Title: More than Meets the Eye
Author: Samantha Greene
Distribution: Cover Me, Adventures of Blue, Dark Enigma, surrender. All other please ask.
Disclaimer: None of Alias belongs to me. All property of JJ Abrams, Bad Robot, ABC, etc.
A/N: Just a one shot Sarkney fic. It's my first Sarkney vignette, so all comments, constructive criticism, etc. would be appreciated. agent_pigtails@yahoo.com
Spoilers: Counteragent
* * * * * * * * * * * * MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE * * * * * * * * * * * *
I'll never forget the day I learned I would be working with Sark. Still reeling from the shock of seeing Sloane alive and well, I could only attempt a rather thin excuse for a smile as Sloane introduced me to my new work mate.
Even the conversation afterward went by in a dazed blur, my only impression of feeling fury at Sark for tricking me, and a deep fear that he would betray me. But somewhere inside I felt an odd swell of gratitude. Gratitude that he hadn't sold me out to Sloane, and gratitude that I hadn't just ended Sloane's life before his usefulness ran out. Of course I wanted Sloane dead, but not before I could take down SD-6. However, whatever small amount of gratitude I had toward Sark was overshadowed by my wrath at what he had done to Will.
That, along with my fear of his knowledge of where my true loyalties resided, were enough to cause me to treat him with a mixture of disdain and loathing. But as time passed and we continued to work closely with one another, my feelings gave way to another emotion: curiosity.
Who was this man, with the icy blue eyes and crisp blonde hair? Was there something behind his arrogant smirk, or was he nothing more than a posturing lapdog, fighting to claw his way into the intelligence world? I would not learn the answer to that question until nearly a year later.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The day began like any other, another briefing with Sloane scheduled for 11, another weekend taken by a mission to a foreign country. I had arrived at work early, determined that if I had to force myself to listen to any more of Sloane without retching, I should at least fortify myself with a decent cup of coffee. As I stepped onto the SD-6 elevator, Grande Cappuccino with an extra shot clutched firmly in my hand, Sark stepped onto the elevator next to me.
"Good morning, Sydney."
He eyes my drink for a moment, before commenting dryly, "I think it will take a great deal more than that coffee to get through Sloane's meeting."
I roll my eyes, although I can't hold back a smile as well. Devoted employee Sark may appear to be, but he likes Sloane about as much as I do.
"As sterling as your example is, Sark, I don't think I want to keep myself awake by taking notes the entire time."
Sark shrugs, a half smile playing about his mouth.
"It keeps me awake."
And with these words, the elevator doors silently glide open and we step out, leaving me to think about Sark's words until our meeting.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I glance at the clock once more, eager for the meeting to be over with. Marshall is sick today, so we are stuck listening to another tech, just as nervous, but not in any way that is remotely entertaining.
"Uhh, so if you want to, umm, turn on the camera, the uh, the switch is uh, on the back. Umm, the digital picture will uhh, be stored um, in this memory stick which, uh we'll look at uhh, ummm....later."
The tech continues to talk as my eyelids grow heavy, but I note with some curiosity that Sark is taking notes with an enormous amount of concentration. I wonder to myself what it the world he could possibly find to writing down. Hopefully plans for bumping off Sloane, I smile to myself, unfortunately letting a smile onto my face just as Sark looks up. He looks curiously at me for a moment before returning the smile briefly and then settling back into his notes. I feel my face flush red as I realize I've just been staring at Sark for the last five minutes, and he just caught me doing so. I force myself to return my attention to the tech as the meeting continues on with no sign of stopping.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Our plane leaves at four, and since the meeting from hell didn't end until half past two, I find myself hurriedly rushing home and packing in a minimum of time. The rushing around only seems to reinforce my lack of energy, and it is with a very tired sigh that I finally settle into my chair. A few minutes later Sark sinks down next to me, apparently as weary as I am. After a perfunctory greeting, he leans back and appears to sleep. I find myself thoroughly in agreement with he idea, and close my eyes also.
