Title: An Tine Liom
Author: Ambrose Chavez
Email: agent47achavez@hotmail.com
Category: angst, general, past recollection and development, character
death
Spoilers: Season One
'Ship: Sark/Jenny
Rating: pg-13
Disclaimer: Alias and all related characters are the property of J.J.
Abrams. He won't give them to me even though I ask nicely.
Notes: December '02 Cover Me Challenge Entry. Elements noted at the end.
Title is written in the Irish form of Gaelic, an old Celtic language. Its
translation is: The Fire With Me.
Summary: Sark and Jenny stay in Russia for Christmas. Business goes on as
usual.
* * * * *
"Isn't it gorgeous?!" she exclaimed, turning her face to his. "It never snows in Los Angeles."
He didn't think the statement required an explanation or comment on his part, so he stayed silent and studied her.
Jenny had her hand pressed against the glass, a light sheen of chilled mist forming around her fingers. Her jubilant smile and glittering eyes were filled with excitement. Snow. Winter. Russia. It was all so new to her, all so glorious. He almost pitied her for reasons he couldn't identify. Perhaps it was because it all seemed to empty and futile to him.
"I remember as a child, my mother would serve me hot chocolate and tell me I could open one gift before I went to bed on Christmas Eve." She turned her attention back to the world outdoors. "Christmas was never like this."
Nor would it be again, he thought as he offered her a thin smile before leaving her to her own devices. He wanted to think, but she rambled on, forcing him to occasionally nod and grunt in agreement.
It was that time of year again, when the Americans went crazy over the season's hottest toys, malls were crowded at all hours and sales were abundant. Europe celebrated in much the same way, and some countries created their own version of Christmas according to their cultures. But in some places, like Japan, Christmas didn't exist. People went to work as if it was just another day.
But for Sark, it had become just another day.
He couldn't really remember the day he stopped anxiously awaiting to tear at shiny wrapping paper, hoping against all hope that he got what he wanted. But perhaps, he was simply never good enough. After all, wasn't Santa like God? He's making a list, he's checking it twice, gonna find out who's naughty and nice?
He set his wine glass down and traced the mouth of the glass with one manicured finger and contemplated Christmases past. He probably made the naughty list more times than he cared to count, and by now, he was sure of it. Though he was a quick-minded, idealistic, athletic child with a genius IQ, he was his parents' ultimate disappointment.
Up until he was six, he was a regular hyperactive boy who was always up to some mischief, but completely harmless. Then his parents sat him down in their mint-and-crème colored living room and told him that he was 'special' and that they loved him so much that they had to give him up. He hadn't understood, so he cried and held tightly to his mother's leg, begging not to be left alone. In the end, they left him at Iverson's Academy for Gifted Children in Galway, Ireland, and never returned.
Oh, they paid his tuition for a complete education - up front by check, he found out later. They even allowed for him to have a monthly allowance that increased by increments each year until he was receiving nearly a thousand dollars a month when he graduated. Despite that, he never did figure out how they convinced the headmistress to keep him there for each summer, and throughout every winter and spring break. He just assumed that his parents were busy doing whatever it was they did. No one ever told him, but after some extensive research, he found out that his father was an international businessman and his mother a politician. Perhaps they simply left him at the school because they didn't have the time to raise a child.
Spinning the wine stem between his fingers, Sark glanced out the window to the blanketed expanse that was Russia at Christmas. As a child, he spent the holidays with the maids, some educators, and the headmistress, and the school attempted to make it a festive ordeal. It was always overly decorated - mistletoe was missing, couldn't have the students kissing each other, you know - and American Christmas carols played in the mess hall. Very few students stayed for the holidays, but Sark took comfort in the fact that he wasn't the only child to stay behind.
But for him, the holiday joy ended the same year his parents stopped sending him gifts. At age eight, whatever tears he had been capable of shedding emptied themselves then. The child he was experienced a death within, and suddenly, young Sark found himself facing life with a cold, detached mask. He resolved to never be hurt again, by his parents or otherwise. Teaching himself to be meticulous - obsessive, even - about everything caused him to be a high-ranking student, a neat freak, and a very lonely individual.
