Title: Foul-Weather Friend
Author: wakingepiphany
Rating: R, currently, for language and illusions to male arousal ;-)
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.
Pairings: Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn in this chapter, most likely references to Sarks' past canon flings as well in future chapters.
Timeline: Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.
Summary: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonimity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiance, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them, in the in the process, maybe even save each other.
Author's Note: I wrote the majority of this first chapter last summer, before season 5 started, so over the months and especially the past week I've been tweaking it a bit to accommodate some of the season 5 storyline, but the majority of the fic does not concern season 5 at all. So, for all intents and purposes, Vaughn is dead and no one has even heard of Rachel Gibson :-) Not that we discriminate against different pairings…anyway, what I'm looking for is constructive criticism, any comments you might have, and your opinions on whether or not you, the Sarkney loving audience, would like to see me continue writing this fic.
If only he had put the shampoo bottle back where he had found it, Sark would not have the cold steel of a knife pressed against the soft flesh of his throat. Mere centimeters of skin separated the killing blade from his jugular. However, he also suspected he never would have had a towel clad Sydney Bristow lying on his chest at the very same time. From this scintillating viewpoint, he felt the two things almost balanced themselves out. Beads of water from the shower she had only just been in moments before slid down her skin, soaking Sark's shirt and pants. She hovered over him, her knee digging painfully into his sternum; her knife, poised against his pulsing jugular; her face, centimeters away from his.
"Tell me why I shouldn't slit your throat," she whispered to him. Beads of water still clung to her eyelashes. Her mouth was infuriatingly close to his. "Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you right now. And make it good. I'm not having a very good day." Their heavy breathing was synchronized, panting in and out simultaneously. Sark held in his breath, drawing out the moment she lay on top of him, as if this breath were his last.
"I think we could be of some assistance to one another." His blue eyes searched her brown ones. "It's not as if she means nothing to me, you know." His eyes strayed from hers then, roving her body as she lay atop him, her towel riding high on her thighs. Despite the cold threat of death pressing sharply against his neck, Sark felt another need throbbing within him that had nothing to do with the assignment at hand.
"Her?" Sydney asked. She hesitated, and Sark saw an expression of bewilderment cross her face. "Her who?"
Sark stared at her, the incredulity he felt manifesting itself into a smirk. "You mean…you don't know?" He often felt pleasure in knowing things others did not, but with Sydney Bristow, chances for this kind of advantage were few and far between, and it never ceased to amuse him, despite the circumstances it dealt with in this particular instance.
Sydney felt a sense of déjà vu wash over her, staring at that infuriating, knowing smirk plastered on Sark's face. She'd seen him smile only once before, visiting him in his cell after she awoke in Taipei only to find 2 years of her life had been taken away from her. He took pleasure in her ignorance, he smiled at her misfortune. She wanted to rip that calculating smile right off his smug little face.
"You tell me what all this is about and I might consider not slitting your throat today," she threatened. To emphasize her point, she raised the knife from his throat and raised it above her head, her body taut like a lethal cobra, set to strike him down. "Start talking."
Maybe it was his pride, wounded that she taken him down so quickly. Maybe it was his innate instinct to hold back exactly what an enemy desires. Or maybe, just maybe, he relished the thought that nobody hated him quite as much as Sydney Bristow did. Whatever it was, he just couldn't help himself. He laughed.
"Sorry Mr. Sark," Sydney spat, her eyes livid, her mouth set in a determined line. "We're done here." And as she brought the knife down, Sark bit down hard on his lip. The metallic tang of his own blood invaded his mouth as he anticipated the killing blow.
30 Hours Previous
Julian Sark was enjoying a glass of lemonade poolside at his estate in the Greek Islands, finishing the novel he had only begun that very morning. He sipped from the glass and placed the sweating tumbler on the marble tabletop with a tanned hand and then turned a page of a book. He was steadily reading through his entire library at the estate, and made a note to himself to go about procuring more literature to satisfy him in the coming months.
He had been reading almost nonstop since he started his doctor recommended sabbatical four months earlier. The headaches started shortly after he had re entered the workforce after being released from his year long incarceration. Before the downfall of Elena Derevko and, in turn, The Covenant, he had been on an op to breaking into a CIA secured facility to obtain a certain next gen piece of technology for the cruelest Derevko sister. The headache started halfway through the mission and within two minutes he had blacked out from the pain. He awoke to find himself outside the facility, in the middle of hotwiring a Ferrari that had been impounded as evidence.
