Title: Foul-Weather Friend
Author: wakingepiphany (Jamie)
Rating: R, currently, for language and sexy situations
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.
Pairings: Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.
Timeline: Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.
Summary: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.
Author's Note: I really tried to get this chapter out on the one year anniversary of posting the first chapter of FWF (April 10th) but couldn't make it work before today. In this half of the chapter, we find out what SpyDaddy was trying to tell Syd in their phone conversation, meet up with an old friend, and find that the consequences of Syd and Sark's short tryst go deeper than either of them expect. Enjoy!
Sydney felt the headache before she even realized she was awake. Even in her dreamless sleep, the dull throbbing penetrated through the haze. It was the sound of the vacuum that finally roused her, the loud whirring sound insistent and unavoidable. Sydney opened her eyes and already regretted waking up.
The past night's events came rushing back to her in waves and she pulled the sheets over her head, as if they could shield her from facing the consequences of her actions. He'd be out there somewhere, waiting for her with a smug grin and a haughty comment about how irresistible he was. She knew she'd have to leave the safe haven of her bed sooner or later. Cottonmouth had set in and her breath tasted like socks soaked in tequila. She'd have to go to the kitchen for a small glass of water and a very large mug of coffee at some point.
And he'd be there.
She knew she shouldn't dwell on it too much. It was nothing. She'd had to kiss dozens of repulsive strangers on missions, why should this be any different?
Because Sark is no stranger. Because this wasn't a mission. And because you liked it.
Sydney clamped the pillow down on over her head, trying to drown out the unbidden thoughts and the loud mechanisms of the vacuum outside her door.
Is he trying to get himself punched in the face? Sydney thought. Because standing outside my door making noise is going the right way for an ass kicking.
She couldn't stand it anymore. Rising (somewhat painfully), Sydney lurched toward the door and wrenched it open. Sark stood next to the broken planter, vacuuming its shattered remains. He was fully dressed, to which Sydney was thankful. She thought of how little clothes separated the two of them from something abhorrent the night before and she cringed. She quickly rearranged her face into a scowl and pushed the memory from her head. Sark finally noticed her standing in the doorway and shut the vacuum. As she had dreaded, self-satisfied grin flashed across his face.
"Morning, Sydney." Sydney frowned and squinted her eyes at him, trying not to notice her own rumpled reflection in the hall mirror.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Sark replied in a placating tone. "Were you saving this dirt and broken shards of pottery for something important?"
"Don't get smart with me," Sydney snapped. She started to the kitchen until reached out his hand and grabbed her arm. Sydney jerked it from his grasp as a look of horror spread across her face.
"Don't walk there", Sark said evenly. "There are still some small, sharp pieces of the vase you could step on."
"Get your hands off me," she said with venom in her voice. Sark regarded her with a look one might give a petulant child and she hated him so much in that instant she could have screamed.
"Fine," Sark replied. "Coffee's on, if you wanted some."
He turned on the vacuum and continued, as if Julian Sark cleaning in her house was an everyday occurrence. Turning quickly from him, she made for the kitchen. She hadn't taken two steps when Sydney felt a sharp pain stab into her heel, and she knew she had stepped on a shard of the broken vase. Not missing a beat, she kept walking, cursing Sark as she tried not to limp.
She let out an exasperated grunt as she sat on a kitchen chair, picking up her foot to inspect the damage. It was a small shard, but it had managed to embed itself fully into her skin. Trying to find a good angle, Sydney tried squeezing the foreign object out, but only managed to drive it in deeper. Rivulets of blood seeped from the wound and a drop fell to the linoleum tile. She winced as she tried to use her fingernails to pry the splinter of pottery out. The strange angle she was holding her foot at was starting to send pins and needles up her legs, making Sydney drop her foot and stretch it out, trying to stop it from falling asleep.
"You're tracking blood all over the house," she heard from the doorway. Sydney shut her eyes and groaned. She hadn't even noticed the vacuum had shut off, let alone that he'd followed her to the kitchen. She opened her eyes and looked to the hallway from where he had come, dismayed to see splotches of shiny red blood on the light-colored hardwood floor leading to the kitchen.
"Since you're already having such a blast playing the maid," she said acidly. She picked her foot back up and put it on her lap, picking at her heel again. "Why don't you take care of it? I'm a little busy here."
Sark rolled his eyes and uncrossed his arms. Sydney's eyes flickered briefly to his face as he moved from the doorway and walked past her and disappeared to the other side of the house. His face was unreadable, and Sydney found herself uneasy not to be able to know what he thought. She had found him easy to read after these past weeks together, not because she was so adept at reading people she now realized. He could shut himself out to her, like right now, and his face was stone.
What was he hiding? she found herself wondering. She turned her attention back to her foot, reaching for a napkin from the napkin holder on the table and dabbing the wound.
Sark reappeared moments later and Sydney refused to look at him. She breathed out, frustrated, and let her foot drop to the floor.
"I suppose you think this is funny," she remarked grumpily. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. She saw him approach her out of the corner of her eye and she turned her face up to look at him. He had a slight smile playing on his lips, but did not betray a sanctimonious mindset. Placing something on the table, he knelt in front of Sydney and she tried to back away.
"Don't," he said firmly, wrapping his hand around her ankle firmly. "…you dare kick me. I'm just trying to help." He held up a pair of tweezers and arched his eyebrows, waiting for her answer. She looked at the table, seeing that he'd put a band aid next to her. Exhaling loudly, she held her foot out.
"Fine."
Sark shook his head, as if amused, and held her foot while he prodded at the cut with the tweezers. He hadn't known what to expect when she finally emerged from her room this morning.
Seeing her so unnerved by their encounter not only validated she found him, at the very least, physically attractive, but also made him wonder if it just hadn't meant something to her. He was certain she hadn't dated anyone before her engagement to Vaughn or after his death, let alone done what they had. He was getting to her, in a way she hadn't wanted or thought possible, and Sark couldn't have been more pleased if she hadn't ended up stopping him. Her anger endeared her to him, in the most absurd way possible.
