derevko is no longer active we should probably be able to pull a file off Interpol. And if we can get known associates it might help." She shot me a quick concerned glance. "Your Dad doesn't know we're doing this, does he?" "No." I answered softly. It was the truth, he might have suspected I would do something similar, but he didn't actually know. The look of anxiety faded from her face and she breathed out in relief.
"Good one too." She shuddered. "I mean, your Dad, El? Very scary. Seriously cute. But scary."
I just smiled.
****************************
Syd stretched her arms above her head, desperately trying to get some relief into aching muscles. Although she loved the adrenaline and fast pace of her life sometime it wore her down. And this was one of those times.
They had been on the run now for 72 hours, picking off their pursuers one by one, unable to go back to base until the last of them was gone. And the forced, although strategic retreat was wearing. She glanced over at Sark, who was maintaining this hour's watch. There had been too many of these in the last month, missions that led to extended time on the run. They both needed some down time. But it had helped to crystallise one thing for her. She finally trusted Sark.
She had accepted that for the moment he had a vested interest in keeping her alive. Not that he would explain why, but actions such as pulling her out of a hail of bullets and charging into fire fights to pick her up tended to speak for themselves.
She studied the side of his profile intently, noticing the smudges of dirt on the pale skin, the slight shadows of fatigue under the eyes. He felt her scrutiny and turned momentarily, raising an enquiring eyebrow. She answered him with a small shake of the head; it's nothing, and a sincere smile that surprised them both. With a quirk of his lips in response he turned back to the watch. And she realised, with a strange sense of inner clarity, that if she had to choose to be stuck in this situation with anyone, there were far worse people for her than Sark.
****************************
Fee's fingers were speeding over the keys like a woman possessed, the Clash blaring angrily in the background. And under the music I could just about make out a muttered monotone of curses and comments as she worked to defeat the firewalls in her way. She loved a challenge. We both bunked school for the day and focused our combined energies on the problem. It was like trying to track a ghost in the machine. Traces of elusive identity slipped past us, throwing out tantalising feelers, but always leading to dead ends. Possibilities fell through our nets, but offered potentialities that we traced furiously. It was the world's biggest scavenger hunt and we were ferocious in its pursuit.
It was after 16.00 when Fee's suddenly triumphant yell disturbed my focus. I had been wracking my brains for something my Dad used to say when I was a little girl, before my recall had become totally reliable. Something about the Beach Boys and my mother.. I looked up in half feigned annoyance only to find my partner in crime doing the samba solo around the living room.
"What?"
"I've got it!" She quickstepped triumphantly.
"Got what?"
"The clue, sweetie! The fucking clue! I've found her!"
"Who? My Mother?"
She shook her head vehemently. "Uh huh. The next best thing."
I looked at her in bewilderment and she shook her head in disgust at my stupidity.
"Irina Derevko, Babee!!"
Oh yeah. Now we were smoking.
*****************
She woke to find she had crashed on the couch and Sark had covered her with a blanket.
The last trek back had been a blur of days spent hiding and fighting, punctuated with grabbed moments of sleep and the blurry passing of scenery she paid no attention to. Like animals on the trail they had reduced themselves down to the basics of sleep, eat, hunt, and Syd had ceased to really take notice of anything outside the mission, immediate threats and Sark. With everything else constantly in flux her body and mind had learned to fixate on the one thing that seemed a constant presence. But now, finally, they were back at base and to her faint embarrassment she had fallen asleep within minutes of getting through the door. She hadn't even made it to her bedroom.
She pushed back the blanket and sat up, stretching the kinks out of reluctant limbs. It was dim in the living room, with a bite of chill in the air, the fire glowing dully in the grate. She must have slept for hours as it had been mid afternoon when they returned, and now the stars were gleaming outside in the fall twilight. October was settling with a vengeance and unlike California this country had definite seasons. With a shiver she pulled the blanket around her shoulders and padded through the house, suddenly starving and aware of the ground in dirt that she hadn't been able to wash off over the last few days.
The house was bare and quiet as always, embossed with little of either of their personalities, but peaceful for all that, and she slipped into the shower with a sigh of pure gratitude, soaping up and washing down, luxuriating in the pure bliss of being clean again. Shower first, then food. With that in mind she slipped into her robe and headed for the kitchen.
She had left the lights off and the only other illumination in the hall was the soft amber of a lamp showing under the open door to Sark's room. Suddenly filled with a strangely childlike need for reassurance she paused in front of his door. She hesitated on the doorstep, battling with conflicting urges. One demanded she check to see if that one familiar presence she had come to rely on was still present. The other, however, was warning her of the consequences of moving into an unknown situation. She felt like a heroine in a fairytale, with the possibility of Bluebeard's wives in the room before her.
It was ridiculous.
With a sudden burst of irritation at her foolishness she pushed the door ajar and glanced in the room.
He was curled up on top of the great double bed, face burrowed into the pillows, chestnut hair catching the light. He had obviously fallen asleep almost as fast as she had as his boots and socks were strewn haphazardly across the floor. He had shucked his sweater as well and as she watched he shivered unconsciously in the draft, goose bumps rising on his bare arms below his t-shirt. There was something strangely vulnerable about him, one bare foot tucked in under his knee, his whole posture seeking to maximise warmth despite his having fallen asleep on top of the covers instead of under them.
Syd hovered, undecided for a moment, and then shrugged mentally. One good turn deserved another. She picked up a spare blanket from the chair, padded over to the bed and covered him gently. He shifted and she froze momentarily, looking down at him, his face relaxed, but still closed off even in sleep. There was a lock of hair falling over his cheek, and with the hair softening his profile he had never seemed less like the arrogant stereotypical bastard who had so tormented her for so long at SD-6. Instead he was just Sark. Complicated, complex and contradictory. Focused and brilliant in the game, but still by no means the one-dimensional killer caricature that she had created in her mind. No bogeyman here. Just a man. And with that thought she leaned down and brushed the barest of kisses over his cheek, just the touch of lips to skin. And then froze as she realised a pair of ice blue eyes were staring into hers from just an inch away.
***************
It only took another five hours to track down Irina Derevko, rumours of her presence floating through the files of global law enforcement. Slowly and painfully we traced her back, Fee sweating buckets as she speed hacked, totally illegally, into numerous databases normal people didn't even know existed. Using all the memories of every conversation of my Dad's I had ever overheard, every scam and trick his official and unofficial network had taught me, I gave her leads and she stormed down them like a tornado, blowing aside all barriers in her way. God, we made a great team. And all this illegal activity was a rush, I had to admit. Maybe I could blame genetics. And then suddenly - wham. There she was, in glorious Technicolor. The two of us hunkered down over the screen. Irina Derevko. Ex-head of a major network. Whereabouts currently unknown. Captured by the CIA in the early 00's, disappeared from sight a few months later. Associates include Andrew Sark.
"Wow - your Dad certainly has interesting friends."
I gave her a dirty look and kept on reading.
Known aliases: Bristow, Laura. Bristow, Laura? Was she related somehow to Sydney? And then as I kept staring at the screen, trying to out the pieces together, I realised something I'd been trying very hard to ignore. She looked like me. Unfortunately Fee got it just about the same time. "Lena, she really looks like you!"
Could this woman be my Grandmother? If so it was official - I was going to kill my Dad.
**************** Time seemed to stand still for a minute as they stared at each other, neither willing to break the standoff. Her vision seemed to have narrowed until all she could see were ice blue eyes and she suddenly found herself inexplicably unable to move.
Sark kept absolutely still, only too aware of the battle being fought behind those brown eyes so close to his. He had woken as she entered the room but had maintained the pretence of sleep, curious to see what she would do. But he had been taken aback when she covered him with a blanket, and even more so when she bent down to kiss his cheek. A sudden fire of hope and desire had burst into life when she touched him, and he knew if he didn't at least try to seize the moment he would always regret it. So he opened his eyes.
She didn't seem to be able to move. The sudden paralysis was dimly worrying but she hardly noticed, concentrated on the more major battle between common sense and desire. Part of her was screaming retreat, remembering every warning, every incident, all the disapproving faces of those she loved. And the other part was seeing the man before her, so patiently waiting for her decision. Letting her choose.
Sark
And suddenly it didn't seem such a hard decision after all.
He saw it in her eyes the minute she made her decision, those deep pools of peat water glittering with all things unsaid. Almost holding his breath he dared to lift a hand to her face, ready to take it back if she flinched, running his fingers over skin as soft as velvet, feeling his body jolt abruptly into life. God he wanted her.
His fingers trailed across her skin, down her cheekbone, the edges of her chin, leaving her face tingling its wake. Blindly she turned her face into his palm, pressed her lips into the centre of his hand, nuzzling closer. The breath went out of him in a long gasp and she felt the murmured caress of her name.
"Sydney.."
He sat up, cupped her face in both his hands, every sense alert and keening. He wanted to drown in her eyes, fill his hands with her breasts, savour everything. He was suddenly, painfully hard.
His hands were cupping her face and he was there, he was kissing her, gentle at first, skirting the edges of her lips, butterfly and sweet and then pressing for entrance which she gave willingly, tongues duelling with each other. His mouth was so sweet and she was drowning, drugged beyond all hope of redemption as he pulled her closer, down onto the bed, legs tangling, her robe slipping upwards, baring her thigh.
God so much skin, sweet and honey scented and Sark didn't know where to touch first, what to taste, it was all his. She was his at last. And God, had the wait been worth it.
She gasped as he kissed his way down her neck, kneading his shoulders with her nails, one hand buried in his chestnut hair. He was everywhere. She felt a change in temperature as he undid the belt on her robe and she stiffened at being exposed so absolutely.
God she was so beautiful, every line, every curve, all that skin. Sark took her in greedily, the long, lean legs, the full breasts, the curved musculature, the slight flare of her hips, and the delicate curve of her waist. He ran a caressing hand across the flat curve of her belly and felt an infinitesimal tensing of her body. He pulled away and met her eyes, noting the edge of anxiety, the stiffening in her frame. Carefully he pulled her robe over her again and put a hand to her face.
"Sydney - do you want this?"
He watched, stroking her skin, until the hesitation was replaced by determination, and desire flared up hotter to scorch both of them as she rolled into him, hooked a bare leg around his calf, pulling him closer.
"Yes, I want this. I want you, Sark."
And the rest was silence interspersed with gasps and moans and the slick sounds of flesh against flesh. Gasps when her mouth met his skin, moans when he mouthed her breasts, suckled her nipples, buried his face between her thighs. Her nails scored his back and he relished the small pain, even as she guided him inside her, and oh, she was so tight, like warm velvet, and he couldn't last much longer. And when she spasmed around him, calling out his name, he couldn't last at all.
Is this was what it took to love Sydney Bristow he wasn't too sure he would survive the experience. And strangely that thought didn't bother him at all.
**************
"So, where do we go from here?"
The two of us had spent the last twenty minutes dumb foundedly reading my new found grandmother's file. Was there anything this woman hadn't been involved in? No wonder she had my genius Dad's loyalty. 'Cause if you had to work for someone of dubious morals it was always better to go for the very best..I shook my head in disgust at my wool gathering, chewing frantically on my drinking straw. It was a bad habit I'd had since childhood.
But hey, at least I could now blame the genetic bent if I ever turned properly to crime. With my Dad, and now my maternal Grandmother, and probably my Mum. I wondered absently what my Mum's Dad did, but dismissed the thought. Time for that when we had tracked her down.
