*******
Yes, I am I hope you think you read me, Hope I start talking crazy, before you understand me. Are we through? You think that I'm beneath you But you like the things that I do wrap'em up and take them with you.
--Matchbox 20
********
Feeling uncomfortable was not something Sark was used to. Sydney was seriously bugging him. He hated her right now, for being so uncharacteristic. Why didn't she just throw him overboard? He wouldn't have hated her for that, for making his miserable excuse for a life disappear. A shiver ran through him.
It might just disappear yet, he though optimistically.
Sydney was looking at him. He wasn't sure if it was because she was actually expecting conversation, or because of the simple fact that there wasn't anywhere else TO look. This was what was making him so uncomfortable. No room to think without being noticed. No place to look other than at Sydney. Not to mention the fact that that avalanche had pretty much wiped away his external pretense.
Now she wouldn't even let him go to sleep. God, he hated her.
"We don't have lighthearted exchanges, Miss Bristow. We don't chat." Say it in the simplest terms. Still too hard to talk. He hated his voice. It kept faltering. He hated being weak, especially when someone else was present. Bloody hell, I hate everything, he thought.
Sydney was laughing at him cynically, but then suddenly her laughter lapsed into coughs. She turned her head away. He could feel her body tense and relax, tense and relax, until the hacking subsided.
"Do you honestly think I want to engage in some witty repartee with you? Forgive me for trying to keep you alive. Next time I'll just let you freeze to death." It was hard to tell when she was speaking without the aide of breath, but Sark was pretty sure that if she had had the energy she would have been spitting those words in his face.
What is wrong with me? Sark wondered. A couple of years ago he would have been laughing in Syd's face, striking up conversation specifically designed to push her buttons. He had grown tired of the game, something he never thought would happen. He used to mock human emotion, now he just shunned it.
He could tell that Syd was beginning to shut it all out too. This was the first time he had seen her in at least two years, and he was taken aback by her sarcasm. The Syd he had known had never been sarcastic, had always taken the risks despite the fact that it endangered her friends and family. The Syd he had known had a constant spark in her eyes. Now he could see that the fire was still there, but it had recessed, for fear of being washed away once more by tears. You had to look deep to see it now, past the veneer . . . . . . . .
"What are you looking at?" Sydney asked hoarsely, then turning away. Finding it impossible, she turned back towards him and just settled with staring defiantly at him.
Sark started to laugh, but found it much too painful under the present conditions. At least his body had warmed up a little bit. Syd had always been incredibly resourceful, albeit a little naïve.
"Nothing, Sydney." Sark swore inwardly. He was slipping, calling her by her first name. Nobody in his life earned that right. He cursed his own fatigue for making him not think straight. How he just longed to sleep.
"Do you have a watch on?" he asked her, wondering how much time was left before the chair opened again. He needed to get out soon, before he fell asleep, or went mad, or both.
Sydney gave him a look. What a random question. She wiggled, trying to get her hand free from the jackets they were wrapped in. Wiggled too far, she realized, as they slipped off the bench and landed with a thud on the floor of the compartment, with Sydney on top.
This is going to be a problem, Sark realized, Syd's face inches away from his own.
Her hair cascaded around her, brushing his face. She was so close that he could feel her breath. Sark closed his eyes for a moment, pretending to be in pain. What he really needed was an excuse not to lean in. Damn this stupid concussion. It was screwing up his thought patterns.
Sydney ignored him, and wiggled one last time, freeing her hand. Sark was surprised to find he was hardly in pain at all, considering Sydney had just fallen on top of him. It is amazing that a person so lethal can be so light, he thought. He looked up again. Sydney was leaning away from his face (thank God) and checking the glowing numbers on her digital watch. The fluorescent glow projected on her, bathing her face in a greenish light. Oddly attractive, thought Sark. No, NO! Bloody concussion . . . . . . . . . .
"It's one-thirty" said Sydney, a little winded. "You warmed up any? This is a little awkward for movement."
That's not all that's awkward, Sark thought.
"Yes." he said. He was definitely warm enough. A little break would be nice.
"Okay." Sydney wriggled around on top of him again, freeing her other arm. Sark realized with sinking thoughts that the jackets' zipper was underneath, behind his back. This was getting very awkward indeed.