"Ouch!" Sydney yelled, jerking her foot away. She shot him an angry look. "Are you trying to hurt me?"
"Now, why would I want to do that?" Sark replied calmly.
Sydney shrugged, clearly annoyed. Because you pushed him away, because he's dangerous, because this whole situation is ludicrously out of control, Sydney thought to herself.
Sark held his hand out expectantly. Sydney groaned, and extended her leg and put her foot in his hands again. Sark lifted Sydney's foot to eye level and raised the tweezers and began extracting the sliver from the soft flesh of her heel.
"This is your fault, you know," Sydney huffed. Sark looked up quickly, casting an indulgent glance in her direction and then turning back to her foot.
"It's my fault you stepped on the shards of broken pottery after I told you about them? Or is it my fault because I kissed you?"
Sydney did not want to talk about this. She resisted the urge to use the foot Sark was holding to kick him in the face. With her luck it would just embed the shard of pottery into her foot deeper. She turned her head away, not wanting to look at him. Heat had risen to her cheeks and she refused to let him know how much she had let him get to her.
When she didn't respond, Sark turned his attention back to her foot, wondering what she was thinking. She was blushing, he could see, but that hadn't heartened him as much as he thought it would. He hadn't slept much last night, thinking about what had happened, which was ridiculous, he knew. Everything he had ever felt for Sydney came through in that kiss and she had responded, pushing her body against his that even now, just thinking about it, the stirrings of his attraction to her flared. He had expected to feel triumphant, justified; a long-awaited desire finally fulfilled.
What he hadn't expected, what he hadn't planned for, underneath the long-awaited satisfaction, was a creeping feeling of regret. He didn't regret how amazing her touch felt, how much her reciprocation had turned him on. No, it was now, as he knelt before her, that regret silently unfurled inside him. Regret that maybe last night would be the last time she'd confide so earnestly in him, the last time the connection between them would something more than physical attraction, something that intensified the hold she had on him to something he didn't quite understand. The dimensions of his feelings had shifted into something complicated and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.
Not that he'd ever let her think he was anything less than pleased.
Sydney winced as Sark finally located the shard of pottery and pulled it out. She glared at him but allowed him to place the band aid over the wound. She stood up quickly and walked to the coffee pot, turning her back to him.
"Are we not going to talk about this?" Sark asked lightly, standing up and walking to sit on a stool by the kitchen island. Sydney poured her coffee in silence, mentally cursing him. Why didn't he just leave? Can't he see I don't want to talk?
"I'm not sorry," Sark continued. He continued to stare at her and she continued to ignore him, keeping her back to him at all times as she pretended to search the cupboards for something.
"I'm not sorry I kissed you. If you're expecting an apology for that, you're going to be waiting for quite a long time. Doing that, kissing you, was something I've wanted to do since I first saw you and you were…no less than amazing." He paused and Sydney, still turned away, strained to hear him. He never made any qualms about his attraction to her, but this admittance, this small but earnest confession, struck her strangely. Amazing was not a tiny compliment.
"However, I am worried that it might affect what we have now, this…accord we have temporarily struck. I'd like to hear what you have to say."
Sydney stopped pretending to look in the cupboards and sighed, putting her hands to her temples. The dull throb she had felt was turning into a very real, very annoying and painful headache and yet…she hadn't expected such candidness from him afterward. She had expected the cockiness, expected it to be rubbed in her face. She hadn't expected his trepidation that he could have ruined what relationship they had established. She hadn't expected amazing.
Turning, she faced him, thankful the physical barrier of the kitchen island separated them. She crossed her arms and spoke.
"I am only going to say this once. Last night was a mistake. A huge, huge mistake. I was drunk and…maybe a little vulnerable and you were just there. If you mistake what happened as any feelings of attraction for you, physically or otherwise, you are a bigger fool than I thought. I won't let you manipulate this into something to your advantage. I was drunk and lonely and you took advantage of being in the right place at the right time. You could have been anybody."
She finished, putting as much venom in her words as she could muster. Sark's eyebrows lifted as he took in her diatribe, trying to hear what she was saying behind the words. He'd already pushed her this far, what was topping him from going farther?
"If I was anyone else, just someone that took advantage of you," Sark asked matter-of-factly. "…would you be this upset? If it hadn't mattered who I was…why did you stop?"
She closed her eyes, embarrassed to think it could have gone that far. If he hadn't talked, if she kept her eyes closed, she knew she could have let it become more.
"Because," Sydney answered as evenly as she could. "…it was you. No matter how lonely I was or how…not unpleasant it was, I could never live with myself if we had done something."
She picked up her mug and walked from the kitchen, trying not to put pressure on her heel. Sark gazed after her, a smile spreading across his face. He could live with not unpleasant.
Sydney tread lightly back to her bedroom, careful to mind the cut in her foot. The mess in the hallway had been cleaned and after everything, the strangest part of this whole debacle was waking up to find Sark cleaning the mess she had made. It was so surreal in its normalcy.
After taking a large sip of her coffee, Sydney placed it on the end table and reached under her bed for her suitcase. She'd only be gone for a day or two, but she needed to get away. Away from this house, away from Sark, away from this life. But she didn't have the time. She never had the time.
Sark followed her and stood in the doorway, watching her pack.
"Going on holiday?" he asked lightly. She didn't turn to face him but went to the set of drawers to Sark's right and pulled out jeans, a shirt, and some underwear.
"I figured out what my father was trying to tell me on the phone," she replied in as even a tone as she could muster.
"Really? What was it?" He was leaning on the doorframe, content for some civil conversation.
"It was so simple I didn't even think of it," she replied, folding the clothes neatly before placing them in the suitcase. "It was like he didn't even try to conceal his agenda, which isn't his style at all. The first letter of every sentence spelled out a word." She sighed, closing the suitcase. "It spelled out 'Christmas'."