He excelled in anything he put his hand to - calculus, essays, gun handling, fighting style, agent training, and sex.
Sark rarely lost control of himself. But there was one year he allowed himself to let go. He told himself the reason why he kept those gifts he had received as a child in perfect condition was because that was his nature. He had trouble believing it, though.
He knew he kept them since he held onto the slim hope his parents still loved him and would come back for him. When he turned sixteen, that hope perished, and Sark severed all connection he had to them by hiking up to the hills and starting a small fire in which he watched the gifts burn.
Age six - children's books and four American hot wheels cars. Age seven - a small stuffed monkey, a Michael Jackson tape, and a framed photograph of himself with his parents. Age eight - a baseball mitt, a baseball bat, a baseball, a jersey from some American team (New York Yankees), and an autographed picture of some baseball great.
It all burned.
He watched his reflection in the flames and studied each item as it curled, turned black, and crumbled. He was atop the hill for hours, making sure each item was incinerated. He carefully nursed the wound he bore inside, never to be ripped open again. A few times, he held his hand above the fire and warmed his hands, sometimes idly wondering how close he'd have to be in order to feel the burn without actually setting himself on fire.
Eventually, he beat the small fire out with the potato sack he had carried the gifts up with and he left that spot, returning only once.
The day of his graduation, he graduated as one of the seven valedictorians of his class. Before the ceremony, he stood on the burned spot and remembered. He had knelt down, fingered the soil and smelled the death of his childhood. A sticky, thick, unsettled smell that couldn't be placed anywhere specific, but it was a stench he would later recognize as the kind that hung over him whenever he took a life.
It was here that he first met Irina Derevko. His parents hadn't attended his graduation - as he knew they wouldn't - but she had. She offered him a position with a prominent Russian aeronautical engineering company, and he had taken it. He moved up ranks quickly, eventually being introduced to the world behind the studies and experiments - the world of espionage.
That led him to present day.
He took another sip of his wine and glanced at the dark haired female crouching in front of the fireplace.
Over the years, Sark had acquired his fair share of females - most of which worked for 'The Man' they didn't know by name. But along with his years of service came the ability of making a distinction between those who would excel, those who would be mediocre, and those who wouldn't make it all. He saw no harm in using any and all for gratification.
She was chattering away still. He hadn't been listening.
"So then he broke up with me. Chasing SD-6 could have gotten him killed that day, but he wouldn't even tell me what happened," she flipped her hair over her shoulder and peered at him. "I had to find out from you."
Sark shrugged. Oftentimes her babbling grew tiresome.
"Don't you think I did the right thing?" she pushed her curls behind her ear, stood up and settled with him on the couch. "I found out he was working on the SD-6 story. I even helped him out a little, pointing him in the direction he should go, but I barely even get a thank you."
He wondered if he should say thank you. For what, he wasn't sure.
She lifted her face and studied his expressionless one. "Dave-"
"Don't call me that." He spoke sharply. It had been his father's name - David. He had been christened David Allen Sark, Junior. Never did he want to be associated with his parents - they had mutilated their relationship long ago, and Sark had burned his umbilical cord, so to speak, upon that hill on a crisp, Ireland Christmas Eve.
"Okay, jeez." She sat up, lifted both palms. "Just your name, didn't think you'd be that touchy about it."
"It's not my name." He stood and walked back towards the kitchen.
Placing her hands on top of one another on the back of the couch and resting her chin on them, she smiled wryly. "What's wrong, Sark? Shouldn't I talk about Will? He was my assignment, you know."
This girl, he knew, wouldn't make it. "Yes, Jenny. I know." He poured himself more wine. "Would you like a glass of burgundy?"
"No, thanks." she turned back around to face the fire. "I have hot tea on the stove, can you just pour me some of that?"
"Okay."
He retrieved a mug from the cabinet and poured the tea in. Glancing at her, he removed a small vial from his pocket, uncapped it and poured the crushed contents of mistletoe leaves and berries into it, letting it settle and swirl with the liquid. He pocketed the vial and turned, holding both drinks, and found her standing at the entryway.
