Author's note: This was written for the LJ sark fication. The request was to include Sarkney and a reference to Moulin Rouge (You'll probably figure it out as you're reading, but I've never seen the movie, so being the dumbass that I am, I just spliced up the script and chucked quotes into the dialogue where ever I deemed suitable, try and ignore the lack of similarity between the movie and this fic because if you don't, you'll hate me for the rest of your life) and the restrictions were anything vaughn/lauren related (but I added in a few angstySyd! moments with subtle vaughn-esque musings). It's just a one piece/shot but the ending is awful, so perhaps just to spare myself the humiliation, I'll consider writing a sequel.. Any ways, I know it could've been better but I procrastinated, missed the deadline by two weeks, and it ended up as-- this. Hopefully, it'll be entertaining enough to distract you from noticing the badly written conclusion D! As always, read, review (PLEASE BE GENTLE I!), and knock yourselves out.
They Delight in Fighting Duels
It is only as she watches his infant steps into a world that has two years since seen an assassin of such caliber that she realizes her craving runs deeper than simply professional.
She scrutinizes the sweat on his nape, drops of cool saline symbolic of his mortality, and inhales the humid desert air. She has never seen him sweat before and observing him in such a state provides her with a conundrum, for even though the heat provokes such a reaction, the animalistic fear she saw in his eyes could just as easily perform the task.
His shoulders rise with his intake of breath. In the van as they'd rode towards the middle of the desert, he had stared at her with a mingling of appreciation. It proved to be an awkward moment as she leaned down to unlock his shackles, liberating a man who preferred her presence to possible freedom. They exchanged biting remarks and basked in a spiteful conversation that ultimately led nowhere.
And yet no more than ten minutes later, his conduct is of utmost indifference and his chin is tilted upwards with a remembered dignity. She finds him to be despicable while at the same time admirable.
It is curious how the CIA broke him, left him with the vestiges of a once glorious reputation, and kept him in the demented state she had greeted during her visit to the detention center. He who once would rather have betrayed a superior then his own dignity.
His honesty surprised her though, for every other trusted companion had prevaricated telling her the truth, while he had simply told her. She did not feel indebted to him for his brutal sincerity, but the need to understand him grew stronger.
"You're up," she says indifferently as her hand brushes against him.
The last few scenes have passed by fleetingly with her attention on lesser important matters. The crunch of his feet on the sand pulls her back to the subject of her musings, the convicted felon who so proudly walks towards a possible end.
The opposition's pawn greets Sark with a swift glance as they meet halfway through their treks when the desert sand rises with the arrival of a helicopter. The whirling dust masks his exit and provides her with a fading memory of his silhouette cast against a backing of yellow mountains and a rising sun. Then he is gone and her gut convulses with pangs of regret. As the sound of gunfire fills the air, she wonders whether she'll see him again.
xXx
She has not entered the vacant warehouse since her last meeting with Vaughn, when the iron fences did not creak with frustration in their effort to open and when the boxes were not coated with cobwebs. The scent of dust is nostalgic of a time when an agent could pursue a handler without the jealousy of an estranged wife. Though months have passed since her unexpected reappearance, the sight of a wedding band on someone else's hand is disturbing.
Her footsteps break the eerie silence as she ventures through the maze created by discarded cardboard and forgotten inventory. At the core of the labyrinth, her father and Dixon wait with a desperation that she'd sensed in their abrupt phone conversations.
The rhythm of her heels pounding against cement is broken when she hears their familiar voices, wrapping her in a blanket of security.
"Sydney," Dixon says as she opens the gate and steps into the dim ring of light.
In the corner she sees her father with his hands tightly clasped behind his back and his brow knit with anxiety, relaying all the worries that he chooses to not verbally express. His daunting figure seems smaller during times when their varying perspectives collide, her nonchalant attitude towards accepting another assignment and his uneasiness when dealt with the matters of her safety.
"As Jack has told you, we are aware that a mole is within our department, conveying most if not all of what we discuss within our meetings to the Covenant," Dixon begins, in no mood to discuss their recent social frivolities, "and since Jack assures me that you can be trusted with this assignment, we have planned for you to go undercover by yourself. Of course, certain precautions will be taken to insure your safety, but aside from that, you will not carry a microphone, you will not carry a radio and you will not be bringing any other agents with you."The curtness of his explanation relays to Sydney the importance of remaining covert. Even the smallest of fluctuations in their arrival and departure from the abandoned warehouse could alert the mole of their ulterior motives. Dixon speaks quickly, overlooking lesser details to provide them the ample time needed to create a reasonable alibi for their coinciding absences from the office.