Sark frowned as Sydney turned and, not looking at him, left the room. He sighed; annoyed that he had to follow her around the house for any sort of answers. She was acting so immature about this whole thing, which he found to be only slightly attractive.
"So this whole thing has to do with 'Project Christmas' then?" Sark called to her as she walked from the room and started to rummage around loudly in the bathroom.
He shouldn't be so surprised. Project Christmas' effects were large-scale and despite being implemented three decades ago was still very much an integral part of the espionage world. Thousands of sleeper agents littered both foreign and American intelligence agencies, among other, more nefarious organizations. It was no coincidence that he and Sydney were both victims of Project Christmas and it was no coincidence that The Messenger brought the two of them together. She walked stiffly past him from the bathroom, holding a bag of her toiletries.
"So what does this mean? Obviously we're going somewhere," Sark said, gesturing to her bags. Not having anything to busy herself with, Sydney finally faced him.
"We need more information, and there's only one person out there with comprehensive information about Project Christmas that has no ties to the government, no ties to anyone, no way that we can be found out if we ask for intel."
Sark knew before she even said his name. Sydney watched as his whole demeanor shifted, from even cool to incredulous anger.
"No," Sark said, his voice raising. He stepped toward her and instinctively Sydney took a step back. She had known this was coming. "I will absolutely not ask Will Tippin for help. We can find out what he need some other way. Going to him is absolutely out of the question."
A beat passed before Sydney answered. "I wasn't asking you to come with me," Sydney replied quietly.
That surprised him, she saw. He hadn't thought she would go by herself, though she thought he should have expected it.
His tone was decidedly cool when he finally answered. "I see. What a lovely reunion for you both."
"There's something else," Sydney said warily. She had thought this through, and she knew he would take offense. She shouldn't care. She didn't need to explain herself to him. They weren't friends. But, nevertheless, she couldn't just come out and say it. She surprised herself when the words came out softer than she had anticipated.
"I don't want you staying here while I'm gone. I think it'd be best if you stayed in a hotel. I'll call you when I get back."
Her statement was met with a stunned silence. Just when he thought he couldn't feel more insulted, she comes at him with this. His eyes were stormy when he finally replied.
"Afraid I'll run around with scissors, then? Might steal your fine china?"
Sydney wondered why this was so hard. It's her house, her things. He's a terrorist, a killer. It shouldn't be this hard.
"I have my reasons. Reasons I don't need to explain to you."
She expected the usual snide retort; she needed it. Needed him to be cruel so she could feel like herself again. But he just stood there, arms folded; looking at her like he didn't even recognize her. Like he was disappointed in her. She hated that look. The look he gave her when she did anything less than heroic.
She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he turned from her, walking away. He couldn't stand looking at her anymore. Denying what happened last night…that he could handle. He had expected that. But this? Going to Tippin, kicking him out of the house she invited him into…he found it unacceptable.
Good, she thought as he walked away. Saves me the trouble of explaining it. But even as she thought this, a gnawing ache clawed at her belly. His passivity unnerved her, but she rationalized that it could just be the coffee sitting in an empty stomach after a night of tequila.
She waited a few minutes before exiting her bedroom, intent on making it to the bathroom to shower without coming in contact with him again. A few days apart would help clear the air, make things easier to understand. When she finally exited the bedroom, she didn't look for him, didn't try and avoid him. She entered the bathroom and took off her clothes, anxious to wash the past night's events off of her.
Sydney indulged in only a quick shower before wrapping a terrycloth robe tightly around her and leaving the bathroom. Halfway to her room she stopped, feeling strange.
The house felt big, empty; the air was disconcertingly still. And in that moment she knew Sark had already gone. Walking through the living room, there was no trace that he had ever been here. No physical remnants of him remained but his presence lingered like a ghostly apparition. She was thankful and resentful all at the same time.
But there was no time to linger. She had a plane to Wisconsin to catch.
Sark thought the hotel bar was insufferably quaint, as he sipped from a vodka tonic. Bars were supposed to be dingy and sad, to mirror the thoughts and hearts of those who seek refuge in its wares. The lighting was soft, but warm. A jukebox played and a solitary couple danced, while college kids laughed over a pitcher of lager. This was not the scene he imagined when he decided to get drunk tonight.
Drinking to excess was not something Julian Sark engaged in. It was sloppy and unprofessional, two things he prided himself not to be. He could think of two other times he had set out to lose himself in drink, and over a failed flirtation was the cause of neither. But this wasn't just a rejection anymore.
He'd never given anyone a chance to trust in him; there was no logic in it. But when logic wasn't a factor anymore he'd given her every reason to trust in him, and she'd throw it away without care or remorse. He knew now why he had kept his allegiances transient; because when they were broken he felt resentful, angry, and small.
"You look like you've been run over by a truck," a husky voice spoke. Looking over, Sark saw a dark-haired woman from a few stools away catch his eye. She was a wavy-haired and dark eyed beauty, young but with the burden of experience weighing heavily on her.
"Something like that," Sark answered in an American accent. He wasn't interested in small talk with strangers tonight. He signaled the bartender for another drink.
"What's her name?" The way she asked it would have seemed intrusive coming from another stranger, but something in her voice made him turn to her. Her impish mouth held a small smile, knowledgeable and slightly sad. "The truck driver that ran over your heart, that is."
He cocked his head, surveying her.
"Sydney," he answered finally after a few moments. He wanted to correct her; he wasn't heartbroken. The thought of that was absurd. He was simply disappointed in her; though his pride had taken somewhat of a beating.
"Hmm," the woman answered, nodding. She indicated to the seat next to him. "May I?"
Sark inclined his head. "Be my guest. Though I should tell you I'm probably not the best company tonight."
The woman slid over a seat, chuckling softly.
"You're exactly the kind of company I'm looking for. I'm looking or someone just as miserable as me tonight."
Sark exhaled loudly and lifted his drink to her. "Then I'm your man."
Wisconsin was already becoming slightly chilly in the late August evening. Sydney wished she had brought a light jacket as she stood outside Will's house.