I looked up at Fee, who was still patiently awaiting my answer to her question.
"Well, it says here that she disappeared from confirmed records in 2004, but prior to that there was a period of custody at CIA. Might be the logical place to look next. At least they will have better files."
"Yeah." She cracked her fingers in anticipation. "You know, 'Lena, it's a good thing that all this info is almost twenty years old, or even I wouldn't have a hope in hell in cracking these databases. And the CIA? Hell - girl you set me challenges."
I grinned at her. "But you love it."
She smirked back. "That I do. Got the Red Bull?" I waved a pack at her in confirmation.
"Right, then let's get to it."
**************
Thinking back on it later, it was strange how little awkwardness there had been between them when they finally woke up. Instead it simply seemed to cement something that been developing slowly over time. For Sydney it had boiled down to a very simple equation. In this place, at this time, she trusted him absolutely. Outside this bubble her life had become there was a world of moral ambiguities and complications that she resolutely managed not to think about. But inside the bubble there was just her and Sark, and surprisingly she discovered she didn't need anyone else. He completed her. And day by day, week by week the barriers slowly fell down until he had worked his way inside to everything she was.
For Sark it was a wild sort of freedom. Freedom to have her, to feast on her until he was satisfied, even finally the freedom to trust someone other than himself. And even though he couldn't admit it even to himself he loved her. So instead he simply delighted in her, all that unleashed passion, the wildness and whiteness of the smile that flashed increasingly at him as he divested her of the constant weight of her double life. He taught her to rejoice in the game the way he did, for the pure joy of it. Because fundamentally Sark was a player, the intricate webbing of alliances and double crosses only a way to keep score. And Sydney was a worthy piece on the chessboard, Queen to his King.
And in the forced isolation and the constant security of each others company they formed a bond that was nearly unbreakable.
*************
"'Lena."
"Urghh." I had been having a rather fascinating dream, something to do with fish that talked and was really reluctant to be woken up. The voice came again and this time it was accompanied by a hand that attempted to shake my shoulder. It didn't quite get there.
I came fully awake to find myself sitting bolt upright in the bed, holding Fee's hand rigidly at arms length. She was staring blearily down at me in an aggravated fashion which changed to resigned as I released her wrist in embarrassment. "Thank you." She glared at me, rubbing her wrist. "You know 'Lena, someday those reflexes of yours are going to hurt someone."
I shrugged, still faintly embarrassed. My freaky reaction time had been a school joke ever since one of the prefects had tried to remove my Discman from behind and I had knocked her senseless without turning round. I had been 14 at the time, and the humiliation of the subsequent dressing down had helped to cement Fee and I into our present solid relationship. My Dad typically had thought it was hysterical. But he did have a warped sense of humour. "Sorry." I rubbed my head in a vain attempt to focus and sat up. "So what have we got?"
It was 4am and we had now been on this ghost track for almost 24 hours, spelling each other over the last eight hours where we could. I may not have been Fee, but I could usually hold my own on the Net, especially if she gave me a path to travel. "I've just about ready to breach the last firewall but when we do all hell is going to break loose."
"Right. So what do you need me to do?"
"I'm going to bounce us off about twenty different countries and 12 satellites. It should confuse them enough for us to get out without being tracked. But we'll still only have about 45 seconds. So I hope the areas we scouted out earlier are the right ones."
"Or what?"
"Or the next place you and I will be going will be at her Majesty's Pleasure." I grimaced. It seemed it was impossible for anyone with Bristow blood to keep out of the way of the authorities. And with Dad's genetics as well I was doubly cursed.
*********** "Sydney, are you alright?" Sloane frowned as she paced back and forth in front of him. He noticed, however that she never once stopped tracking the exits, seeing the vantage points, checking for cover. That was his good little Jenny Bond. But he also noticed how she never paced in front of Sark, never left his back unguarded even for a moment, never allowed her restless trajectory to interfere with his line of sight, but constantly paced around him, as if there was an invisible rope holding the two of them together. He had never seen her so visibly hair triggered, so ready to fight and the worrying thing was he had the impression that what he was seeing was her normal readiness level these days. And Sark just lounged in his chair, totally comfortable with the fact that Sydney was guarding his back, visibly relaxed that she was there, not a muscle twitching. Sloane looked from one to the other again. It seemed some things were going a bit too well. He wasn't too sure what he thought about this particular development.
"Sydney. Please sit down." It was a very thinly veiled order.
She glanced at the offered chair for a moment and then shook her head slightly, continuing her pacing like a tiger in a cage. Sloane sighed in frustration. Sometimes she was irritatingly like her father. And that dammed pacing was getting distracting. Sark caught his look and straightened from his slouch. "Elen..Sydney. Won't you have a seat? It's okay here." Sloane could see it, how Sark's voice somehow had so much more weight than his, his thinly veiled command taken as a request. Her dark eyes flashed to him, questioning, and he answered her silently, dipping his chin to the other iron bound chair. The corner of her mouth twitched and she pulled the seat out from the table, positioning it slightly to his back and diagonally to the side. As she did so Sloane saw Sark reach out to touch the back of her hand, unwinding some unspoken tension, and she relaxed, the breath coming out of her in a long exhalation.
However Sloane noted that she still had Sark's back, and that she could still see all the exits. And as the two of them looked back at him with identical focused, assessing eyes he was reminded of tigers he had once seen in India. Predators both. And certainly not the Sydney Bristow he remembered.
********* "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! 'Lena - please never ask me to do anything like that again!"
"No fear", I vowed fervently. The last 10 minutes had been truly scary and not something I wanted to repeat any time soon. But we had what we needed. All the files on one Irina Deverko, nee Laura Bristow. I downloaded them before anything else could go wrong and printed them off just in case, my hands snatching greedily at the pages as they piled out of the printer.
"Have you got what you needed?"
I pulled myself out of the fugue my mind was threatening to spiral into in order to throw a grateful arm around my best mate and hug her tight.
"It's the gold mine sweetheart. It's the bloody mother lode."
"Excellent. Well, much as I would love to find all about your Mum, I'm sure she'll wait for my perusal until tomorrow. I am crashing. Don't wake me up unless."
".the Clash reform or the world ends. Yeah, I know. Get some sleep. And thanks. Fee - you really have no idea. Thanks so much."
She ducked her head, smiling, slightly embarrassed by my gushing and sloped off to her room, tactfully leaving me alone with the first independent proof I had seen for the existence of a mother I had long believed to be dead.
*********
They were lying twined together in bed, Sark amusing himself by winding his fingers through the mass of her toffee coloured hair. He could do this for hours. Sydney supposed she shouldn't have been surprised that he was such a sensualist, after all the love of fine wine, the black suits and fine fabrics should have pointed her in the right direction, but still. She stretched, cat like and almost purred as he stroked her into submission. She was definitely reaping the benefits. It was more than faintly erotic to be constantly the focus of all that directed intensive attention.
Seeing Sloane again had disturbed her, shaking the calm tranquillity of the bubble she had constructed about both of them and she had fixed on her partner's solid presence like a drowning woman, conflicted between wanting to smash Sloane's arrogant face in and the urge to run as far away as possible and never come back. When they had finally made it back to base she had been unwontedly aggressive, seizing Sark just inside the door, pushing him against the wall, ravaging his mouth, desperate to erase the oiliness of the stain on her soul Sloane seemed to leave behind. Sark had responded with a surprised enthusiasm and she had drowned herself in him, using his body to wash away the memories of Sloane. And now she was basking in the aftermath, body loose limbed and relaxed.
Sark was quietly indulging himself by kissing up the edges of her collarbone when she turned abruptly in his arms. Her dark eyes caught the lamplight and sparked at him as she studied him such focus that he smiled a little, amused by her perusal.
"Sark - what's your first name?"
He buried his face in her hair, still smiling. She smelled of strawberries.
"Why do you want to know?" He was teasing her now and she could tell, the high forehead faintly creased in vexation. She propped herself up on her elbow and frowned down at him as he smiled lazily back at her. There it went, another mood passing over her face like clouds over the sun. To him her constant mood swings were easy to read, but to others she seemed indefinable, elusive. She was quicksilver, was his woman. His woman. His hand momentarily paused on its path down her shoulder as he savoured the truth of that mental appellation.
"Andrew." Very few knew that name.
Her face lit up like a child's and she covered his face with kisses while he laughingly tried to fend her off before pulling her into a deeper embrace. And some part of him that had been closed off for so many years opened just a little further. Andrew. He could be Andrew for her.
*********
Email: Sigma13_2000@yahoo.co.uk
Rating: R
Summary: What if you find something unexpected and then you are forced to give it up?
Spoilers: Possible early Season 2 spoilers, but this is VERY AU. You have been warned.
Ship: Syd/Sark, brief mention of Syd/Vaughn
Disclaimer: I own nothing! Nothing! Unless you want to take my fridge. So please don't sue me. As with all true Alias fans this is merely a pitiable attempt at homage, rather than copyright theft.
Notes: This is very AU and spans a period of about twenty years. It's unashamedly sappy. It also jumps all over the place in terms of time and canon has gone completely out of the window. For ease of reading pleasure, just try and take each bit as it comes, otherwise you'll be hopelessly confused. Oh - and I apologise in advance for any confusion caused by the spelling, as I'm British and we're weird that way.
A Devil's Bargain
I have the best Dad in the world. When I was growing up he was always there, bedtimes and stories, hugs and toast soldiers on Saturday mornings, school plays and riding lessons.
As I grew older my priorities changed but he remained constant, through boyfriends and break-ups, defensive driving classes and exams. The only problem I ever had was dissuading him from breaking a few ex-suitors arms when they bruised my heart.
He taught me all the things a girl would want to know from her Dad and a little bit more. I think I'm one of the few who really know how to use my stilettos as an offensive weapon. I can hotwire your car in 60 seconds and incapacitate you in 10. I'm fluent in 4 languages and able to get by in 2 more.
And the one thing I have always known for certain is that my father loves me more than anyone else on the planet. I am the centre of his heart and his empire, his precious pearl, his baby and the jewel in his crown.
I have deep brown hair and hazel eyes. My Dad says I look just like my Mother.
And yesterday my Dad finally sat me down and told me who I really was.
My name is Elena Sark and I am the product of a Devil's Bargain.
*******************
It's difficult to keep your guard up 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. As weeks turn into months it becomes even harder. And even as you know you are being handled it becomes increasingly difficult not to relax into the illusion of safety, of concern for your well being - even as the illusion changes into reality.
The first sign is when the hand brushes your shoulder and you forget to flinch. Hours become days and you accept that causal touch, forgetting that domestication always did start with the little things. Little intimacies follow each other, gentle invasions of your personal space, and each first time you startle like a feral animal and then slowly, slowly accept. Until the hand on the shoulder, the palm in the centre of your back, the gentle caress that tucks your hair out of your eyes become familiar and therefore accepted. Comfortable. When does the illusion of relaxation become the real thing? When do you first lean into the caress instead of holding yourself rigidly erect? When do you first realise that trust has grown from a feigned commodity into a genuine, solid reality?
And only sometimes, as he holds you in your bed, as you bite at his lips in playful passion, and he pours himself into you and you curl yourself around him in real honest-to-god desire and undeniable joy, do you wonder how you got here, how it came to this, to this man, in this bed, at this time. And then he slams into you harder and you arch in ecstasy, calling out his name, and he gasps into your neck, voice hoarse and demanding.