"Your target is Jacques Bréan," Dixon explains as he tosses a manila folder onto the table before him. "He works with the Covenant and has up until now, remained an anonymous supporter of the organization. A week ago, he arranged the robbery of a bank in Switzerland, then a heist at a jeweler's in Italy. His latest assignment for the Covenant—Frank Vergez, a French banker who carries with him the codes necessary to open up his bank's vault. Apparently the vault holds items relating to Rambaldi."
The dossier is meager with no picture of the man in question and little description for her to go on. The most recent report of his crimes against humanity are compiled in a page long report. With little evidence of his existence and even less of his previous involvements with the Covenant, it seems as though up until recently, Bréan ceased to exist. She glances towards her father, then Dixon, and closes the folder.
"Dixon, how am I supposed to find Bréan if I don't know what he looks like or even if he exists?" she asks.
As if to prove her point, she holds up a poorly shot photograph of the back of Bréan's head, a useless blur of black and white tones that reveal nothing of importance and could very well be the misinterpreted shadow of a different man's head all together.
"You are not going to find Bréan. Bréan is going to find you. We've set up a meeting at the Moulin Rouge in Paris where you will be introduced as Ella Lillingard, his new associate. All the papers you need are in there," Dixon says, gesturing towards the white envelope beside the manila folder. "If we delay this any longer, the mole could become suspicious of our plans."
Sydney nods as she grabs the items from the table, weighing the contents of the envelope in one hand while holding the dossier in the other.
"And," Jack interrupts after an eternity of silence, "you'll need this."
He lifts a black suitcase onto the table and opens it, revealing a syringe filled with translucent liquid.
"This dose contains enough tranquilizer to knock out a horse and enough to kill a man. If Bréan finds out who you really are, use it. We cannot risk letting the Covenant know that we are after Vergez," he says sternly, latching the suitcase shut.
Sydney reaches forward and holds the syringe up to the dim bulb illuminating the room.
"So ultimately this is a last resort," she states, scrutinizing the needle.
"No, you use it if he breathes, speaks--" Jack pauses, hoisting the suitcase off the table, "—or even thinks of the CIA."
xXx
The pen is heavy between her fingers, forcing her hand to rest on the table's surface. Her palm shakes as it absorbs the vibrations created by the rhythmic dancing of the Doriss Girls on stage, the dim lighting above adding to the shady environment. As she continues to hold the pen, a groove forms in her skin around it, the weight creating an imprint between her index and middle finger.
She glances at her watch as she nurses her glass of wine, impatience looming overhead like a thundercloud. A sigh prepares to escape from her lips when the chair beside her shifts backwards.
"Ms. Lillingard?" her guest whispers as he sits down beside her.
She turns her head just slightly, enough to show her feigned indifference as she studies her newfound companion. He reminds her of Vaughn with the slight bump that protrudes from the bridge of his nose and the untamed brown hair. His fingers are laced together on the table in front of him, manicured nails and hands that appear as though they've never seen a day of work. He looks nonchalant in response to her sluggish stare and distractedly tugs on his leather jacket as he waits for a response.
"Mr. Bré—"she begins to ask before he quickly shakes his head.
"No," he says, "but I will be taking you to meet him."
He cordially holds out his hand, and though anger courses through her at the change of plans, she accepts the new terms and places her fingers on his palm.
She asks for his name as he guides her in between citizens absorbed in the performance, but he deftly sidesteps around her question and ignores the rest of her efforts at conversation. As they slowly make their way back outside, she stares at the back of his neck and remembers when in the desert, she had stood behind another man in such a compromising position. The difference was that her guide showed no fear or anticipation of what events were to come and did not express the honesty that she had craved since abandoning it months ago.
Outside, the temperature drops several degrees and due to her escort's insistence to leave her coat for when she returns, goose bumps rise along her arms and legs. The skirt and blazer are thin compared to the thick coats of pedestrians as they walk past her. The young man places his hand in the curve of her back and pushes her forwards, towards the limousine waiting at the curb. She glances behind her and realizes that he's stepped back inside the building.