Jonah's house, it is Jonah's house, Sydney reminded herself. It looked like a house that Will would live in. Everything that is important about him is still the same, thought Sydney.
Standing in front of the door, Sydney waited to knock. She wanted to see him, now more than ever. His face brought her to a simpler time, a time where she could afford the luxury of friendship. She didn't know how she would ask him for a favor, after everything knowing her had done to him. Not to mention showing up would endanger his Witness Protection cover. The best thing she could do for him is walk away.
The knock on the door sounded hollow, and Sydney half-hoped he wasn't home. There was silence, and then, muffled words called out to her as she heard footfalls approach the door.
"Sweetheart, I told you not until 8:00. I'm nowhere near finished, and I think I burned a potholder. Doesn't that defeat the purpose of a potholder, I mean, aren't they supposed to be…"
Will stopped mid-sentence as he opened the door to find his oldest friend standing before him. His eyes went wide and she tried not to cry.
"Hi." The greeting came out of her mouth sounding tremulous.
She had hardly gotten the words out before Will enveloped her in a tight bear hug. Sydney couldn't help it; hot tears spilled onto the shoulder of Will's shirt. The embrace was warm, and Sydney remembered what it had been like to trust someone, feel the comfort of familiarity and easy conversation. She wiped what she could from her face before he pulled away.
"Sydney…oh my God, I can't believe you're here! You don't know how good it is to see a familiar face. It's like you knew I needed to talk to you." He pulled away and his smile was infectious. She smiled until it hurt.
"You have no idea," Sydney replied. She hated herself for being her, putting him in danger but…God, it felt so good to see him again. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting something…"
"Well, actually you are," Will answer, chuckling. "..or you will be, but right now, there isn't anyone I'd rather see. But I need you. Any other night we'd sit down and talk for hours but right now, I need your hands."
He grabbed her hand and pulled her inside. The home was simple and yet, distinctly Will. Magazines strewn on a glad coffee table, his construction shirts folded neatly in a clothes basket, colorful canvases lined the walls. They all passed by in a blur as Will lead her to the kitchen. He had several pots on to boil, while the counters were spattered with flour and what looked like tomato sauce. The smell of something burning tinged the air.
"There's so much to talk about, I know, but, if you could stir and assist while the talking happens, I'd really appreciate it."
Sydney immediately stepped beside him and turned down a heavily boiling pot.
"Are you making a special dinner for someone tonight?" Sydney asked. Will smiled. A genuine, wide smile that made Sydney wonder the last time she had smiled like that. Will nodded his head toward the kitchen table, and only then did Sydney see the tiny jewelry box. Looking back and forth between the velvet box and Will, Sydney gasped.
Abandoning her post at the boiling pot, she picked up the box. A single, round diamond winked brightly at her from its simple platinum setting. Her mind unintentionally went to a small drawstring bag, nestled next to her collection of knives and semi-automatic pistols in the secret drawer in her dresser, where the engagement rings from her two dead fiancées lay cold and tarnished. She knew this ring would fulfill its purpose, adorning the hand of the woman Will Tippin loved.
"Remember the artist I told you about?" Will asked proudly. Sydney nodded, still smiling. He was so happy…happier than she'd ever seen him. And here she was, in his kitchen, putting that happiness in jeopardy. He didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve to have him in her life anymore.
"The ring's been burning a hole in my pocket all week. Her name is Vanessa. You'd really like her, Syd. And if she says yes," Sydney gave him a look. "Heh, when she says yes…I want you to be my best man. Best…woman. Best person."
The tears welled up again, but she didn't try to hide them. The selfish part of her wanted to badly to do this for him, be that person again. She'd try. She'd try for him.
"Oh Will…of course I will. I would be honored." Impulsively, she hugged him, reveling in the comfort of his familiar embrace.
And for a few minutes, the normalcy of their conversation soothed her. She let him prattle on about mundane topics while they stirred and checked the oven temperature. She didn't want to break the bubble…not yet.
"…and I thought I heard something upstairs, so I went up and I there he was having sex with my best friend."
Sark gulped down the remnants of his eighth drink as his companion continued her saga. He'd been listening, albeit mostly peripherally. It was the same story at any college, in any city. This girl was looking for an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on; both of which he normally didn't have to spare. But the drinks were fueling his personal indignation and lessening his desire to get up and move to another seat. And besides, when had he ever been against the company of a beautiful woman?
"…his name is Brian. What an asshole."
Sark didn't even need to signal the bartender, there was already a drink waiting beside his empty glass. Sark caught the eye of the man serving drinks and signaled for the check.
"Sounds like you're better off without Brian as your boyfriend," was Sark's automatic answer.
"Oh no, Brian is my best friend's name. My boyfriend's name was Stewart. No wonder we hadn't had sex in months. And here I just thought he was trying not to seem like the typical sex-hungry man-boy."
She chuckled wryly as Sark picked up his last drink.
"That certainly is not your typical break up story," Sark offered.
"I'm sorry," the woman went on. "Here I am, just spouting off about my problems. You don't deserve to suffer through my ranting. I don't even know your name and yet I just can't keep my mouth shut, I apologize."
"Ben. Ben Hollier," Sark offered, remembering the alias he'd used to sign for the hotel room.
The woman proffered a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ben Hollier. I'm Fallon Cates."
"The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Cates."
"So Ben," Fallon continued casually. "You seem like a pretty put-together guy. And here you are, in this dreadfully cheery bar, drinking the night away. What did this Sydney person do to you that has driven you to such a low?"
Sark was not at all inclined to discuss the warped intimacies of his and Sydney's relationship. He was, however, noticing how the hem of Fallon's skirt shifted higher when she re-crossed her legs, how she was staring at his lips and hands.
She was expecting him to say something.
"She didn't do anything I wouldn't have expected from her. And I suppose that makes this my fault for not knowing better."
Fallon lifted her glass to him.
"Here's to not knowing any better. May we not be so oblivious in the future."