"Say my name again, Sydney -say my name!" And as you crest the wave, clasping him hard between your thighs you keen out his name to the sky.
"Andrew - GOD, Andrew, SARK!"
*****************
Headquarters of SD-6, 18 months earlier
"Currently we are working on the assumption that this latest expansion of Sovanov's network into the Middle East.." Sydney found herself slowly drifting off as Sloane's voice continued his monotone in the background. Across the table Dixon caught her eye and the merest hint of a smile curled up his lips as he acknowledged the look of abject boredom on his partner's face.
It had been remarkably quiet at SD-6 lately. Admittedly quiet was a relative term when working for an evil organisation with fingers in every pie - but still, it had been.uneventful. And even if she only admitted it to herself the lack of her normal diet of high speed chases and life and death situations had left her feeling a little restless. And unfortunately it was nothing even the most hard core work out at the gym could allay. She pouted slightly. Yes, she was a founder member of AA - Adrenalin Anonymous, and just now she was craving her habit. She shifted slightly in her seat and attempted to focus on Sloane's monotone delivery.
Sark caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and mentally chuckled as he took in the carefully attentive look that was plastered across Agent Bristow's face. She was such a bad liar. Unless she was on a mission everything she though or felt tended to flow across her face like clear water, infinitely easy to read for a man like him. Just now she was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Not that he could blame her, for the manipulative genius the man undoubtedly was, Sloane gave a truly monotonous briefing.
Sydney was drifting again when the change in timbre of Sloane's voice jerked her back into focus ".long time insertion and operation in the central belts of Asia and the Middle East." What?
She sat upright in her seat and tucked her hair behind her ear in concern. "Excuse me, could you just repeat that?" Sloane frowned in mild irritation. "As I just said, Agent Bristow, we are considering the possibility of a long term insertion mission into Sovanov's network." She frowned. And this was relevant how? Operations didn't generally deal with long term insertion. That was for Intelligence, with its posse of sleeper agents and their softly, softly approach. She and Dixon were more of a smash and grab team, both by training and disposition. Short periods of intense action, that was her thing, not the long, mind numbing tension of living day to day in the enemy camp, unable to make a move and surrounded by people who would kill you as soon as look at you. She caught that thought as it streaked through her head and smiled internally at the irony. Not so different from her situation now after all, but at least here she had Will and Francie and her Father.
And Vaughn. She had Vaughn.
She didn't know how she would deal if she didn't have at least one person to whom she could trust her back.
************
She managed to stay focused for the rest of the meeting but Sloane didn't mention anything further about insertion into Savanov's network. But as she got up to leave, thankful to be getting out of the stuffy room with its inadequate ventilation, she felt the unwelcome pressure of Sloane's hand on her shoulder.
"Sydney, Mr Sark - if you could stay for a minute?"
Dixon raised an eyebrow in mild enquiry and her Dad flashed her a concerned glance. She gave them both an almost imperceptible shrug - no, she had no clue what he wanted, and settled back into her uncomfortable chair. God - after this she was so going to go for a run.
Sark watched her from across the room, lounging in his own chair like a great cat, all limbs and feline languor. She was restless again; he could see it in the minute shifts of her body, the nervous tuck of the hair behind the ears, the slight frown between her elegant brows. He noted each twitch and categorised it, placing it neatly in its file for future playback. Just one of his own little games, categorisation of a possible enemy or asset. Sydneywatching he called it when he was feeling frivolous.
Just now she was in Sydney State B - twitchy. He was still covertly watching her when Sloane started his brief.
"Sovanov has recently been in contact with these two figures." Photographs of a man and a woman, both dark haired, flashed up on the screen. "Elena and Ruslan Baranov. Ex-KGB, both recipients of the KGB version of Project Christmas. Paramilitary types with expertise in a variety of sub-specialisations.
"Currently we have reason to believe that Sovanov intends to establish these two as his permanent emissaries in order to extend further into the Middle Eastern market.
Sark raised an eyebrow in curousity. "A Khasinau situation then? A disguise to conceal himself behind his agents?"
"Essentially. Although an interesting development is that in order to establish intermediaries than he believes he can trust he has arranged to go completely outside his own organisation. And hence - these two." Sloane gestured to the screen. "And a valuable opportunity for us."
Warehouse - South Central LA
"..so Sloane has this idea that if we can infiltrate Sovanov's organisation, we can turn the information gained into a huge strategic advantage. And of course the fact that Sovanov is also reputed to hold a large private collection of Rimbaldi artefacts might explain why he's so eager to move in." Vaughn turned his head to follow her as she paced restlessly in front of him.
"He may have a point." He held up his hands defensively as she glared at him. "Sovanov has been increasing his power base in the Urals for the last four to five years. But this is the first time he's tried to move out of his home region." He stuck his hands into his pockets. "Information on his operatives and organisations could be invaluable."
She glared at him for a moment more and then her face softened. "Maybe. But I still don't like where this is going. He had Stark and I in that room for an hour today. Going over these two independent operatives."
"The Baranovs, right?"
"Mhhmm. Giving us intel on their likes, dislikes, past history, family background, all that stuff. "
"So? He briefs you on contacts every day."
"Yes, but normally he gives us a mission as well. This time it was just information. Lots and lots of information."
"So?"
"I just get the feeling that there is something he's not telling us. Like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"Well, it wouldn't be the first time."
She flashed him a rueful smile. "You're right. If I got upset every time Sloane lied to me."
He smiled at her gently, ".you'd never be cheerful. Anyway I'm sure you'll find out soon enough."
"Yeah. Goodnight Vaughn."
"Night Sydney."
*************
For hours after my Dad's little bombshell I had elected to remain curled up on my favourite window seat, staring out at the gardens but not really seeing them. After a period of time my cat Arthur had joined me, loudly complaining about inconsiderate individuals that evaded their petting obligations. I gave in to him absentmindedly, the feel of the plush fur soothing beneath my hand.
I didn't know what to think. I mean the fact that my Dad had secrets was something I'd always known and accepted. He'd always been scrupulous about admitting there were things that he considered me too young to know. And as I got older that list grew shorter. I knew my Father. I knew all about the assassinations, the Machiavellian tendencies, and the absolute anal need for control. I was the daughter of a man who believed fundamentally that morality was flexible according to the needs of the moment. The only two things I had always believed he held an absolute allegiance to were the safety of the country we lived in and me. And the only reason the first was there was due to some very clever men in SIS who had decided that it was infinitely better to have my Dad on their side. In exchange he had given them a level of loyalty which I knew had before only belonged to me.
But now it turned out that someone else had had that loyalty before me. And that someone was a woman named Irina Dereverko.
***********
Vaughn had been shaving when the agitated message from Sydney came through on his voicemail. With a curse and a frown at the breach in protocol he lunged for the phone, but it was too late, she was gone.
By the time he got to the warehouse she was pacing back and forth like a woman possessed, heels clacking on the floor with the force of her fury. He hurried to her side.
"Sydney - what's wrong?"
She glared up at him, the normally wide and expressive eyes narrowed and blazing. "You said it was probably nothing! Nothing!" she stopped dead in her tracks. "A really big nothing!"
He reached out to take her by the shoulders.
"Syd, you're not making any sense. Now what's nothing?"
She focused on his face and visibly pulled herself together.
"Remember the Baranov's?"
He nodded in affirmation. "Yeah, the Russian freelance couple from the briefing. So what?"
"Sloane", she almost spat the name, "wants me to consider going deep cover and posing as Elena Baranov."
"And?" And then he remembered - Elena Baranov didn't come singly. Instead she was part of a pair. A husband and wife pair. Husband and wife. And it couldn't be Dixon - he was too dark to pass. Oh no.
She nodded in grim satisfaction as she saw comprehension pass across his face. "Yes. And guess who my darling hubby to be is?"
They looked at each other in mutual disgust as the same name floated foremost in both their minds.
Sark.
************
He was still waiting patiently for me when I pulled myself out of my self imposed exile. I leaned against the doorframe to his study, watching him work, the sunlight hitting the fair hair, now threaded with strands of silver. This was one of my constants, so many times I had stumbled out of bed in the middle of the night and made my way to this room, to spend the rest of the night asleep on his lap or on the couch nearby while he worked on until dawn.
He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, waiting for me to make the first move. I did, crossing the room and curling into a chair opposite from him. For a moment we just looked at each other. It was at times like this that I could see the resemblance between us most strongly. It was there in the shape of the face, the cheekbones, the jut of the chin, even in the identical cynical lift of the eyebrows. He constantly said I looked like my mother, but never having even seen a picture of her, I naturally couldn't see the resemblance. To me it was clear that I was my father's daughter. We be of one blood, thou and I.
He smiled lopsidedly at me and threw me an opening.
"I'll bite. What's on your mind bear cub?"
I shifted further in my chair, drawing my feet up to my chest and drew a deep breath. "Dad, I know you've already let me into a lot of stuff, but I need to know more." He waited silently for me to finish.
"I need," I glanced uncertainly at him, but his face was as blank as ever, his "business face" as he called it.
"I need to know.. Dad, please tell me about my mother."
*************
Sydney crouched against the wall, hidden behind the oil drum, gun at the ready. Across the alley Sark was poised in a similar position in the shadows; gun carefully blacked so no betraying gleam would be seen. They tensed as the door opened once again and the guard slipped out, looking furtively up and down the darkened street before lighting up his cigarette. Sydney mentally wrinkled her nose in disgust. Amateur. That little burst of flame was like a bull's-eye to anyone with proper training. And Sark never had been one to waste an opportunity. There was a snick and before her eyes the guard fell boneless to the floor. She nodded to Sark, no, to Ruslan, and moved out, securing the open door while he worked to further disable the cameras. After all they didn't want to announce their arrival. Without a further sound from either of them they moved further into the complex, already working together like a well oiled machine.
But it hadn't always been that easy.
8 weeks earlier
"You want me to do what?!" Sydney almost screamed at him, before remembering where she was. It didn't do to scream at your boss even when he couldn't fire you. She bit her lip to get herself under control. God, two outbursts in as many days. She was really going to have to get a better control of her temper. She shut her eyes for a second to maintain her composure and then determinedly faced front.
Kendall smiled in ironic amusement as his top double agent struggled to contain her shock at his suggestion.
"I'm sorry, Sir. But can I just point out that what you've just suggested sounds completely insane."
He raised an eyebrow. "Agent Bristow, let me remind you that the CIA is not in the habit of giving out Assistant Directorships to those who are mentally ill. And if you looked at this scenario logically, rather than emotionally, you would see that it has a number of advantages towards our ultimate goal."
She flushed at the reproof and looked at her hands, folded neatly in her lap, the only sign of her tension the change in colour over the knuckles. She was very aware of the bulk of her father to her left, present but as of yet silent throughout the meeting. "I'm sorry Sir." God she was repeating herself now. "I'm just finding it a little hard to assess this scenario objectively."
"With the history you have with Mr Sark that's understandable. However your father and I both believe that your participation in this operation could lead to the downfall of Sloane and the Alliance. And also the removal from the international scene of a credible threat to US security."
She looked from one to the other of them, puzzled. What were the two old foxes up to now?
