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 strong 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: Part 2 of 3 in Chapter 9! Lots of banter! Sexual undertones! The English countryside! Incredibly fascinating stuff!
Sydney hadn't had a home since she and Nadia had lived down the street from Weiss. After Nadia had gotten sick, and especially after Vaughn's betrayal, she simply lived in a house but it didn't feel like home any longer. Moving out had been a relief, but the house in Arizona hadn't been a home.
During different periods in her life, there had always been a place Sydney had imagined that she could one day call home. When she was a child, it was in a home filled with the smell of cookies wafting through the kitchen and the sound of twinkling piano keys; a home where Laura Bristow was alive and Jack Bristow always came straight home from work. Sydney held on to this notion of home for quite some time. She sometimes thinks she never actually let it go.
After that is was a house with a white picket fence, somewhere in the suburbs, where she and Danny chased their three kids around the yard, where they kissed their scraped knees when they fell. Sydney admitted to herself later that it was never a true fantasy. She was still so excited about the agency then, and deep down she knew that she wouldn't give Danny the children he so desperately wanted.
She called the apartment she lived in with Francie home. And it was, especially when Will was there. But she was in too deep then. The house was so filled with secrets Sydney sometimes wondered how they all could fit inside its walls with the truth always threatening to spill out through all the cracks. She lost most everything in the fire that consumed the house, but in the end it was more cathartic than tragic. She felt every lie she had ever told to the two of them burn in the flames and Sydney was eventually relieved at its destruction.
The home she imagined with Vaughn was the probably hardest to give up. In the middle of nowhere, on a tropical island lined with white sand, there were no guns, no peeking around every corner, no prophecies or blood spattered bathroom walls. It was pregnant Sydney walking hand in hand with Vaughn in the crystal clear surf. It was two children who never had to bear the burden of the wars their parents fought. Sydney couldn't help but make it perfect in her mind, and yet, as improbable as her fantasy had been, it had been the closest to home she had felt in her entire life.
And now? Among the confusion with her parents and Sark, Sydney stilled dreamed of a place to call home. As she stood beside Sark on an English country lane, with the first leaves of autumn falling gently on their shoulders, Sydney could see a home in this. They walked toward a picturesque stone cottage with smoke unfurling from a brick chimney into a pale gray sky. She could see herself in a place like this, far away tight, revealing dresses and day-glo wigs. She'd be alone, but safe and content in the cool, English countryside. Sydney's heart longed for it.
But it was not today. They had parked the car at the end of a long lane and walked with their hands in their pockets up to the quaint cottage.
"So you met this guy in college?" Sydney asked casually, trying not to betray her innate curiosity in the shady personal history of Julian Sark.
"Yes," Sark answered, brushing away a stray leaf that had fallen onto the shoulder of his navy peacoat. "He was my roommate, actually."
"Your roommate?" Sydney asked incredulously. She couldn't didn't bother hiding the surprise in her voice.
"Yes, my roommate," Sark replied matter-of-factly. "But before you start getting romantic notions of my stay there, I was on a job. My first job, actually. I was posing as an engineering student at Cambridge, as to get access to a deep-sea drill your Mother wanted for some Rambaldi nonsense. I was supposed to get a single room, but there was a mix-up in the paperwork, and I found myself living with the man we're about to see. Art student, extremely gifted in recreating famous masterpieces."
Sydney shook her head, unable to get the image of an 18 year old Sark hauling a duffel bag very properly through a Cambridge dormitory.
"I find the idea of you at college a hard one to imagine," Sydney replied honestly, stuffing her cold hands in her pockets. It was nearing the end of September, and while it was still hot back in Arizona, the first biting chill of fall nipped at her exposed hands and face.
"It wasn't a comfortable fit," Sark admitted, stepping up onto the porch. "But I did manage to have a bit of fun while I was there."
"I'll bet you did," Sydney scoffed, and raised her hand to knock on the door. Sark stopped her before she could announce their presence.