"On the count of three, you're gonna have to roll over on top of me." Syd seemed to have come to the same conclusion. "One, two, . . . . . Three!"
Sark grunted and rolled. The impact shoved his head forward, and for one fleeting second, his lips brushed hers, leaving a tingling sensation where they had been. Sydney seemed to have not noticed. Bloody Hell, this is awful.
Sydney wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and bent her head into the crook of his neck, searching for the zipper behind his back. There was her hair again, brushing against his lips. He could smell her strawberry shampoo. Stop, STOP, he thought. He needed sleep. Something to clear his head.
"Almost got it . . . ." she said in deep concentration. There seemed to be a frantic edge to her voice.
Finally, after what seemed like days, he felt Sydney's hand slide down his spine, guiding the zipper.
"Out." she said in a soft voice. Sark rolled off of her and onto the floor beside her. Attempting to stand up at this point would just cause him to stumble, and he did not want to ruffle his smooth appearance more than he already had.
They lay there silent, side by side, for a long time. Sark sat there listening to Sydney's breath rise and fall. Rise and fall. It was incredibly comforting. He could feel the world growing dimmer, softer. Rise and fall.
The down jacket his head was resting on became lighter and lighter. Rise and fall. Such a wonderful pattern . . . . such warmth.
"Sark?!" he could hear Sydney's voice in the distance, but it was such a long ways to come back.
"Sark! Wake up." The ground was shaking. Or was it him?
A sharp sting on his cheek sent him reeling back to reality. Sydney had slapped him.
"Sorry," he said groggily, forcing his upper body into sitting position. He winced in pain, and leaned up against the wall of the compartment. Sydney followed suit, and sat with her arm almost touching his. To Sark, the space between seemed to be too little and too much at the same time.
"I don't care what you do, but you need to find a way to stay awake." Sydney said matter-of-factly. How could she be so devoid of emotion? Isn't that my job? Sark thought.
But Sydney was right. Maybe talking wasn't a completely impossible option. It would keep his mind off . . . . . . .. . . . . . . other things.
"How is everyone back in LA?" he asked, unsure of how to instigate trivial chatter. Normally the only words he ever spoke to Sydney were "Keep your hands in the air and slide the Rambaldi artifact across the floor." Or something along those lines. Either that or he mocked her.
"Fine." she said ambiguously, not helping his cause.
"How's Francie doing? She still in the dark?" He could still have fun mocking her.
"Joined the Witness Protection Program six months ago." She said, with much less emotion than should have been present. Sark raised his eyebrows.
"And Will?"
"Requested CIA transfer to Virginia after being abducted and tortured a second time through. The further he stays away from me, the safer he'll be. Same with Francie. And Vaughn for that matter."
"Oh yes, how is your precious handler?"
"Was shipped off to France." Sark didn't need to ask why. The meaning was clear.
"You seem slightly less than perturbed about these events." he said, stating the obvious.
"I got over it." Her voice contained a distant, emotionless quality to it that Sark knew all too well. A pause as Sark absorbed the information, the undoing of Sydney Bristow stated in her own simple terms.
"Jesus, Sydney, what happened to you?" Slipping up again, Dammit.
"What do you mean?" now her voice became edged with irritation, screaming the underlying message of, "Don't ask."
"Why don't you stop taking physical risks and take an emotional risk for a change?" He turned to face her head on. Syd sat up in anger.
"Look, I've learned from my mistakes. That's what efficient people do." she spat. "I could ask the same about you, Sark. Do you have a life outside of espionage? Do you even have a fucking emotional bone in your body??" Syd moved closer, glaring at him, staring him down.
"That is none of your business, Sydney Bristow." he said, face icing over.
"Why don't you start fixing your own life before you try fixing mine?!" She glared at him, inches away now.
"Why don't you quit believing the bullshit that all your superiors are telling you about patriotism and see the real reason behind all this fighting for power?!" Sark shouted.
"I told you I learn from my mistakes! I don't trust anyone anymore!" Her eyes welled up in anger.
"Then why are you here??" Sark argued, firmly. Sydney looked down.
"I don't know." she said softly. A tear crystallized on her cheek. "I guess there's just no place left for me to go."
Sydney looked up, her eyes wide, wet, and beautiful. Sark couldn't help himself. He leaned it, closing the everythingnothing gap between them, grabbed her head in his hands and kissed her.