*****************
8 weeks later
Cautiously she slid along the corridor, gesturing Sark on with her gun, covering him as he inched around a corner. She had to admit, as much as she loathed him personally, professionally he complemented her perfectly. He knew what she was about to do almost before she did herself. And surprisingly she found it was mutual. When they weren't actively trying to be at odds with each other they made a very efficient team.
*****************
The warehouse - LA - 8 weeks earlier.
"I can understand Kendall's reasoning, but yours? Have you just decided it would be better not to have me around?"
She was hurt and it showed. Kendall could at least claim objectivity when it came to her placement, but her Father? Didn't he want her around? Didn't he want to know she was okay? Some of her hurt must have shown on her face, for Jack Bristow put out a hesitant hand to briefly touch her shoulder.
"This isn't about what I want, Sydney. You know if I had what I want you would be out of the game right now." She ducked her head to acknowledge the truth of that remark, embarrassed to meet his eyes. "It's about what is safe and about the best option for you." She looked up, surprised. That was the last reason she would have expected him to give.
"Sydney, if you keep operating under his nose as you are doing, sooner or later, and probably sooner, Sloane is going to peg you as a mole. You're good at covering yourself, but everyone's luck runs out eventually, and despite what you may sometimes think, Sloane is anything but stupid."
"But how does that."
"Shush. Let me finish. This posting will allow you to legitimately gain access to and destroy the organisation of an avowed enemy of the US, while still successfully maintaining the integrity of your cover with SD-6. So essentially, you will still be working for both SD-6 and the CIA while you are working for Sovanov. And if you succeed your trustworthiness to Sloane will be set in stone."
"But, it's two years." She sounded childlike, even to herself and his face softened slightly.
"I know, but it's two years out from under Sloane's eye. And it might be for the best."
"And with Sark." She almost pouted and he grimaced faintly in agreement.
"That's true. And without Will, or Francie, or myself."
Or Vaughn, floated unspoken between them.
"Which is why only you can make the decision. On this one, with this period of time at stake, even Sloane won't force you into it."
She sighed in resignation at the truth of his statement.
"Why don't we get some food and you can sleep on it. You don't have to make your decision tonight." But it was evident to both of them that it had to be soon.
******************
For Sydney it was a very long, sleepless night. Could she do this? Should she do this? Could she work with Sark for that period of time? Wouldn't she kill him? She chewed her lip glumly. She probably would at least try, undoubtedly within the first week. And her Dad, and Will and Francie! How would she cope without them? And Vaughn... Vaughn. Not that they were likely to actually do anything even if she stayed. Ever since Weiss had been shot he had been reserved. Cool. Professional. Ever so slightly distant. And all the burning warmth of her feelings for him had begun to die just a little, like any fire will when there is a lack of fuel. She still loved him, still wanted him passionately but every time he looked away from her it hurt a little more.
Suddenly all she wanted was for life to be simple. Not to have to deal with a tangled web of complicated alliances every time she woke up, with love and duty, desire and friendship, obligation and responsibility wrapping her up so tightly that sometimes she felt she couldn't breath. She just needed something concrete, something to focus on to the exclusion to all else, something simple for once in her ridiculously complicated life, where the only choices were straightforward and her only lies were to strangers. She hugged her knees into her chest, wrapping the old tatty quilt around her feet in the darkness. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise, a chance to just leave these complications and start again. Perhaps Noah had had the right idea when he left her. Break your life down to the most basic components and it simplified things wonderfully. Kill or be killed, live or die. And never have to lie everyday to those that you loved.
SD-6 headquarters
Sydney knocked firmly on the glass door to Sloane's office, her stomach curling in knots. At his murmured "Come," she slipped inside and closed the door firmly behind her, meeting the slightly surprised gazes of Sloane and Sark and her father. Sloane cleared his throat before speaking.
"Sydney, what can we do for you?"
She locked eyes with her Dad for a second before taking a deep breath and fixing her gaze on Sloane, firmly ignoring Sark. God knows she would see enough of him in the near future.
Sloane looked back at her, obviously waiting for her to get to the point. She took another deep breath to quell her stomach.
"I'd like to take you up on your offer. I'll be Elena Baranov."
******************
There it was. The last door. With a roll to shoot the last guard and the quick deployment of C4 against the steel they were in, ready to shoot, taking out the door guards inside the room with casual ease. The object of their attention was huddled against the far corner, gun pointing steadily at Sark, the only sign of his nerves the sweat rolling down his brow. She shifted and his head flicked around as if he hadn't noticed her before and tracked her movement with his gun.
She glanced over at Sark for confirmation and when he nodded uncocked her gun, showing the dart pellets that had taken the place of real bullets, dropping them on the floor. Sovanov looked at the two of them in complete confusion.
"What - who are you people? What do you want?" His Russian was elegant and strongly accented, but his voice was rough with fear and confusion. Sark strolled forward, leaving his sidearm holstered, the only weapon his also unloaded dart gun. The underground lighting gleamed on his newly chestnut hair. He replied in the same language, his Russian fluid and idiomatic.
"Who are we? Well that's easy to answer. We are the Baranov's. That is my lovely wife Elena, and I am Ruslan." He gave a small bow and strolled a little nearer as the other man cowered back slightly.
"And what do we want?" Sark shrugged and released a dazzling smile. "I thought the issue was what you wanted? I believe you were trying to contact us to offer us a job? Well, consider this the interview." He gestured around at the destroyed bunker, the smoke and the downed guards, and Sydney had to bite her lip very hard not to laugh at the expression of complete incredulity on Sovanov's face. That was one thing you had to say about Sark. He certainly had a sense of humour.
******************
She was running and running, but she couldn't get away and bit by bit they gained on her, until she was dodging, diving, jack-rabbiting, as they drew down on her, shots ricocheting off the floor. And then she tripped over something soft, something that gave beneath her frantically moving feet, as she fell in a cascade of limbs and hair and they caught her. And as they dragged her away all she could see was the carcase she had fallen over, a mangled, bloody wreck of a human body - and it had Vaughn's tortured face.
She woke up screaming.
Sark woke instantly, one hand reaching for the gun strapped to the headboard, the other ready to strike. But within seconds he had identified both the source of the sound and the likely reason for it. Nightmare. Not that he didn't have his own, but he was better at keeping them quiet.
She was sitting bolt upright next to him, chest heaving, eyes glazed with panic, panting like a trapped animal. Cautiously he put down the gun and reached out to touch her shoulder, always wary of reflexes as hair triggered as his own. She stiffened, then started to struggle a little as he took her firmly by the shoulders, facing him and shook her gently to pull her out of it. He couldn't afford to have her crack up now.
"Sydney. Sydney! Wake up. It's over."
Her forehead crinkled in confusion as she regained her awareness, scanning the darkened walls of the hotel room without recognition before coming back to focus on him, some glimmer of self sneaking back in. He gave her another little shake and full consciousness flooded in, leaving her bleary eyed and rumpled, but awake.
"Sark? What happened? Why are." She looked suddenly, instantly wary, and he had to hold back a smile at the speed of the change from sleep to suspicion. That was his girl.
"You had a nightmare. You were screaming."
"I did? I was? I don't remember.." Her voice trailed off as she reached up to rub her forehead in confusion. "I was running, I think."
He gave a wry smile. "Not surprising, considering how much time we spend doing that."
She ignored him, still focused on trying to capture the details.
"And then I tripped over something. And it was, it was," her shoulders stiffened as she remembered exactly what, or who it had been. Her lifeline. The one man she had always felt she could trust. Dead. Talk about symbolic.
Sark was still watching her with that steady, assessing gaze, looking as though he was just waiting for her to fly off the handle. Normally it would have just irritated her. Everything about him normally irritated her. But tonight she just felt drained. Drained and tired and absolutely without resources. It had hit her over the last few days how totally alone she was in this situation, no back up, no family, no friends. No trust. No one but this stranger, an enigma who wouldn't even tell her his name. She swallowed frantically over the lump in her throat. She was not going to cry, she was not going to cry.
Sark caught the tell tale signals, the slightest quiver of her bottom lip, the hitch in her breath and mentally shook his head. She didn't do well in situations where she had no emotional support structure and he had watched analytically as she had started to crumble and frantically attempted to shore up her defences, over and over again throughout the last three months. He couldn't afford for her to break apart. For one thing Irina would never forgive him, and for another.well he didn't want to analyse that too closely just now. But first he had to fix this situation as best as he could. He gave her another gentle shake to focus her attention, noting clinically the mask of self control she was trying vainly to hold onto.
"Sydney, let it go. You need to let it go. Remember, they mentioned this in the briefings."
And they had. Sudden bouts of melancholy and depression due to forcible uprooting from familiar structures. Tension that would expression itself in emotion. She was a textbook case.
"I need you to be able to function. I want you to let this go."
She glared up at him mutinously; the shimmer of unshed tears visible in the moonlight. Sark went to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear and stopped halfway, putting his hand back on her shoulder awkwardly. He sighed.
"I know you don't trust me. I know you don't like me. But if we want to stay alive and sane for the next 20 months you are going to have to let me in. Just a little. So as your partner I want you to let this go. Understood?"
She meant to pull away, to disagree, but suddenly she couldn't hold it any longer and the tears started to flood, silently and against her will as she tried to stem them with the back of her hand like a child. He sighed and pulled her closer, ignoring the stiffening of her body, pulling her into his chest, the solid beat of his heart infinitely comforting, infinitely human and close after the enforced isolation of the last three months. And as she continued to cry he pulled her down onto the bed, wrapping his arms around her, pulling the bedclothes around them both, until she finally fell asleep, with the beat of his heart and an almost inaudible voice muttering comfort in her ears.
********* 3 months earlier - LA
"You have to do what?!"
Sydney straightened up from her suitcase and pushed her hair out of her eyes in a resigned gesture. Here it came. She watched as her best friend stalked around the room, hands flying everywhere.
"The Bank needs me to go and set up a subsidiary operation in Khurdistan."
"I heard you the first time. I just didn't believe it! And you couldn't just say no?!" Francie stopped and glared at her. "You know - just say no?"
She sighed. "I couldn't, Francie, really. It was either agree to it or be out the door."
"Then going out the door seems like a really good option! You know, you can quit that job. It doesn't own you." She was really upset now, eyes glimmering with unshed tears and it made Sydney's heart ache to see it. She put her arms around her friend and pulled her into a tight hug.
"It kind of does, you know that. And if I do this they've promised me they'll cut down on my trips abroad afterwards"
Francie huffed through her tears. "Oh, that's really generous, after sending you into the middle of nowhere for two years! Will you be able to come home in the middle at all?"
Syd pulled back to look her friend in the eyes, and shook her head, hating herself as Francie face further crumpled.
"But I can write, and maybe phone - the lines are a bit erratic, but I'm sure the Bank will work that out. And they'll pay all my bills while I'm away."
Francie scowled through her tears. "I don't care about the money! I'll just." her voice almost broke down into a wail, "I'll just miss you so much!"
Syd hugged her closer, burying her head in her shoulder, the tears now starting for both of them. "I know, Sweetie. I know. Me too."
******************
Sometimes she wondered why God had chosen her for this job. But not now. God, no, not now. Sydney felt the adrenaline pump even faster into her muscles as she rounded the corner and dived for cover, Sark a millisecond behind her. Pop, get the bad guy, get up and dive again, on your back, in the air, see the gun, take the gun, take the bad guy, bring him down.. Up again, now she was just behind him, she had his back, as the explosives they had set went off and the entire building shuddered. The ceiling started to come down and she stumbled on debris, a hand steadying and pulling her up, gone before she noticed, and all the time they were still running, in constant motion, no time, no time, no time. At times like this, when everything was shot to hell and life had narrowed down to pure survival and the race to continue living, when she could be what her mother and father had made her, pure speed and pure reaction, dispensing violence and grace with equal facility, god, at times like this she LOVED her job.