"Listen, I don't want you to barge in here acting haughty, like this guy is simply another villain I fraternize with," Sark said in a warning tone. "He's a normal person, not in the business."
"Are we putting him in danger by asking him to duplicate the painting?" Sydney asked.
Sark shrugged. "I've taken precautions to avoid that. So let us keep this visit brief and worry about any problems when they arise. I think you'll end up liking him, actually."
Sydney cocked her head to the side, her eyebrows furrowed.
"And what makes you think that?"
"Because he's completely unlike me."
Sydney smirked. "I think I like him already."
Sark jerked his head toward the door. Sydney knocked and after a few seconds passed, it opened.
An incredibly attractive man stepped through the archway and grabbed Sark, pulling him into a hug. Sark noticeably stiffed, clearly surprised and not at all comfortable with this overt sign of affection.
"Charlie! Oh, I'm sorry; its Julian now, isn't it?" The man said warmly in an American accent. "Whatever your name is, it's been too long."
"Indeed it has," Sark said, trying to recover from his earlier awkwardness. He glanced at Sydney and hated how much she seemed to enjoy his apparent unease. "Logan Bell, I'd like you to meet my associate, Sydney Bristow."
"A pleasure to meet you," Logan said, proffering his hand. Sydney shook it and smiled, finding that his amicable mood was contagious.
"Please come in," Logan said, stepping aside so that they could enter. The interior of the house was warm and friendly, not unlike its resident, making Sydney wonder how two completely different men could ever strike an accord with one another.
"Would you like some tea?" Logan asked graciously. "I've just put the kettle on."
"None for me," Sark answered, shooting Sydney a subtle but unmistakable look that she should say the same.
"I'd love some, thank you," she answered, smiling.
"I'll be back in a minute. Please make yourselves at home," Logan said cordially, exiting the room.
Sark leaned against the fireplace and glanced over at Sydney on the couch, who had an expression much like the cat who ate the canary plastered across her face.
"What?" Sark asked defensively.
"You have a friend," Sydney replied coyly, clearly enjoying herself.
"That man is not my friend," Sark answered, rolling his eyes.
"Oh, you two are friends. You're like, best friends." She was downright devious, and Sark narrowed his eyes at her.
"You're ridiculous," he said dismissively.
"It's not something to be ashamed of," Sydney countered. "In fact, I'm pleasantly surprised. I didn't think you could have any friends. This is a big step up for you."
Sark put a hand to his temple and rubbed, as if that would drown out the sound of Sydney's sickeningly sweet voice.
"You are being insufferable, not to mention being woefully mistaken. He owes me a favor, a fairly large favor, and he's lucky I'm letting him do this for us."
"Uh huh," Sydney said, obviously not believing him.
"I really dislike you," Sark said seriously, as Logan stepped through the door. Sydney took the moment to compare the two men, as different as they were attractive. Where Sark was light, with his Nordic good looks, blond hair, and sky-colored eyes; Logan was dark, with flawless olive skin, close-cropped dark hair, and smoky green eyes. How the good-tempered, polite American became friends with a ruthless, insufferable Brit, Sydney did not know. She didn't have time to ruminate on the subject, as Logan was steering the conversation to business.
"I know you didn't come all this way for tea and reminiscing," Logan said, placing the tray on the coffee table. He sat beside Sydney on the couch. "Let's have a look at this painting."
Sydney nodded and picked up the protective cylindrical tube, pulling the painting out of its protective sheath. She handed it to Logan, who unrolled it carefully.
There were a few moments where no one spoke. Logan had a look of surprise and, strangely enough, something close to fear clouding his features. Sark finally broke the silence.
"What do you think, Bell? Can you make the forgery?"
Logan hesitated, clearly trying to make sense of something.
"Bell?" Sark pressed.
"This is…unbelievable," Logan sputtered. "Where did you get this?"
"It doesn't matter where we got it," Sydney said, stepping in. "What mattered is whether or not you are able to create a forgery."
Logan continued to stare at the painting, his eyes wide.