Fortunately, the slip hadn't been caught by the people he was stealing from and the people who would kill him if he didn't get what he was supposed to steal. What he couldn't fathom was how he continued moving along, albeit seemingly off on his own personal desire for the Ferrari, after he had blacked out. He couldn't remember a thing from the start of the headache until he was elbows deep in Ferrari's wires. The mission had been carried off without a hitch, but it became apparent this was something he couldn't let slide. That blackout scared him more than any mission he had ever been on. It meant a loss of control that Sark wasn't willing to part with. He went to a neurologist a few days later.
"Too much stress, Mr. Smith," the doctor had told him. "As far as I can tell from your MRI and tests, there is no physical cause of your headaches and temporary fugue states. You are suffering from extreme exhaustion and anxiety. These blackouts seem to be self-induced, subconsciously of course. As sure as I'm a doctor, I'm telling that if you don't take some time off you'll land yourself in an early grave."
Sark unrolled his sleeve after the blood pressure cuff had been removed and gave the doctor a small smile. "It's possible I'll be landing myself into an early grave as it is, Doctor. In my line of work, it's not uncommon." He had hoped this would be the end of things. Sark gathered his things and made for the door.
"What in this world could make a 26 year old man suffer so?" Sark did not turn around, but merely called over his shoulder as he strode out of the office.
"Ladies underwear salesman. Good day, doctor." Sark continued out of the office and into the parking lot. He only had two hours to pack and memorize the newest mission specs. He blacked out taking the car keys out of his coat pocket, smacking his head off of the macadam parking lot, suffering a mild concussion. He started his early retirement the very next day.
Sark drained the last of his lemonade and called to his maid, Marta, without averting his eyes from the page in his book. The second after he called her, she tapped him on the shoulder, startling him. He had been directly behind him and he had not even realized.
This disconcerted the normally composed Sark. He prided himself by being meticulously observant of the smallest noise and change around him. He learned of this invaluable talent at a very young age and has been one of the only things keeping him alive in his chosen career field. But, If Marta had startled him, he was losing his touch. He cleared his throat and pointed at his glass.
"Could you fetch me another glass of lemonade, Marta? Today's batch is especially good." Marta picked up his glass onto the tray she was carrying and Sark returned to his novel. Marta, however, did not leave to the kitchen right away.
"Mister Pitt, were you expecting correspondence today?"
Sark lifted his eyes from the page, looked into the elderly woman's lined, olive toned face and cocked his head slightly to one side. She had taken are of his Greek Island estate since he had purchased it five years ago and although it was sometimes months before he returned to it, she had learned Sark's mannerisms and their meaning within months of working for him. She often told him that he reminded her of her grandson. She said that although "while seemingly calm, you have thunderstorms underneath your tranquil surface." Her simple metaphor tapped into his psyche almost too close for comfort, but Sark nevertheless kept the image close to heart. Thought she did not know Sark's real name, Marta did know that the slight cock of his head meant Sark had no idea what she was talking about. She watched his face as his eyebrows narrow in uncertainty and concern.
"Correspondence, Marta?" Sark asked. She nodded and picked up a scarlet envelope from the tray she placed his glass on and laid it on the table.
"I was cleaning kitchen and one minute, I am cleaning garbage disposal. Next minute, this letter is right on counter. Out of nowhere. Should I be worried?" Marta asked. She did not like the look on her employer's face. His eyes clouded over like she had never seen. "Letters do not normally come here, is that why this envelope troubles you so, Mr. Pitt?"
Sark did not answer right away. He slowly put his bookmark into his novel and placed it on the table. He placed his hand next to the envelope but still, hesitated on picking it up.
"No, Marta. I'm not troubled because letters don't normally come here. This just means something important has come up. Excuse me for a moment, will you?"
Marta nodded. "Of course."
Sark rose from his chaise lounge, tightening the knot in his white drawstring linen pants. He traipsed through the expansive backyard to the house, making his way through the classically furnished home and into the study. The envelope was sealed, not with self stick adhesive, but with an old fashioned wax seal. Puzzled, he slid his finger through the seal and found single disk. He slipped the disk into a computer and sat down on the executive leather chair, fingers folded in his lap, and the video began to play.