They screeched away from the downed complex in a blur of tyres and Sydney grabbed the seat edges in reaction, left over adrenaline still coursing through her system. Now was when she usually got the shakes. She snuck a quick glance at Sark who was driving like a maniac, pale skin flushed and artificially brown hair mussed at all angles and covered with plaster dust. In the heat of an operation she forgot to detest him, forgot how he represented everything she despised. Instead they fitted together like two well greased pieces of machinery, and unlike Vaughn she never felt she had to look out for him. Sark could look out for himself.
She bit her lip to try to regain her equilibrium and noticed Sark had turned his head to glance at her in return. She cocked her head in enquiry as she attempted to disguise the reaction shakes that were suffusing her body. He was grinning. Not just smiling, or smirking like usual, but grinning. An outright, shark tipped grin, edged with things she didn't want to think about, snapping with an almost childlike glee, matching the dance in his eyes. He opened his mouth and she steeled herself for some critique, to the instant task of analysis that Dixon had always required of her. She could concentrate through this. She could.
"So", he drawled, in that annoying English accent of his, "was it good for you too?"
And he grinned again. And as she stared back at him in blank astonishment, a tiny bubble of hysteria bubbled up irrepressibly inside her and sneaked out in a stifled snicker. And when Sark met her snigger with nothing more than another knife edged grin, the chuckle became a flood and she leaned back in her seat and gave herself over to a full blown case of slightly hysterically edged laughter.
And Sark just smiled and turned the radio onto the Beach boys as they careered further and further away from the scene of their latest exploit.
********
All I could do was stare at the envelope I held in my hands. My Dad had given me the packet after dropping bombshell number three on me. First I find out that the circumstances of my birth were less than usual, then that my father used to be the right hand man to one of the world's most feared crime bosses. And now finally that my mother, the woman who I'd always been told, had "had to go away", wasn't in fact dead, as I had so cynically assumed in my early teenage years, but alive and kicking. In this instance "gone away" turned out not to be a euphuism for death, but the real description. She had had to go away, and in exchange my father had been allowed to keep me. I was the price of his collusion and assent to matters he had not seen fit to reveal to me. I was his Faustian temptation: his Devil's Bargain.
*************************
Typically it was right in the middle of a mission that the epiphany happened.
Savanov had the two of them gathering information on arms shipments through central Columbia. Just a simple smash and grab at a very exclusive party. But when she had dressed and presented herself for Sark's - Ruslan's inspection he had looked unconvinced.
"What?" She twirled round in front of him, the slight bias in the skirt causing it to flare out around her legs. He frowned. "Something's missing."
"What?" She checked herself over. "I can tell you it's not my gun. And I don't think anything else would even fit under this dress."
"It's this." He reached out to a side table and handed her a flat parcel. She eyed it dubiously. What was he up to?
"Happy Birthday Elena."
Her eyes widened comically as she finally took in the significance of the date.
"Ruslan!" She took the parcel and pulled off the wrapping, Sydney watching suspiciously from behind Elena's eyes. Sometimes she really hated working in bugged hotel rooms.
It was a soft velvet topped box. A jewellery box. She raised an eyebrow at him in enquiry, but he simply waited, blank faced. With a slight shrug she opened the lid - and gasped.
It was a Tiffany's necklace, a form fitting choker created from swirls of elegantly branched platinum and studded with diamonds. In the dim light of the hotel room it glittered and sparkled like a piece of the rainbow come down to earth.
She opened her mouth to protest the extravagance of the gift and he put a finger over her lips, rolling his eyes in the direction of the listening devices. "Sshh Elena. Can't a man buy his wife a present on her birthday?"
She shut her eyes in momentary frustration. "Of course Ruslan. It just surprised me, that's all. It must have been very expensive."
"It was nothing. I wanted to get you something that shone just like you. Now why don't you let me put it on."
He took the box from her unresisting hands and slid the necklace around the slender column of her throat. Still unsettled by this development Sydney assisted by lifting the mass of her hair as he slid the necklace into place. It was a close fit and his fingers were warm and steady against the back of her neck, brushing against the hairs there as he deftly worked the catch. She was suddenly very aware of him, standing there, the almost animal heat of his body through the immaculate tuxedo, worn with that particular relaxation that was positively feline, the small puffs of his breath against her neck as he leaned in to fasten the clasp, the surety of his touch against her skin. He settled the choker more firmly against her, his fingers brushing up against her nape and she shuddered, the spasm running down her skin and glowing at the base of her spine.
He stilled, fingers tightening momentarily, and then moved away, hands glancing over the edges of her shoulders as if he couldn't help himself.
Sydney shut her eyes, biting her lip in an attempt to get her traitorous body under control. When she opened them again he was still watching her, something in his eyes that was dark and unpredictable and alluring all at once. Lifting her chin she turned her head and met his gaze head on, while her cheeks coloured and she had to fight the urge to turn away.
Surprisingly he turned away first, moving away into the bathroom, running a hand through his artificially brown hair, breaking the tension. With a mental sigh of relief and worryingly mixed feelings Sydney hurried to get her wrap and the bag they required for this evenings snatch and grab.
*********
In my hands I held the first concrete proof I'd ever seen for the existence of the woman who had given birth to me. I suppose I should have been furious, distraught, raging, but really all I felt was a burning curiosity. Who was this woman, and how could she have been persuaded to give me up? And why when my father talked about her did his face lose all its animation and his eyes close down? Was she the reason that no girlfriend lasted beyond a few dates and the demands of the body? I had always smugly assumed that it was his overwhelming attachment to me that had prevented him from forming another relationship, but perhaps it had been someone different all along. I opened the envelope, spilling pictures of a brunette beauty onto my lap. Perhaps it had been this woman all the time. This woman, Sydney Bristow. My mother.
**********
Her job had few benefits and numerous disadvantages, but what it did have in spades was surreal moments. And this was certainly one of them. She leaned against Sark as they danced, both of them seemingly caught up in the moment, but in reality keeping a close eye on their respective areas of the ballroom. Around them swirled the glittering throng, dressed to the nines in silk and taffeta, diamonds and rubies sparkling, the majority of the men decades older than their partners. No one paid any attention to the young couple on the dance floor, judging them oblivious to anything except each other and consequently no threat.
In fact Sydney was having trouble concentrating on the mission herself.
The feel of Sark's shoulder under her cheek was distracting, but the burning warmth of his hand as it slid over her exposed back was almost maddening. Despite all her best intentions her mind kept veering abruptly off course, distracted by the scent of his skin, the pressure of his fingers, the warmth of his breath as he leaned down to rub his face against the mass of her hair. It was as if all her nerve endings had fired up all at once.
Sark breathed in sharply, inhaling the scent of her hair, like something green just broken. Five months now and this was the most relaxed she had ever been. When he had first agreed to this assignment he had little motivation beyond the furthering of his and Irina's operation, that and getting himself out of from under Sloane's eye for a while. But he had to admit his interest had been piqued at the idea of spending so much time with the lovely Sydney Bristow. She was after all, one of his favourite specimens for analysis. He was curious to see how she did under continuous pressure, what her weak points were, if the outer strength masked a hidden fragility. After all wasn't it always said that a wise man kept his friends close but his enemies closer? But then Irina had passed down a command from on high. He was to watch her daughter for her, support her, do whatever was required to keep her stable. And with that the game switched to a completely different level. Firstly he now had proof that Sydney Bristow had value to the woman he had believed cared for no one. Human weakness. A vulnerability. And secondly, he was reminded that this slender young woman was actually her mother's daughter. Irina's Deverko's child. And Jack Bristow's - altogether a formidable pedigree. Perhaps she could genuinely be useful, genuinely be a piece in play. And with that motivation his focus had shifted from clinical to self motivated, and he actually started to actively reach the woman who hid behind the mask of Elena Baranov.
And he had discovered how devastating fire and fragility could be together in one slender package.
These days he had a far greater respect for Jack Bristow. If Sydney was anything like her mother the man had never stood a chance. The idea of all that fire and passion actively engaged in seduction was faintly scary, like sitting on top of a volcano and waiting for it to go off. They all treated her like something fragile, too delicate to touch, as if she might break, but he could see beyond that to the wildness and fury underneath, the grace in motion and the dark parts of her that delighted in the violence and destruction. And unlike the others he knew he could always reach her there, for the dark areas of her soul were warped mirrors of his own.
Carefully he tracked around the ballroom, scanning for the target. Seeing no sign of Senor Gomez's incipient arrival he allowed himself to indulge in the moment, brushing his cheek down the side of her neck and pressing his lips for the briefest of instants to the graceful line of her exposed collarbone. She shuddered almost imperceptibly against him and he smiled just above her skin. So he was getting to her. Finally.
The touch of Sark's lips on her skin almost destroyed what was left of her composure, and she couldn't prevent the shudder that momentarily racked her frame. She was completely conflicted. It had always been easy to despise him, safe in the comfort of labelling him the enemy, purely evil, the opposite in every way of the man she truly wanted. But, as she had discovered over the last five months, things were seldom as black and white as that.
Sark was amoral, expedient, a killer. All these things were true. However he was also thoughtful, intelligent, a genuine connoisseur of art and fine wine and unpredictable in a number of ways. For example, small children seemed to like him, something which would have been an almost Darwinian argument against their continued survival, except for the fact that he repaid their trust with the nearest thing to gentleness she had ever seen him show, hunkering down to their level and talking to them as adults. She had seen him ruthlessly torture an informant and the next day pick up a fallen child from the street. Like the man himself his actions were often an enigma.
And in the five months they had been working together he had never once attempted to touch her in any way that could be called aggressive. He watched, but recently even that felt more like concern than analysis. And when they worked together he was unfailingly professional and supportive. In only 5 months she had already lost count of the number of times he had come through for her. Although in their profession life and death situations were almost normal, she had enough honesty to admit to herself that if he hadn't kept his half of the bargain on numerous occasions she wouldn't be dancing here now. In his arms.
She bit back that thought, scanning the ballroom for Gomez, wishing for once that the target would just hurry up already! With no other outlet her mind started churning again. Admittedly she had saved him as well, but to her that was normal partnership etiquette. In all honestly she had never expected Sark to hold up his side of the bargain. But he had. And more than that he had looked after her in a way Dixon or Vaughn never had. She felt secure in his presence. He made her feel.. She frowned in consideration. Yes, he made her feel.safe. Not that it made any form of logical sense that she would feel safe in the arms of a merciless killer. But her feelings never had been particularly logical. Perhaps it was that part of her that realised that nothing she could do would shock Sark, that all the darkness in her would never cause him to turn away, that had responded so strongly to him. He could see all of her and not wince. Vaughn now. She thought she could love Vaughn so very easily, in all honesty she loved him already, but what she loved most about him was his gentleness, the fact that little darkness lurked inside him. She felt drawn to his goodness, his light, like a moth to a flame. But she knew that she would always have to keep some part of herself from him. She would always have secrets from the man she loved. In this she was truly her Mother's daughter. And Sark.Sark would need no secrets. Nothing in her would be distasteful to him. They were alike in that if nothing else. And he was strong. Strong enough so that for once she could lean on him, rather than always being the one that others leaned upon.