Sark lifted his last drink to her, and downed it quickly. He was feeling distinctly unnerved. He wanted to forget, just get away for a night but the drinking made him feel anxious and not within control of his own actions. He was, for example, not in control of Fallon's hand drawing light circles on his thigh. Not that he was opposed, either.
"Ben, I'm going to make this real easy for you," Fallon murmured softly. "I haven't had a man touch me in months. I want you. Do you want me?"
A few drinks ago, Sark might have understood that this question wasn't as simple as it seemed. His situation gave the answer to this question certain complexities and complications he really should look over.
But Sark was sick of the complex and complicated. He wanted simple.
"As much as I know you love my rambling," Will said, chopping carrots. "...I'm fairly certain you didn't hop on a plane just to get me in trouble with my witness protection officer by talking to someone from my past life."
Just the thought of putting Will in danger made the bottom fall out of her heart again. The burden of her friendship was especially heavy for Will, an innocent, and Sydney couldn't have felt more guilty if she had put a big neon sign flashing "witness protection" outside his house.
Not looking at him, she sighed.
"As glad as I am to see you…no, this isn't a social call. If there was any other way, if this wasn't so important, I wouldn't have come."
Will nodded. "I know."
He shouldn't have to understand, Sydney thought bitterly. He shouldn't have to know what life and death stakes feel like.
"I can't tell you what's going on right now. I can only tell you that I've left CIA for awhile and because of that I can't use their resources. Something is going on right now, something I don't have control over, and I need more information. Untraceable information."
"Like something you would get from someone who doesn't exist," Will replied. He smiled, but it was a sad smile. "Someone like Will Tippin."
Sydney nodded reluctantly.
"You know I'll do whatever I can," Will said, wiping his hands on a towel. "…Lord knows how long it's been since I've done something useful. I mean, being lead contractor on making a gazebo for possibly the oldest, meanest lady in Wisconsin is of course, super fun, but not exactly life changing."
"It was life changing for the mean old lady", Sydney pointed out.
"You know what I mean," Will replied, and Sydney decided not to argue. Will continued, in a somewhat disconsolate voice. "But I don't know how much I'll be able to help."
Sydney scooped up the carrots Will had chopped and threw them in a pot. Sighing, knowing she couldn't put it off any longer, she leaned against the counter and faced him.
"I need to know if you have any copies of the files you went through for Project Christmas."
Will's eyes went wide, but he didn't look surprised.
"I don't have any."
Sydney closed her eyes and sighed, but quickly looked up and offered a tightlipped smile. Nodding, she started chopping up an onion, wanting to be productive somehow. She opened her mouth to say something, but Will's hand on her shoulder stopped the words.
"…but I know where you can find one."
His grin was wide when she lifted her head and looked hopefully at him. He nodded and she dropped the knife on the cutting board, hugging him fiercely. He disentangled himself from her and opened a drawer, pulling out a paper and pen.
"This is the name of a bank in L.A.," Will said, writing on the paper. "…and this is a number of the safety deposit box." He put the pen down and walked from the room. There was a minute or two filled with the sounds of rustling paper and drawers opening and closing before he returned.
"And this," he said, holding up a key. "Will get you into that safety deposit box. There's a flash drive with all the information I had on Project Christmas. Never hurts to make copies."
"I suppose it doesn't," Sydney said, laughing, and she pocketed the key and piece of paper.
From the front of the house, there was a faint creak and suddenly the door opened. Keys jingled as a woman's voice called out.
"Hey bunny, I picked up some wine for dinner."
Sydney's eyes went wide and Will made a wide gesture for her to get the ring box from the table. Sydney quickly retrieved it and handed it over. Will shoved it in his back pocket as the woman walked into the kitchen.
"I hope you aren't making a cream sauce again, you know how last time it gave me the worst –" She finally looked up and saw the two friends, covered in flour and looking slightly guilty. Will smiled broadly and went to the woman's side, kissing her on the cheek. Taking her hand, he gestured to Sydney.
"Vanessa, I'd like you to meet Sydney. Sydney, this is Vanessa."
She was gorgeous, Sydney saw immediately. Her red hair fell in light waves around her porcelain face. Sydney stuck out her hand and smiled warmly.
"Hi, Vanessa. Jonas has told me so much about you –"
Vanessa placed the bag she was carrying down on the kitchen table and closed the distance between her and Sydney, enveloping her in an unexpected but heartfelt hug.
Sydney, surprised at first, recovered and hugged her back.
"You don't know how long I've wanted to meet one of Jonas' old friends," Vanessa said warmly. "I've heard so much about you, I feel like I know you already."
Looking back and forth between Will and Vanessa, Sydney could see how much they were on love. Her mind immediately brought up the image of Danny, and how he used to look at her that way. And for once, instead of sadness welling up inside her, Sydney felt joy. Her friend was happy.
"It's so nice to meet you, Vanessa," Sydney said sincerely. She reached for her purse on the kitchen chair. "…but I only stopped in for a minute. I'm in town for business and I have a late-night meeting to get to but I didn't want to get here and not stop in. But somehow I got roped into helping this hapless cook into making dinner and unfortunately I'm running late."
"Can you at least stay for dinner?" Vanessa asked. "Reschedule the meeting?"
"I'd love to," Sydney said regrettably. "…if that were in my power. But unfortunately, it's not my call."
"Sydney can come over another night," Will interjected. Vanessa gave him an exasperated look, and Sydney smiled.
"I'll be in town for a couple more days," Sydney lied. "I'd love to reschedule for another night."
"And I'll cook next time," Vanessa said, elbowing Will lightly in the ribs. "Because this one right here makes it look like a bomb went off in the kitchen every time he cooks."
"I'd love that," Sydney said, and she meant it.
When this is all over, I'll come back, Sydney thought to herself. When I'm not a threat anymore, when I can come back into Will's life without endangering him, I'll come back.
"I'll be seeing you, then," Vanessa said, hugging her again. Over the woman's shoulder, Sydney locked eyes with Will. He knew she wouldn't be coming back, she could see that plainly. Not anytime soon.
