I was filling a journal with fanfic and when I hit page 47 I knew I had to write something Sarkney. I own nothing and mean no harm. If anyone is still reading in this fandom please hit the button!
They sat side by side in the terminal. Sydney was loathe to have him out of her sight, he was a criminal, probably armed, and worst of all she needed him.
The junior agent arrived detailing their flight to LA and giving them the credentials and tickets they would need; alone again she finally turned to look at him. He was watching her, had been most of the time they had been sitting, "What?" it irritated her.
"You're simply lovely Sydney," no one said her name quite like that, the blush couldn't be helped. She was pregnant, hormonal, and he sounded sincere. The compliment would be taken and appreciated.
That moment in the terminal was where it changed for her. When she looked back she would point there. Sark had pulled through, she could not ignore that. He had gotten exactly what they had asked for and she could not forget that.
She had counted on that fact weeks' later after her Father was dead and her Mother was lost to her. "I need to be somewhere else," they had met in Montreal, Isabella asleep in her arms, "I need to be someone else."
Sark had looked at her across the table, than down at her daughter, and simply nodded.
The fact that he hadn't left once he accomplished those things she could hardly blame him for. At no time had she specified that she be wherever she was and as whomever; alone.
That first night on the boat, yacht she clarified, the Greek waters easily lulling the baby to sleep, he had appeared.
A year later and he was still there. There were days apart, he still had business to attend to, "nothing that would upset that delicate moral compass of yours. I am just ensuring my inheritance is well maintained."
Sark's wealth had been a surprise to her. What the Covenant had taken from him he had gotten back tenfold. The money came with influence and the power bought secrecy. And that she couldn't ignore and was grateful for.
Every night they would eat together, on deck if weather permitted, he had insisted Isabella be present, Sydney had come to terms with the fact that he was very, very good with a toddler.
Their meals were relaxed, there was laughter and the occasional mess, but he never once complained about the noise or the juice stains.
A year and two days after their meeting in Montreal Sark walked her to her door, they had never shared a bed, but they had shared this ritual. He would walk her to her door and press a kiss to her cheek, whispering good night.
Only this time there was a tilt of her head, just enough that his lips met hers.
They shared her bed that night, every night in fact, since.
Somehow she had found her center with him. Days were filled with laughter and exploration, the nights were theirs, and through the passion they shared she found herself connected to him more than she had been to anyone else.
The question he had asked her six months later had not surprised her. Sark was as much in search of a connection as she had been,
Her answer had not come right away, she had smiled and he had nodded, leaving her with the powder blue box in the middle of the coffee table.
There was no specific reason she had hesitated, his whispered, "I love you," as he had passed she knew to be sincere, and her own heart returned in kind.
Taking the ring from the box she slid it onto her finger, no, she had hesitated because she had had her own revelation.
Sark had not gone far, up to the bow, he was a white cut figure against the dark sea; stepping up next to him her left hand covered his right. His eyebrow arched at the sight of the ring.
She shrugged, "I'm pregnant," her words knocked the smirk off his face, she laughed until his lips covered hers.