"Yes, he replied slowly. "I can duplicate it."
Sydney heard the hesitation in his voice.
"But…?" She asked, waiting for his explanation.
"But nothing," he said, still sounding surprised. "In fact, it'll be an easy forgery, seeing as there has never been a photograph or accurate description of this painting. The only people who have ever looked upon it have been its owners, and there have been very few of those."
Logan tore his gaze away from the painting to look from Sark to Sydney and back again.
"This painting is a myth, an urban legend, Logan said, slowly. "Its story is legendary amongst the art elite. There has never been any evidence that it even exists. Except for the fact that I'm holding it in my hands."
Sydney glanced over at Sark, who appeared to be just as confused as she was.
"Can you tell us about it," Sark urged Logan. "Who is the artist? Who are the people in the painting? Can you detect any encoded message in the paint?"
"I don't know about any message," Logan answered. "And I can't tell you the artist's name, because none has ever been given. To commit this idea, this subject matter into a piece of art, was blasphemous. And to find out who it was created for, well, no one would want to step up and admit their work."
"Who commissioned the painting?" Sydney asked. Logan looked as if he were bracing himself for the answer.
"Adolph Hitler." A shocked silence followed, and Logan pressed on.
"As you probably know, Hitler was obsessed with the occult. He spent millions of dollars researching various outlets for his obsession. This man here," Logan pointed to the main with a pointed beard.
"…is Erik Jan Hanussen, an occultist, psychic, and magician, closely associated with Hitler. It is said he taught Hitler secret crowd control techniques with the utilization of hand gestures. He supposedly predicted the Reichstag fire, the event that led to recently appointed Chancellor of Germany Hitler seizing absolute power in Germany. He made a second prediction about the eventual downfall of Hitler which Hitler took as a threat, which probably led to the Nazi's murdering Hanussen. But not before Hitler had this painting commissioned. It is rumored the painting hung in his sleeping quarters in the underground bunker he was holed up in until his downfall."
"You know a lot about this painting," Sydney said slowly. She felt Logan was genuinely a good person, but she knew what obsession could do to even the best of people.
"I did a thesis on it, actually," Logan said, offering a small smile to Sydney. "The painting is quite famous and has all sorts of intrigue about it but, to look at it in person, it's quite creepy."
Sydney nodded and saw Sark shift from one foot to the other out of the corner of her eye. He was getting restless.
"What about the other people in the painting?" Sark asked. "The three other men and the woman?"
"The woman is Mother Shipton, who went to predict such events the Great London Fire of 1666, the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588, and her own death. This man is Milo Rambaldi, who had an eerily accurate take on modern technology."
Sydney glanced at Sark, who shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "What did you expect".
"This man is supposed to be Nostradamus, whom I'm sure you know had many prophecies attributed to him. The last man is Rasputin, who predicted his own death and the fall of the Romanovs."
"The Romanovs," Sydney said quietly, her eyes shifting quickly to Sark's face. He knew it had been Rasputin in the painting, back at his house. She had wondered why it had been the man with the long beard, Rasputin, that had captured Sark's interest and not Rambaldi, with whom they had had repeated entanglements with.
"Together they make the Five Prophets," Logan said, rolling up the painting. "There are some rumors that they all made predictions that complimented one another, having to do with some great weapon, but there are so many hoaxes concerning oracles and prophets, who's to say what's real."
Logan slid the painting back into its tube. Sydney and Sark exchanged a significant look, but quickly looked away from one another when a rustling sound came from the kitchen. Sark made a protective motion to the gun in his pocket, but quickly retracted his hand when he saw what it was.
A little girl, around four years old, with wildly curly dark hair stood sleepily in the doorway, staring expectantly at the adults.
"I'm awake," she stated, looking keenly at Logan. He smiled and stood to envelop her in his arms. He turned to his guests.
"Madeline, these are my friends Sydney and Julian. Guys, this is my daughter Maddy. Maddy, please say hello to Sydney and Julian."
Sydney leaned forward in her seat, smiling broadly at the child.