Several hours later I awaken to a darkened sky. The majority of passengers around us are asleep, and by the empty trays sitting in front of them, I realize I have slept through dinner. Next to me, Sark is snoring softly. I can't stifle a soft laugh, which stirs Sark out of his sleep. He frowns in a curious way at me.
"You snore," I tell him, laughter still evident in my voice.
Sark favors me with a disapproving look he usually saves for Marshall when he is off on one of his tangents.
"I, Sydney, do no such thing. As we are, for some inexplicable reason, forced to share a business class section of the plane in close proximity to so unsavory a crowd, it was no doubt one of them that you heard."
I wonder for a moment just what Sark, a cold-blooded murderer, would consider "unsavory," but then realize it's just his arrogance speaking. Sark looks about the plane in a dissatisfied way for a moment before realizing that we've missed our dinner entirely.
"This," he informs me, "is outside of enough. I'm not sure what possessed that tech to speak for so long, but he completely wasted my lunch hour. I'm not about to miss dinner because some flight attendant didn't have the good sense to wake me up to ask what I wished to eat."
And with this, he gets up, presumably to find some food.
"Sark, I don't think they serve dinner this late."
But he ignores me, merely continuing down the aisle in what appears to be a nasty mood. After a moment, I notice Sark's leather binder of notes, which he probably brought to review before our mission. However, I can't help but wonder if his notes are really as innocuous as they seem. Sark sits the farthest away from all of us, and with his binder propped up against the table, none of us has so much as a clue as to what he is writing. I consider for another moment just what Sark's notes may be, and for a moment caution and curiosity war with one another. Curiosity getting the better of me, I reason that Sark is off harassing some poor flight attendant or chef, and he shouldn't be back for several more minutes. I pull open his binder and gasp in surprise as a pencil sketch of my own face stares back at me. THIS is what Sark is doing at our meetings? I look more closely at the drawing, noting the amazing eye for detail Sark has. He even manages to convey the feelings on my face, which appear to be somewhere between veiled hatred for Sloane, along with curiosity as to what the next mission is. I pull back this page to be greeted with another drawing, this time of my father. He is staring at someone with undisguised hate, and I smile to myself. My father has never looked at Sark with anything more than utter loathing, and Sark seems to have captured the mood perfectly. I note once again the fine eye for detail, every feature, every wrinkle exactly as my father really is. Mesmerized, I continue to flip through the loose-leaf pages, amazed at how perfectly he has captured everyone. Marshall, nervous but excited, proud of the new gadget he has built. Dixon, little emotion on his face, although his careful attention to Sloane is evident. Sloane, an evil glint in his eye as he lectures on about something. And then me again, this time giving an angry look to who I can only assume to be Sark himself. Another, laughing at something funny, a rare moment of levity in our dreary world. A smaller sketch, of me pensively staring down, my face betraying a vulnerability that I cringe to realize Sark notices. Then me, smiling slightly, a fake smile I usually affect when Sloane goes off on one of his patriotic speeches. Shocked, I stare at the stack of drawings, each of them perfectly capturing a moment of time.
Sark sits at the end of the conference table, notes well out of any of our line of sight. But I'd never dreamed that he was sketching and not taking notes. And why are so many of his sketches of me? Still pondering this, I am lost to the world until I hear a throat clearing and look up to see Sark bearing two steaming hot trays and staring down at me, his face drained of all color and for once vulnerable.
We stare at each other for a moment, unsure of what to say or do. Finally by unspoken agreement I hand the leather binder back to Sark who stows it under his seat and mutely hands me a meal. We eat in silence for a few moments. I can't imagine what Sark is thinking at that moment, can't imagine how to explain. I don't even know what I feel, so I apply myself to food that has gone tasteless. The silence eats at me, but I don't know how to begin, so I stare unseeingly down at my hands, hoping for something to end this awkward situation, knowing I'm trapped here for the next few hours. I finally look up to see Sark staring at me, expression closed and unreadable. He bites his lip for a moment before speaking.
"My mother was an artist. She loved charcoal or pencil drawings. I used to watch her for hours. I was sketching far before I could write."
