Title by Gym Class Heroes, quote by Sark!
X. It's Okay, But Just This Once
Well, then.
It appears we have a predicament.
As Sark watched the pink glow of sunrise suffuse the yard of his safehouse, he sincerely wondered if a single night was sufficient time for a person to lapse into unmitigated madness. He wouldn't have thought so before. He'd always assumed—on the rare occasions it crossed his mind—that the road to madness was long, with many a winding turn. Paved with good intentions. Marked by a great deal of angsting and wailing and knashing of teeth.
In short, a road that any non-psychotic with an ounce of sense and a healthy detachment could steer well clear of.
That, however, was before last night. Before he'd been left alone for nearly ten hours with disquieting thoughts and even more disquieting dreams.
Sark took a deep breath. He was overreacting. Understandable, considering the stress of the whole situation, his lack of sleep the night before, and having had his tongue in Sydney Bristow's mouth oh fuck for christ's sake what was the matter with him. However, there was no reason become unhinged and compromise his objectives simply because of a minor complication.
Furthermore, it was foolish to attribute a depth of motive to someone dealing with as much turmoil as Sydney was handling at the moment. The fact that he had wanted her for years was, logistically speaking, immaterial. There was, he reminded himself, a hair's-breadth difference between wanting something and actually wanting to have it. In less than a month, if all went well, the deal would be completed and their association would come to its inevitable conclusion.
That settled, Sark covered his eyes with one hand and muttered some of his favorite Russian profanities. He was still muttering when his cell phone rang.
He checked the Caller ID and quickly dredged up his knowledge of Swedish. "Hallå."
"Hallå, Herr Svensson! Din fälten är här."
"Tak själv," he replied. "Jag kommer att vara där snart."
Well, this would be an interesting test, Sark mused as he examined his closet for clothes to fit his alias. He had never left Sydney alone in the house before, and though he knew every precaution would be in place, he still half expected her to cough up some C-4 the moment he was gone and blow half the house to kingdom come to make her escape. Professional paranoia, he knew, but it had come in handy countless times before.
In the end, though, there was really nothing for it. There was no way in hell that he was going to let her leave the house at this stage.
As an afterthought, he took down a small velvet box and slid a silver band onto his left ring finger.
He locked his bedroom, the study, and the wine cellar. Though he'd moved the 9mm under the stairs as soon as its location had been compromised, there were other, far more interesting weapons to be found down there, and Sark had no intention of allowing Sydney to get her hands on any of them. The other guns in the house—such as the modified pump-action shotgun above the stove—were locked up and secure.
Olaf Svensson arrived at the docks about half an hour later. His primary local transporter was waiting by the boat, a broad smile on his tanned and weathered face. Tuning out the man's enthusiastic greetings for his rich and reclusive friend Olaf, Sark examined the boxes with a critical eye before nodding approvingly and allowing them to be loaded into the back of his car—an SUV, rather than one of his beloved Mercedes.
"Vad är det?" the man asked, grunting as he lifted the weight of the cargo.
Sark—or, rather, Olaf—shrugged. "En överranskning att min hustru," he replied with a grin and a conspiratorial wink.
"Jag kan uppfylla denna kvinna?"
After taking a moment to consider Sydney's reaction to playing the part of his supposedly doted-upon wife, Sark merely shrugged again and tried to look as regretful as possible. "Osannolikt," he told the man. "Hon er mycket skygg."
On the drive back, Sark tried to avoid slamming his head back into the headrest. He couldn't stop thinking about kissing Sydney. Again and again, and possibly ad infinitum. He knew, and continued to remind himself harshly, that this train of thought was unacceptable—and if it began to impair his judgment, it could prove dangerous. Even lethal.
Which, he realized abruptly, feeling chilled, might be precisely Bristow's endgame.
It wouldn't be the first time she had employed her beauty and sexuality to daze and distract a target. The incident with the towel, her supposedly relaxed demeanor, the kiss—they all took on an entirely different connotation in light of this possibility. Even her vulnerability of last night could have been carefully premeditated to lull him into a false sense of security. It was hardly beyond her formidable skills.
Perhaps none of this was true, and Sydney wasn't attempting to manipulate him, but Sark resolved to be more vigilant with her at all times.
Furthermore, he resolved to stop thinking about kissing her—a resolution he proceeded to break approximately 2.5 seconds later.
He made it back to the safehouse before nine o'clock and parked the SUV in the garage. That way, he could lock the garage door behind him, not leaving any vulnerable exits while he was unloading the boxes from the back of the vehicle. Assuming, of course, that Sydney was actually awake.