Or not at all.
Sydney forced a smile on to her lips, small and convincing. Vanessa released her and Will reached out for her, squeezing her hard. She wanted to tell him so many things; things she should have told him when she first walked in, things she should have told him years ago. She willed everything she felt for him in that embrace.
"Cya, kiddo," Will said. Sydney let him go, in every way she could. Walking out the door, Sydney knew she was leaving behind one of the last remnants of a life she understood, a life she longed for. Will and Vanessa could have what she was supposed to have with Danny. She'd help them have that life, by staying as far away as she could.
Sark felt Fallon's hot breath against his hipbone and he looked down at her, tangling his fingers in her hair. She moaned softly as she continued her downward descent but Sark remained silent. Staring at the ceiling, he willed himself to think of nothing but this room, nothing but the sensations this woman was trying enthusiastically to draw from him.
It had been months since a woman had touched him like this. And yet, he was more acutely aware of the abrasive material of the sheets underneath his naked back than the feel of Fallon's teeth drawing down the last bit of clothing on his body. She was lithe, eager, and attractive; she was everything he could have wanted.
His buzz was waning, and the haze he so blissfully had indulged in was fading into something considerably uglier. Sark hardly registered as Fallon took him into her waiting mouth. Hate seethed from his every pore.
She was miles and miles away and Sydney was ruining this for him. She was somewhere in the backwoods of Wisconsin fucking Will Tippin and Sark was letting her destroy him. How had he let this happen? How had he let her take this away from him, the one thing he could glean the smallest bit of pleasure from? She was beating him at his own goddamned life and he was just sitting back, letting her do it.
No, he told himself. No one controls you. You answer to no one. Especially not Sydney Bristow.
Seething, he quickly shifted position. He grabbed Fallon and flipped her on her back, pinning her to the bed. She giggled appreciatively and he shook his head.
"Don't talk," Sark said seriously. She nodded, smiling, keen to play along with him. She squirmed against him, wanting him to touch her. Closing his eyes, his lips began their assault on her neck, stomach, breasts. He ignored the soft coos and moans he elicited from her, trying to block out everything but his skin on hers. With his eyes closed, she could be anyone.
Anyone at all.
Sydney took the first flight she could find to Los Angeles. After her arrival in the city she once called home, she did not linger. She found the bank from the address Will had written down. Funnily enough she remembered passing this bank on her daily commute to Credit Dauphine.
The flash drive was unremarkable, and Sydney tucked it in her purse for safe keeping. The plane ride from L.A. to Phoenix was a short one and gave her very little time to rest before she was forced to face the home she had left only the day before. She hadn't been gone long enough, she wished she could just stay away for days, weeks.
But how long has it been since you've done something you've truly wanted?
The thought of seeing Sark so soon filled Sydney with dread, but she knew she'd have to find him. She'd made a copy of the flash drive on the plane and she'd have to give it to him. If he hasn't already gotten bored with the project already, she thought to herself.
She had to think rationally, and the rational answer was that she wouldn't be able to get her parents back without Sark. Financially, she wouldn't make it much longer if she had to fund equipment and resources by herself. Missions would be more than arduous; they'd be almost impossible solo. Even the simple task of sifting through files on the flash drive would take her days, if not weeks, if she had to do it by herself. If she was going to be coldly rational about what needed to be done to save her parents, she couldn't avoid the rational decisions that went against her basic instincts.
Walking to her bedroom, Sydney knew he wasn't in the house, and hadn't been back since he'd left the previous morning. Pushing any sort of anger she possessed for him to the back of her mind, she picked up the phone and dialed Sark's cell. She let it ring seven times before hanging up. The anger she had tried to ignore raged heatedly; how dare he ignore her call?
Seething, she stomped her way to the kitchen. She made to open the fridge but stopped, spying an open phonebook on the island counter. Slamming the door on the refrigerator with a little more force than necessary, she pulled the phone book toward her. Among a few crossed out entries, there was a circled address of a hotel.
Groaning, she tore the circled entry from the book and stuffed it on her pocket. There was no use putting off the inevitable. Grabbing her car keys and a copy of the flash drive from her purse, Sydney fought off the desire to drive and keep driving, far enough away that no one would find her. She only needed to travel a few miles, say a few words, and she would be done with it.
Until you need him again, said a nagging voice in her head. Shaking the thought out of her head, she locked the house behind her and climbed into her car.
The hotel wasn't far, and upon arrival Sydney wondered how Sark could have brought himself to stay somewhere that had less than 5 stars.
He did stay on your couch for a month, quipped the same, stupid voice in her head. And never complained once. Not wanting to know where this nagging conscience was getting its quips from, Sydney walked from the car and through the lobby of the hotel. No one was manning the front desk and Sydney sighed appreciatively at her good luck.
Casting a quick look around for employees, she hopped over the desk and clicked a few keys of the keyboard. The guest directory flickered on to the screen and Sydney quickly scanned the list for any names that looked familiar.
It only took a few seconds, but there it was. Ben Hollier.
"I'm Agent Hollier. I'm with the CIA, Portland office."
He used it in North Korea, with Leonid Lisenker, in that convincing American accent. Sydney thought wistfully of all the trouble she could have saved herself and most likely many other women if her hand had slipped with the knife that she had held against his most prized possession. Sydney quickly noted the room he was staying in and quickly hopped back over the desk partition.
Walking briskly, she reached in her purse and had the flash drive copy in hand. She intended to hand it to him, tell him she'd call when she needed him next, and be gone within minutes. Intended being the operative word.
Taking a deep breath, Sydney rapped loudly on the hotel room. Looking down, she saw he had placed the "Do Not Disturb" sign over the door handle. Sydney casually removed the sign and threw it somewhere over her shoulder.
On the other side of the door, Sark reluctantly lifted his throbbing head from the pillow. He distinctly remembered putting the "Do Not Disturb" on the doorknob last night. He let his head fall back onto the pillow when the knocking sounded again, louder this time, and more insistent. Fallon was in the shower and Sark had the unpleasant realization he would have to face this already dreadful day.