I'm staring mutely at Sark, surprised. His face has a faraway look as he continues on, a slight smile on his face.
"I used to get in trouble in school because I would draw instead of doing my schoolwork. I always had a passion for drawing. Even after she died-"
He pauses, his face vulnerable once again, almost panicked with the information he's just shared with me. I'm staring at Sark once more, unsure of what to say. I don't think Sark meant to say any of that, and I don't know exactly what to make of it, don't know what to say to him. To expect the force of his anger to be brought down on me only to hear this instead has thrown me off balance. After a moment he leans back in his chair.
"Anyway, that was a long time ago," he says, more than himself than to me.
Then he turns back to me, face carefully arranged into his usual mask, eyes cold and hard. He purses his lips, as if about to say something, but changes his mind and glances away again.
"Sark, I...I'm sorry. I had no idea, just got curious and... I know it's not an excuse, it's just that I don't know you. We've worked together nearly a year, and I still know nothing about you. I just thought...well, I wasn't really thinking. I'm sorry."
Sark just stares unseeingly out the window for a moment, jaw clenched, a vertical worry line between his eyes. He seems at a loss for words, and after a moment he turns to me, and nods in acceptance. The rest of the flight is relatively quiet, but the silence is far more comfortable, and I think perhaps Sark understands my true motives in going through his things.
I'd been curious. But somehow I never thought I'd look behind the mask of a murderer, a man that I knew only as a cold spy, with expensive taste in wine and cars and find a real person.
After we arrive, Sark retrieves both our luggage and settles it in the trunk before we drive to our hotel. Before starting the car, I see Sark turn to me, a curious, somewhat confused expression on his face.
"When you were looking through my notes, just what did you think you'd find in there?"
"Well, I wasn't sure really. I was sort of hoping to see plans for offing Sloane."
Sark laughs softly at this.
"Wrong folder," he tells me, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He starts the car, but turns back to me before putting it into drive.
"And Sydney?"
"Yes?"
"I don't snore."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
THE END * * * * * * * * * * * *
Author: Samantha Greene
Distribution: Cover Me, Adventures of Blue, Dark Enigma, surrender. All other please ask.
Disclaimer: None of Alias belongs to me. All property of JJ Abrams, Bad Robot, ABC, etc.
A/N: Just a one shot Sarkney fic. It's my first Sarkney vignette, so all comments, constructive criticism, etc. would be appreciated. agent_pigtails@yahoo.com
Spoilers: Counteragent
* * * * * * * * * * * * MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE * * * * * * * * * * * *
I'll never forget the day I learned I would be working with Sark. Still reeling from the shock of seeing Sloane alive and well, I could only attempt a rather thin excuse for a smile as Sloane introduced me to my new work mate.
Even the conversation afterward went by in a dazed blur, my only impression of feeling fury at Sark for tricking me, and a deep fear that he would betray me. But somewhere inside I felt an odd swell of gratitude. Gratitude that he hadn't sold me out to Sloane, and gratitude that I hadn't just ended Sloane's life before his usefulness ran out. Of course I wanted Sloane dead, but not before I could take down SD-6. However, whatever small amount of gratitude I had toward Sark was overshadowed by my wrath at what he had done to Will.
That, along with my fear of his knowledge of where my true loyalties resided, were enough to cause me to treat him with a mixture of disdain and loathing. But as time passed and we continued to work closely with one another, my feelings gave way to another emotion: curiosity.
Who was this man, with the icy blue eyes and crisp blonde hair? Was there something behind his arrogant smirk, or was he nothing more than a posturing lapdog, fighting to claw his way into the intelligence world? I would not learn the answer to that question until nearly a year later.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The day began like any other, another briefing with Sloane scheduled for 11, another weekend taken by a mission to a foreign country. I had arrived at work early, determined that if I had to force myself to listen to any more of Sloane without retching, I should at least fortify myself with a decent cup of coffee. As I stepped onto the SD-6 elevator, Grande Cappuccino with an extra shot clutched firmly in my hand, Sark stepped onto the elevator next to me.