He opened the side door between the dining room and the stairs, then returned to the car and grabbed the first box. Christ. If he'd realized that Julia Thorne was apparently prone to wearing full suits of armor, he would have never attempted this. The sheer ridiculousness of this situation was on par with that caped cab driver uniform he'd worn on a mission for SD-6. He barely avoided dropping the container on his foot as he set it down.
"Sark?" Sydney called out to his right, sounding wary.
"Ja," he replied without thinking. "Det är mig."
She appeared on the other side of the kitchen counter and gave him a strange look. "Sark . . . why are you speaking Swedish?"
Oh. Switching languages, to him, was a little like rerouting a train. It took a moment of effort. "Sorry. Yes, it's me," he repeated, though Sydney was almost certainly just as fluent in Swedish and required no translation.
"I can see that," was her only reply. She put down the large bowl in her hands and walked around the counter. He was almost certain that she was deliberately avoiding eye contact, but it was possible that her interest was simply occupied by his sizeable cargo. "What is all this?" she asked as he went back for the second, slightly smaller box.
"Your . . . clothing," Sark grunted, depositing it on top of the first. He closed and locked the door behind him. "At least, this is what I was able to obtain without raising any suspicion. Though it appears to be quite comprehensive," he noted with a trace of irony.
"Well, thank you. For doing this."
Sydney wished she could keep a catalogue of Sark's gestures and expressions for later study. She knew, for example, that the slight movement of his head and tightening of his lips was an acknowledgement of her gratitude. She just couldn't for the life of her figure out how she knew. He could create an entire seminar on nonverbal communication just by videotaping himself.
"Do you want a waffle?" she offered. "I'm making some."
She looked straight at him for the first time and forgot her intention to look away. At the moment, his eyes were such a clear, tropical sea blue that it was difficult to imagine they held any grey. It was a little disconcerting, really. Then again, she was used to her own eyes, which were decisively brown and never did anything more exotic than looking hazel when she wore green.
"Very well," he finally answered. "Give me a moment to change clothes."
"Sure." Sydney retreated to the kitchen, despite her lingering distrust of the deceptively harmless-looking space, and spooned batter into the waffle maker. As she closed it, her thoughts returned to the kiss like a child picking at a scab. She would rather think about the drafting of Sloane's pardon agreement than rehash the incident one more time, but she just couldn't help herself. It wasn't as if she had Francie around to gossip with, to get it out in the open.
Oh, nice one, Syd. Yes, let's think about how the man you kissed last night had your best friend murdered two years ago.
It was a ridiculous, circular train of thought—one she had already exhausted. Nothing was going to occur to her that could possibly absolve Sark of his past crimes, and it wasn't as if she could just forget them. But when this was over, and she was back at the CIA, would she really be able to think of him as nothing more than another dangerous enemy?
Cultivating detachment was always a big part of her job, and failure to do so had always been her personal weakness. Shooting guards or security details was always the easiest. They were not real people, not parents or spouses, they were hostiles. Targets. Obstacles.
With the big players, though, it was so much harder to block it all out. Memories of Sloane the evil, manipulative criminal battled memories of being fed cookies in his kitchen after she'd had a bad dream, when she was five years old and staying with him and Emily. And now there was Sark, assassin and all-around bad guy . . . who had been abused by his father, had taken care of her for almost two weeks, and had gone to the trouble of importing the bulk of her clothing from god-knows-where.
Just thinking about it made her head hurt.
When the hell had her life gotten so complicated? Some days she wished she was back at SD-6, happily convinced that she was working for the CIA.
Sark returned and perched on a stool on the other side of the counter, for which she was very grateful. Having a physical barrier between them seemed like the safest bet, in case she decided to strangle him or—even worse—kiss him again. "I wasn't aware that I owned a waffle maker," he remarked, interlacing his fingers on the polished oak countertop. "Sometimes I believe my housekeeper becomes a tad overzealous in his efforts."
She hmm'ed vaguely. "I'm surprised you let anyone else in."
"Periodically. We've never actually met. All he knows about his employer is a false name, Olaf Svensson."
"Let me guess," said Sydney, keeping one eye on the waffle maker. "You surveil his every move and pay him enough that he never asks questions."
"That is essentially the arrangement, yes."
The light on the machine went off. "Here's breakfast," she said as she lifted the lid and scooped the waffle onto a plate. "Do you want anything on it?"
Sark's only response was a blank, somewhat baffled stare.
"Don't tell me you've never had a waffle before." It wasn't as if she was handing him a frosted Pop-Tart or something. He would probably go on a self-imposed hunger strike before eating one of those, not that he had a lot of weight to spare. But waffles—normal people ate waffles, didn't they?
"I can't say it's ever been a staple of my diet."
