Disclaimer: Characters and source material relating to the ABC show Alias are the properties of their respective copyright holders. Everything else is the invention of the author.
Warning: Contains scenes of adult nature involving established fictional characters, which may or may not fit within the reader's preconception about said characters.
One Night Stand
By 0007
It was another day as usual at SD-6. Sark peered into the common work area through the one-way glass, hands behind his head and feet on the surprisingly uncluttered desk, observing with a wry smile all the people going about their work diligently in the service of their country, or so they thought. What he found even more amusing were the poor souls upstairs doubly deceived into believing they were just employees at a bank. He always got a kick out of visiting his office on the fourth floor, as Executive Assistant to the Chairman, part of the cover SD-6 gave him. At least he had a window there, offering a view of the sunny outdoors instead of the dreary tedium of everyday work--dangerous and secretive work, granted. Unfortunately necessity required him to spend most of his time here underground, though there had not been any new development in days. Even a clandestine organization bent on world-domination had slow days, he supposed. Besides that old fox Sloane probably would not be comfortable with letting him out of sight for too long. After almost a month he was still unsure of who was using whom in their uneasy arrangement.
The clock on his wall showed 9:15 AM, which meant one of the better parts of the day was at hand. Sark opened a desk drawer and took out a pair of small binoculars. Holding them up before his eyes he zeroed in on a far corner of the office floor with practiced ease.
Punctual as always Sydney was at her desk, savoring a cup of morning coffee and looking intently at some reports. She was dressed in one of those black pantsuits she wore all too frequently. Though he preferred dark colors himself on Sydney he always thought that it gave her a rather too severe look unbecoming of her youthful radiance. Her minimalist approach to makeup, unpainted nails and only a little lipstick at most, worked well with her natural beauty, but an occasional splash of color, in his opinion, would far better match that wonderfully long, brown hair.
Through the lenses Sark could see all the details of her expressive face, every arch of an eyebrow, every twitch of her nose, every nuance of happiness and worry that she thought no one would knew. He especially liked the way her face moved when she was in deep concentration, like now: the slight frown, the narrowed eyes, and the barely perceptible curls at the corners of those pouty, inviting lips, as if deciphering the greatest mystery novel. What he enjoyed even more were the indignant yet helpless look she shot him whenever he managed to get a rise out of her, as if he would wither away under those stares, which though often full of hate and distrust, had as of late began to include a glint of curiosity. What had withered, Sark feared, was his heart.
Suddenly Sydney put down whatever she was reading and looked down at her waist, presumably checking her pager. She said something to Dixon, at the desk across from hers, then got up and headed for the elevator. Probably going off to meet her CIA handler, Sark sighed. It was really all quite amazing how she and Jack were fooling Sloane every second of the day, while he could not take a dump without surveillance section knowing about it. Sloane even assigned him a new apartment just to keep a closer tab on him. The place was quite plush, not too far short of what he was used to, but it was getting to be too much of a pain having to make phone calls with the shower at full blast. Truth be told he did not absolutely have to be here. It was just that having SD-6's resources at his disposal helped to speed things along toward his own goals considerably. Plus there was the bonus opportunity of attempting to get under Sydney's skin every day, needless to mention. More than once he wondered what would Irina think about their association. For all he knew every move he was making could just be playing into her hand. The decision to strike out on his own was not easy, given how his crafty mentor would take to her prodigy's newfound independence, despite having apparently vanished off the face of the earth.
Rest of the day was no more eventful for Sark. He had a meeting with Sloane during which he managed not to have his loyalty called into question again, then an even more unpleasant one with Jack Bristow. He was thankful that Jack had hid his loathing for him in public far better than his daughter, up until now anyway. He recalled their conversation:
"I don't know what your true motives are for being here, nor do I have any proof of your continued association with Irina Derevko, but I guarantee you that whatever your plan may be, it will not succeed," Jack opened their first meeting alone rather bluntly.
"Mr. Bristow, I assure you that I am no longer working with your wife." He grimaced as soon as that came out of his mouth, though it was only the truth. In fact Irina had often joked about them being married still, on those rare occasions when she appeared to be approachable and affected an almost maternal attitude toward him. Still he didn't mean to provoke him so carelessly.