"Good morning, Sydney."
He eyes my drink for a moment, before commenting dryly, "I think it will take a great deal more than that coffee to get through Sloane's meeting."
I roll my eyes, although I can't hold back a smile as well. Devoted employee Sark may appear to be, but he likes Sloane about as much as I do.
"As sterling as your example is, Sark, I don't think I want to keep myself awake by taking notes the entire time."
Sark shrugs, a half smile playing about his mouth.
"It keeps me awake."
And with these words, the elevator doors silently glide open and we step out, leaving me to think about Sark's words until our meeting.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I glance at the clock once more, eager for the meeting to be over with. Marshall is sick today, so we are stuck listening to another tech, just as nervous, but not in any way that is remotely entertaining.
"Uhh, so if you want to, umm, turn on the camera, the uh, the switch is uh, on the back. Umm, the digital picture will uhh, be stored um, in this memory stick which, uh we'll look at uhh, ummm....later."
The tech continues to talk as my eyelids grow heavy, but I note with some curiosity that Sark is taking notes with an enormous amount of concentration. I wonder to myself what it the world he could possibly find to writing down. Hopefully plans for bumping off Sloane, I smile to myself, unfortunately letting a smile onto my face just as Sark looks up. He looks curiously at me for a moment before returning the smile briefly and then settling back into his notes. I feel my face flush red as I realize I've just been staring at Sark for the last five minutes, and he just caught me doing so. I force myself to return my attention to the tech as the meeting continues on with no sign of stopping.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Our plane leaves at four, and since the meeting from hell didn't end until half past two, I find myself hurriedly rushing home and packing in a minimum of time. The rushing around only seems to reinforce my lack of energy, and it is with a very tired sigh that I finally settle into my chair. A few minutes later Sark sinks down next to me, apparently as weary as I am. After a perfunctory greeting, he leans back and appears to sleep. I find myself thoroughly in agreement with he idea, and close my eyes also.
Several hours later I awaken to a darkened sky. The majority of passengers around us are asleep, and by the empty trays sitting in front of them, I realize I have slept through dinner. Next to me, Sark is snoring softly. I can't stifle a soft laugh, which stirs Sark out of his sleep. He frowns in a curious way at me.
"You snore," I tell him, laughter still evident in my voice.
Sark favors me with a disapproving look he usually saves for Marshall when he is off on one of his tangents.
"I, Sydney, do no such thing. As we are, for some inexplicable reason, forced to share a business class section of the plane in close proximity to so unsavory a crowd, it was no doubt one of them that you heard."
I wonder for a moment just what Sark, a cold-blooded murderer, would consider "unsavory," but then realize it's just his arrogance speaking. Sark looks about the plane in a dissatisfied way for a moment before realizing that we've missed our dinner entirely.
"This," he informs me, "is outside of enough. I'm not sure what possessed that tech to speak for so long, but he completely wasted my lunch hour. I'm not about to miss dinner because some flight attendant didn't have the good sense to wake me up to ask what I wished to eat."
And with this, he gets up, presumably to find some food.
"Sark, I don't think they serve dinner this late."