Years back, Sark took pains to assure that when information on certain people and things became available, he would have unlimited access to the intel. It had proved to be an invaluable on more than one occasion, in both his professional and personal life. Such intel had never come in such an elaborate and decorative manner, but it had piqued his interest nonetheless.
This bit of video, a mere 43 seconds long, played on repeat 6 times before Sark willed himself to press stop.
It was impossible. Hadn't he only spoken to her days before? The room swayed slightly, and Sark willed himself to stay in the room, willed the blackness to fade from his vision. This was no time for weakness. Immediate action needed to be taken…he wouldn't let this happen to him again.
I won't let you die this time, Irina. Not again.
And then he knew what must be done. He knew who he had to turn to. And thanks to his foresight on obtaining information pertaining to certain individuals, he knew just where to find her.
Sark was on a plane bound for Phoenix thirty minutes later.
Dusk and temperature were falling as Sark darted in the shadows behind the houses of Davis St. He had used all the information tools at his disposal to find out where Sydney had ensconced herself for the past several months. It hadn't been easy, tracking her down. She had taken pains to keep herself hidden for the past two months. But, like all things, all it took was the right connections and the right amount of money, and Sydney's current location was his.
He had been staking out number 147 for the past few hours from a neighbor's tool shed and had seen Miss Bristow from a safe distance until her departure from her house. It had been months since he given Ana Espinosa as a gift to Sydney, since they had pretended to be lovers in that smoky club. Even though she wore sunglasses and a baseball cap low over her face and she went out for a run, he felt a familiar stirring of attraction and competition heat up within him.
Hello, Sydney.
It was something about the way she moved, the way she tucked a strand of her chocolate-colored hair behind her ear, the stride in her step. It was the barely contained energy beneath her surface, something that reminded him of himself in a way, only more subdued, refined. She had a poise and elegance that had taken years of training from boarding school and Irina Derevko to perfect in himself
Irina.
As he watched Sydney, jogging in place, stretching her lean frame for an evening run, the purpose of his being here slammed resolutely back into place. Sark watched, somewhat reluctantly, as Sydney jogged into the distance, passing out of sight down the street. He approached the house stealthily, his dark clothes aiding in his unseen advance.
Sark recalled Sydney's long, shapely legs stretching for her evening run as he studied her security system. When she had bent over to stretch it made Sark bite his lip and groan hopelessly. The way she filled them out her running shorts made this stakeout almost enjoyable, until he remembered why he was there. He pulled his thoughts together and pried the consul open. The trick was to leave the power on and have the system appear as if it were functioning normally, but severing the sensory input and looping the video feed. It would be difficult for this complex a system, but he had some inside information that would make the task easily attainable.
Marshall Flinkman had explained the process to him on one of his visits to Sark's cell when he had been incarcerated by the CIA. Flinkman had babbled nonsensically while they ate eggs. Scrambled for Marshal, sunny side up for Sark. Though he would never admit it to anyone but himself, Marshall's visits were one of the few high points of Sark's captivity. He enjoyed the twitchy little man, ever since his brief stint in the SD-6 office. Unfortunately, Flinkman's fear of Sark reeked like week old fish whenever he was in his presence. Sark was accustomed to this reaction to his presence in people but found Flinkman's panic of him to be slightly disappointing. And now, he saw, those visits proved functional as well as interesting as Sark completed the process and closed the consul. He now had free reign of the house.
As Sark stepped over the threshold, the pervy nature of bugging Sydney's home crept into his mind one again. He usually had no problem compartmentalizing his work from his personal feelings, save for a few mistakes in the past. A stakeout was a stakeout and nothing more. However, this had not started out as an emotionally void assignment. He suspected it would take a toll on him in time. Though, in this particular instance, he pondered the obvious benefits of the voyeuristic portion of the mission.
He had wanted to get a feel on how much Sydney knew about the recent development concerning her mother; well, actually, her mother and father. Sark hadn't concerned himself much on Jack Bristow; he had never cared for the man. He could respect that he was a man that got the job done, but he lacked any of the charisma and character he expected of a man that could keep Irina's interests. His concern lay for Irina right now…Irina and Sydney.
He realized he was dawdling and returned to his task. He opened a door off of the hallway and found the bathroom. He grinned to see Sydney favored a slightly transparent shower curtain as he attached the minuscule camera to the top of her medicine cabinet. The curtain was not clear enough to see everything, he surmised, but enough to let his imagination run a little wild. Sark pulled out the pocket sized wireless screen that the feed from the cameras lead into. It was working perfectly. As he swept from the bathroom, something stopped him.
