Title: Remembering You
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sometimes it is all you can do to remember you
Disclaimer: Sydney, Sark and Vaughn are definitely not mine.
AN: For Bijal, because you requested and I give in way too easily. And I would've never of written Alias fic if it weren't for you. And I hope this is ok, sweets. :)
Remembering You
Back to the wall in a red-brick alley. You feel her fingers – slender, long, soft but gripping, gripping, gripping at the expanse of pale, white, delicate skin that is your throat. Dim, sallow glow of street lamps too many feet away. You cannot see. Stench of yesterday's puke and drunken man's urine pooling near expensive, leather shoes. You mean to curse. And your mouth is moving, lips stretching. And you say her name instead: Sydney. It comes out hoarse and raspy, out-of-breath from her tightening hand across your life, and this is –
desire
want
need…
To smell her. To breathe her in. And when she turns her head slightly - annoying, long, brown hair getting in your face - you cannot help but lean forward and take one large, loud sniff. You think she'll smell of flowers and fruit and sugar and spice and all things nice. But she's stronger, bitter, and addictive like dark, dark chocolate. You're tempted to bite into her. To taste.
She has this weird, confused look on her face. Sydney's mouth twisted into an awkward frown like she's trying to figure you out – pouty, disturbed line because she thinks she sees something she wasn't expecting. Eyes hard, suspicious, squinting. Trying to see the trick in the dark. Sees instead…
…tenderness?
Now her eyes are widening, grip loosening and she gasps, "Michael?"
You cough back a snort. So she thinks you're another. Vaughn. Thinks you've been doubled into you. And it doesn't seem wrong to say, "Yes." Not when the lie – but is it really a lie? Because, you can be Michael if she really wants you to be – will save your life. And when her lips come crashing down on yours, you know that this is –
desire
want
need…
The kiss is all hard edges of teeth and there's blood on your tongue – rolling, lolling down your throat that still feels constricted. Duelling, fighting, nipping into flesh and tearing out chunks of heart and soul. And Sydney is dark, dark chocolate mingled with the salty, irony tinge of dark, dark blood.
She's sobbing now. Hands roving frantically across your face, neck, chest and below, oh god, below. Checking to see if you're real and alive. And every molecule in your body is alive. She's still sobbing as she kisses you. And so you're gentle. Licking her wounds. Tasting her blood, sweat, tears or is that fears?
Because she suddenly pushes you away – back hitting the red-brick wall and it hurts – and her purple contacted eyes seem to know the truth. Of you.
But then she's brushing your blonde hair across your forehead. Quick, tender kiss on the cheek and she whispers, "I have to go. Be safe, Michael."
His name said in a strange, desperate plea that echoes through the hollowed cavities of the alley.
And Sydney's a dark, shapely figure running away. From you. But she pauses in the dim, sallow glow of the street lamps and her face is illuminated in all its torn, yearning glory. And tosses your gun into the air. It skitters onto the concrete ground and you bend down to pick it up. When you straighten up, Sydney's gone.
Playing with the familiar metal she's placed back in your hands – yours, yours, yours, mine, mine, mine – you twist it around until you're staring down into its tiny, black hole. You remember your name: Sark. Sark. SarkSarkSarkMyNameIsSarkSarkSark.
Mr. Sark.
You remember your name. But you almost forget.
(end)