Disclaimer: See first post.
A/N: Here's the first chapter, Interesting Accommodations. Please R&R. It's
my first story!
As he glided out of the airport terminal, Sark smirked. His lower lip twitched, and his eyes lit up, creating the illusion that he was enjoying the playful banter two young children were having in front of the gift shop. In all truth, that was the furthest thing from Sark's mind. He smirked for one reason and one reason only: Sydney Bristow. She blended into the crowd well: tan slacks, which accentuated the leanness of her long legs, a white blouse with a square neck, showing off her collarbone and a black trench coat that tied at her waist. She wore her sleek brown hair down past her shoulders, and her bangs brushed the tops of her sunglasses, which added to her mysteriousness. It was then that he gave into the truth that had been nagging him for months upon end: she was the most beautiful thing ever to grace God's green earth.
Snap out of it, he thought. He did, almost instantly, and instead turned his thoughts to why Sydney Bristow happened to be in the same place as he at the exact same time. She couldn't be on a mission, he thought to himself again. She looks too normal...and besides, she would be leaving on a private jet if she were indeed going on a task for the CIA. And, his mind added with another one of his smirks, if she were on a mission for something, I would definitely know about it by now. Sark still stood in his place, contemplating all of the possible reasons why Sydney was there. She was going to Venice, that much was for certain. She was sitting down in the vinyl covered chairs in front of terminal A12, where Delta's first flight of the morning was going to depart for Italy. She was reading a magazine, and Sark squinted his eyes to see the title.
Harper's Bazaar. He was vaguely familiar with the title, knowing that everything in the magazine was filled with things the rich and famous owned, trying to reel in the middle class women with couture and stylish models. The rich knew better than to be seen with a magazine such as that. Like him. He wasn't famous, but he sure as hell was rich. His mother's status in Europe combined with his inheritance from his father's death made sure of that. And even though he had everything in the world, there was one thing he had yet to covet.
He knew, however, that he couldn't have her.
The reason? It was simple. Two words filled his heart with dread every time he thought of Sydney: Irina Derevko.
Irina, he thought, would slaughter me if I hurt Sydney. He couldn't help but think of Agent Vaughn while all this was running through his head. Agent Yawn was more like it. Did the man have any sense of humor? Or style? He seemed to Sark bland, and the young Brit compared conversing with the man with watching paint on a wall dry. He chuckled to himself, mentally patting himself on the back for his clever jab at the CIA agent. Agent Yawn...that's a good one.
Suddenly, Sark's train of thought was broken by a woman's voice. "Would passengers in rows 1-9 on flight 340 to Venice, Italy please board now?" He looked around and saw numerous passengers on the flight get up and move towards the woman to have their ticket scanned. He stood still for a moment more, wondering whether McKenas Cole would miss him for a few weeks.
No, he decided. He wouldn't.
With that, Sark headed for the desk. "Excuse me, madam," he said silkily with his British accent, "I would like a ticket-preferably first-class-on this flight. This is the one for Venice, correct?"
The woman, obviously taken aback by his charm, blinked a few times before fully comprehending all that Sark had said. "Yes, sir it is, but I'm afraid there are no first class seats available. We have one seat left, but it's in coach, and..."
Sark cut her off. "I'll take it." He smiled lazily to soothe the harsh way he cut her off. He couldn't afford to piss off the airport staff when there was only one seat left on Sydney's plane. The woman smiled back, and started typing, while asking for his information.
He stood there, giving her an alias and information he used for the trip he had just gotten back from less than an hour ago. The woman took less than a minute to type this all in, and then said, "It's an aisle seat, hope that's okay." She then handed him the ticket. Seat C10, he observed.
"I'm going to have to be okay with it, Madam. Thank you for your help." He said graciously, most unlike his normal personality, but when it came to Sydney, his judgment was clouded. He had yet to decide if that was a good thing or not.
Sark ran to the boarding section; the last person to get on the plane. The woman smiled at him as she scanned his ticket, and he practically barreled down the small terminal that lead to the entrance of the plane. He tossed a quick grin at the captain and went to find his seat upon entering the plane. He caught his breath moments later, and as he was standing waiting for people to clear the aisles so he could pass through, he looked for her. However, he saw no sign of her. She must have had a first-class seat. Lucky girl. Moments later, the aisles cleared and he found his seat easily. He was in the aisle seat, with the horrendous red and blue carpet on his left side, and the window seat on his right. The window seat, however, was unoccupied.
He looked behind himself, and then around the plane to try to see any stray passengers, desperately wondering who he was going to spend the duration of the flight with. No one was standing up, though. This confused Sark. Wasn't the flight filled?
No matter, he thought. He slid his carry-on under his chair and buckled his seat belt. He put his sunglasses on, and this hideous blue skullcap on, hoping to deflect attention from himself, in case Sydney did indeed see him. He looked nothing like himself. Hating to wear suits on planes (they wrinkled too easily), he was clad in jeans and a fleece pullover. He had sneakers on. He looked nothing like the suave Covenant agent he was. And that, he thought, is the beauty of it.
The captain's voice came over the intercom a few moments later, instructing all passengers to put their trays in the upright position and fasten their seat belts. This was it. Sark was headed for Venice. His seat mate had still not shown up, but the minute he started to close his eyes, anticipating the rumble of the plane's engine, they arrived. Or, rather, she arrived.
"Excuse me, sir, but I need to get into my seat." The voice sounded hoarse, like she had been crying. He looked up slowly, and tried not to stare.