But even if it was true, how could she ever balance being with Sark with the other parts of her life? She sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder. Maybe she should just accept things as they were now. For the next 19 months she would be with him 24/7. Perhaps it would be enough; maybe she could take a time out from everyone's expectations and demands and just live for herself for a change.
Sark almost stopped dancing when he felt her sigh and the pressure of her head on his shoulder. But thankfully his feet were on autopilot so she didn't notice his momentary lapse. What was this? Was it capitulation? Was she finally letting him in? Well whatever it was he had never been a man to let an opportunity slip by. With that in mind he slipped his arms more securely around her, pulling her into his chest, acknowledging the shiver that passed over both their skins when his hand grazed the bare skin of her back. With an inaudible growl of frustration he brushed his lips over her hair and maintained their vigil for the appearance of the illusive Senor Gomez.
He had always wanted her, right from when he had first heard of the rumour of her existence. The child of Irina Derevko, the one woman to whom he had sworn his loyalty. What a trophy to have, what a prize. And then when he had seen her, singing in that ridiculous cabaret, holding Khasinau hostage with her gaze, rolling them all with sheer bravado, well when he had made the connection between the almost legendary Sydney Bristow and the kick ass chanteuse, he had been momentarily speechless in admiration. And with that want changed to something harder, more concrete and less abstract. And every time they met, or fought, or exchanged barbed words that want had solidified further. But until this job, and his orders from on high, that want had been the desire of a child to possess something or maybe to take it and break it. To remake something to please himself.
But now.he shifted again, touching the very edges of her skin, shivering in response to the shudder that wracked her frame. He wanted her. All of her. Not the façade that he could create with enough brutality and pressure, or the shallow mask of a woman that she showed to strangers. No, he wanted all of her, the bundle of contradictions, desires and delicate fire that made up Sydney Bristow.
And so in a strange way he had set out to woo her. In some ways it reminded him of trying to tame squirrels when he had been a boy. Contrary to what people might have expected, he liked animals. Animals and children. Neither had any real choice in who they were involved with and so he afforded them latitude he would never have extended to adults. After all, he did not consider himself to be a sociopath; rather he was a man who had formed his own personal and moral code from the circumstances and opportunities that had been extended to him. And so now, rather than breaking Sydney, as he could have done so easily, he was using his memories of taming wild things to slowly work his way inside her barriers.
He knew that any violent act towards her would send her retreating so fast he would never get close again. So instead, it was all going to have to be her. She would have to instigate, to come to him willingly. Only then could he be assured of really having her. And as a falconer he once knew had said, the proof of his hold over her would be in the freeing. For if you let a wild thing go, and it returned to you of its own free will, no matter how long it took, then it would be yours forever.
In the meantime he would watch, and wait and use all of his considerable self control not to just take her. Which at certain times was easier than others.
Now was certainly not one of those times. He closed his eyes momentarily as she shifted in his arms, one hand rested on his chest, closed around the lapel of his tux., the other curling around his shoulder. God, this was one of those times when she drove him nuts. Then she shifted again, with real purpose this time and he tensed as she whispered in his ear.
"Gomez at 6 o'clock, Ruslan." And with that reminder Sark flicked once more into mission mode. Feelings could wait, this was work.
******* 5 months earlier
"You're doing what!"
Syd tucked a strand of hair and glared at him.
"Keep your voice down!" she hissed. "Francie might hear you!"
Will was pacing up and down in front of her, running his hands through his hair distractedly.
"I can't believe you agreed to this." He shot her a glance. "And with him!"
She met him glare for glare. "I didn't really have much choice in the matter."
Which although not technically true, was essentially correct. A "suggestion" from Sloane was seldom ignored. For a second they matched identical glares, hurt and irritation obvious on both sides. Then he stopped pacing and sighed, all the fight draining out of him.
"I'm sorry. You're right. It's not as if you probably really had any choice. I suppose when both SD-6 AND the CIA say, jump - the only thing you can really do is ask how high."
"Something like that, yeah." She looked down at the rug. She really hated lying to him, but if he knew she had volunteered there was no way he would be so understanding. He moved towards her, pulling her into a tight embrace and she responded, wrapping her arms around him gratefully. Her ever dependable Will. He sighed into her hair.
"But you watch your back with Sark, Syd. Don't ever make the mistake of trusting him. He's a scumbag."
She burrowed deeper into his comforting embrace. "I know. I won't. I promise."
"I'll worry about you every day, you know that, right?" His voice was worried and not quite steady as he embraced her.
And as she buried her worries and fears in his arms for a minute, she allowed herself to bask in the warmth of his affection. At least she would always have that, no matter how far she travelled.
*******
They stumbled together along the corridor, pretending to be more than slightly drunk, conscious of the eyes of the guards. The bag with the stolen manuscript was tucked between them. It had been the work of moments to break into the safe, once Sydney had danced with Gomez to gain the necessary items to fool the fingerprint and voice recognition scans. She still felt faintly dirty, as if Gomez's oily touch had left its mark on her skin, and she really wanted a shower. Now if they could just get out of here undetected.
Of course, that was easier said than done.
******************
She was tall and slender, with hair the colour of the very best mink. Her eyes were chocolate brown and I suddenly understood what my Dad meant when he said I looked just like her. The colouring was identical, the same pale skin, the aquiline shape of the eyes. I reached up to touch my face hesitantly - I had her nose. Physically we had the same build. She was a dancer, or a runner, built long and slim, with a swan like neck.
In the early photos she seemed self contained, serious. In later ones there was the occasional break in the storm clouds, the edge of a smile, but never a full one, as though she would shatter if she relaxed too far. She looked permanently on edge, as if something had stripped all the ease out of her years ago. I traced the edges of her face with my finger. I was a fundamentally optimistic person, in sharp contrast to my father's jaundiced view of life. I had always thought I had inherited that from my mother. But after seeing these photos I really wasn't sure any more. What had happened to her? Who broke her and why?
******************
The alarm had gone off just as they were nearing the exit. Quick as thought Sydney pulled them both into an alcove of the hallway, hiding them from the guards who poured out the entrances like water. They were pressed against each other and the wall, the alcove only really big enough for one. Sydney felt the steady rise and fall of his chest as he leaned against her, his back to the hall, shielding her while giving a pretty good imitation of ravaging her neck with his mouth. She shut her eyes and went along with the façade, biting her lip back on an all too realistic moan as his lips seemingly accidentally grazed behind her ear. Thankfully their little show seemed to convince the guards.
As soon as the initial rush had passed they went to work, removing the manuscript from the bag and slipping it under Sark's shirt. Then they bundled themselves back into the corridor, Elena laughing and falling over slightly, obviously drunk, waving a champagne bottle, as her long suffering husband steadied her and raised an amused eyebrow at the guards.
For Sydney it was one of the longest evenings of her life. For two endless hours she and Sark danced, nibbled and flirted their way through the party, ignoring the scanning guards, as Gomez, visibly agitated, surreptiously watched his guests. They knew that he would never dare to admit to losing as valuable a piece as the manuscript, especially not from his own house. And any overt search or announcement to this bunch of piranha's masquerading as guests would be considered weakness - blood in the water. So the only thing Gomez could do was watch for atypical behaviour and hope that the thief would make a mistake that would make his or her identity obvious.
So Elena and Ruslan Baranov danced and flirted, and seemed oblivious, smiling until their faces ached, before making their exit with the majority of the crowd.
**************************
I took copies of all of the photos back to my flat with me. I had given the originals back to my Dad and he had taken them carefully from my hand, as though they were unbearably precious. That he had cared for her was plain to me, even if to others he would have seemed expressionless. But did he still? I was still musing on that and other things as I kissed the top of his head and left to go back to London and Uni.
When I reached my flat I huddled down into the coach, feet in ancient socks tucked up underneath me, vintage Ramstein t-shirt pulled down over my knees. I studied each photo with obsessive fascination, desperate to find an iota of meaning in the grainy images in front of me. I was still deep in concentration when a sudden blast of tuneless singing and the slam of the front door broke my train of thought. Sitting back I smiled as a green haired, highly pierced vision bounced into my field of vision and halted her singing to enquire:
"Hey 'Lena. What's up with the world today?"
Fiona Hartley-Barton was my flatmate, technically Lady Fiona, Mensa level intelligent, addicted to hard core 1970's punk music and a highly competent hacker. She was also my best friend and had been since we were 14 and at boarding school together. And at times like this a computer geek was a truly useful friend to have. True - I could have pulled in a few of my father's contacts, (don't look so surprised, after all I AM his daughter) but if I didn't want him to know I had to keep it within the family. And Fee was the closest thing I would ever have to a sister.
I gestured her over.
"You know how I always said my mother was dead?" She cocked her head at me, an oddly birdlike gesture, and nodded sharply.
"Well, it seems that I wasn't technically correct."
"Holy shit. Really?" Swearwords always sounded out of place in her cut glass accent. She bounded over the side of the couch and landed heavily on the cushions, peering in fascination at the photos on my lap. "Are those her?"
"Yup. And Fee - " I looked at her imploringly, "I really need your help on this one."
She pulled me in to a rough hug.
"Whatever you need, sweetie. Whatever you need."
And with that I settled down to explain to my best mate the plan that had been fermenting in my mind since my Dad had dropped his latest bombshell.
************************
They had spent the ride back to the hotel in silence, continuing the charade in the bugged room, murmuring endearments to each other in the way of married couples, while never quite meeting each others eyes. And when they piled into the double bed together, acres of space separating them, all Sydney could think of was the man who was sleeping so close, but in reality was as far away as the North Pole.
And those thoughts felt strangely like betrayal.
5 months ago - the warehouse - LA
This was the last one. She would see her father once or twice during the operation, at one of the 6 monthly debriefings that Sloane had set up, but none of the others. And even though it was hard to say goodbye to her friends, at least she had the reassurance that they would be beneath the notice of anyone who wanted to kill her. In fact her moving away almost guaranteed their safety, a thought she took out of storage and wrapped around herself whenever she felt in need of reassurance. But after this meeting she wouldn't see Michael Vaughn for two long years.
And it hurt.
She had been wobbly even before he arrived at the warehouse, and the sight of him stalking across the floor to meet her hadn't helped. He had noticed, his forehead furrowed in characteristic anxiety, but had remained strictly professional. They discussed the mission like it was any other 3 day jaunt, talking about variables, emphasising again her counter mission for the CIA. But they both knew it was just talk. And eventually they ran out of things to say.
Syd glanced up at him. He was staring at the floor, forehead creased, giving off such a palatable feeling of worry that it made her heart clench just a little. She didn't want to say anything, didn't want to end the meeting because then that really would be the end. And she didn't know if she could bear it.
He broke the silence first. "I'll keep an eye on Will and Francie if you want."
She sighed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'd like that. Thanks"
She shot a quick glance at him. "Will you be changing assignments?"
"Not really. I'll still be your handler, just on.suspended..duty. I'll still work the SD-6 detail; maybe help out your Dad. I'll just have to wait until you get back before I can go back to operations."
His "wait until you get back" hung on the air between them, igniting feelings that she had thought were dying.
"I'm glad. I mean that you'll still be here when I get back." It came out in a rush and she found herself blushing slightly in vexation. Glancing up she saw he was watching her, his eyes warm and speaking for the first time in months, and she blushed some more.
