Electric Things
Author : telekineticburn
Rating : R (graphic violence, language)
Spoilers : 4.08 "Echoes"
Summary : Everyone has a past. It's our futures that set us apart.
Takes place after the events of S4.09 "A Man Of His Word".
1. Silhouettes
-
The catalyst? No. Just a bystander, chosen from a fluid crowd, loved best because she hurt him least.
He took her to a ballgame.
A week gone and Sydney still had trouble grasping the outcome. Dazedly she watched the players take batting practice (or listened, blind, the melodic popping of the leather ball snapping from the bat) and eventually wandered to her seat, premium tickets along the left infield. He joined her finally in the 2nd, as the newest overpriced Met player stepped up to strike out.
Almost immediately she caught a foul ball.
"You're sainted," Sark commented, laughing.
"Canonized? Hardly," she said. "I've been carrying The Black Spot since college."
"Curses, Sydney? Leave that to the ballplayers," he scolded.
Another scoreless inning passed. Sark made no move to converse, idly draping his arm around her shoulders.
She looked him in the eye. "How, Sark?" she asked finally.
He grinned. "Magic."
-
She was notified early, soon enough to prepare. Sydney chose not to attend the hearing, not to listen to the conditions, not to watch him sign the dotted line. No less than twelve consecutive life sentences and Sark was released in just less than three years. For a while then she chose not to ask why.
From all Jack could tell, it was legitimate. The order came from above, the deific politicians in their tepid smoke-filled chambers, nameless by design.
A parole officer and 24-hour surveilance and My god, she thought, they've set him free.
The note came with a vase of velvet-colored roses. She told Nadia they were from Vaughn, with the same giddy expression that she hadn't intended, and pocketed the hand-written note.
It was naturally pretentious, honest and arrogant:
"It's destiny, Sydney. You have my word."
The card didn't require a signature. Tucked inside the envelope was a ticket to the Shea Stadium.
Against her head she told no one. After four weeks of being the A.P.O. agent on call, she requested a 3-day sabbatical that was granted without criticism. She bought a plane ticket and packed a single bag.
-
"I'm dead serious, Sark. You should be somebody's favorite jailhouse currency right now, not a free man taking in a ballgame."
He tipped his sallow-skinned face to the sun, eyes closed. "There's a signature on the release agreement, love. Try reading it."
"Not likely. Those files are classified higher than a headbanger on payday," she quarreled.
"I was a snitch for the warden. They let me out for good behavior."
"I'm done here."
Reflexes unhindered by jailtime; He blocked her from rising with an arm across her chest.
"It's a secret, Sydney," he murmured. "Don't make me lie to you. Let it be."
She met his eyes, blue ice incapable of warmth after decades in the shade. "What do you want?"
Sark smiled, a quiet grin unlike anything she'd ever seen. He shrugged. "A memory."
She refused to prompt him. He pretended to watch a ball soar foul into the grandstands, almost exciting but flatly dull as she sat beside him, a wisp of a life he'd taken a pass on.
"Tomorrow I'm leaving," he said. "Disappearing. I told you I've done with my evil ways, Sydney, and you may take it at face value. I can't believe my parole officer will much like it, but I haven't time to finish my rehabilitation their way." He laughed. "Please don't tell anyone I'm meditating breaking curfew. They'll throw me in the brig all over again."
Sydney, forgive her, was incredulous. "You're leaving? As in, vacation time? Brief sabbatical? Religious pilgramage? Details, Sark, details."
"Could you love me?"
That, yes, caught her off guard. Her mind went blank, words failed. Does Not Compute. "What? No."
"I'm not saying do you, I'm asking could you?" he clarified, jarringly calm.
Righteous anger rose, something she was good at. "You murdered Francie," she hissed.
"Yes, I did," he replied shortly. "I've done many damnable things. I've even tried to murder you on several occasions."
"'Could I' -"
"Don't be repetetive. We know what the question is," he chided. "It's a legitimate inquiry. Present relationships out of the equation, could you love the man I'm attempting to become?"
Wordless and baffled, Sydney stared at him.
"Take your time," he said easily, turning his attention to the game.
She kicked him, hard, in the shin. "I hate you," she said. "I hate the man you were, and maybe still are. I hate the things you did, and what you're still capable of."
He grimaced. "That's fair, I suppose."
"It's an arbitrary question, Sark." She shook her head, at a loss. "I've never met the man you're asking me to love."
"That's why I asked you here today."
The seventh-inning stretch was announced. He bought her a massively overpriced and oversized hotdog.
"What are you doing, Sark?" she asked quietly.
Again, he shrugged. Never had she seen him so at ease. "Romancing you," he said. "Should that fail, watching a baseball game."
"I'm taken."
"Really? How archaic."
They listened in silence to the buzzing chatter of the packed stadium.