"As if anything you say can be trusted." Jack decided not to take the bait, looking away in disgust instead. "I'll be watching you, Sark, every move you make, and I'll kill you myself if you give even the appearance of trying to betray us in any way."
He couldn't help but chuckle at the threats. "You can hardly watch me any more closely. Mr. Sloane has that part covered completely already, I'm afraid."
Jack's face was unreadable, as trained people were often like when they were trying to conceal strong emotions. "I will also kill you if I find that you have any nefarious design on Sydney," he said, hissing the words out almost one at a time.
That got him to sit up a little straighter. "I have nothing but respect for your daughter, Mr. Bristow. Ever since we first crossed paths as enemies I've admired her abilities as a covert operative. Though you'll never believe me, in all honesty I am grateful for the chance to work in the field with someone of her caliber." There was almost no lie in what he just said--he could not even dream of what he and Sydney would be able to achieve, if they were partners free from the hold of SD-6 or the CIA or Irina, instead of mere pawns, a station he was determined to escape from--no lie except for that he was beginning to admire Sydney for more than just her capabilities as an agent.
Mercifully their conversation did not last much longer. What Jack thought did not matter too much in the long run, Sark felt. He had much more to lose if their arrangement came to an end. Keeping Sloane off his back was a far more pressing concern. It would also be nice if Sydney saw him as being more than just an opportunistic manipulator out for no one's good but his own, but for the foreseeable future he could see no expedient way to change her mind.
All that pondering about the current situation made him lose track of time. Night was beginning to fall and the offices were emptying out save for those standing the graveyard shift of the 24-hour watch. Sark got ready to leave and thought about how he could while away another evening in his, no pun intended, bug-infested apartment. As he approached the elevator someone stumbled out of its doors, and almost crashed into the opposing wall. It was Sydney.
First he thought she had been drugged, so wobbly was she walking toward him. Then as she fell against him his nose registered the strong smell of alcohol. Steadying her with his arms Sark examined her inebriated state. From her uneven breath he detected vodka as well as whiskey and beer, always a bad combination. He estimated that she probably drunk enough to put two people her size under. She was also thoroughly wet. Strands of damp hair were plastered against her reddened cheeks and large drops of water dripped down from her clothes, forming a small puddle at their feet. Her eyes looked unfocused when they fluttered open from time to time and her body seemed to have lost all sense of equilibrium.
"Da…daddy?" He heard her call out uncertainly, as he wondered about what to do, standing there holding a wet woman.
"He's not here. This is Sark. I am Sark," he told her as clearly as he could.
"Ta…ta…take me, to…to dad," Sydney said haltingly.
"I can't. I don't know where he is." Not to mention that there is no telling what Jack might do if he saw him with Sydney like this, before he even asked any questions, Sark thought. Some oxyphenolin from chemical section would do wonders for her condition, though she might sober up to a headache worse than a hangover. Plus he was not sure if others in the office should see her like this. Meanwhile Sydney continued to murmur about seeing Jack.
"Alright I'll take you to him, but first we've to get to my car." Sark had decided. He half-dragged, half-carried Sydney into the elevator. With the help of a very understanding Credit Dauphine night watchman, he managed to bring her to his car, a midnight blue BMW Z3. Wishing that it had a backseat, he helped Sydney into the passenger seat. Her head promptly fell onto his shoulder as soon as he got behind the wheel. He still detected the tantalizing smell of her hair despite the whiffs of alcohol.
"So where do you live?" Sark asked jokingly, though he suspected that she probably would not be able to tell him even if she wanted to, given her condition.
"I…I can…can't tell you. You, you know that, Sar…Sark," Sydney replied with a silly laugh. At least she seemed to know who he was finally.
"Well, I hope you won't mind my place then," he told her and pressed down on the gas pedal.
After several detours to make sure that they weren't being followed, Sark brought the car to a stop in an underground garage beneath a luxury high rise somewhere in the swanky Ocean View Condo Park. Sydney had passed out again and he was beginning to worry if the alcohol cost more damage than he anticipated. He could take her to a hospital, except that it would probably end up being more trouble than it was worth. He wished he had been briefed on SD-6's emergency medical facilities, but it looked like whatever he had in his apartment was going to have to do. Forgoing the elevator, he quickly carried an unconscious Sydney up half a dozen flights of stairs.