"Ah." For lack of a better course of action, she handed him the plate. After a second or two of examination, Sark tore off a piece of the waffle, popped it in his mouth, and chewed carefully. It was a bizarre moment, standing there and waiting for him to deliver a verdict.
"Interesting." Not exactly a glowing response, but he kept eating.
With a mental shrug, Sydney returned to the block of baker's chocolate she'd found and started attacking it with a dull butter knife. If she was Sark, she wouldn't trust her with a sharp blade either, but it was still a little ridiculous. She felt like she was bludgeoning the chocolate more than cutting it.
"I don't mean to interrupt, but . . . what exactly are you doing?"
"You don't have any chocolate chips," she explained, speaking over her shoulder. "This is the best I could come up with."
"Are you—"
Sark was interrupted by his own cell phone. "Yes," he answered it after a quick glance at the display. A pause followed, then: "Really." Sydney watched him closely, her curiosity piqued, as the silence stretched on. "Very well. I'll expect details upon my arrival. . . . See that you do."
He pocketed the phone and met Sydney's gaze. "It appears you're going to be left to your own devices for a few days. I have some business to attend to."
She wanted to yell, or shake him, or slam her fist into the refrigerator. Naturally he had something more important to do. Naturally. No one knew she was alive except Kendall, her father was in a prison cell, but all plans to get her home had to wait because Sark had to go blow someone's head off.
"You expect me to just stay here until you get back?"
Whatever expression flickered across Sark's features was too short-lived to be deciphered. "It never crossed my mind," he replied evenly. "However, I'm sure you've realized by now that this house makes a very capable and comfortable prison."
She said nothing. If he believed she was too helpless to escape with that much time at her disposal, so much the better. By the time he got back from killing people in some far corner of the globe, she would be safely in LA, repairing her memory thousands of miles away from him and his perilous kitchen.
"That said, I have no intention of underestimating you. Armed guards will be patrolling the grounds, and they will shoot to kill. Should you evade them, you will find a variety of deadly failsafes built into the wall surrounding the perimeter."
Well, goddammit.
Sydney continued her massacre of the chocolate block with even more force, and soon she had enough bits of chocolate to mix into the next portion of batter she poured into the machine. It was crucial that she remember that Sark was her jailer, not her host. And it is unacceptable, she chided herself, to kiss your jailer even once, let alone entertain the possibility of doing so again. She needed to get home before she went completely soft in the head.
"I find it interesting," Sark commented, an unmistakeable edge to his voice, "that you now seem so determined to pursue a means of escape, when only yesterday you seemed willing to accept our . . . 'temporary association.' I believe that was the phrase you used to describe it."
Yes, you dolt, Sydney ranted silently, staring fixedly at the waffle maker. But that was before I kissed you and you kissed me back and I liked it. Clearly, this incarceration was having a detrimental affect on her mental faculties, and the sooner she could get home, the better. That said, she had absolutely no intention of mentioning the kiss to Sark in any way, shape, or form. "I don't handle incarceration very well," she replied coldly. It was the truth, after all. If she could handle being imprisoned like this, Sydney reasoned, she would be able to shake the impulse to run her fingertips over the hairs at the back of Sark's neck, so short they were almost prickly when stroked the wrong way, but velvet-soft when smoothed down.
Her face was twisted into a furious grimace, so she was grateful her back was to Sark. She loathed herself for this. She knew what losing Vaughn, missing him, did to her, and still she'd left herself open to another relapse. Julia Thorne could get away with it. Sydney Bristow could not.
She took a slow, measured breath. It wasn't Sark's fault. He'd just been his normal, conniving self until she decided to plant one on him.
There was no need to be overtly hostile.
By the time she sat next to Sark with her waffle, Sydney's face was appropriately calm. And if she was so hyperaware of him that it made her feel twitchy—well, at least she wasn't across from him, looking right at him. "Tell me about Olaf Svensson," she suggested in a conciliatory tone.
For what felt like a very long time but was, realistically, probably only a few seconds, Sark turned his head and stared at her. She refused to establish eye contact, instead opting to consume her breakfast, even though the chocolate bits were a little too hot to be eating it right away. After a few bites, she reached for the glass of orange juice she'd poured before Sark had returned with the boxes. In doing so, Sydney happened to glance down at his left hand.
"I take it he's married."
Sark followed the direction of her gaze and noticed the ring. "Yes," he said, tugging the silver band from his finger. "Olaf married several years ago, for the sake of convenience. It allows me to explain shipments, like the one I retrieved this morning, as gifts for my wife. Unfortunately, my local transporter has developed an interest in meeting her."
"How do you get around that?" She couldn't help snickering, and she noticed his smirk out of the corner of her eye.
"Unfortunately, Olaf's wife is very shy and of delicate health, so they don't often entertain guests."