A scent. A distinctly feminine scent that clung to his nostrils. An increasingly familiar scent that was making him breathe in, over and over again, trying to place its origin. His inability to place the smell was exasperating, and he searched the bathroom quickly. He opened the shower curtain and smelled the soap, smelled the shower gel. As reached over to the wall ledge he picked up a bottle, flicked the cap of Sydney's shampoo. The scent washed over him and he closed his eyes to savor it. Orange blossom, with a hint of spice. It was the scent of every failure he had ever suffered at the hands of Miss Bristow, everything she'd ever done that had grudgingly demanded his respect, every look she had given him that had left him dumbstruck, if only for a moment.
It was driving him crazy.
But he had work to do.
Sark closed the shampoo and placed it on the outside lip of the tub. He continued onto the living room, placing a bug on top of a bookshelf. His eyes glazed past the titles, recognizing many as novels he himself had read. He felt the minutes drift by, and he forced himself to hurry along. If he could find out what Sydney knew, without the complication of her actually being involved in the process, then all the better. He could not afford to make a mess of it. He hurried into the bedroom.
Like the rest of the ranch home, the bedroom was as simply but beautifully furnished as the living room. Sark brushed his fingertips across the bed. Egyptian cotton, at least 400 count. That damned scent lingered as he worked on the bug on top of Sydney's television. He was checking the feed on the monitor when the front door opened.
Fuck. Me.
He immediately went to the window. It was locked. Since he disabled the security alarm, he tried to flick the latch over. However, when he moved it slightly, it squeaked. His heart was pounding faster now as he abandoned the window. The front door closed and he heard the beep of Sydney "setting" her security alarm. She was approaching the bedroom fast. He had no time to hide. He crouched by the far wall of the bedroom, out of her line of sight, his hand on his weapon, waiting to be caught.
She walked past the bedroom without looking inside and continued on to the bathroom. Sark felt around in his pocket. He still had the pocket monitor; he could watch her whereabouts and get out of here without being seen. He could get away without being detected. He watched her on the monitor as she entered the bathroom.
She pulled off her baseball cap, her back toward the camera. Sydney's brunette locks, the color of dying leaves in autumn, tumbled freely over her shoulders. She swept a hand through her hair, holding it entangled for a moment's pause, as if thinking. She sighed audibly, so that even down the hallway, Sark heard the sound of release. Sark held his breath as she let hers out, and on his handheld screen, Sydney took off her top. The smooth, vanilla skin of her back teased him unmercifully, but not as much as the thin clasp of her bra as it separated him from a view of her more appealing assets. He needed to stop watching, he needed to leave right now. He could slip by her as her back was to him, undetected, his identity preserved. His professionalism was gone, pulled from him at the very sight of this woman. He kept watching.
She bent over, untying her shoes and taking off her socks. She tossed them on the ground and then fingered the waistband of her shorts. She peeled them down her long legs slowly. Her rounded curves, that had looked tantalizing in the shorts as he watched her from afar, could not prepare him for their presence in the flesh. He felt sweat beading on his brow and collecting in other not so visible places as she straightened back up, breathtaking in her near nakedness. A slight black thong rode low on her hips. She reached around and unclasped the matching bra from the back, tossing it on the ground next to her shoes and socks. At last, she peeled off the thong and Sark willed himself to keep focus.
Leave. Leave you pervy sod.
It was no use. Her perfect figure was affecting his body in the most instinctive and obvious way possible. He willed himself not go grow hard as he stared at her back, his eyes taking in every inch of her. If Sark had ever felt foolish enough to wish for anything, he wished now for Sydney to turn around.
She didn't. She reached to her right and opened a linen closet, grasping a towel in her hand. As she leaned, Sark glimpsed the soft outline of her breast. The battle between mind and his more sensitive bits waged within his body. If he felt he could move, it would not be to flee as he obviously should. He was torn between wanting to touch her and wanting to flee. He did neither. He kept watching the screen.