Sark finally got a chance to catch his breath when the door was locked and Sydney was lying on his living room couch. She suddenly looked so small and fragile, like a child. He wondered if she had to grow up as fast as he did. Covering her with a warm blanket, he rummaged through his cache of pharmaceuticals, most of which were not available even with a prescription.
Luckily he was well stocked. Within moments he coxed a few pills down Sydney's throat. They should take care of any alcohol poisoning and hopefully bring her out of her drunken stupor. Then he would give her something for the hangover, if she trusted him enough to take it. She probably wouldn't even drink his coffee, he thought darkly, putting the rest of the drugs down on the glass coffee table.
The pills had already taken effect. He could hear her breath returning to normal, and she looked to be just asleep. As he watched her prone form Sark wondered what made her drink so much. It was very unlike the Sydney he knew, who was expert at compartmentalizing her emotions as well as concealing them. People in their business could not afford to have a lack of self-control. Something in her personal life, perhaps? He had very few guesses. The last time he got drunk--and not nearly as much--was right after Irina's disappearance. He had been so afraid that she had betrayed him. Of course he held no illusions about Irina's perceived trust in him; she taught him far better than to make mistakes like that. The shock came from the unexpected timing of it, just as when they were beginning to make progress on the Rambaldi mysteries. When he sobered up he knew that he had to seize the chance, and position himself to make the most out of the power vacuum. Maybe Sydney too will see the world differently when she wakes up, he told himself wistfully, see me differently.
The ring of his cell phone brought him out of his musings. Only a handful of people knew this number, and none of them ever called him for pleasant reasons. "Sark," he answered reluctantly, keeping his voice down.
"Have you seen Sydney?" Arvin Sloane's voice came through the line. It was going to be worse than he expected. Out of sheer caution Sark decided to take the call in the bedroom. His bugkillers were good but they would not prevent Sydney from overhearing.
To lie or not to lie, that was the question. "No. Why?" he decided quickly.
"I had comm section page her half an hour ago, and she hasn't reported in."
"I assume you contacted Jack Bristow already?"
"He's not available at this time." Sloane did not elaborate.
"Well Mr. Sloane, you know as well as I that I'm the last person she'd want to be with, and I assure you I have not kidnapped your star agent," he quipped.
For a few seconds there was silence on the other end. "Sark, believe me when I say that I very much look forward for a chance to show you just how much I appreciate your sense of humor," Sloane snapped and hung up.
So apparently Sydney got drunk enough to forget an appointment with Sloane. This was getting serious indeed. Thinking how he could best extract himself from this mess, Sark came back to the living room. Sydney was still sound asleep, despite the trickle of rain water that run down the side of the white leather cushions. Mentally Sark slapped himself on the forehead: he forgot to do something about those wet clothes. He pulled aside the now wet blanket and gently helped her out of the jacket, then the sweater under it from which he squeezed out water like a wet towel. The pants came off next. Beneath it all she had on simple but tasteful white bra and panties with pink floral prints. He thought better of taking those off, since he had none to replace them. He then began to towel off her body as best as he could, first her well-toned arms, followed by her slender neck and the ivory-smooth expanse of her torso, her firm and flat abdomen, her lithe hips and well-formed thighs, all the way down to her slender calves and feet. Suddenly Sark felt the need for a drink himself. Wrapping Sydney up in a terrycloth bathrobe, he went to the bar, the only part of the kitchen he used with any regularity. Finding a half-bottle of scotch he poured himself a mouthful on rocks and downed it in one gulp. He set the bottle down on the coffee table and sunk into a black leather incliner next to the couch.
What he really needed was a shower. The stench of alcohol was all over him. Yes, a long, cold shower. Sark willed himself to his feet and headed for the bathroom, his mind clouded with conflicting thoughts, which he hoped to exorcise under the invigorating splash of cold water.