"Here you go." He handed her the mug and she set it aside, took his wine and placed it on the counter.
"You know, Sark," She bit on her lower lip, dropped her hands to his button down white shirt and fingered the edges. "It is Christmas, and there are a few traditions that we simply can't break."
"Such as?"
Her gaze fluttered upward, and Sark caught sight of the mistletoe sprig hanging at the entrance.
"Oh." He said, lowering his mouth to hers.
He captured her in a surprisingly passionate kiss, moving slowly at first, nipping lightly at her upper lip and sliding his tongue alongside hers. Changing the rhythm, he tangled his hands in her long locks and held her close, increasing both pleasure and pressure by changing angles and intensity. Abruptly he pulled back, and her eyes drifted open, dilated with lust.
Still in control, he smiled smugly to himself, turned and picked up his wine glass, and lifted it in a toast. "Merry Christmas."
She followed him out of the room, clutching her tea with both hands. If she had the words, she would have told him that kissing him was like kissing perfection. Trying to clear her head, she shook it once and told herself that he just happened to be a good kisser, and nothing more.
"What?" he asked when he noticed her blowing her tea and watching him with questioning eyes.
"I just." she hesitated before flashing him a quick smile. "Nothing."
He watched her as she sipped on her tea. Finding the temperature cool enough, she took a few more swallows and sighed contentedly before resting her head on his shoulder.
Later, he extinguished the fire in the hearth and washed both his wine glass and her empty mug. He then stood over her sleeping figure and watched her. She looked so small against the plush navy couch, but no matter. She wouldn't be waking up anyway. Pleased that he had given her a dose in which she wouldn't experience the messy effects of the poison, he shrugged into his coat and yanked on his gloves.
"Just rest a little while, Jenny." He leaned over and ran his fingers through her silky mane once more before checking her quickly weakening pulse. "Just for a little while."
Seconds later, the small beat of life that throbbed beneath his fingers quivered once. Twice. No longer. Again, the heady scent of death swirled about him, this time in flimsy little wisps of decay. It wasn't as strong as it used to be, the way the cinder and flame used to burn so bright, the smoke and ash of a life lost heavy enough to smother him. No, not any longer.
Sark stepped out of the cabin and into the snow, inhaled the icy freshness of it and pulled out his cell phone to report the 'unfortunate accident' that befell the misguided youth.
Christmas, it seemed, was business as usual.
* * * * *
"Isn't it gorgeous?!" she exclaimed, turning her face to his. "It never snows in Los Angeles."
He didn't think the statement required an explanation or comment on his part, so he stayed silent and studied her.
Jenny had her hand pressed against the glass, a light sheen of chilled mist forming around her fingers. Her jubilant smile and glittering eyes were filled with excitement. Snow. Winter. Russia. It was all so new to her, all so glorious. He almost pitied her for reasons he couldn't identify. Perhaps it was because it all seemed to empty and futile to him.
"I remember as a child, my mother would serve me hot chocolate and tell me I could open one gift before I went to bed on Christmas Eve." She turned her attention back to the world outdoors. "Christmas was never like this."
Nor would it be again, he thought as he offered her a thin smile before leaving her to her own devices. He wanted to think, but she rambled on, forcing him to occasionally nod and grunt in agreement.
It was that time of year again, when the Americans went crazy over the season's hottest toys, malls were crowded at all hours and sales were abundant. Europe celebrated in much the same way, and some countries created their own version of Christmas according to their cultures. But in some places, like Japan, Christmas didn't exist. People went to work as if it was just another day.
But for Sark, it had become just another day.
He couldn't really remember the day he stopped anxiously awaiting to tear at shiny wrapping paper, hoping against all hope that he got what he wanted. But perhaps, he was simply never good enough. After all, wasn't Santa like God? He's making a list, he's checking it twice, gonna find out who's naughty and nice?
He set his wine glass down and traced the mouth of the glass with one manicured finger and contemplated Christmases past. He probably made the naughty list more times than he cared to count, and by now, he was sure of it. Though he was a quick-minded, idealistic, athletic child with a genius IQ, he was his parents' ultimate disappointment.