"I promise, Sydney. I'll be waiting."
She smiled at him shyly, suddenly uncomfortable with such a loaded conversation. "I know. I'll try to make it back in one piece."
He took a step nearer, his hands burrowed in his pockets as though he was trying not to reach out to her.
"I'll hold you to that. And don't trust Sark. That piece of slime always has a hidden agenda." His open face was screwed up in distaste at even mentioning Sydney's new "husband".
"I won't. And look after yourself Vaughn. I want you here when I get back."
He smiled slightly and suddenly leaned down to brush a kiss on the side of her cheek. For a second they held the position, the heat from their skins suddenly and painfully erotic. Then he backed away, breaking the tension, keeping his distance. His eyes were burning with all the things he would not allow himself to say. I miss you already; I need you to be safe. I love you. But all he said was: "Be safe. I'll see you soon."
"Me too". She watched as he made his way out of the building, watched until even the echo of his footsteps had died away. And all the time she could feel the burning imprint of his kiss on her cheek. It had been meant to be affection, she recognised, but it had felt like abandonment.
***********************
It had been three days since they returned from their latest mission, three days of trying not to acknowledge the new thing that appeared between them, as if by pretending it wasn't there they could somehow erase its presence. Yeah, right. It was like trying to ignore the famous pink elephant shitting in the middle of the living room. They were cautiously, carefully polite to each other, and spent as much time as possible in separate rooms.
When Sovanov phoned them with another mission they jumped on it with mutual sighs of relief.
************************* Fee had spent the last ten hours trying to track down one Bristow, Sydney, last address, date of birth etc, all entirely unknown. I had spent the last ten hours keeping her primed with junk food and extremely strong coffee, familiar with her requirements from years spent rooming together at school. I had finally dropped off to sleep on the couch for a few hours when she finished, only to be woken up by the pressure of a heavy body landing firmly on the cushions beside me. She groaned and I cracked open one eyelid in response.
"Any luck?"
She was rubbing her forehead with the backs of her hands, always a bad sign.
"Man, your Mum is a ghost. You do know that right?"
I sat up, all my feelings of giddy anticipation quickly draining away. "So, nothing?"
"Nothing. Nada, nyet, etc, etc. I've looked everywhere, Sweetie, and she just doesn't exist."
"So that's it then." I slumped into the cushions, abruptly deflated. Fee eyed me with concern and struggled to sit up straighter.
"No, no. We just have to go after it from another direction. Now what information do we have?"
"Well, we know she was Caucasian, going by the photos, mid to late twenties."
"Maybe a little older. Let's make that up to mid thirties."
"Sure. Also that she is brunette, has brown eyes."
"Both easy to change."
"True. And that she had some connection to an international mercenary leader my Dad used to work for, named Irina Derevko."
"Hah. Now that last I can use." She stood up and started cracking her stiff fingers in anticipation. "Even if Derevko is no longer active we should probably be able to pull a file off Interpol. And if we can get known associates it might help." She shot me a quick concerned glance. "Your Dad doesn't know we're doing this, does he?" "No." I answered softly. It was the truth, he might have suspected I would do something similar, but he didn't actually know. The look of anxiety faded from her face and she breathed out in relief.
"Good one too." She shuddered. "I mean, your Dad, El? Very scary. Seriously cute. But scary."
I just smiled.
****************************
Syd stretched her arms above her head, desperately trying to get some relief into aching muscles. Although she loved the adrenaline and fast pace of her life sometime it wore her down. And this was one of those times.
They had been on the run now for 72 hours, picking off their pursuers one by one, unable to go back to base until the last of them was gone. And the forced, although strategic retreat was wearing. She glanced over at Sark, who was maintaining this hour's watch. There had been too many of these in the last month, missions that led to extended time on the run. They both needed some down time. But it had helped to crystallise one thing for her. She finally trusted Sark.
She had accepted that for the moment he had a vested interest in keeping her alive. Not that he would explain why, but actions such as pulling her out of a hail of bullets and charging into fire fights to pick her up tended to speak for themselves.
She studied the side of his profile intently, noticing the smudges of dirt on the pale skin, the slight shadows of fatigue under the eyes. He felt her scrutiny and turned momentarily, raising an enquiring eyebrow. She answered him with a small shake of the head; it's nothing, and a sincere smile that surprised them both. With a quirk of his lips in response he turned back to the watch. And she realised, with a strange sense of inner clarity, that if she had to choose to be stuck in this situation with anyone, there were far worse people for her than Sark.
****************************
Fee's fingers were speeding over the keys like a woman possessed, the Clash blaring angrily in the background. And under the music I could just about make out a muttered monotone of curses and comments as she worked to defeat the firewalls in her way. She loved a challenge. We both bunked school for the day and focused our combined energies on the problem. It was like trying to track a ghost in the machine. Traces of elusive identity slipped past us, throwing out tantalising feelers, but always leading to dead ends. Possibilities fell through our nets, but offered potentialities that we traced furiously. It was the world's biggest scavenger hunt and we were ferocious in its pursuit.
It was after 16.00 when Fee's suddenly triumphant yell disturbed my focus. I had been wracking my brains for something my Dad used to say when I was a little girl, before my recall had become totally reliable. Something about the Beach Boys and my mother.. I looked up in half feigned annoyance only to find my partner in crime doing the samba solo around the living room.
"What?"
"I've got it!" She quickstepped triumphantly.
"Got what?"
"The clue, sweetie! The fucking clue! I've found her!"
"Who? My Mother?"
She shook her head vehemently. "Uh huh. The next best thing."
I looked at her in bewilderment and she shook her head in disgust at my stupidity.
"Irina Derevko, Babee!!"
Oh yeah. Now we were smoking.
*****************
She woke to find she had crashed on the couch and Sark had covered her with a blanket.
The last trek back had been a blur of days spent hiding and fighting, punctuated with grabbed moments of sleep and the blurry passing of scenery she paid no attention to. Like animals on the trail they had reduced themselves down to the basics of sleep, eat, hunt, and Syd had ceased to really take notice of anything outside the mission, immediate threats and Sark. With everything else constantly in flux her body and mind had learned to fixate on the one thing that seemed a constant presence. But now, finally, they were back at base and to her faint embarrassment she had fallen asleep within minutes of getting through the door. She hadn't even made it to her bedroom.
She pushed back the blanket and sat up, stretching the kinks out of reluctant limbs. It was dim in the living room, with a bite of chill in the air, the fire glowing dully in the grate. She must have slept for hours as it had been mid afternoon when they returned, and now the stars were gleaming outside in the fall twilight. October was settling with a vengeance and unlike California this country had definite seasons. With a shiver she pulled the blanket around her shoulders and padded through the house, suddenly starving and aware of the ground in dirt that she hadn't been able to wash off over the last few days.
The house was bare and quiet as always, embossed with little of either of their personalities, but peaceful for all that, and she slipped into the shower with a sigh of pure gratitude, soaping up and washing down, luxuriating in the pure bliss of being clean again. Shower first, then food. With that in mind she slipped into her robe and headed for the kitchen.
She had left the lights off and the only other illumination in the hall was the soft amber of a lamp showing under the open door to Sark's room. Suddenly filled with a strangely childlike need for reassurance she paused in front of his door. She hesitated on the doorstep, battling with conflicting urges. One demanded she check to see if that one familiar presence she had come to rely on was still present. The other, however, was warning her of the consequences of moving into an unknown situation. She felt like a heroine in a fairytale, with the possibility of Bluebeard's wives in the room before her.
It was ridiculous.
With a sudden burst of irritation at her foolishness she pushed the door ajar and glanced in the room.
He was curled up on top of the great double bed, face burrowed into the pillows, chestnut hair catching the light. He had obviously fallen asleep almost as fast as she had as his boots and socks were strewn haphazardly across the floor. He had shucked his sweater as well and as she watched he shivered unconsciously in the draft, goose bumps rising on his bare arms below his t-shirt. There was something strangely vulnerable about him, one bare foot tucked in under his knee, his whole posture seeking to maximise warmth despite his having fallen asleep on top of the covers instead of under them.
Syd hovered, undecided for a moment, and then shrugged mentally. One good turn deserved another. She picked up a spare blanket from the chair, padded over to the bed and covered him gently. He shifted and she froze momentarily, looking down at him, his face relaxed, but still closed off even in sleep. There was a lock of hair falling over his cheek, and with the hair softening his profile he had never seemed less like the arrogant stereotypical bastard who had so tormented her for so long at SD-6. Instead he was just Sark. Complicated, complex and contradictory. Focused and brilliant in the game, but still by no means the one-dimensional killer caricature that she had created in her mind. No bogeyman here. Just a man. And with that thought she leaned down and brushed the barest of kisses over his cheek, just the touch of lips to skin. And then froze as she realised a pair of ice blue eyes were staring into hers from just an inch away.
***************
It only took another five hours to track down Irina Derevko, rumours of her presence floating through the files of global law enforcement. Slowly and painfully we traced her back, Fee sweating buckets as she speed hacked, totally illegally, into numerous databases normal people didn't even know existed. Using all the memories of every conversation of my Dad's I had ever overheard, every scam and trick his official and unofficial network had taught me, I gave her leads and she stormed down them like a tornado, blowing aside all barriers in her way. God, we made a great team. And all this illegal activity was a rush, I had to admit. Maybe I could blame genetics. And then suddenly - wham. There she was, in glorious Technicolor. The two of us hunkered down over the screen. Irina Derevko. Ex-head of a major network. Whereabouts currently unknown. Captured by the CIA in the early 00's, disappeared from sight a few months later. Associates include Andrew Sark.
"Wow - your Dad certainly has interesting friends."
I gave her a dirty look and kept on reading.
Known aliases: Bristow, Laura. Bristow, Laura? Was she related somehow to Sydney? And then as I kept staring at the screen, trying to out the pieces together, I realised something I'd been trying very hard to ignore. She looked like me. Unfortunately Fee got it just about the same time. "Lena, she really looks like you!"
Could this woman be my Grandmother? If so it was official - I was going to kill my Dad.
**************** Time seemed to stand still for a minute as they stared at each other, neither willing to break the standoff. Her vision seemed to have narrowed until all she could see were ice blue eyes and she suddenly found herself inexplicably unable to move.
Sark kept absolutely still, only too aware of the battle being fought behind those brown eyes so close to his. He had woken as she entered the room but had maintained the pretence of sleep, curious to see what she would do. But he had been taken aback when she covered him with a blanket, and even more so when she bent down to kiss his cheek. A sudden fire of hope and desire had burst into life when she touched him, and he knew if he didn't at least try to seize the moment he would always regret it. So he opened his eyes.
She didn't seem to be able to move. The sudden paralysis was dimly worrying but she hardly noticed, concentrated on the more major battle between common sense and desire. Part of her was screaming retreat, remembering every warning, every incident, all the disapproving faces of those she loved. And the other part was seeing the man before her, so patiently waiting for her decision. Letting her choose.
Sark
And suddenly it didn't seem such a hard decision after all.
He saw it in her eyes the minute she made her decision, those deep pools of peat water glittering with all things unsaid. Almost holding his breath he dared to lift a hand to her face, ready to take it back if she flinched, running his fingers over skin as soft as velvet, feeling his body jolt abruptly into life. God he wanted her.