The driver, seeing her slow approach, quickly steps out of the car and opens the door with such speed that the interior's heat surges out and brushes against her skin. She quickly steps inside, her arms and legs sliding along the leather seat.
The chauffeur slams the door shut, then briskly walks to the driver's side, his professionalism uncanny and slightly reminiscent of her father's humorless manner. She crosses her legs before finally looking across the cabin at Bréan, the moonlight that creeps in through the open sunroof their only means of light.
"You son of a bitch," she immediately says.
xXx
"What the hell have you done with Bréan?" Sydney probes, watching Sark's expression turn from one of severity to one of amusement.
She hasn't seen him in months, but he appears healthier with the pallor of his skin now gone and a normal flesh color in its place. She can count the freckles splashed across his nose and can tell where his forehead ends and his hair begins. For a disillusioned moment, he appears human as he adjusts the sleeves of his jacket and brushes imaginary dirt from his shirt.
"Why Ms. Bristow, what a surprise," he finally responds, dodging her demands, "and believe me when I say that this is as much as a shock to me as it is to you."
Her expression contorts with anger as she watches him relax even further, stretching out his long legs and resting his hands behind his head. Their last involvement in one another's lives had involved a cardio-toxin filled collar, her neck, and her father's gun.
"I'm going to ask you one more time," she threatens, "where is Bréan?"
He lethargically points to himself as he sits up straight, resting the heel of his foot on his other knee. The realization dawns on her as his stare rakes across her body, taking in the short skirt and thin blazer and three inch heels—Bréan is Sark and Sark is Bréan and both have made a fool of the a CIA.
"And I take it that you are Ella Lillingard?" he inquires.
She nods as her hand creeps towards her purse, fingers curling around the pen at the bottom of the bag.
"Where the hell are you taking me?" she hisses as she quickly glances at the passing Paris cityscape.
He pauses as he opens his mouth, relishing the increasing tension.
"We'll be back at the Moulin Rouge soon enough, but as for now, regardless of what role you choose to pursue for the evening, we have the terms of my proposal to discuss."
She leaps across the few feet separating them, her body moving as lithely as a gymnast's, and situates herself on his lap with the pen held to his neck and her free hand beside his head. As adrenaline mingles with anger, she pushes the cap off of the pen with her thumb, revealing the syringe of tranquilizer.
"So help me God, Sark, if you think that I am desperate enough to even consider negotiating with a sack full of shit like yourself, then just think of this needle as me returning a favor," she harshly whispers with his controlled breathing brushing against her collarbone.
Before the syringe can make contact with his neck, he grabs her wrist while bringing his elbow up to her chin. The brusque action catches her off guard, knocking the syringe from her hand as her body falls backwards to the car floor. She releases a groan of pain, but manages to wrap her leg around Sark's arm as it reaches the fallen needle.
"I will break your bones so that they burst from your skin," she whispers harshly, her breathing haggard with fatigue.
Her last shard of hope expires as his glare hardens, burying itself into her own with the zeal of a desperate man. She can't see the syringe, but knows its there, clutched in his hand and tainted with her vigor and his impatience.
"But I imagine it wouldn't be as worse a fate as death," he counters, twisting his hand so that the needle touches her leg.
She conceals the wince that fear eagerly provokes and mentally lectures her muscles on the importance of remaining taut. The barest of flinches and the needle would pierce through the skin. Her resistance crumbles and she slowly relinquishes his arm, her leg pulling back quickly to prevent her skirt's desertion.
"What do you want?" she spits out, her legs curling up beneath her as her back touches the seat opposite Sark.
As he flexes his arm to remind his body of its uses, she notices the indentations that form from where sinewy muscle wrap around bone. The meager illumination plays tricks with her eyes, creating dramatic shadows where none exist and exaggerating his lean build. She looks towards the fleeting Paris nightlife outside the limousine's tinted windows.
Finally, he clears his throat and adjusts the sleeves of his jacket.
"You need Bréan, I need Vergez," he says as he deftly avoids making eye contact.
She curtly nods, in neither position to agree or disagree. Her attention remains on the syringe by his side, his grip on the needle turning his knuckles white with displeasure. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip before he continues.