Twenty minutes later, as he stepped out of the shower stall and wrapped a towel around himself, he still wasn't sure what to do. For all he knew Sydney might stab him with a knife when she regained her senses. Occupied by these thoughts he was caught completely by surprise when he returned to the living room: instead of sleeping, Sydney was sitting upright on the couch, her legs under her, sobbing softly into the palm of one hand and clutching the bottle of scotch, which by now was almost gone, with the other.
"What are you doing? Drinking yourself to death?!" putting off the pleasantries Sark snatched the bottle away from her. That unexpectedly made Sydney laugh.
"Heyyy…that was go…good…you got…any more?"
"Stop it, Sydney. Get a hold of yourself." He grabbed her shoulders and shook her lightly.
"I…I'm just…just fine…I just need…a drink," she stuttered, then started to cry again.
The pills obviously worked, since she was awake. But then what was with the psychotic behavior? It was not a known side effect of what he gave her. Sark looked down at the scattered bottles on the coffee table, and saw a small bottle of synoflorone amongst all the drugs he brought out. It was commonly used in interrogations to loosen the subject's inhibition. With a sinking feeling he realized that the bottle was half-empty. The dose was not life threatening, but for the next hour or so Sydney was not going to make any sense. Just what he needed.
Sydney now put her arms around his neck. Not knowing what else to do he rubbed her back gently, telling her that it was going to be okay, as if placating a child. He held her that way, as she alternated between sobs and laughter.
"Did you know…the vial of antidote…I tried to steal…" She was trying to tell him something, as her head rested on his shoulder.
"Yeah, it was a fair trade, at least I thought at the time," he humored her.
"Do you know…do you know why I stole it?"
"Well, you didn't exactly steal it…"
"It was to save someone's life…" Sydney didn't seem to hear him, but continued to speak, now that the sobbing and laughing had subsided. She didn't let go of him either. "…Someone that meant a lot to me."
"Very nice of you."
"He got married today," she told him, sounding as if she did not believe it herself.
"With whom?" Now this was getting interesting.
"Does it matter?" She trembled in his arms, fighting back tears. "I knew…I knew what it meant for us. I always did. But I still could not take it…this is not my life…it's like a dream."
"It is a dream," he whispered in her ear. "One day you'll wake up from it."
"He was always so nice to me…he saved my life too…we were a good team…I had been alone for so long. I could not help but get caught up in an impossible dream."
"You shouldn't dream, Sydney," he tried to tell her, in all sincerity. "They hurt too much when they die, especially for people like us."
"You don't know what it's like, to love someone, knowing that it could never be…" He felt something wet and warm on his shoulder. "Knowing that it could only end in pain…"
Gently he lifted her chin, wiping a streak of tears off her cheek with a finger. "You're wrong Sydney. I do know what it's like."
"Do you, Sark?" He found her eyes looking into his, with something in them that he had never experienced before. "Do you really? Do you have an heart after all?"
"Everyone does, Sydney. I just keep mine close to myself." He refrained from advising her to do the same.
"Why? Don't you get lonely?" Somehow her face was drawing closer.
"Um…I manage…Mmmm…" Before he could think of something better to say she covered his lips with hers. Then her hands were in his hair, behind his neck, pulling him in.
"I want to know, Sark…I want to feel your heart. I want to see if it's black as coal or not," she whispered to him between kisses.
Her lips felt so soft and warm, almost hot to his skin, and wet…wait, that was her tongue, which he captured lightly between his teeth. Things had certainly taken a most unexpected turn. He felt a brief pang of guilt, because he knew that the synoflorone was playing a large part of this, yet how could he push her away?
"Sydney, perhaps we shouldn't," he tried to tell her, though it was increasingly difficult to speak. In any case she didn't appear to be listening. She pushed him back onto the couch, and then fell on top of him.
"Tell me you want me, Sark," she said, almost begging, her nails digging into his arm. "I've seen the way you look at me." She rained kisses down on his chin, his neck and chest, leaving a warm and sticky trail of tears mixed with saliva.
"I…I do Sydney," he said, his options dwindling fast. His hands had began to move on their own, caressing her bare back with a newfound urgency. He yelped when her hand found its way between his legs and gave him an unexpected squeeze. That helped to make up his mind.