Up until he was six, he was a regular hyperactive boy who was always up to some mischief, but completely harmless. Then his parents sat him down in their mint-and-crème colored living room and told him that he was 'special' and that they loved him so much that they had to give him up. He hadn't understood, so he cried and held tightly to his mother's leg, begging not to be left alone. In the end, they left him at Iverson's Academy for Gifted Children in Galway, Ireland, and never returned.
Oh, they paid his tuition for a complete education - up front by check, he found out later. They even allowed for him to have a monthly allowance that increased by increments each year until he was receiving nearly a thousand dollars a month when he graduated. Despite that, he never did figure out how they convinced the headmistress to keep him there for each summer, and throughout every winter and spring break. He just assumed that his parents were busy doing whatever it was they did. No one ever told him, but after some extensive research, he found out that his father was an international businessman and his mother a politician. Perhaps they simply left him at the school because they didn't have the time to raise a child.
Spinning the wine stem between his fingers, Sark glanced out the window to the blanketed expanse that was Russia at Christmas. As a child, he spent the holidays with the maids, some educators, and the headmistress, and the school attempted to make it a festive ordeal. It was always overly decorated - mistletoe was missing, couldn't have the students kissing each other, you know - and American Christmas carols played in the mess hall. Very few students stayed for the holidays, but Sark took comfort in the fact that he wasn't the only child to stay behind.
But for him, the holiday joy ended the same year his parents stopped sending him gifts. At age eight, whatever tears he had been capable of shedding emptied themselves then. The child he was experienced a death within, and suddenly, young Sark found himself facing life with a cold, detached mask. He resolved to never be hurt again, by his parents or otherwise. Teaching himself to be meticulous - obsessive, even - about everything caused him to be a high-ranking student, a neat freak, and a very lonely individual.
He excelled in anything he put his hand to - calculus, essays, gun handling, fighting style, agent training, and sex.
Sark rarely lost control of himself. But there was one year he allowed himself to let go. He told himself the reason why he kept those gifts he had received as a child in perfect condition was because that was his nature. He had trouble believing it, though.
He knew he kept them since he held onto the slim hope his parents still loved him and would come back for him. When he turned sixteen, that hope perished, and Sark severed all connection he had to them by hiking up to the hills and starting a small fire in which he watched the gifts burn.
Age six - children's books and four American hot wheels cars. Age seven - a small stuffed monkey, a Michael Jackson tape, and a framed photograph of himself with his parents. Age eight - a baseball mitt, a baseball bat, a baseball, a jersey from some American team (New York Yankees), and an autographed picture of some baseball great.
It all burned.
He watched his reflection in the flames and studied each item as it curled, turned black, and crumbled. He was atop the hill for hours, making sure each item was incinerated. He carefully nursed the wound he bore inside, never to be ripped open again. A few times, he held his hand above the fire and warmed his hands, sometimes idly wondering how close he'd have to be in order to feel the burn without actually setting himself on fire.
Eventually, he beat the small fire out with the potato sack he had carried the gifts up with and he left that spot, returning only once.
The day of his graduation, he graduated as one of the seven valedictorians of his class. Before the ceremony, he stood on the burned spot and remembered. He had knelt down, fingered the soil and smelled the death of his childhood. A sticky, thick, unsettled smell that couldn't be placed anywhere specific, but it was a stench he would later recognize as the kind that hung over him whenever he took a life.
It was here that he first met Irina Derevko. His parents hadn't attended his graduation - as he knew they wouldn't - but she had. She offered him a position with a prominent Russian aeronautical engineering company, and he had taken it. He moved up ranks quickly, eventually being introduced to the world behind the studies and experiments - the world of espionage.
That led him to present day.
He took another sip of his wine and glanced at the dark haired female crouching in front of the fireplace.
Over the years, Sark had acquired his fair share of females - most of which worked for 'The Man' they didn't know by name. But along with his years of service came the ability of making a distinction between those who would excel, those who would be mediocre, and those who wouldn't make it all. He saw no harm in using any and all for gratification.
She was chattering away still. He hadn't been listening.
