X.
Poco a poco, con moto, cappricioso
***
The day ends only marginally better than it had started. He's glad when he can close the door of his flat behind him, kicks off his shoes and socks. Enjoys the cool parquet under his bare feet.
His steps lead him into the bedroom almost automatically, no conscious effort involved. The day hasn't been a good one, so he's allowed something to divert his thoughts, isn't he?
He turns the monitor on even before he sheds his suit jacket.
She'd looked thoroughly displeased when she had learned about their mission. And although it had been a pleasure seeing her feathers ruffled once again, and hearing her razor-sharp replies, he hadn't been able to keep Sloane's threat from his mind. It had been a stretch, not letting his thoughts wander.
The watchdogs Sloane sent after him were easily spotted and even easier lost. Of course, Sloane knows where he lives, but there's an unspoken agreement between the two of them, or maybe it's just the threat of Irina: his flat is taboo to Sloane's people.
He decides he won't spare another thought on Sloane's plans tonight. He has a mission to prepare for. And he has Sydney. He's looked forward to this all day.
He hears her angry voice before he sees her on the monitor.
"I can't believe the nerve. I mean … how dare he even come up with something like that? Tango. Why the hell did it have to be Tango?"
Tango. The answer to everything the Argentinean heart desires away from home, so it seems. Seeing the look on Sydney's face during the briefing had been worth every cent paid to his contacts.
"He sucks at the Pogo?" The smirk fades from his lips as he recognises the other voice. Tippin.
"We're talking Dixon here, right, Syd? I'm sure you've danced with him before, it shouldn't be too hard."
They're still out of the camera's range, probably in the hall. He can't see their faces.
Tippin. Bloody hell.
"Will …" she stops, takes a breath. Something clinks, glass, or porcelain. "Have a beer."
She appears in the kitchen, the make-up gone, wearing a spaghetti-strap top and simple, faded jeans, her hair loose around her shoulders. Reaches into the refrigerator and retrieves two bottles of lager. Sark curls his lip in disgust. Beer in itself is bad enough, but this brand? He thinks about how, were he to get drunk with her, it'd be on something much smoother than cheap American lager. Sips his Cabernet, enjoying the nuanced flavour as a counterpoint to their ongoing atrocity against good taste.
She walks into the living room and drops onto the couch, Tippin taking the seat next to her. Too damn close. He snatches the bottle from her hand.
"Why do I get the feeling that I'm going to need a lot more of this, or maybe something stronger, for what you're about to tell me?"
Valid assessment of the situation, Sark thinks, amused despite himself.
"I …"
Come on, Sydney. He can take it.
"Yeah?"
Go on, Sydney.
"It's …"
Yes, Sydney. It's me you're going to go on this mission with. Not Dixon. Tell him.
The reaction on Tippin's face will all but make up for the unpleasant day.
"Syd, come on. You know you can tell me everything."
The puppy-dog look Tippin suddenly wears would be sickening if it weren't so utterly sincere. Sark wonders for a brief moment how it feels to be this attached to a person.
"I can't dance the Tango."
Tippin chokes on his beer. Sark feels his eyes widen. She can't possibly be serious.
"You what? Sydney Bristow, Spy-extraordinaire, and you can't dance the Tango?"
She blushes, crossed her arms defensively. "Not very well, at least. It's always just been either waltz or club dance during missions. I never had to --"
Laughter interrupts her. He can't say who started first, himself or Tippin. It doesn't really matter, anyway.
Sydney Bristow can't dance the Tango. He never thought he'd live to see the day.
She throws a pillow at Tippin, deftly smacking him in the face without knocking over the beer-bottle and staining her couch.
"When you're done laughing, can you help me? I need to learn a few good moves by tomorrow."
"I still don't believe it," Tippin says; he places the bottle out of harm's way, still chortling, "But, yeah. I can help."