Taking control, Sark grabbed hold of Sydney's arms, pining them to her sides and then rolled on top of her, so that he looked down at her face, breathless with anticipation. It reminded him of Irina's, more than ever, and he was suddenly afraid, but it was a fear that excited him. He bent down and tore her bra off with his teeth. Her breasts were in perfect proportion with her lithe frame, rounded and taut and not too large, tipped with neat pink nipples, which he brought to full rigidity with his tongue. With his hands he explored the rest of her body, directed by the moans escaping from her throat.
Kissing his way down her body slowly, he arrived at the center of her womanhood. One pull of his hand ripped away the panties, then he could taste her, the heady aroma which was only hinted at by the wonderful smell of her hair or the delicious sweetness of her lips. He licked and bit and thrust his tongue within, urged on by her groans of satisfaction and the pull of her fingers on his hair.
Soon the fire in his loins was burning too hot to be quelled by the taste and smell of her alone. He needed to feel himself inside her; her body needed to become an extension of his. In her soft, deft hands his manhood became painfully erect--he could not remember the last time he had sex…no, made love. With that all-consuming urgency he entered her. It was his turn to make animal-like sounds, for she felt so tight and smooth and endlessly receptive. Her hips rose and fell, timed to the thrust of his, so that they could feel the most of each other. He watched her face, seeing it mirror the release of his own longings and reflect a thousand dreams and promises of the future—suddenly not quite so hopeless as he had envisioned--and becoming almost too beautiful for him to bear. It was a moment etched forever in his mind, as seconds seemingly turned into eternity.
Alas it was not possible to sustain that kind of epiphany for long. God is too cruel to allow him but a small measure of that ultimate fulfillment, that primal happiness untainted by the complexities of life's lesser pursuits. Every muscle in his lower body tightened into a snare, and try as he might he could not hold back. With a hard cry he came, which was met by hers, only louder, as her body convulsed under his, bent to the culmination of their shared desires. He held on to her tightly as their bodies shook, his head buried between her breasts until the resounding beat of her trembling heart quieted down, along with the fire in him which consumed its last fuel in a few more mechanical thrusts.
Neither of them said anything afterwards, as they lay their, luxuriating in the sweet exhaustion of their muscles and the delicious aches in their limbs. Holding her tightly still, he smiled, from the heart, for the first time in a long, long while. Whatever he had to deal with, whatever was to come, could not take away this feeling of content and serenity he had at that moment. The smile lingered there on the corner of his mouth as they both fell asleep.
The next morning Sark left his apartment bright and early, in a taxi. He left the key to his BMW on the pillow next to Sydney. He had been in his office for just over an hour when she stormed in, without knocking. The door slammed shut behind her.
"Sydney…"
"Stop, please. I know what you're going to say." She cut him off. "Whatever happened last night, stays there. I don't know what I did, or what you did to me, but it won't happen again. And if you think that it meant anything, anything at all, you'll be dead wrong. I don't despise you any less than the day we met," she said harshly, looking as if she could hardly stand his presence. "I won't tell anyone if you keep your mouth shut."
"'Good morning,' I was only going to say," he said pleasantly, beaming at her, which made her angrier--which only made his smile broader.
"Yes, good morning," after a moment she replied, recomposing herself, determined not to let him get the better of her. "You must never tell anyone, Sark. I'm not kidding," she added, knowing that he probably didn't care if anyone found out.
"I don't kiss and tell, Sydney, as you know from our existing arrangement," he managed to say without a smirk. "As far as I'm concerned I was home alone last night."
His agreeable attitude seemed to throw her off. For a long time she just stared at him, with disgust and all those emotions she usually associated with him. Finally her eyes softened, and when she spoke her voice carried a hint of gratitude, even if she could not bring herself to say thank you. "Good, that's exactly what I want to hear." She turned to leave."
"Sydney," he stopped her, "Do you have a cover story for Sloane? I'll be glad to assist you if you need my corroboration."
"That won't be necessary," she told him without looking back as she stepped out of the door.
Hands behind his head, Sark leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. He watched Sydney make her way through the bustling work area, smiling to himself as he recalled the unlikely events of the night before. Looks like his stay at SD-6 might get more interesting after all.
The End
Author's Note: I wrote this on lark in one day, so don't take it too seriously. I only hope that it's not painful to read.