Not bothering to put on pants, Sark slowly lifted himself from the bed and went to the door in his underwear. Planning on giving the person knocking an earful, he jerked the door open forcefully.
"What the hell do you…Sydney?"
Eyes wide, Sark quickly cast a furtive look over his shoulder toward the bathroom, before facing a decidedly annoyed-looking Sydney Bristow.
"Here, Mr. Hollier," Sydney said, thrusting the copied flash drive into his hand. Her eyes automatically flickered downward, noticing he was clad only in his boxer briefs. She jerked her head upward, looking him dead in the eyes. "It's the Project Christmas files."
"Uh…" Sark mumbled, looking at the device. He distantly heard the shower turn off and quickly stepped forward and pulled the door behind him. "Thanks, I suppose."
"I'll call you when I need you," Sydney spat, a little more forcefully than she had intended. Turning on her heel, Sark almost considered letting her leave.
"Did you have fun in Wisconsin?" He called after her. His comment came out clipped and vindictive. "You're back a bit early, though. Decided you wouldn't lead him on this time around? Or has Will finally come to his senses and gotten over you?"
Sydney whipped around, but before she could open her mouth to retort, a voice sounded from inside the hotel room. Eyes wide, Sydney pushed past Sark and pushed open the door that he hadn't quite closed.
Fallon, clad only in a towel and still wet from the shower, looked surprised but quickly recovered upon Sydney's intrusion.
"You must be Sydney," Fallon said with a small smile playing across her face. "The truck driver."
The silence that followed lasted only moments, but to Sark it felt like an eternity. He knew he didn't need to explain himself. She didn't care about him. She didn't care about what (or who) he did. He didn't need to answer to her.
But there it was, everything he had wanted and at the same time dreaded written plainly across her face. And as quickly as her expression flitted across her face it disappeared. And just as unexpectedly, she laughed. Shaking her head, she back away from him and then turned around, walking to her car.
"Sydney," Sark called imploringly. He groaned and put a hand to his aching head. He didn't need this.
Just let her go, said a tired voice in his head. What's the point?
Irina is the point, he reminded himself. It's not about you. It's not about Sydney. Cursing her as she sped off in her car, Sark walked quickly back in his room and searched for his clothes. Throwing on a pair of grey slacks, he had forgotten Fallon was even there until she spoke again.
"You're going after her then?" She didn't sound jealous, or even slightly annoyed. She was speaking matter-of-factly; more of a statement than a question.
Sark sighed, gathering up his things and shoving them into his overnight bag.
"I don't have much of a choice not to."
A beat passed as he threw the last of his things in the bag. He picked up the bedside phone and pressed it between his ear and shoulder as he button up his shirt.
"So will I see you again?" Her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
Looking up at her, still clad only in a towel, he quickly glanced away, turning his attention to the phone and punching in a few numbers.
"You were exactly the person I needed last night, but I'm not exactly in the position to be dating right now. I wouldn't be good for you. Besides, to be completely honest, you're not really my type."
More amused than offended, she crossed her arms in front of her chest.
"What is your type then, exactly?"
He offered her a grim smile. "Emotionally unavailable."
Turning his attention back to the phone, he spoke. "Hello, operator? Can you connect me to a local cab company? Thank you."
"Don't bother," Fallon said, dropping her towel. Sark thought for a moment she was going to try something to get him to stay, but she surprised him with a decidedly more empathetic gesture. Reaching for her clothes, she started to dress.
"I'll take you."
Still holding the phone against his shoulder, Sark sighed.
"I can't ask you to do that."
"You didn't," Fallon replied, pulled on her skirt. She smiled at him. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for true love."
Sark felt the objection to that statement form on his lips, but stopped.
What would be the point in correcting her? Placing the phone back in its cradle, he looked up at her and simply said, "Thanks".
Putting on the last of her clothing, Fallon reached for her keys.
""Let's go."
Sydney didn't yell. She didn't punch anything. She sat quietly on her couch and waited for Sark's arrival.
At first, she couldn't identify the feeling that had rushed through her body at seeing Sark's newest conquest. Those few indecisive moments in her car scared her. She wondered if her reaction meant that he had gotten to her. That she actually cared for him.
But when she got back home, she sat down and assembled the pieces of her shattered emotions into something she could understand. She didn't care for him at all, she realized. She chastised herself for even entertaining the absurd notion. No, it was stupidity and carelessness that had made her run. Not just his, she admitted to herself, but her own as well.
Bringing him into her home, that was her first mistake. Misinterpreting his boredom and thrill-seeking behavior as dedication and passion to her mother, well, that was mistake number two. Thinking he had changed, thinking maybe he was something more than what she'd always thought he was…that was her biggest mistake of all.
Sark opened the front door to find her sitting serenely on the couch. Taking a deep breath, he stood in front of her.
"I don't need to explain myself to you," he said defiantly.
She gazed up at him without really seeing him. "Then don't."
Sark huffed loudly and ran a hand through his disheveled hair.
"I don't understand you, Sydney. First, I think we're getting on rather well, and then you kick me out, to see Will Tippin, of all people. And now you act as if I've wronged you by spending one night with someone. Tell me how I'm supposed to make sense of this."
"Who's asking you to make sense of it?" Sydney said huffily. She just wanted him to leave. She just wanted to be alone. Didn't he sense that?
Sark dropped his hand from his hair and looked around, exasperated.
"You are…infuriating. Being with you and trying to make sense of your erratic mood swings is the most exhausting job I've ever had to deal with. What do you want me to do, Sydney? How am I supposed to work with you when you're treating me like a friend one minute and fighting me the next?"
"You are not my friend," Sydney spat, the ire rising in her again. "And it is not your job to make sense of me. It is your job to do whatever you can to get my parents back. Where exactly does fucking a co-ed fall into that agenda?"