"That's a shame," Sydney commented with mock pity, and they shared one of their amused, conspiratorial looks that she knew would haunt her when she returned home and got some perspective. Rather than dwell on that prospect, she held out a piece of her waffle. "Here—do you want to try it?"
From the way Sark took it from her hand, it might as well have been an incendiary device. Again, he ate and she watched.
"An improvement," he remarked, "but insufficient to compensate for the odd texture."
"Maybe next time I'll make pancakes," said Sydney, then immediately regretted it. Not only had she failed to berate him for his thoughtless criticism of the breakfast she had voluntarily made for him, but she'd also implied that there would be a next time. She was a prisoner, not a kitchen slave.
Sark, however, just shot her a nearly imperceptible smile and got to his feet.
"If you'll excuse me, Miss Bristow, there are preparations to be made."
Her heart sank at the thought of her impending solitary confinement, but she kept her expression neutral. "Sure."
Sydney spent most of the rest of the day unpacking, sorting, ironing, re-folding and hanging her recovered clothing. Sark all but disappeared; she made multiple trips past his bedroom on her way to the washer and dryer with the clothes she'd deemed in need of washing, but the door remained firmly shut. She honestly felt a little lonely already—something she chalked up as another alarming symptom of her captivity-induced dementia.
The experience of recovering her former attire was a bit like recovering lost treasure; it was especially wonderful to get lingerie that actually fit. Studying a black matched set adorned with lace and pink ribbon, she had to admit that she'd dressed a lot better as Julia Thorne than she did in real life. On the one hand, she'd felt the pain of her enforced exile from the people she loved on a daily basis, but sometimes, when she was caught up in an assignment for Kendall, not worrying about anything else, being Julia had been almost . . . fun.
Sydney's cheeks flushed as she recalled the last time she'd worn the ribbon-and-lace confections. Now there was a memory she could stand to misplace.
Dinner that night was cooked by Sark once again. This time he made steaks and served a Pinot Noir. They barely spoke to each other throughout the meal; Sydney was alarmed and frustrated by her reluctance to see him go, and she assumed he was preoccupied with his upcoming job. God help whoever happened to get in his way, or accidentally cross his path. She'd seen firsthand the trail of bodies Sark was capable of leaving in his wake.
Just before she went upstairs, he called out her name. She turned back on the second stair, expecting him to say something, but for the moment Sark just looked up at her, his shoulders slightly hunched, his hands in the pockets of his black pants. It was disarmingly cute, damn him. He regarded her silently with those changeable eyes, currently a dark greyish blue. "There's something you should know, before I depart," he finally said. "In case of an emergency."
"Yes?" Her grip on the banister tightened. Was this job so dangerous he honestly thought he might not return?
Impossible. Sark always survived. He was rather like a cockroach in that way, and only a marginally superior conversationalist. He would be fine.
"If you go into my bedroom and look behind the Rembrandt above the desk, you will find a hidden compartment. Inside it, there is a valuable Rambaldi artifact entrusted to me by your mother. If I do not return within seventy-two hours, I want you to remove the artifact from its hiding place and eat it."
In Sydney's mind, the budding concern for Sark's welfare was smashed into oblivion by a wrecking ball of shock and indignation.
"Eat it?!" she sputtered, completely blindsided by his request. "You've got to be joking!" If he thought that she was going to blindly ingest some kind of unknown substance—particularly one associated with Rambaldi—his delusions outstripped even what she would expect from Sloane.
It was only then that his solemn expression wavered, and he smirked at her. "Yes, Miss Bristow. I am."
She was going to kill him. With her bare hands, or a dull butter knife, or one of those guns she knew were hidden all over the place. Not for a single instant had she been worried about whether or not his smug, irreverent face returned intact. And she was not amused. Not even in the deepest, darkest corners of her rapidly deteriorating mind. Her mouth's attempts to smile were only an unusual expression of her sudden bloodlust.
"Barring unforeseen complications, I should return within a few days," he added.
"I guess I'll see you then," she replied. She told herself it was frustration with her predicament that tightened her voice. Sark is not funny. Not in this universe.
Naturally, he smirked again. "Good night, Sydney."
"Good night, Julian."
She wasn't really sure why she said it—maybe just to see his reaction. He didn't disappoint. Sark's eyes widened, his eyebrows rose, and he straightened to his full height. Finally, a slow smile spread across the bastard's face. "See you in a few days," he reiterated quietly, with an unnerving degree of warmth in his voice from which Sydney promptly retreated. He was still at the bottom of the stairs when she reached her room and closed the door.
When she woke up the next morning there was a bag of chocolate chips in the kitchen, and Sark was gone.