But he ignores me, merely continuing down the aisle in what appears to be a nasty mood. After a moment, I notice Sark's leather binder of notes, which he probably brought to review before our mission. However, I can't help but wonder if his notes are really as innocuous as they seem. Sark sits the farthest away from all of us, and with his binder propped up against the table, none of us has so much as a clue as to what he is writing. I consider for another moment just what Sark's notes may be, and for a moment caution and curiosity war with one another. Curiosity getting the better of me, I reason that Sark is off harassing some poor flight attendant or chef, and he shouldn't be back for several more minutes. I pull open his binder and gasp in surprise as a pencil sketch of my own face stares back at me. THIS is what Sark is doing at our meetings? I look more closely at the drawing, noting the amazing eye for detail Sark has. He even manages to convey the feelings on my face, which appear to be somewhere between veiled hatred for Sloane, along with curiosity as to what the next mission is. I pull back this page to be greeted with another drawing, this time of my father. He is staring at someone with undisguised hate, and I smile to myself. My father has never looked at Sark with anything more than utter loathing, and Sark seems to have captured the mood perfectly. I note once again the fine eye for detail, every feature, every wrinkle exactly as my father really is. Mesmerized, I continue to flip through the loose-leaf pages, amazed at how perfectly he has captured everyone. Marshall, nervous but excited, proud of the new gadget he has built. Dixon, little emotion on his face, although his careful attention to Sloane is evident. Sloane, an evil glint in his eye as he lectures on about something. And then me again, this time giving an angry look to who I can only assume to be Sark himself. Another, laughing at something funny, a rare moment of levity in our dreary world. A smaller sketch, of me pensively staring down, my face betraying a vulnerability that I cringe to realize Sark notices. Then me, smiling slightly, a fake smile I usually affect when Sloane goes off on one of his patriotic speeches. Shocked, I stare at the stack of drawings, each of them perfectly capturing a moment of time.
Sark sits at the end of the conference table, notes well out of any of our line of sight. But I'd never dreamed that he was sketching and not taking notes. And why are so many of his sketches of me? Still pondering this, I am lost to the world until I hear a throat clearing and look up to see Sark bearing two steaming hot trays and staring down at me, his face drained of all color and for once vulnerable.
We stare at each other for a moment, unsure of what to say or do. Finally by unspoken agreement I hand the leather binder back to Sark who stows it under his seat and mutely hands me a meal. We eat in silence for a few moments. I can't imagine what Sark is thinking at that moment, can't imagine how to explain. I don't even know what I feel, so I apply myself to food that has gone tasteless. The silence eats at me, but I don't know how to begin, so I stare unseeingly down at my hands, hoping for something to end this awkward situation, knowing I'm trapped here for the next few hours. I finally look up to see Sark staring at me, expression closed and unreadable. He bites his lip for a moment before speaking.
"My mother was an artist. She loved charcoal or pencil drawings. I used to watch her for hours. I was sketching far before I could write."
I'm staring mutely at Sark, surprised. His face has a faraway look as he continues on, a slight smile on his face.
"I used to get in trouble in school because I would draw instead of doing my schoolwork. I always had a passion for drawing. Even after she died-"
He pauses, his face vulnerable once again, almost panicked with the information he's just shared with me. I'm staring at Sark once more, unsure of what to say. I don't think Sark meant to say any of that, and I don't know exactly what to make of it, don't know what to say to him. To expect the force of his anger to be brought down on me only to hear this instead has thrown me off balance. After a moment he leans back in his chair.
"Anyway, that was a long time ago," he says, more than himself than to me.
Then he turns back to me, face carefully arranged into his usual mask, eyes cold and hard. He purses his lips, as if about to say something, but changes his mind and glances away again.
"Sark, I...I'm sorry. I had no idea, just got curious and... I know it's not an excuse, it's just that I don't know you. We've worked together nearly a year, and I still know nothing about you. I just thought...well, I wasn't really thinking. I'm sorry."
Sark just stares unseeingly out the window for a moment, jaw clenched, a vertical worry line between his eyes. He seems at a loss for words, and after a moment he turns to me, and nods in acceptance. The rest of the flight is relatively quiet, but the silence is far more comfortable, and I think perhaps Sark understands my true motives in going through his things.
I'd been curious. But somehow I never thought I'd look behind the mask of a murderer, a man that I knew only as a cold spy, with expensive taste in wine and cars and find a real person.
After we arrive, Sark retrieves both our luggage and settles it in the trunk before we drive to our hotel. Before starting the car, I see Sark turn to me, a curious, somewhat confused expression on his face.
"When you were looking through my notes, just what did you think you'd find in there?"
"Well, I wasn't sure really. I was sort of hoping to see plans for offing Sloane."
Sark laughs softly at this.
"Wrong folder," he tells me, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He starts the car, but turns back to me before putting it into drive.
"And Sydney?"
"Yes?"
"I don't snore."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
THE END * * * * * * * * * * * *