An hour before the ski lifts officially opened again, Syd and Sark sat on
the floor of the compartment, facing each other, shooting questions back
and forth. The tears had ceased, and in their place, Sydney felt a warm
light that she thought had dimmed long ago.
Syd wasn't even sure if the lift would open on time anyways, it depended on how much damage the avalanche had inflicted, she supposed.
"Favorite movie?" Sark asked.
"Amelie." she said, smiling. Sark gave her a quizzical look. "Well, it's just so idealistic and beautiful. Like, the way the world should be."
"Complete with innocent heroes finding sanctuary in porn shops?" Sark said, smirking.
"Of course." Syd said, her grin widening to match Sark's. She had never imagined she'd be having a light conversation with the likes of him. But somehow, it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. Sark leaned in mischievously, glancing at her with raised eyebrows, in what Sydney took to be a perfect impression of Puck. Startlingly un-Sarkish.
"How many couples are having orgasms right now??" he whispered.
"Fifteen!" she whispered back, in a high, chirpy impression of Audrey Tautou. They burst out in laughter.
"I'll admit, that movie wasn't bad." he said after the laughter subsided, shrugging his shoulders.
"And what would you presume to be the best movie ever?"
"The Godfather series, of course."
"I should have guessed."
Syd shook her head, smiling. Typical.
"Hidden talents, other than killing people?" she asked.
"Isn't that enough?"
"C'mon, Sark."
"Fine. I will tell you this much: I have never lost a poker game."
"Again, highly predictable."
"Well then, Miss Bristow, since my answers are oh-so-unsatisfactory, what are your hidden talents? And you can't use singing, I've already heard that one."
"Well, I'm not sure if I have a talent for it, but I REALLY like photography." Sark was sure that she DID have talent. One thing he had learned form working with Sydney Bristow was, she mastered anything she attempted. Not everyone could beat him in a duel with latajangs.
"I haven't done much of it lately though, since the CIA inquiry where they accused me of taking blackmail pictures against the government." Sark remembered hearing about that. Funny how they had completely trusted Haladki, but they were constantly suspicious of the stubbornly-patriotic Sydney Bristow.
"Please tell me that you've learned enough from this conversation to quit your job as soon as you get back." He sounded so much like Will there, it was uncanny, Syd thought. A sharp-sting pang in her gut. Will.
"It's not that simple and you know it. They don't let you just 'walk out' when you've been privy to as much classified information as I have. Plus, there is literally nothing else for me TO do. We've been over this. I have nowhere to go."
"You could always-" Sark hushed the words before they could bubble up any farther in his throat. Sydney looked at him, expectant.
"What?" she asked.
"Never mind." Syd could hear the weight in his words, and wisely chose not to press the subject.
"I have one," he said, breaking the silence.
"What CD is playing in your car right now?"
"Easy. Soundtrack to Chicago."
Sark tilted his head and raised his eyebrows in a look of consideration.
"Not bad at all."
"And what does the Psycho-Assassin-Spy listen to on his way home from work?"
"Why, what every Psycho-Assassin-Spy has: Gershwin." Sydney closed her eyes as a clarinet from Rhapsody in Blue smoothly slinked up the scale, and trembled down again inside her head. It made her melt into a puddle every time she heard it.
"Perfect music for relaxation." Sark continued. Nowadays, relaxation only came in the form jazz. He watched Syd close her eyes and tune out the world. A hint of a smile appeared on her face, her lips turned upward in a sideways seductive grin. If Sark was guessing right by the facial expression, he would bet that she had tuned in to Rhapsody in Blue. Totally instrumental, and totally compelling.
After the song came to close in her head, Syd lazily opened her eyes. Sark was staring at her. Sydney blushed. She had retreated too far into her head.
"Sorry." she said. God, I sound like a schoolgirl.
"No, it was fascinating." It was unnerving to see Sark look so sincere.