Sydney?
As he glided out of the airport terminal, Sark smirked. His lower lip twitched, and his eyes lit up, creating the illusion that he was enjoying the playful banter two young children were having in front of the gift shop. In all truth, that was the furthest thing from Sark's mind. He smirked for one reason and one reason only: Sydney Bristow. She blended into the crowd well: tan slacks, which accentuated the leanness of her long legs, a white blouse with a square neck, showing off her collarbone and a black trench coat that tied at her waist. She wore her sleek brown hair down past her shoulders, and her bangs brushed the tops of her sunglasses, which added to her mysteriousness. It was then that he gave into the truth that had been nagging him for months upon end: she was the most beautiful thing ever to grace God's green earth.
Snap out of it, he thought. He did, almost instantly, and instead turned his thoughts to why Sydney Bristow happened to be in the same place as he at the exact same time. She couldn't be on a mission, he thought to himself again. She looks too normal...and besides, she would be leaving on a private jet if she were indeed going on a task for the CIA. And, his mind added with another one of his smirks, if she were on a mission for something, I would definitely know about it by now. Sark still stood in his place, contemplating all of the possible reasons why Sydney was there. She was going to Venice, that much was for certain. She was sitting down in the vinyl covered chairs in front of terminal A12, where Delta's first flight of the morning was going to depart for Italy. She was reading a magazine, and Sark squinted his eyes to see the title.
Harper's Bazaar. He was vaguely familiar with the title, knowing that everything in the magazine was filled with things the rich and famous owned, trying to reel in the middle class women with couture and stylish models. The rich knew better than to be seen with a magazine such as that. Like him. He wasn't famous, but he sure as hell was rich. His mother's status in Europe combined with his inheritance from his father's death made sure of that. And even though he had everything in the world, there was one thing he had yet to covet.
He knew, however, that he couldn't have her.
The reason? It was simple. Two words filled his heart with dread every time he thought of Sydney: Irina Derevko.
Irina, he thought, would slaughter me if I hurt Sydney. He couldn't help but think of Agent Vaughn while all this was running through his head. Agent Yawn was more like it. Did the man have any sense of humor? Or style? He seemed to Sark bland, and the young Brit compared conversing with the man with watching paint on a wall dry. He chuckled to himself, mentally patting himself on the back for his clever jab at the CIA agent. Agent Yawn...that's a good one.
Suddenly, Sark's train of thought was broken by a woman's voice. "Would passengers in rows 1-9 on flight 340 to Venice, Italy please board now?" He looked around and saw numerous passengers on the flight get up and move towards the woman to have their ticket scanned. He stood still for a moment more, wondering whether McKenas Cole would miss him for a few weeks.
No, he decided. He wouldn't.
With that, Sark headed for the desk. "Excuse me, madam," he said silkily with his British accent, "I would like a ticket-preferably first-class-on this flight. This is the one for Venice, correct?"
The woman, obviously taken aback by his charm, blinked a few times before fully comprehending all that Sark had said. "Yes, sir it is, but I'm afraid there are no first class seats available. We have one seat left, but it's in coach, and..."
Sark cut her off. "I'll take it." He smiled lazily to soothe the harsh way he cut her off. He couldn't afford to piss off the airport staff when there was only one seat left on Sydney's plane. The woman smiled back, and started typing, while asking for his information.
He stood there, giving her an alias and information he used for the trip he had just gotten back from less than an hour ago. The woman took less than a minute to type this all in, and then said, "It's an aisle seat, hope that's okay." She then handed him the ticket. Seat C10, he observed.
"I'm going to have to be okay with it, Madam. Thank you for your help." He said graciously, most unlike his normal personality, but when it came to Sydney, his judgment was clouded. He had yet to decide if that was a good thing or not.
Sark ran to the boarding section; the last person to get on the plane. The woman smiled at him as she scanned his ticket, and he practically barreled down the small terminal that lead to the entrance of the plane. He tossed a quick grin at the captain and went to find his seat upon entering the plane. He caught his breath moments later, and as he was standing waiting for people to clear the aisles so he could pass through, he looked for her. However, he saw no sign of her. She must have had a first-class seat. Lucky girl. Moments later, the aisles cleared and he found his seat easily. He was in the aisle seat, with the horrendous red and blue carpet on his left side, and the window seat on his right. The window seat, however, was unoccupied.
He looked behind himself, and then around the plane to try to see any stray passengers, desperately wondering who he was going to spend the duration of the flight with. No one was standing up, though. This confused Sark. Wasn't the flight filled?
No matter, he thought. He slid his carry-on under his chair and buckled his seat belt. He put his sunglasses on, and this hideous blue skullcap on, hoping to deflect attention from himself, in case Sydney did indeed see him. He looked nothing like himself. Hating to wear suits on planes (they wrinkled too easily), he was clad in jeans and a fleece pullover. He had sneakers on. He looked nothing like the suave Covenant agent he was. And that, he thought, is the beauty of it.
The captain's voice came over the intercom a few moments later, instructing all passengers to put their trays in the upright position and fasten their seat belts. This was it. Sark was headed for Venice. His seat mate had still not shown up, but the minute he started to close his eyes, anticipating the rumble of the plane's engine, they arrived. Or, rather, she arrived.
"Excuse me, sir, but I need to get into my seat." The voice sounded hoarse, like she had been crying. He looked up slowly, and tried not to stare.
Sydney?