"Hi Maddy," she said warmly. "It's very nice to meet you."
"Hi," Maddy replied. She turned her attention to Sark. Sark looked from the little girl and then back to Logan and furrowed his eyebrows.
"Go on, Maddy. Say hi to Julian," her father prodded.
The little girl and the blond man stood, staring at each other, neither yielding.
"He looks cranky. I don't like him," Maddy said, folding her arms. Sydney's laugh burst out of her mouth before she could suppress it. Sark shot her an annoyed look.
"She's very observant," Sydney said to Logan, who smiled.
"She's also very stubborn," Logan said warmly, ruffling his daughter's hair. "Tell you what. Sydney, why don't I show you my studio. Julian, could you watch Maddy for a few minutes?"
"Oh, I don't think –" Sark began, before Logan cut him off.
"Good, we'll be right back," Logan said as Sydney stood and walked over to him. She gave Sark a small wave before sweeping out of the room with Logan. Sark stood, motionless, except for a single eyebrow rising in annoyance. Children were small, sticky and annoying, not unlike pets, except that you are discouraged from chaining them up in the yard.
"Why are you cranky?" Maddy asked Sark, as she approached a train set and sat down to play with it. She zoomed the train caboose around the carpet, not looking at the stranger in her house. "Did you not have a nap today?"
"I'm not cranky," Sark said, not quite believing he was having this conversation.
"Do you want to play trains?" Maddy asked, holding up a train car and throwing it in Sark's general direction. "Beep beep," Maddy said seriously, crashing the train caboose into another train car.
"Absolutely not," Sark said, nudging the train car she had thrown at him away with his shoe.
"The train conductor made a mistake, so now all the trains are in a big smash-up," Maddy said, standing up. She padded over to where Sark was standing and grabbed his hand, pulling him down to the carpet with her with surprising force. Sark rolled his eyes, but sat, as to avoid any sort of tantrum.
"Play," Maddy demanded, shoving a train car into Sark's hand. Sark looked at it like it was some revolting entity.
"Where are these toys made?" Sark asked her. "I don't want to be infected by any sort of toxins. Getting anthrax would be very bad for me right now."
"They're from Santa's workshop," she answered, glaring at Sark now. "You're no fun. Daddy does the voices of the train passengers. Does Sydney do voices?"
"Sometimes," Sark admitted. "Her Russian accent is quite good, but her French leaves something to be desired."
"Boom!," Maddy replied, smashing the cars together again and letting them fall from her hands onto the carpet. "There was a crash but the policemen came and saved everyone in the train. They called 911. You can be the police. You have lights on your car."
"Lucky me," Sark said sarcastically, allowing the child to drive the small police vehicle over his very expensive Italian shoes.
In the other side of the house, Sydney laughed.
"I can't believe you left the two of them in their alone," Sydney said to Logan as she surveyed his art studio. The walls were lined with his work, all intricate and beautiful. Her eyes lingered on a portrait of a mother gently caressing her pregnant belly while she spoke. "I get the impression that Sark…I mean Julian, is not fond of children."
"Meh, it'll do the both of them some good," Logan answered, setting the painting under a lighted easel. "She's used to people fawning all over her and giving her exactly what she wants. She has me and my in-laws wrapped completely around her little finger. Her mother was more of the disciplinarian…"
Logan trailed off, busying himself with setting the painting up. Sydney heard a hitch in his voice, and she couldn't help but wonder where the mother was now.
"I can't tell you how much I appreciate you and Julian letting me do this for you," Logan said. "I've been wanting to repay him somehow, and at least with this I can do something useful."
"If you don't mind me asking," Sydney said, cautiously. "Is this really worth doing for you? Whatever he gave you, it can't be worth this."
"I'd do anything he asked," Logan said seriously, glancing down the hallway to where Sark sat with Maddy. "Julian helped me at a very dark time. This is the least I can do for him."
Sydney didn't answer, not wanting to intrude on whatever emotions he was obviously struggling with at the moment. After a few seconds of silence, Logan continued.