"Vergez is back at the Moulin Rouge. If you choose to assist me in confiscating his vault's codes, then I'll allow you the prestige of killing Bréan," he explains.
She slowly hoists herself onto the seat, facing Sark with her usual steadfast determination. Her breath slips out from between gritted teeth in a hiss.
"No, I would rather die than work for you," she sneers.
His expression becomes grave as he leans forward, hands slung across his knees with the syringe still caught between stiff fingers.
"That can be arranged, Ms. Bristow," he threatens.
Unmitigated silence transpires between them with the passing streetlights casting vivid shadows across their staid expressions. She leans forward, lacing her fingers together, and furrows her brow in a fashion similar to her father.
"In other words, I have no choice."
He smirks as he shakes his head.
"No, you don't."
xXx
His closeness is intimidating; his stomach nearly pressed against her back, his hand placed on the slight dip above her posterior, his lips next to her ear.
It would be an intimate gesture if not for the syringe touching her spine or the jarringly controlled breaths that remind her of spearmint and a cold winter. His cologne is strong as well, a masculine combination of wood and vanilla. She is certain he's never smelled so intoxicating before; to her, he'd been a man of leather jackets and silk bed sheets with too much on his mind to consider fragrance.
He pulls back her seat as he quickly glances about the dining area, then casually leans forward to press his lips to her ear lobe.
"The man to your left is Vergez," he explains as he pushes her seat forwards.
She glances to her side as Sark takes the seat opposite her. There is only one man to her left, but he sits with his family.
"Him?" she whispers across the table, his gaze following hers.
He appears harmless, a rotund and aging man incapable of hurting anything, much less her or Sark. She furrows her brow in disapproval as her stare meets his above the flame of the candle.
"Sark, I will not attack an innocent man in front of his family," she chides, the harshness of her whisper relaying all the condemnation she feels.
He quietly scoffs as he rubs his chin with contemplation, analyzing her meticulously in search of a fault, a weakness, a lapse in judgment to provide him with the smallest amount of leverage. She returns the scrutiny as she crosses her legs, accidentally grazing his pants with her foot.
"But the French are glad to die for love. They delight in fighting duels," he justifies, leaning across the table.
"I'd prefer to see him live," she retorts, wringing her napkin in her lap.
He takes a sip of the wine, then sets the glass on the table with a surprising amount of restraint.
"Either you or Vergez is going to die tonight," he threatens in his constantly monotonous manner, "and although Vergez is worth much more to me, I would rather share dinner with you than with him."
Before she can respond, the sound of moving chairs turns both of their attentions towards the Vergez family. She watches Sark's expression turn from displeasure to one of tolerance.
He stands up and with syringe in hand, helps her from her seat, the needle pressed against her back in an ominous manner.
She grimaces as they follow Vergez, his slow strides allowing her the time to fabricate a temporary impediment in Sark's determination. When she slows her step, he presses the needle to her back, reminding her of the deliverance striding before her and the avoidable reaper stalking behind.
His presence is soothing. The refuge provided by a competent partner has escaped her since her return to the field, never completely there and constantly fleeting from her. It is the small insignificant gestures, like his hand on her hip when she stumbles, that strike her as both uncanny and comforting.
She glances behind her, accidentally touching his nose with hers. He relieves some of the steadiness that holds the needle to her back in surprise, then presses it to the blazer again when she turns away. Up ahead, Vergez helps his wife into her coat, helping guide her arms through the sleeves. The familiarity of his family's closeness is painful, so different from the false intimacy of her parents but just as strangely reassuring.
Her hands refuse to comply as Sark assists her with her jacket. His hands glide along her arms, burning her through the cloth. They say the words he can't—"For the next twenty-four hours, your soul is mine."
He dips his lips near her collarbone and drinks in the perfume dabbed on her neck. She feels the vacuum his nose creates along her skin as he slowly inhales, so personal a movement that the employees nearby quickly look away. And as quickly as he lulls her into a false sense of security, he takes it away, pushing the needle to her spine and guiding her out the front doors.
They spot Vergez up ahead, opening the car door for his wife while at the same time, ushering his children into the back seat. She eyes the alleyway to their right as Sark edges them closer and closer to the left.
"Sark," she warns, hiding her desperation.