***
Three glasses of wine later, he has shed the tie and the dress shirt as well. There is a slight but pleasant buzz in his head, he's not intoxicated, would still be able to fire a gun, but then again, he could do that even when completely drunk. Benefit of Irina's thorough training. However, tonight's buzz is necessary, or he wouldn't be able to see the entertainment in the scene on the monitor at all.
If he'd drunk a shot of whisky every time Sydney had stepped on Tippin's toes so far, he'd be in an alcohol-induced coma by now. If he'd fired his gun at Tippin's face every time the urge arose, his monitor would be in smoking ruins.
He's done neither. He fixes himself dinner and eats it in the kitchen, slowly, thinking about Sydney and the strangely constricting sensation in his chest — anger, maybe, or something else. He denies himself the pleasure of watching the entire time. The sound, however, travels well through his spacious flat.
Laughter. Exasperated sighs. Noises of pain, making him worry about his feet tomorrow. Encouragements. Soft words spoken too intimately for his taste.
The urge to go back and spend the whole evening in front of the monitor is almost unbearably strong, though. He catches himself wanting to rise from his chair, but forces himself to relax, to stay put, to occupy his mind with something else.
Nothing works. The sound is poisonous to his concentration. He should turn it off.
***
He's standing in front of the walk-in wardrobe when they start talking again. His back is deliberately turned to the monitor.
"So, about your plan …"
She seems oblivious, her voice a little breathless. "What plan?"
Feet shuffle, and there's a quiet: "Much better this time, Syd." He doesn't have to see her to know that's made her smile.
From the surprised sound she suddenly makes, he gathers that Tippin's spun her around, maybe, or led her into an unusual figure. "Your plan to ultimately destroy that Sark guy."
Sark's hands freeze on the wooden hanger and he turns slowly, stares at the screen, transfixed. Is that what you're trying to do, Sydney?
"Will …" There's a slowness to her voice that hasn't been there before, as though she's arguing with a child.
"No, Syd, I'm serious. You said you'd use all of your resources to bring the guy down."
"Will, please --"
Tippin as though he's ready to snap, his whole body tense. "I swear to god, if you don't do something, I will."
Will you, Mister Tippin?
It doesn't matter that he's watching after all now. This is too important to let it pass.
Sydney encircles Tippin with her arms, pulls him close, never faltering in her dance-steps.
"You must promise me something." She strokes Tippin's head with one hand and his tense shoulders with the other, the display of nearly maternal tenderness making something odd settle in Sark's stomach.
She's more like her mother than he'd thought.
Tippin seems to relax into the embrace, but stays quiet.
They planned to take him out. Sark's not sure whether he should laugh or be impressed by their boldness or simply spitting mad at their cheek.
"Are you listening, Will?"
There's a mumbled affirmation.
"You must promise me not to go after him yourself. This man is way out of your league. He could have killed you back then, and he won't hesitate to kill you now, should you cross his path. I won't lose you because you did something stupid."
Her correct assessment should make him smile, but it doesn't.
"Will?" She untangles herself from him, stops the dance. Looks Tippin straight in the eyes. "Do you promise me?"
Tippin doesn't want to, obviously, but under her intense gaze, he gives in all too easily. "I promise." She hugs him again, affectionately, tenderly, but freezes for precious, noticeable seconds when Tippin continues: "I know you'll bring him down, eventually."
Her face is turned to the camera, but for once, he can't read her expression. "Eventually," she mumbles into Tippin's shoulder, hugging him closer still.
The look on her face stays with him long after she and Tippin have stopped dancing and retired.
Sark doesn't get any sleep that night.
***
b-flat, Rosenthaler Strasse, Berlin Mitte.