Yes, I am I hope you think you read me, Hope I start talking crazy, before you understand me. Are we through? You think that I'm beneath you But you like the things that I do wrap'em up and take them with you.
--Matchbox 20
********
Feeling uncomfortable was not something Sark was used to. Sydney was seriously bugging him. He hated her right now, for being so uncharacteristic. Why didn't she just throw him overboard? He wouldn't have hated her for that, for making his miserable excuse for a life disappear. A shiver ran through him.
It might just disappear yet, he though optimistically.
Sydney was looking at him. He wasn't sure if it was because she was actually expecting conversation, or because of the simple fact that there wasn't anywhere else TO look. This was what was making him so uncomfortable. No room to think without being noticed. No place to look other than at Sydney. Not to mention the fact that that avalanche had pretty much wiped away his external pretense.
Now she wouldn't even let him go to sleep. God, he hated her.
"We don't have lighthearted exchanges, Miss Bristow. We don't chat." Say it in the simplest terms. Still too hard to talk. He hated his voice. It kept faltering. He hated being weak, especially when someone else was present. Bloody hell, I hate everything, he thought.
Sydney was laughing at him cynically, but then suddenly her laughter lapsed into coughs. She turned her head away. He could feel her body tense and relax, tense and relax, until the hacking subsided.
"Do you honestly think I want to engage in some witty repartee with you? Forgive me for trying to keep you alive. Next time I'll just let you freeze to death." It was hard to tell when she was speaking without the aide of breath, but Sark was pretty sure that if she had had the energy she would have been spitting those words in his face.
What is wrong with me? Sark wondered. A couple of years ago he would have been laughing in Syd's face, striking up conversation specifically designed to push her buttons. He had grown tired of the game, something he never thought would happen. He used to mock human emotion, now he just shunned it.
He could tell that Syd was beginning to shut it all out too. This was the first time he had seen her in at least two years, and he was taken aback by her sarcasm. The Syd he had known had never been sarcastic, had always taken the risks despite the fact that it endangered her friends and family. The Syd he had known had a constant spark in her eyes. Now he could see that the fire was still there, but it had recessed, for fear of being washed away once more by tears. You had to look deep to see it now, past the veneer . . . . . . . .
"What are you looking at?" Sydney asked hoarsely, then turning away. Finding it impossible, she turned back towards him and just settled with staring defiantly at him.
Sark started to laugh, but found it much too painful under the present conditions. At least his body had warmed up a little bit. Syd had always been incredibly resourceful, albeit a little naïve.
"Nothing, Sydney." Sark swore inwardly. He was slipping, calling her by her first name. Nobody in his life earned that right. He cursed his own fatigue for making him not think straight. How he just longed to sleep.
"Do you have a watch on?" he asked her, wondering how much time was left before the chair opened again. He needed to get out soon, before he fell asleep, or went mad, or both.
Sydney gave him a look. What a random question. She wiggled, trying to get her hand free from the jackets they were wrapped in. Wiggled too far, she realized, as they slipped off the bench and landed with a thud on the floor of the compartment, with Sydney on top.
This is going to be a problem, Sark realized, Syd's face inches away from his own.
Her hair cascaded around her, brushing his face. She was so close that he could feel her breath. Sark closed his eyes for a moment, pretending to be in pain. What he really needed was an excuse not to lean in. Damn this stupid concussion. It was screwing up his thought patterns.
Sydney ignored him, and wiggled one last time, freeing her hand. Sark was surprised to find he was hardly in pain at all, considering Sydney had just fallen on top of him. It is amazing that a person so lethal can be so light, he thought. He looked up again. Sydney was leaning away from his face (thank God) and checking the glowing numbers on her digital watch. The fluorescent glow projected on her, bathing her face in a greenish light. Oddly attractive, thought Sark. No, NO! Bloody concussion . . . . . . . . . .
"It's one-thirty" said Sydney, a little winded. "You warmed up any? This is a little awkward for movement."
That's not all that's awkward, Sark thought.
"Yes." he said. He was definitely warm enough. A little break would be nice.
"Okay." Sydney wriggled around on top of him again, freeing her other arm. Sark realized with sinking thoughts that the jackets' zipper was underneath, behind his back. This was getting very awkward indeed.