The fabric of his pants shifts as he reaches into his pocket for his revolver. They're close enough to the car so that she can see their reflections in the windshield. For the shortest of moments, she considers allowing Sark the satisfaction of delivering the bullet, but she quickly retracts her decision. Vergez smiles as they near, unknowing of their background or status or plans, simply expressing a warm hospitality rarely found in people.
She quickly reaches behind her and slips her hand between his legs, rubbing her fingers against the crotch of his pants.
"Sark," she huskily whispers in an effort to keep him from firing, "there are about five feet between us and Vergez, but only a pair of pants between me and you."
He slows down, unable to move too gracefully with her hand between his legs.
"Sydney, do not tempt me. I have a gun in one hand and tranquilizer in the other. Which way would you prefer to die tonight?"
Though the words carry a threat, the growing bulge against her hand tells her otherwise.
"I want you—right here, right now," she demands.
Vergez prepares to pull away from the curb when she curtly turns around and presses her lips to his with a fervor that can only be partially feigned. He immediately pulls the syringe back to prevent the needle from piercing her stomach and responds in a brute manner, tucking the gun and syringe back into his pockets.
His hand weaves through her hair, clutching at the strands and jerking her head back to allow him access to her neck. He bruises her flesh with his rough intimacy while at the same time he guides her into the dark alleyway. She softly moans as her attitude turns from one of forced attraction to that of genuine magnetism.
"You realize—Vergez has left," he whispers against her neck, "and someone will have to suffer the consequences."
Her hands work deftly at unzipping his pants as he pushes up her skirt and plays with the waistband of her panties.
"Don't kid yourself, Sark, you didn't need me to help you with Vergez," she replies as the zipper concedes to her hastiness. As she tugs on his pockets in order to pull down his pants, she slips the syringe into her hand. "So tell me, did you plan for my reaction or was this an unexpected benefit?"
He pulls the panties down her thighs, their hands investigating, groping, and touching in the neediest of manners.
"If we'd not done it now, we would have done it later," he says as he prepares to enter her.
She wants to let him, a craving that's needed fulfillment since the day he vanished into a cloud of sand, but protocol demands otherwise. Her hands run along the ridges of his body, finger tips dancing across unfamiliar territory, one palm pressed against the heat at his abdomen, back pushed to a soiled wall and the silent chatter of passing pedestrians unable to break their concentration. She compares the texture of the syringe to his body. One is smooth and cold while the other is decorated with the occasional scar and sturdy from years of preparation.
The first stroke is blissful, sending vibrations of pleasure through both their bodies. Then the proceeding actions become a blur. She digs her nails into his back, grabbing the leather jacket with elation and wrinkling the costly piece of clothing. The syringe is clutched tightly in her hand and she wonders whether he knows she's taken it and simply chooses to not acknowledge it.
He rests his forehead against hers and with each grunt he utters, she releases a slow moan, their sounds creating a rhythm heard only by them. She wonders when she crossed the line from enacting her charade to emitting statements and sounds of veracity. Clandestinely, she'd dreamed of the possibility of a relationship with Sark but the blasphemy of it had condemned her from mentioning it anywhere else but in slumber.
His strokes become faster, building the foundation for their stifled groans of pleasure, until she finally releases a cry into the collar of his jacket and he into her neck. He pulls out of her and redresses himself while she does the same, straightening out the wrinkles in her skirt. The silence grows longer as they stare at one another in the dark. She realizes that as soon as he reaches into his pocket, he'll notice that the syringe is missing.
When he tries to lean forward, she quickly jabs the needle into his stomach and releases a fraction of the dosage. She turns away as he stumbles backwards and collapses against the wall, the tranquilizer working swiftly and attacking his nervous system in a strategic manner.
"I never knew I could feel like this—like I've never seen the sky before," he says glancing up towards the crescent moon.
"The show must go on," she replies as he slides to the ground, clutching his stomach as though it could prevent the drugs from going any further.
She furrows her brow as his eyes close and after quickly checking his pulse, leaves the alley. There are no regrets about her actions or her decisions, only a growing ball of anxiety associated with the involvement with a criminal. She glances behind her before proceeding down the Paris sidewalk, his limbs splayed out in unconsciousness. Even in such a position, he tempts her, but protocol always comes first—before truth, before freedom, before beauty and if anything, before love.
Fin.