"You know what, Sydney?" Sark said derisively. "It falls in exactly nowhere. It was one night where I didn't have to walk in eggshells wondering which Sydney I was going to encounter that day. And in that respect, it was amazing. You have no right to be angry about me staying the night with someone, because it in no way hinders our investigation. Because if you think otherwise, your logic is inheritably flawed."
Sydney felt the anger unfurling fast and hot within her. She stood up and got right up in Sark's face.
"You are being careless and unprofessional. How am I supposed to rely on you in the field when I can't rely on you to keep your dick in your pants for one night?"
Sydney realized how her tirade probably sounded, but she didn't care. Let him think she was jealous and hysterical if that's what it took to get his head into the game. She needed him to focus, needed him to bring his "A" game, and needed his help to keep her going. Because without him, she had come to accept, she doubted if she'd ever see her parents alive again.
Sark shook his head and stepped back from her, realization dawning slowly upon him.
"I suppose you were right about me all along," Sark said softly. "You can't trust me to be the person you need me to be. But the thing is, Sydney…I can't trust you to be the person I need you to be. The person I thought you were. And because of that…I'm leaving."
"Good," Sydney said emphatically, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I didn't want you staying here anyway. Will you be going back to the hotel or what? You'll need to be semi close in case we get a break and need to –"
"No, Sydney," Sark interrupted softly. "You misunderstand me. I'm dissolving our partnership. I'm leaving and not coming back. It's obvious the differences between us are decimating the slim chances of us finding your parents alive."
"You're questioning they're alive at all?" Sydney asked incredulously. "I talked to my dad two days ago. How can you even think that?"
"How can you not think that?" Sark shot back. "We've seen one video of them, although who knows when that could have been taken. And sure, you've heard from your dad, but what about Irina? She could have been dead this whole time."
Sydney's fist shot out lightning quick, coming out of nowhere and connecting hard with Sark's face. She hadn't broken his nose (she hadn't felt that satisfying crunch under her fist) but she'd connected hard enough. Blood poured from his nostrils as he tried to quell the flow with his hand.
"Don't you dare say that again," Sydney warned contemptuously. She hadn't even thought about hitting him; it had just happened. Her instinct, or her temper, she wasn't quite sure which, reacted before she could stop herself. And now he just stood there, blood dripping from his nose, looking at her like he had no idea who she was.
He walked away from her, crossing the room for a box of tissues. But more than that Sydney felt him walking away from her.
"You're going to have to realize," Sark said solemnly. "…that things might not work out like you wanted. You're going to have to face the person you've become, but I'm not going to be there for you to draw blood from whenever you get scared."
"Don't just stand there, analyzing me and thinking you've figured me out. They're alive, Sark," she yelled at him. "Can't you see that? Can't you?"
Sark's shoulders slumped in something that started as a shrug, but ended up a low sigh. He pulled the tissue from his face, the blood smeared and dried around his mouth and nose.
"I hope so," he said quietly. He paused and let his gaze fall on her angry face for one brief moment before turning his back on her.
"Goodbye Sydney," he said resignedly, walking away from her, leaving her behind.
Sydney stood alone, dumbfounded, in the center of the room.
"Don't you walk away from me," she yelled. "Don't –"
The door shut, soft and definite, behind Sark. He heard her continuing to rage at him from behind the door. Sydney wouldn't run after him. He'd be back, any second now, ready to fight. He wouldn't give up the oppurtunity to fight with her, so she waited for him to come back. Outside, Sark listened to her yelling. It didn't stop when the taxi he called finally arrived.
The hours passed like minutes on the plane from Arizona to the Greek Isles. Sark tried to look at the files on the flash drive during the flight, but it seemed as if he forgot a line of text the minute he stopped reading it. He finally gave up and sat in silence, watching the clouds out of the plane window drift lazily by.
When he finally arrived at his villa he was exhausted and yet, as Sark laid on his king sized bed, he couldn't get over the feeling of how empty the house felt, how big and extraneous the extra space on the bed felt. He stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours until the anxious feeling faded into sleep.
Thousands of miles away, Sydney Bristow stared at her own bedroom ceiling, hating herself for feeling so alone.
Foul-Weather Friend Soundtrack, Chapter 7, Part 2
1. Beck, "Lost Cause". Listen to When: Sydney wakes up and her and Sark talk about the past night's events; Sark leaves.
Lyrics:
Baby you're a lost, baby you're a lost
Baby you're a lost cause
2. Matt Wertz, "Lonely Tonight". Listen to When: Sark sits at the bar and is approached by a lovely woman.
Lyrics:
3. Joseph Arthur, "Honey and the Moon". Listen to When: Sydney visits Will.
Lyrics: We're made out of blood and rust
Looking for someone to trust
Without
A fight
I think that you came too soon
You're the honey and the moon
That lights
Up my night
4. Lovage, "Stroker Ace". Listen to When: Sark and Fallon tell their tales of woe and end up in bed together.
Lyrics: stroke that shiny coat
stroking is the antidote
stroke that, it's a start
only for the wild at heart
stroke that shiny coat
stroking is the antidote
stroke that shiny coat
stoking's what it's all about
5. Hawksley Workman, "Stop Joking Around". Listen to When: Sydney meets Vanessa.
Lyrics: please be here
until the morning
hold my hand
until the morning
chase my fate
into your promised land
please be here
6. Rachel Yamagata, "Worn Me Down". Listen to When: Sydney comes home after going to the bank, decides to find Sark, and is surprised at what she finds.
Lyrics:
7. Matt Nathanson, "Loud". Listen to When: Sark follows Sydney home and they argue. Sark leaves.
Lyrics:
I remember your thread thin arms
I remember your hands
And how easily
It seemed to me
That they could rip me open
Baby, I'm falling away
Baby, I'm falling away
Wasted my Septembers
With you stuck up in my head
Raced the days closed
In the hopes that the mornings would swell again
Don't offer me rewards
That's a weight that I don't need
I've seen stronger men draped over your shoulder
So filled with praises
Too drunk to leave