"On the count of three, you're gonna have to roll over on top of me." Syd seemed to have come to the same conclusion. "One, two, . . . . . Three!"
Sark grunted and rolled. The impact shoved his head forward, and for one fleeting second, his lips brushed hers, leaving a tingling sensation where they had been. Sydney seemed to have not noticed. Bloody Hell, this is awful.
Sydney wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and bent her head into the crook of his neck, searching for the zipper behind his back. There was her hair again, brushing against his lips. He could smell her strawberry shampoo. Stop, STOP, he thought. He needed sleep. Something to clear his head.
"Almost got it . . . ." she said in deep concentration. There seemed to be a frantic edge to her voice.
Finally, after what seemed like days, he felt Sydney's hand slide down his spine, guiding the zipper.
"Out." she said in a soft voice. Sark rolled off of her and onto the floor beside her. Attempting to stand up at this point would just cause him to stumble, and he did not want to ruffle his smooth appearance more than he already had.
They lay there silent, side by side, for a long time. Sark sat there listening to Sydney's breath rise and fall. Rise and fall. It was incredibly comforting. He could feel the world growing dimmer, softer. Rise and fall.
The down jacket his head was resting on became lighter and lighter. Rise and fall. Such a wonderful pattern . . . . such warmth.
"Sark?!" he could hear Sydney's voice in the distance, but it was such a long ways to come back.
"Sark! Wake up." The ground was shaking. Or was it him?
A sharp sting on his cheek sent him reeling back to reality. Sydney had slapped him.
"Sorry," he said groggily, forcing his upper body into sitting position. He winced in pain, and leaned up against the wall of the compartment. Sydney followed suit, and sat with her arm almost touching his. To Sark, the space between seemed to be too little and too much at the same time.
"I don't care what you do, but you need to find a way to stay awake." Sydney said matter-of-factly. How could she be so devoid of emotion? Isn't that my job? Sark thought.
But Sydney was right. Maybe talking wasn't a completely impossible option. It would keep his mind off . . . . . . .. . . . . . . other things.
"How is everyone back in LA?" he asked, unsure of how to instigate trivial chatter. Normally the only words he ever spoke to Sydney were "Keep your hands in the air and slide the Rambaldi artifact across the floor." Or something along those lines. Either that or he mocked her.
"Fine." she said ambiguously, not helping his cause.
"How's Francie doing? She still in the dark?" He could still have fun mocking her.
"Joined the Witness Protection Program six months ago." She said, with much less emotion than should have been present. Sark raised his eyebrows.
"And Will?"
"Requested CIA transfer to Virginia after being abducted and tortured a second time through. The further he stays away from me, the safer he'll be. Same with Francie. And Vaughn for that matter."
"Oh yes, how is your precious handler?"
"Was shipped off to France." Sark didn't need to ask why. The meaning was clear.
"You seem slightly less than perturbed about these events." he said, stating the obvious.
"I got over it." Her voice contained a distant, emotionless quality to it that Sark knew all too well. A pause as Sark absorbed the information, the undoing of Sydney Bristow stated in her own simple terms.
"Jesus, Sydney, what happened to you?" Slipping up again, Dammit.
"What do you mean?" now her voice became edged with irritation, screaming the underlying message of, "Don't ask."
"Why don't you stop taking physical risks and take an emotional risk for a change?" He turned to face her head on. Syd sat up in anger.
"Look, I've learned from my mistakes. That's what efficient people do." she spat. "I could ask the same about you, Sark. Do you have a life outside of espionage? Do you even have a fucking emotional bone in your body??" Syd moved closer, glaring at him, staring him down.
"That is none of your business, Sydney Bristow." he said, face icing over.
"Why don't you start fixing your own life before you try fixing mine?!" She glared at him, inches away now.
"Why don't you quit believing the bullshit that all your superiors are telling you about patriotism and see the real reason behind all this fighting for power?!" Sark shouted.
"I told you I learn from my mistakes! I don't trust anyone anymore!" Her eyes welled up in anger.
"Then why are you here??" Sark argued, firmly. Sydney looked down.
"I don't know." she said softly. A tear crystallized on her cheek. "I guess there's just no place left for me to go."
Sydney looked up, her eyes wide, wet, and beautiful. Sark couldn't help himself. He leaned it, closing the everythingnothing gap between them, grabbed her head in his hands and kissed her.
