VIII

Attacca

***


He comes in later than she, again.

She sits with her back to him, bent over what is undoubtedly the intel for their upcoming mission.

And for once, he tries to slip by her unnoticed. A little more time for himself, he decided on the way here, would do him good. Anticipate her next move. Just a little more time.

She hasn't looked up yet. Her hair shields her vision. It shines in the bluish light of the office.

Almost there, almost past her, almost out of reach …

"Mr. Sark." Her voice has a cutting edge below the casual tone.

Damn. A deep breath. He braces himself, ready for everything.

She steps into his path, stopping him effectively.

"Ms. Bristow. Good morning." Trying for just the right smile, somewhere between courtesy and mockery.

She reaches a hand, rests it on his arm. Her touch burns through his suit jacket right down to his skin. He doesn't even blink, only allows his mouth to twitch in the way he knows she hates. He is ready. Prepared for the inevitable.

"Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?"

Anything but that.

He raises a brow. "I don't drink coffee."

Her smile is sweet as she brings her face close to his, but her eyes stay deadly cold when she whispers: "Let me assure you, you're not going to get any."

Her breath against his collar is too warm, a stark contrast to her icy aura.

She motions for him to follow her.

***

She hurls him against the wall, violently, a cold gleam in her eyes. One hand holding his shoulder in place, her lower right arm pressed just below his throat, pinning him against the wall. It shouldn't come as a surprise, really, yet he finds that he's bracing himself, waiting for her next move with a certain curiosity.

Will she squeeze those strong hands around his neck? Will she backhand him? Use her knees, fists? It's strange how even this violent display of emotions on her side excites him. Yet, after last night … He can't squeeze his eyes shut lest she take it for a sign of weakness, but her face … it has the same calm it had in the dream. He can still feel the knife.

He takes a deep breath and remembers this morning's climb. Wills the same calm to flood his veins, wills his blood to turn to ice, just as it had this morning. Everything had been clear up on the top of the Higgins. Now it seems as though the fog is rising again, surrounding him quickly.

Her face is close. Her angry breath comes in short, mint-toothpaste flavoured puffs which ruffle his hair.

He concentrates on the morning, on the city-lights, on the wind up on the roof. Lets it clear his mind. Produces his trademark smirk.

"Well, well, Agent Bristow." His voice is silk over steel. "If I'd known you wanted to get physical, I would have suggested another meeting place. This office holds no appeal for me whatsoever. Or do you enjoy the thrill of getting caught?"

He raises his eyebrows suggestively and it works. Her face scrunches up in a mixture of disgust and horror and she gives his shoulders a hard shove before letting go.

Christ, he thinks. Thank you.

"What were you doing in my apartment?"

Barely controlled anger. Her voice shakes.

He'd known this would come from the moment he'd left, last night.

The room is too small; her anger is palpable and he can't breathe. But he'll be damned if he lets her see his discomposure.

"Didn't you find my note?" Innocence stamped on his features. "As much as I would have loved to stay, something came up that couldn't wait."

She narrows her eyes and takes a menacing step towards him again, her reasons for retreating in the first place all but forgotten.

"Don't you dare play with me." Her hands clench and unclench at her sides, a promise of things to come. There is a slight twitch to her lower lip. Her eyes are blazing. "I want the truth." A beat; then, quietly, dangerously: "Now."

He studies her for a long time. Sees her discomfort at being under his scrutiny. Reads in her eyes that she would rather leave than stay but won't, out of a righteous curiosity, out of justified anger, out of … more than he is comfortable thinking about.

The morning's climb had purged his mind of those strange, unknown feelings, but she's so close, and the longer he stays here the more he feels the fog rising again. He doesn't like the thought of that. Wants only the resolve he had in the clear dawn. The distance he had created for himself in the morning, he realises now, will be a struggle to maintain as long as he's working with her. But then again … It's a game. Truth is that he is affected by her, in a way. The challenge, however, will be to find out how far he can push this without burning himself. A strange flutter of exhilaration settles in his chest as the thought matures. It's a dangerous game to play, one that'll take time and cunning, but he knows he can succeed. What exactly constitutes success in this game, well, isn't that the question? He doesn't yet have an answer, but he's confident he'll win in the end. Not straight away. But soon.

