Title: Hot and Cold
Rating: PG-13 -for sexual situations
Summary: "He felt the heat of her eyes on him and yet he did nothing." Sydney/Sark
Disclaimer: I don't own anything etc....
Notes: Tense changes are on purpose.
Hot and Cold
_______________
He felt the heat of her eyes on him and yet he did nothing.
He let her watch him.
Let her take his picture while he daydreamed of that photo booth in Canada where they had spent over thirty dollars trying to get a decent picture-one where
they weren't all over each other. And in the end, they gave up and he carried her over his shoulder through the blustery winter blown parking lot and set her
down on the hood of their rented mini-van. That in itself, would seem unbelievable had he not been there to witness all the unconventional silly little things
Sydney Bristow made him experience.
And then he kissed her again and again, for what had seemed like a million times and felt like the first time all at once.
She was warm and yielding and it sank down into his bones where he didn't know he could feel.
He'd taken her back to that cold cabin in the woods and built a big fire. They laid in those indecent pictures, rolling around naked as hot sparks jumped off of
burning wood and their skin blended together like melted crayons.
It felt like another life...and in most ways, it was.
His Sydney, the one that called him Snoopy--even though it made him cringe and made her laugh--was gone.
His Sydney, the one that didn't withdraw when he touched her, was dead.
This Sydney didn't even know him. She knew he was a killer and cold blue torture when you crossed him, but she had no idea how she could flip him on his
heels and make him burn.
She had no idea what kind of power she wielded just by looking his way.
And he had to make sure she never found out...
_____
A spark. Just one measly spark and her head spins with images that can't be real. She couldn't have ever loved Sark. Never.
It was impossible.
And yet it's so clear in her mind.
His body sprawled over hers, whispering with that accent that drove her over the edge every time.
The voluptuous curve of his hip grinding into hers and his boyish hair twisted in her fingers.
His tongue at the hollow of her throat.
His white teeth nipping her lip. Her neck. Her collarbone. Her breast.
His breath, so warm and exotic against her belly button.
Hot.
Just him. And her. Them.
It can't be, and yet somehow she knows it was.
Just as she knows wine from his mouth is far richer than from the bottle. That a nickname-no matter how odd and zany-will stick, if you love someone enough.
And that snow is never cold when you have someone to heat you up.
He can't ever know she's remembered.
And she can't ever forget the colour of his eyes when he saw her alive. Those pale blue eyes, betraying nothing; the secret hurt concealed.
Cold.
___
end.