She stepped over her clothes and opened the curtain. She tossed the towel on the curtain rod above her. She pushed open the shower curtain and stepped inside. She turned slightly toward the camera, turning the shower on, her arm and leg shielding the part of her Sark so desperately longed to see. As the water came down, she reached and closed the curtain closed. He could only glimpse the outline of her glorious form. The curves of her breasts and buttocks, the leanness of her abdomen, the feline arch of her back, the length of her legs; just out of reach and sight. It was now of never if he were to leave and Sark chose now.
He eased past out of the door of the bedroom and into the hallway. The door of the bathroom stood open, a shaft of light creeping out onto the hardwood floor like a beacon leading him to shore. He kept close to the wall, watching the monitor as he went. He needed to pass by the open bathroom door to exit the house without detection. However, he was not a man who denied himself when such an indulgence was presented.
He peered into the steam of the bathroom. She was facing away from the showerhead now, her hands up into her hair, her face into the stream. He savored the few moments when all that was separating the two of them was mist and a thin sheet of plastic. He allowed himself only a few seconds, and most reluctantly, swept past the door. He softly padded down the hallway, and then stopped, when as he watched his monitor, a hand crept out to grasp the shampoo bottle on the outside tub ledge. The hand stopped and retreated back into the shower. It crept up to the towel perched over the curtain rod and snaked it back into the shower.
Oh bloody hell…
Sydney threw open the curtain and Sark saw her face flash on the screen. There was no time. He did the first thing that came to mind.
He ran.
A realization came to him, as his feet started to move, that going behind Sydney's back probably wasn't the smartest plan he'd ever come up with.
In a fraction of a second, a second realization hit on like a blow to the stomach: the shampoo had been on the other side of the bathtub.
The third realization came a mere few seconds later, after he dropped the handheld monitor and slid though the hallway: he finally realized that Sydney Bristow was indeed a faster runner than himself.
The fourth realization was that he was being kicked in the back.
Sark fell, hard and fast, onto the hardwood floor of the hallway. She yanked him up by his hair, exposing his throat. The sharp blade of Sydney's knife pressed against the soft skin of his throat before he could even take a breath.
"Put your hands on your head, you perverted son of a bitch."
Sark did as he was told. He felt Sydney's hands working their way across his body. Her fingertips snaked roughly up his arms, torso, and his inner thighs. She was searching for weapons but to Sark, her touch was like fire just the same. She relieved him of his knife and Walther ASP pistol, but she continued her search until she was sure he was unarmed. Her hands were fiery hot on his flesh and only when she kicked him in the stomach and turn him over did his arousal wane to a less obvious level.
"Jesus, Sydney, where did you pull that knife from?"
"My name's not Jesus, but you can kindly shut the hell up right this second."
She was poised over him, inches from his face, the warm touch of her hands gone and replaced with the cold steel of the knife. Beads of water from the shower she had only just been in moments before slid down her skin, soaking Sark's shirt and pants. She hovered over him, her knee digging painfully into his sternum; her knife, poised against his pulsing jugular; her face, centimeters away from his.
"Tell me why I shouldn't slit your throat," she whispered to him. Beads of water still clung to her eyelashes. Her mouth was infuriatingly close to his. "Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you right now. And make it good. I'm not having a very good day." Their heavy breathing was synchronized, panting in and out simultaneously. Sark held in his breath, drawing out the moment she lay on top of him, as if this breath were his last.
"I'm going to assume your order to 'kindly shut the hell up' is hereby rescinded until explain myself. I think we could be of some assistance to one another." His blue eyes searched her brown ones. "It's not as if she means nothing to me, you know." His eyes strayed from hers then, roving her body as she lay atop him, her towel riding high on her thighs. Despite the cold threat of death pressing sharply against his neck, Sark felt another need throbbing within him that had nothing to do with the assignment at hand.
"Her?" Sydney asked. She hesitated, and Sark saw an expression of bewilderment cross her face. "Her who?"
Sark stared at her, the incredulity he felt manifesting itself into a smirk. "You mean…you don't know?" He often felt pleasure in knowing things others did not, but with Sydney Bristow, chances for this kind of advantage were few and far between, and it never ceased to amuse him, despite the circumstances it dealt with in this particular instance.
Sydney felt a sense of déjà vu wash over her, staring at that infuriating, knowing smirk plastered on Sark's face. She'd only ever seen him smile once before it had only been at her own expense, after she awoke in Taipei only to find 2 years of her life had been taken away from her. He graced her now with that same maddening grin. She wanted to rip that calculating smile right off his smug little face.