Entredo. Her dress is a deep burgundy colour, hugging her narrow hips and flowing out at the waist, swishing against her long legs. As she takes his hand and pulls him onto the dance floor, he can see the fine straps crisscrossing her bare back. Abrazo. Her hand moves to his right shoulder, only touching there, whereas his hand settles in the small of her back. Salida. They move the beginning steps together, finding their rhythm with the music. Ocho. Simple steps in the beginning, trying to get used to the new partner while appearing to be experienced. She is tense, her moves strained. Caminada. Walking amidst the dancers to find more room, moving closer to the subject. Ocho cortado.
The club is small, the dark red dance floor crowded. Two huge windows line one side of the room, the light of cars driving past spot-lighting the dancers in the dimly lit club. Too open for sniper attacks, he thinks, but dismisses the thought quickly. They're covered, too many people here. The club even has a disco-sphere and he thanks all higher entities that it's not in use tonight. Founded in 1995, the b-flat has become one of Berlin's best known jazz clubs. Sunday nights, a local DJ features the "Tangobar". The music is live: Bandoneon, violin, bass and guitar. From time to time, a singer joins the band. Nicolás Kemnitz, half Argentinean and a passionate Tango dancer, is here every single Sunday. The tall, dark-haired man with the flamboyant steps and the too-close dance embrace is easily spotted.
The ocho cortado is necessary to avoid collision with other dancers, but he doesn't mind, not at all. Apparently, Tippin has taught Sydney well. As soon as she relaxes into the music her moves become much more fluent, her style less noisy than before. She listens to his lead, allows him to steer her exactly the way he wants to. He shifts his weight subtly; he's fairly sure she's never danced these steps before but she follows them easily, though her gaze drills into him. It's a shame this is only a mission. She's a good partner, following but not simply accepting his lead. She challenges him on the dance floor just as she does in everything else.
They have danced an open abrazo until now and, thanks to another set of caminadas, are closer to Kemnitz. It's time to start the game. The bass underlines his steps. He approaches her subtly, moving in for a close embrace. Feels her resist when he gradually pulls her to him, Milonguero style, their bodies touching. Their eyes meet and he sees the warning there, the fire that tells him not to push it. But she follows, intent on maintaining their cover, moves to mirror his actions. Closer. Her breasts pressed against him and he can feel her heart beating, her hips moving in perfect synch with his, delicious friction, her left arm coming up around him and her fingers against the back of his neck… Make sure the cover is flawless. They're still the couple they came in as. Not much longer now, though. Through the thick cigarette smoke of the club, he picks up her scent. Clean sweat and unobtrusive perfume. Her hair is sleek and shiny, pulled into a tight knot, single strands curling and whispering over her bare shoulders. This is so much better than just watching her. It is hard not to screw the mission and dip his head into the intoxicating hollow of her neck and breathe her scent deeply, fill his lungs with it.
He wishes — not for the first time tonight — that she weren't such a good actress. If it weren't for the slight resistance in her steps and the look in her eyes, if he weren't who he is, he could almost believe all of this was real. A sense of déjà vu overwhelms him briefly, catching him unaware. The memory of his dream and the touch of her body come together suddenly, so that for a flash he can taste her as he did that night, in fantasy. For a moment it's hard to breathe.
And bloody hell, if he lets this line of thinking go on it'll shortly be very clear to Sydney that Kemnitz is not currently his chief interest nor even remotely on his radar. At that point he's fairly sure she'll bite his head off, alias or no alias.
Still, he'd be a fool not to enjoy the situation. He might as well play out the part while he can.
His hand starts to roam on her back, rapacious circles, brushing the straps of her dress, dipping his fingers under them, flexing, moving further to her side, almost grazing the swell of her breast. Moves back before her fingernails, digging painfully into his neck, can draw blood. Her skin is smooth over the ridges of her spine, stiff now with anger. Her eyes are blazing, the warning clear.
But he notices, with a shiver of delight he suppresses immediately, that the rhythm of her breathing has changed, and not from anger.
It's becoming more difficult by the second to remember that they're here for a purpose.
Get your head in the game, idiot. And leave the rest of your anatomy out of it.
