Title: Cravings

Disclaimer: As if I was cool enough to have thought up "Alias!" I wish!

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Sydney/Sark

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Drunk. D-runk. And craving ice cream. Tequila always made her do that. Coffee ice cream, to be exact.

But it was more than ice cream this time. With Will in witness protection and Vaughn married, she wanted more. Sark, to be exact.

How had he become her ice cream substitute? It wasn't so easy. Both of them had lost two years – her with the Covenant and him in prison.  When she first saw him, buzzed hair and all, she was so angry with his impetuous laughs. He was right: At least he remembered where the last two years had gone.

But after Simon's death, Sydney found herself craving Sark. Perhaps she always had craved him, but just hadn't realized it until now. She had equated bad with Sloane and never had opened her eyes to realize that bad could actually be appealing. In the form of Sark.

His new haircut was a mixed bag, she thought. It looked cute as hell with sunglasses, as in Mexico. But other times it made him look so severe. Older than his age. Of course, she had almost forgotten that he had aged two years since she and Vaughn had arrested him. Everyone had aged two years. Everyone but her, it seemed.

This called for another shot of tequila, she thought. Weiss was long gone, but she still had the unfinished bottle of Cuervo Gold sitting on her table, tempting her. The lime wasn't far behind. Sure, getting drunker alone may seem pathetic. But with a life like hers, what girl wouldn't want to take a little comfort in the bottle every so often? Just as long as no secrets were revealed.

No, no secrets would be revealed tonight, she was sure. Loose lips sank ships. And loose girls – well, she just wasn't a loose girl, was she?

Suddenly, a knock at the door.

It must be Weiss, she thought. Eric probably left something behind or came back to make sure that she was okay.

Sydney walked toward the door, steadying herself slightly. She was a rather sober drunk, but the six shots of tequila in three hours were beginning to take effect, even on her.

She looked through the peephole.

It couldn't be.

It was Sark.

She opened the door, startled. If he was coming to kill her, she almost didn't care. But somehow, she didn't think he was coming to kill her. If he'd wanted to do that, he would have done it long before.

"Hello, Agent Bristow," he said.

She could smell the alcohol on his breath. It overpowered even the smell of tequila on her own. Must be some fancy red wine, she thought. He always did have a weakness for all things exquisite.

She was right. He did have a weakness for all things exquisite. And he thought Sydney Bristow was the most exquisite thing of all.

"What do you want, Sark?" she asked. "I'm tired."

"I've come for something rather unusual. At least, unusual for me," he said.

"What could that be?" she wondered.

"You."

Maybe it was the tequila talking. Or maybe it was her pent-up feelings for Sark. Perhaps it was both. But either way, she lunged toward him.

"I thought you'd never come," she said, grabbing him tightly around the waist.

He was shocked. He'd driven here on a whim, with a blood alcohol level at least twice the legal limit. He wasn't used to taking such risks. But without Irina, whom he hadn't contacted for ages, he didn't know what to do. Especially after learning that his wealthy father had been executed and he had lost the inheritance. An inheritance he hadn't even been aware of. Somehow, the only thought in his mind was to seek out Sydney, rational or not. And it seemed his instincts had once again proven right. She did want him, after all.

And he wanted her. God, he wanted her.