"You tell me what all this is about and I might consider not slitting your throat today," she threatened. To emphasize her point, she raised the knife from his throat and raised it above her head, her body taut like a lethal cobra, set to strike him down. "Start talking."
Maybe it was his pride, wounded that she taken him down so quickly. Maybe it was his innate instinct to hold back exactly what an enemy desires. Or maybe, just maybe, he relished the thought that nobody hated him quite as much as Sydney Bristow did. Whatever it was, he just couldn't help himself. He laughed.
"Sorry Mr. Sark," Sydney spat, her eyes livid, her mouth set in a determined line. "We're done here." And as she brought the knife down, Sark bit down hard on his lip. The metallic tang of his own blood invaded his mouth as he bit his lip, anticipating the killing blow.
The knife left a large crack in the lacquered wooded floorboards. Sark finally breathed out and licked his split lip of blood. He turned his head to look at the blade, no more than an inch from his right ear.
"You'll never get your security deposit back that way, Sydney," he mused aloud.
His heart pumped blood through his veins at double speed. He tore his eyes away from the knife and back to Sydney. Though temporarily without a weapon, if looks could kill, Sark's heart would turn cold in his chest at the very sight of her. But Sydney's look did anything but leave him cold. The heat and hardness in his loins that had dissipated when he thought his life over came back slowly at a glimpse of the fierceness in her eyes. Her knife now embedded in the floor, Sydney quickly shifted on top of Sark. She pried the knife from out of the floorboards and rose to her feet, keeping her eyes on Sark the entire time. She lifted her foot and pressed the arch of it across Sark's larynx. He started to choke, coughing to try and inflate his lungs. Sydney spoke.
"I'm going to take my foot off your throat for ten seconds. If you don't tell me what the hell your sorry ass is doing in my house, I'll use this knife to neuter you."
Sark began to see spots in front of his eyes. He nodded as emphatically as he could with Sydney's foot pressed against his throat. She sighed, as if defeated, and slowly lifted her foot from his windpipe. He raised his hand and rubbed his throat, coughing. He barely resisted the urge to look up her towel. Her eyes were full of questions, but he quickly found his words before she could rob him of his testicles.
"All I ask is that you look at a disk I have with me. Look at that, and it will give you your reason. That's all. Sydney?"
Towering above him, Sydney slowly used the blade of the knife to lift up the hem of Sark's black tee-shirt. She lifted it enough to expose the tanned, muscular skin of his abdomen. She pressed the tip of the knife directly center of his stomach.
Sydney grunted, "Why should I even entertain the thought of listening to you? What in our history makes you think I'd ever believe a word that slips that forked tongue of yours?" Sark held up his hands once more in surrender, feeling more exposed than he thought he should at the sight of his own stomach.
"Although you have absolutely no reason to, I'm asking you right now, to trust me." She saw a flash of anger dart across her face, but he pressed on quickly. "We both stand to lose something very important to us. In my right pocket, there is an envelope with a disk in it. I am at your mercy, I swear it Sydney. Just look at the disk."
Sark gestured his head to his right pants pocket. He was thankful that his pants were baggy; this encounter was proving to arousing; mentally and otherwise. Sydney reached into his pants pocket, fishing around, finally retrieving the red envelope. Sark closed his eyes, praying her hand did not stray far from its intended target...he didn't need this encounter to be any more embarrassing than it already had become. She brought the disk out and turned it over, looking at it from all angles. If her hand had brushed up against potentially naughty, her face did not betray her discovery.
She held the disk in her left hand and with a look of reluctance (that left Sark wondering of its origin) lifted herself up off of him. In one hand she held the knife close to his throat but with the other, she held out her hand.
"Get up," she ordered. "And don't even think about any funny business, you hear me?" Sark looked at her open hand and accepted it. Her hand was still warm and wet from the shower as it enclosed on his cool palm. He rose to his feet and immediately put his hands in the air and allowed the knife to be placed precariously close to his throat once more.
She led him down the hallway and into the living room and only then did he notice she was a few inches shorter than him. He had always felt they were the same height; equal adversaries in stature and skill. However, her confident stance and stare had always left him feeling that he was only ever a boy in her eyes, no matter how much taller or stronger he may be. Finding out he was indeed taller than she made him feel like he had won some sort of challenge with her. She sat him down at her computer desk.
"Put it in," she ordered him. His lips upturned slightly at the possible meanings of her sentence ran through his mind.