"So then he broke up with me. Chasing SD-6 could have gotten him killed that day, but he wouldn't even tell me what happened," she flipped her hair over her shoulder and peered at him. "I had to find out from you."
Sark shrugged. Oftentimes her babbling grew tiresome.
"Don't you think I did the right thing?" she pushed her curls behind her ear, stood up and settled with him on the couch. "I found out he was working on the SD-6 story. I even helped him out a little, pointing him in the direction he should go, but I barely even get a thank you."
He wondered if he should say thank you. For what, he wasn't sure.
She lifted her face and studied his expressionless one. "Dave-"
"Don't call me that." He spoke sharply. It had been his father's name - David. He had been christened David Allen Sark, Junior. Never did he want to be associated with his parents - they had mutilated their relationship long ago, and Sark had burned his umbilical cord, so to speak, upon that hill on a crisp, Ireland Christmas Eve.
"Okay, jeez." She sat up, lifted both palms. "Just your name, didn't think you'd be that touchy about it."
"It's not my name." He stood and walked back towards the kitchen.
Placing her hands on top of one another on the back of the couch and resting her chin on them, she smiled wryly. "What's wrong, Sark? Shouldn't I talk about Will? He was my assignment, you know."
This girl, he knew, wouldn't make it. "Yes, Jenny. I know." He poured himself more wine. "Would you like a glass of burgundy?"
"No, thanks." she turned back around to face the fire. "I have hot tea on the stove, can you just pour me some of that?"
"Okay."
He retrieved a mug from the cabinet and poured the tea in. Glancing at her, he removed a small vial from his pocket, uncapped it and poured the crushed contents of mistletoe leaves and berries into it, letting it settle and swirl with the liquid. He pocketed the vial and turned, holding both drinks, and found her standing at the entryway.
"Here you go." He handed her the mug and she set it aside, took his wine and placed it on the counter.
"You know, Sark," She bit on her lower lip, dropped her hands to his button down white shirt and fingered the edges. "It is Christmas, and there are a few traditions that we simply can't break."
"Such as?"
Her gaze fluttered upward, and Sark caught sight of the mistletoe sprig hanging at the entrance.
"Oh." He said, lowering his mouth to hers.
He captured her in a surprisingly passionate kiss, moving slowly at first, nipping lightly at her upper lip and sliding his tongue alongside hers. Changing the rhythm, he tangled his hands in her long locks and held her close, increasing both pleasure and pressure by changing angles and intensity. Abruptly he pulled back, and her eyes drifted open, dilated with lust.
Still in control, he smiled smugly to himself, turned and picked up his wine glass, and lifted it in a toast. "Merry Christmas."
She followed him out of the room, clutching her tea with both hands. If she had the words, she would have told him that kissing him was like kissing perfection. Trying to clear her head, she shook it once and told herself that he just happened to be a good kisser, and nothing more.
"What?" he asked when he noticed her blowing her tea and watching him with questioning eyes.
"I just." she hesitated before flashing him a quick smile. "Nothing."
He watched her as she sipped on her tea. Finding the temperature cool enough, she took a few more swallows and sighed contentedly before resting her head on his shoulder.
Later, he extinguished the fire in the hearth and washed both his wine glass and her empty mug. He then stood over her sleeping figure and watched her. She looked so small against the plush navy couch, but no matter. She wouldn't be waking up anyway. Pleased that he had given her a dose in which she wouldn't experience the messy effects of the poison, he shrugged into his coat and yanked on his gloves.
"Just rest a little while, Jenny." He leaned over and ran his fingers through her silky mane once more before checking her quickly weakening pulse. "Just for a little while."
Seconds later, the small beat of life that throbbed beneath his fingers quivered once. Twice. No longer. Again, the heady scent of death swirled about him, this time in flimsy little wisps of decay. It wasn't as strong as it used to be, the way the cinder and flame used to burn so bright, the smoke and ash of a life lost heavy enough to smother him. No, not any longer.
Sark stepped out of the cabin and into the snow, inhaled the icy freshness of it and pulled out his cell phone to report the 'unfortunate accident' that befell the misguided youth.
Christmas, it seemed, was business as usual.