"Do you really want to know?"

Her gaze flickers; she seems to ponder.

He presses on. "Don't you have your mind made up already? Don't tell me you haven't already condemned me, without even thinking about my motives." Playing the ball into her court, pushing her away verbally.

"What do you really want, Agent Bristow? The truth, or for me to fit into your picture of the devil incarnate?"

Her posture changes. Score. He smiles at her as one would at a petulant child.

Her face gives him a brief warning before the slap is executed. He stops her hand with a gesture that exhibits tedium, hides his surprise at her impulsive reaction. Their eyes meet over their raised hands, her resentment is burning. He purses his lips and regards her furious brown eyes calmly. Holds her hand immobile a little longer than necessary, then lowers it against her leg. She is shaking with irritation. The smile on his face turns insolent, amusement sending sparkling firecrackers through his mind.

"I would have expected a left."

A beat. Another. Her face contorts in fury.

"You son of a --"

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Smug bastard. He can hear the smirk on Sloane's face without even seeing it.

"Not at all." She steps away from him immediately, brushing at a nonexistant wrinkle on her blouse, wrapping a smile around her face. He is once again astonished at how quickly Sydney can change from menacing to absolutely pleasant and almost coy.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to Mr. Sark in my office."

She looks surprised, but gives a nod. Her lips curl upwards when she leaves the room before them, making him wonder if she knows something he doesn't.

"Sir." It galls him to be courteous to this man. Yet he does, smooth as Sydney herself. He feels his strength return completely now that she is out of the room. "Anything in particular you wanted to talk to me about?"

Sloane extends a hand, unnecessarily pointing the way. He doesn't answer the question, which unnerves Sark ever so slightly.

Something in Sloane's posture alerts him; something in the way he smiles at him sidelong, a warning.

The walk to Sloane's office is short, barely any time to think about what the older man might want.

The door closes behind them, silently. Through the glass he catches Sydney watching the two of them intently, that trademark crease fixed between her brows. She isn't smiling now.

Good.

Sloane closes the Venetian blinds.

"I take it you had a good night, Mr. Sark?"

The question catches him off guard, but he doesn't let it show. "May I ask, what-"

"That was quite an impressive show this morning."

His mind is calmly storing away the facts he is given. He decides to feign ignorance for a few more moments. "Sir?"

Of course Sloane looks right through him. But the older man seems to admire the smooth façade he has kept so far. Raises a large manila folder he has carried under his left arm ever since he interrupted Sydney's private interrogation.

Pictures fall onto his desk when Sloane opens the folder. Pictures of Sark climbing the Higgins.

Sloane had people following him? Without him noticing? He allows himself a thin-lipped smile. Still the best way to show your teeth.

"Trust is good, control is better?"

Sloane returns the smile. "Who ever said I trusted you?"

Mock hurt flickers over his features. "You don't, then?"

For a moment, the office is utterly silent. The challenge is in the air, palpable. Come on, Arvin. Say something. Try one of your little tricks.

"On the subject of Sydney Bristow? No."

Not very impressive, Arvin.

"You are quite close to her, then?" Rhetorical question. Buying time. He needs to think.

Sloane inclines his head, the smile slipping from his features and something akin to sadness enters his eyes. "I like to think of her as the daughter I never had."

Sark fights the urge to roll his eyes at the cliché.

"And you surely know that every father is worried about the people his daughter interacts with."

The situation is absurd, even though he has the niggling suspicion that he knows where this is going. If Sloane had people following him to the Higgins, surely they must have been following him before …

But there is another problem. Sloane is overwrought; it's obvious in his eyes, his posture. There's something troubling the man and he has a premonition it's nothing to do with international espionage.

"That said …" Sloane trails off and fixes Sark with a stare that is nothing short of a death-threat. "What were you doing in Agent Bristow's apartment last night?"

***

TBC