His fingers trailed across her skin, down her cheekbone, the edges of her chin, leaving her face tingling its wake. Blindly she turned her face into his palm, pressed her lips into the centre of his hand, nuzzling closer. The breath went out of him in a long gasp and she felt the murmured caress of her name.
"Sydney.."
He sat up, cupped her face in both his hands, every sense alert and keening. He wanted to drown in her eyes, fill his hands with her breasts, savour everything. He was suddenly, painfully hard.
His hands were cupping her face and he was there, he was kissing her, gentle at first, skirting the edges of her lips, butterfly and sweet and then pressing for entrance which she gave willingly, tongues duelling with each other. His mouth was so sweet and she was drowning, drugged beyond all hope of redemption as he pulled her closer, down onto the bed, legs tangling, her robe slipping upwards, baring her thigh.
God so much skin, sweet and honey scented and Sark didn't know where to touch first, what to taste, it was all his. She was his at last. And God, had the wait been worth it.
She gasped as he kissed his way down her neck, kneading his shoulders with her nails, one hand buried in his chestnut hair. He was everywhere. She felt a change in temperature as he undid the belt on her robe and she stiffened at being exposed so absolutely.
God she was so beautiful, every line, every curve, all that skin. Sark took her in greedily, the long, lean legs, the full breasts, the curved musculature, the slight flare of her hips, and the delicate curve of her waist. He ran a caressing hand across the flat curve of her belly and felt an infinitesimal tensing of her body. He pulled away and met her eyes, noting the edge of anxiety, the stiffening in her frame. Carefully he pulled her robe over her again and put a hand to her face.
"Sydney - do you want this?"
He watched, stroking her skin, until the hesitation was replaced by determination, and desire flared up hotter to scorch both of them as she rolled into him, hooked a bare leg around his calf, pulling him closer.
"Yes, I want this. I want you, Sark."
And the rest was silence interspersed with gasps and moans and the slick sounds of flesh against flesh. Gasps when her mouth met his skin, moans when he mouthed her breasts, suckled her nipples, buried his face between her thighs. Her nails scored his back and he relished the small pain, even as she guided him inside her, and oh, she was so tight, like warm velvet, and he couldn't last much longer. And when she spasmed around him, calling out his name, he couldn't last at all.
Is this was what it took to love Sydney Bristow he wasn't too sure he would survive the experience. And strangely that thought didn't bother him at all.
**************
"So, where do we go from here?"
The two of us had spent the last twenty minutes dumb foundedly reading my new found grandmother's file. Was there anything this woman hadn't been involved in? No wonder she had my genius Dad's loyalty. 'Cause if you had to work for someone of dubious morals it was always better to go for the very best..I shook my head in disgust at my wool gathering, chewing frantically on my drinking straw. It was a bad habit I'd had since childhood.
But hey, at least I could now blame the genetic bent if I ever turned properly to crime. With my Dad, and now my maternal Grandmother, and probably my Mum. I wondered absently what my Mum's Dad did, but dismissed the thought. Time for that when we had tracked her down.
I looked up at Fee, who was still patiently awaiting my answer to her question.
"Well, it says here that she disappeared from confirmed records in 2004, but prior to that there was a period of custody at CIA. Might be the logical place to look next. At least they will have better files."
"Yeah." She cracked her fingers in anticipation. "You know, 'Lena, it's a good thing that all this info is almost twenty years old, or even I wouldn't have a hope in hell in cracking these databases. And the CIA? Hell - girl you set me challenges."
I grinned at her. "But you love it."
She smirked back. "That I do. Got the Red Bull?" I waved a pack at her in confirmation.
"Right, then let's get to it."
**************
Thinking back on it later, it was strange how little awkwardness there had been between them when they finally woke up. Instead it simply seemed to cement something that been developing slowly over time. For Sydney it had boiled down to a very simple equation. In this place, at this time, she trusted him absolutely. Outside this bubble her life had become there was a world of moral ambiguities and complications that she resolutely managed not to think about. But inside the bubble there was just her and Sark, and surprisingly she discovered she didn't need anyone else. He completed her. And day by day, week by week the barriers slowly fell down until he had worked his way inside to everything she was.
For Sark it was a wild sort of freedom. Freedom to have her, to feast on her until he was satisfied, even finally the freedom to trust someone other than himself. And even though he couldn't admit it even to himself he loved her. So instead he simply delighted in her, all that unleashed passion, the wildness and whiteness of the smile that flashed increasingly at him as he divested her of the constant weight of her double life. He taught her to rejoice in the game the way he did, for the pure joy of it. Because fundamentally Sark was a player, the intricate webbing of alliances and double crosses only a way to keep score. And Sydney was a worthy piece on the chessboard, Queen to his King.
And in the forced isolation and the constant security of each others company they formed a bond that was nearly unbreakable.
*************
"'Lena."
"Urghh." I had been having a rather fascinating dream, something to do with fish that talked and was really reluctant to be woken up. The voice came again and this time it was accompanied by a hand that attempted to shake my shoulder. It didn't quite get there.
I came fully awake to find myself sitting bolt upright in the bed, holding Fee's hand rigidly at arms length. She was staring blearily down at me in an aggravated fashion which changed to resigned as I released her wrist in embarrassment. "Thank you." She glared at me, rubbing her wrist. "You know 'Lena, someday those reflexes of yours are going to hurt someone."
I shrugged, still faintly embarrassed. My freaky reaction time had been a school joke ever since one of the prefects had tried to remove my Discman from behind and I had knocked her senseless without turning round. I had been 14 at the time, and the humiliation of the subsequent dressing down had helped to cement Fee and I into our present solid relationship. My Dad typically had thought it was hysterical. But he did have a warped sense of humour. "Sorry." I rubbed my head in a vain attempt to focus and sat up. "So what have we got?"
It was 4am and we had now been on this ghost track for almost 24 hours, spelling each other over the last eight hours where we could. I may not have been Fee, but I could usually hold my own on the Net, especially if she gave me a path to travel. "I've just about ready to breach the last firewall but when we do all hell is going to break loose."
"Right. So what do you need me to do?"
"I'm going to bounce us off about twenty different countries and 12 satellites. It should confuse them enough for us to get out without being tracked. But we'll still only have about 45 seconds. So I hope the areas we scouted out earlier are the right ones."
"Or what?"
"Or the next place you and I will be going will be at her Majesty's Pleasure." I grimaced. It seemed it was impossible for anyone with Bristow blood to keep out of the way of the authorities. And with Dad's genetics as well I was doubly cursed.
*********** "Sydney, are you alright?" Sloane frowned as she paced back and forth in front of him. He noticed, however that she never once stopped tracking the exits, seeing the vantage points, checking for cover. That was his good little Jenny Bond. But he also noticed how she never paced in front of Sark, never left his back unguarded even for a moment, never allowed her restless trajectory to interfere with his line of sight, but constantly paced around him, as if there was an invisible rope holding the two of them together. He had never seen her so visibly hair triggered, so ready to fight and the worrying thing was he had the impression that what he was seeing was her normal readiness level these days. And Sark just lounged in his chair, totally comfortable with the fact that Sydney was guarding his back, visibly relaxed that she was there, not a muscle twitching. Sloane looked from one to the other again. It seemed some things were going a bit too well. He wasn't too sure what he thought about this particular development.
"Sydney. Please sit down." It was a very thinly veiled order.
She glanced at the offered chair for a moment and then shook her head slightly, continuing her pacing like a tiger in a cage. Sloane sighed in frustration. Sometimes she was irritatingly like her father. And that dammed pacing was getting distracting. Sark caught his look and straightened from his slouch. "Elen..Sydney. Won't you have a seat? It's okay here." Sloane could see it, how Sark's voice somehow had so much more weight than his, his thinly veiled command taken as a request. Her dark eyes flashed to him, questioning, and he answered her silently, dipping his chin to the other iron bound chair. The corner of her mouth twitched and she pulled the seat out from the table, positioning it slightly to his back and diagonally to the side. As she did so Sloane saw Sark reach out to touch the back of her hand, unwinding some unspoken tension, and she relaxed, the breath coming out of her in a long exhalation.
However Sloane noted that she still had Sark's back, and that she could still see all the exits. And as the two of them looked back at him with identical focused, assessing eyes he was reminded of tigers he had once seen in India. Predators both. And certainly not the Sydney Bristow he remembered.
********* "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! 'Lena - please never ask me to do anything like that again!"
"No fear", I vowed fervently. The last 10 minutes had been truly scary and not something I wanted to repeat any time soon. But we had what we needed. All the files on one Irina Deverko, nee Laura Bristow. I downloaded them before anything else could go wrong and printed them off just in case, my hands snatching greedily at the pages as they piled out of the printer.
"Have you got what you needed?"
I pulled myself out of the fugue my mind was threatening to spiral into in order to throw a grateful arm around my best mate and hug her tight.
"It's the gold mine sweetheart. It's the bloody mother lode."
"Excellent. Well, much as I would love to find all about your Mum, I'm sure she'll wait for my perusal until tomorrow. I am crashing. Don't wake me up unless."
".the Clash reform or the world ends. Yeah, I know. Get some sleep. And thanks. Fee - you really have no idea. Thanks so much."
She ducked her head, smiling, slightly embarrassed by my gushing and sloped off to her room, tactfully leaving me alone with the first independent proof I had seen for the existence of a mother I had long believed to be dead.
*********
They were lying twined together in bed, Sark amusing himself by winding his fingers through the mass of her toffee coloured hair. He could do this for hours. Sydney supposed she shouldn't have been surprised that he was such a sensualist, after all the love of fine wine, the black suits and fine fabrics should have pointed her in the right direction, but still. She stretched, cat like and almost purred as he stroked her into submission. She was definitely reaping the benefits. It was more than faintly erotic to be constantly the focus of all that directed intensive attention.
Seeing Sloane again had disturbed her, shaking the calm tranquillity of the bubble she had constructed about both of them and she had fixed on her partner's solid presence like a drowning woman, conflicted between wanting to smash Sloane's arrogant face in and the urge to run as far away as possible and never come back. When they had finally made it back to base she had been unwontedly aggressive, seizing Sark just inside the door, pushing him against the wall, ravaging his mouth, desperate to erase the oiliness of the stain on her soul Sloane seemed to leave behind. Sark had responded with a surprised enthusiasm and she had drowned herself in him, using his body to wash away the memories of Sloane. And now she was basking in the aftermath, body loose limbed and relaxed.
Sark was quietly indulging himself by kissing up the edges of her collarbone when she turned abruptly in his arms. Her dark eyes caught the lamplight and sparked at him as she studied him such focus that he smiled a little, amused by her perusal.
"Sark - what's your first name?"
He buried his face in her hair, still smiling. She smelled of strawberries.
"Why do you want to know?" He was teasing her now and she could tell, the high forehead faintly creased in vexation. She propped herself up on her elbow and frowned down at him as he smiled lazily back at her. There it went, another mood passing over her face like clouds over the sun. To him her constant mood swings were easy to read, but to others she seemed indefinable, elusive. She was quicksilver, was his woman. His woman. His hand momentarily paused on its path down her shoulder as he savoured the truth of that mental appellation.
"Andrew." Very few knew that name.
Her face lit up like a child's and she covered his face with kisses while he laughingly tried to fend her off before pulling her into a deeper embrace. And some part of him that had been closed off for so many years opened just a little further. Andrew. He could be Andrew for her.
*********