"My wife quit her teaching job after Maddy was born. I was doing well selling my paintings at the time, and we lived very comfortably. About a year and a half ago, Jean, my wife, was diagnosed with leukemia. My insurance didn't cover her medical expenses and we started paying out of pocket for everything and soon, there was nothing left. I had nowhere to go and soon I started asking friends and family for money. Some were very kind, but even the kindest people can't give the kind of money I needed. I hadn't seen Julian in years but I remembered he was well off. I called him up and within a few weeks he got back to me. He gave me 3 million dollars, Sydney. Who does that?"
"Someone who has that money to spare," Sydney replied honestly. "Someone who is looking for something in return."
"No," Logan said fiercely. "He never asked for anything. In the end, after Jean had passed, I tried to give the remainder of the money back and promised to pay back what I had used. He flat out refused, said he didn't want my money. I told him I'd do anything he wanted, all he had to do was ask. I hadn't heard from him since then, until yesterday."
"He didn't want anything in return?" Sydney asked, surprise evident in her voice. This didn't make any sense. Julian Sark did not give charity. He did not give money to dying mothers, especially not to get anything in return. But in the end, he was getting something in return, and Sydney felt he had fulfilled her expectation of him. That he was the consummate business man, biding his time until he could get what he wanted.
"No, he didn't. And I'm glad I could finally repay him," Logan said, smiling. Sydney looked around at the man's beautiful paintings, at his beautiful daughter, and was envious. She wanted this kind of life, with a man like Logan, with a daughter like Maddy. Suddenly it seemed like too much, and Sydney needed to get out of the house.
"We should probably get going," Sydney muttered, sweeping from the room. Logan nodded sympathetically, and they went to retrieve Sark.
"So, if the train conductor had a good business sense," Sark said to Maddy seriously, who was listening attentively to his words. "He would conduct a hostile takeover of the other train yards and create a monopoly, therefore increasing his prophet margin."
Maddy looked up at her father, who had just entered the room.
"Daddy, what's a hostile takeover?"
"Wow, I think we really need to go," Sydney said quickly, issuing Sark a dirty look. Sark shrugged and lifted himself off the floor.
"Bell, it was nice seeing you again," Sark said, shaking the man's hand.
"The pleasure was all mine," Logan said sincerely. "The painting won't take too long; I'll call you when it's ready." He turned to Sydney.
"Sydney, I hope we meet again."
Sydney smiled. "Me too." Impulsively, she hugged him.
"Try not to be so hard on him," Logan whispered in her ear. "You'll find he's not all bad."
Sydney was immediately taken back, but quickly put a half-hearted smile on her face. If this man thought he knew who Sark truly was, more so than she, he was mistaken. He might be complex, or complicated, but "not all bad" was a lofty adjective to live up to. But she didn't want to be rude, and simply nodded.
"It was very nice meeting you, Maddy," Sydney said, stooping down to the girl's level. The girl smiled and then looked immediately to Sark.
"Madeline," Sark said professionally. "You're not a completely annoying child. Keep that up."
"Okay," the girl said happily. "When are you coming back to play again?"
"I will check my busy schedule and get back to you," Sark said, turning to Sydney. "Ready to go?"
She nodded, and the two of them left the delightful father and daughter behind. The wind had picked up, and Sydney pulled up the collar of her jacket around her neck.
"That was a bit surreal," she commented honestly.
"You don't have to tell me that," Sark replied.
"I thought that little girl was going to eat you alive," Sydney said, smiling.
"I held my own," Sark said, casting a sidelong smirk at Sydney. A smile touched Sydney's lips and she quickly looked away. And they walked down the scenic windswept path, each privately and enjoying the easy company of the other.
Playing the part of Sark's possible friend Logan Bell is Wentworth Miller. Oh, there is nothing I wouldn't do to this man. If I had to pick between Wentworth Miller and David Anders, it would be a tough decision for yours truely. Bask in his hotness. Bask, I say!