"Gladly." His lip twitched at the very thought.
"And it better not have any viruses on it, this is a new computer."
Sark placed the disk in the CD-ROM drive.
"If it does, I'll be sure to replace your computer. You know I'm good for it." The CD-ROM drive closed and the video loaded up onto the flat screen monitor. Sydney watched silently as the scene played out in front of them. Although he had watched the video a dozen or more times, Sark's mouth pressed into a tight line and pressed his clenched hands into his lap.
Static snowed the picture, but quickly cleared to show two chairs, their occupants bound and gagged, sitting in a dark room. Blood pooled underneath them, somehow even blacker against the black floor. A flood light flashed on, illuminating the prisoners, their wounds made hideous in the unforgiving light. Sydney's parents sat stock still, even in capture unwilling to show weakness.
A hand reached out from out of the frame, holding a knife to Irina's throat, almost exactly like Sydney now held the knife to Sark's. He felt the knife slacken against his own throat as the two of them watched. Finally, a voice sounded from the speakers, presumably from the knife holder. The voice was distorted and the person's face hidden under a dark hood.
"I expect my orders to be carried out, if you want to see your parents alive. I require certain items and intel that I feel only you can procure for me, and as you can see, I know exactly what buttons to push to get them. Expect to hear from me soon. Until then…" the hooded figure pressed the blade slowly, almost lovingly, to the flesh of Irina's throat until beads of blood dotted her pale skin.
Jack Bristow's voice rang out. "I swear to God when I find out who you are…Sydney, don't!" The hooded man moved quickly, the butt of the knife hitting Jack squarely in the temple, knocking him unconscious. Irina sat silently, and the man's voice rang out once more.
"Until then, Miss Bristow."
The video went black turned in the desk chair as best he could with the knife still being a threat, looking up at Sydney. His voice was lower, all playfulness gone. "Do you need to watch it again?" A beat passed before she answered.
"I don't need to see it again. I know what it said." Sark wasn't surprised at this, but he was surprised at the tone of her voice. It had changed; it was no longer a voice that belonged to a woman in charge. It was quieter, and though Sark had never heard Sydney this way, it sounded scared.
"Sydney?"
Sydney drew the knife away from his throat and let it fall to the floor. Sark looked up at her face and was shocked to find it contorted in fear. She put the hand that, only seconds before held the knife, up to the computer screen, touching the scarred hand.
"Sydney, what is it?"
She didn't speak at first. Seconds passed and she spoke in that same scared voice, a voice that seemed not her own.
"The watch…the watch he was wearing…I gave him that watch on his last birthday. I can't believe he's still wearing it; the band was always too big. I told him it would fall off if he never let me get a different band for it. How could I not know? How could I not know something was wrong? Oh God, Mom, how could I not know…" In that moment, she was in a world all her own as the realization seeped in, turning the blood cold in her veins. She didn't even hear the words as they tumbled out of her mouth so carelessly. She was numb. She couldn't bring herself to hide the tears she felt welling up in her eyes and wouldn't feel the shame of letting Sark witness them until hours later.
Sark didn't know what drew his attention to the front door at that particular moment, but as the gravity of the situation sunk in for Sydney, a blood colored envelope floated unassumingly through the mail slot.
Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter One
1. "Playground Love", Air. Listen to when: Sark watches the video at his house for the first time and realizes he has to go find Sydney.
Lyrics: I'm a high school lover, and you're my favorite flavor Yet my hands are shaking
Love is all, all my soul
You're my playground love
I feel my body remains, themes no matter, I'm on fire
On the playground, love
2. "Walk Through Walls For You", Tonic. Listen to when: Sark breaks into Sydney's home, trying to bug her house. Sydney finds him and they tussle.
Lyrics: You killed me when you came walking down the sidewalk
Saying everything was fine
Dressed up like a wife of a life I'll never have It's so easy to fool me
You can turn me on
You can turn me off
I've had enough of that little boy sandbox stuff
3. "A Smile That Explodes", Joseph Arthur. Listen to when: Sark pleads with Sydney to watch the video, which she does. Another envelope is slipped in her mail slot.
Lyrics: Cuz it ain't easier I'd hold you in my arms
Waking up at dawn
To find I lost my crown
If I found you there
With flowers in your hair
Till we came back down
A smile that explodes
I could never understand