He presses the tips of his fingers a little deeper into her skin.
The music changes and, accepting his hint, she takes the lead. He plays taken aback at first, then amused. More amused still when she leads him into a Cruzada, more aggressive than before. Even tries for a mordida, trapping his foot between her feet, her eyes meeting his in an obvious battle for control. The move connects them even more than before. Her breath is warm and fast against his neck. He feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. But before he can enjoy the position, she is moving again, more aggressive, still leading. She begins the act, makes it easy for him to show displeasure at her boldness. The dance becomes a fight rather than something sensual, couples around them making room when they feel the tension shift. It isn't quite clear anymore where the antagonism toward his alias stops and the resentment of him begins. The dance doesn't tell the difference, only the feeling.
The song ends and they break apart, Sydney throwing him a look of utter irritation and making her way through the crowd to the green-lit glass and steel bar. Her posture screams that she expects an apology. He ignores it, as planned. His eyes follow her for a few seconds, then find Kemnitz. The man has glanced over but has otherwise ignored them.
Step two.
He finds another woman, blonde, shapely, blandly beautiful. Murmurs a "Salimos a bailar?" in a low, erotic tone of voice.
She doesn't understand him, ignorant to foreign languages as many Germans are. But his extended hand and the inviting gaze aren't to be mistaken. She blushes, accepts his hand.
She has a style that completely diverges from Sydney's. She follows without thinking, even closes her eyes, gives herself completely into his lead. He moves into the close embrace and she doesn't even fight him, is warm and yielding in his grip. He dislikes it immediately, finds her compliance unpleasant. But she keeps following, even when he dips her back.
It's a taunt and one that works well, though it's rehearsed. He makes eye-contact with Sydney over the woman's arched torso, smiles mockingly.
He has Kemnitz's attention now. He pulls the woman back up, leads her into a pivot. She is already dizzy when Sydney moves in, quietly but decidedly making sure that this dance is over. Game on.
"I wasn't finished," he snarls at her.
"Yes, you were." Her face shows determination. Her English is tinged with a strong Argentinean accent.
He moves an intimidating step forward. The blonde retreats hastily. People around them stop dancing.
"I think you owe me the courtesy--"
"Baby, it was a few quick fucks," he cuts in silkily, a derisive smirk on his face. Kemnitz is now watching them with interest. "You were good, but you didn't really expect me to take you for more than the girls out on the Oranienburger --"
Oranienburger Strasse. Place for night-life and streetwalkers.
The slap is resounding. In point of fact, painful. From the gleam in her eyes he can see that she enjoyed it immensely. "Vete a infierno, you bastard." Go to hell. Raised voice. Big, Latin-American gestures. Damn, he loves watching her perform.
Kemnitz drifts closer. He, too, has stopped dancing and has untangled from his partner.
With a swift movement, Sark is close to her, holds her chin with his right hand, hard enough to cause pain. "To hell?" He smirks nastily. "You're a greedy little thing, aren't you?" He pulls her closer with his other hand on her waist, grinds his hips against hers suggestively, feels her breath hitch in shock. Runs his thumb across her lower lip, smearing her lipstick.
Her eyes darken. Her mouth becomes a thin white line. She thinks he's the worst thing ever to walk down the pike when he's not putting on an act? This should teach her to appreciate his manners.
"You unbelievable cabron!" Shithead. How inventive. It's hard not to laugh. He wonders if she's taking this personally. People now stare openly, start to whisper and point. Someone from the band motions for the bouncer. She hits him again. Harder this time, and his exit is covered.
A pair of burly hands lands on his shoulders as the bouncer says in a cool voice: "Kommen Sie bitte mit. Sie stören die Gäste."
Over his shoulder, before the bouncer escorts him icily to the door, he sees Sydney starting to cry, and Kemnitz abandoning his current partner to save the damsel in distress.
Phase one, complete.
TBC