"Ummm . . . . . . . . Favorite alcoholic beverage?" She said in a ditch effort to keep the tone light.
"Any REALLY good red wine. You?" Sark said, leaning back against the wall as he imagined the smooth husky taste gliding down his throat. Liquid comfort to go with the jazz.
"The same." Syd contemplated the endless times she had sat down on her couch with Francie with a glass, girl chats and crying sessions after hard missions. She stopped herself from thinking about how much she missed those days. Now the wine was gulped instead of savored, accompanied by a strangled expression to hold back pain, instead of the laughter that once emanated from her.
"In fact, I think that's the only thing in my cupboard right now. I go out so much, I don't even have food at the house." She continued, smiling.
"Me too." Sark said. "No, wait-I bought a box of Cheez-it's the other day. They go perfect with Cabernet."
Syd snorted and doubled over.
"You're joking!" she said, between spurts of laughter. "The smooth, dignified, cold-as-ice Mr. Sark has Cheez-it cravings?? Caviar yes, Cheez- its, no."
"I can see it now . . . . . . You're going to blackmail me into surrendering myself to the CIA, solely on the audacity of a Cheez-it addiction."
"God, I would kill for some junk food right now." Sydney said, her stomach rumbling.
"And Petreuse . . . ." Sark said, his eyes flaming with the temptation of it.
"And a REALLY good Baguette, with some oil and balsamic vinegar." Syd said, closing her eyes and bit her lip. "Oh yeah . . . . ."
"I think we had better quit." Sark said, stomach aching.
"I second that." Syd thought a moment.
"Okay, I've got a good one. When did you enter the espionage business?"
"Same as you. In college. Your mother's assistant at the time, Khasinau, came to me in my dorm one day." Sark had suddenly taken great interest in a rip in his shirt. Sydney didn't ask how he knew about her recruitment. It seemed to be that Sloane had had Sark tracing her for a long time. Surprisingly, she wasn't as angry as she should hav ebeen.
"Why did you take the job?" Syd asked, pressing.
"He said he had a way for me to regain control in my life."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know how long your mother had been considering me-long enough to know my family had died and I had no emotional ties. And most importantly- no money."
The conversation had taken a serious turn again.
"What were you studying in college?"
"Philosophy, ironically enough." Sydney grinned in surprise.
"Philosophy? You know that gets you absolutely nowhere in the real world."
"I didn't care" Sark said simply. "I liked it. I love Levien's theory of Existentialism-It is impossible to tell if anything is actual fact except for the fact that you exist. It helps with the guilt." Syd nodded. It was always best not to think about things in their job. The things they'd done.
"Do you get the headaches?" she asked.
"Yeah. And the dreams?" he asked. Syd nodded. The dreams were the worst. She had had them continually every single night, but she was never used to the waking up in a cold sweat, breathing hard, muscles tense. The faces, blank chalkboard faces of the people she'd killed, flashing through her head before she awoke. Some nights she would see just one person-Danny, her father, Noah . . . . . . . . . . But other nights they just flashed through her in succession, like a flip book. A Book of the Dead.
"Sark?" she asked, looking up at him.
"Yeah?"
"How did your parents die?" she wondered if he would even answer her.
"They were murdered. My baby sister too. Some protestor opened fire in the street. Northern Ireland's not the safest place to grow up, I guess." The seas were raging in his eyes once more. Syd took his hand and squeezed. She hadn't ever really thought of them as kindred spirits, but in a way Syd knew exactly what he was going through. The cold-always cold, that comes from suppressed emotions. The headaches.
Sark gazed silently down at the empty box, which had once held a dove.
"He said it would give me control, Sydney. But it never worked." It had only been the artifice of control. No more real than his expression.
"I know, Sark. I know." Though he still maintained the same hardened expression, Sydney could see the little boy lost inside his eyes. Lost amongst the storm. Lost like her, with nowhere to go.
Without thinking, Sydney began to lean forward, feeling his warm breath on her blue-tinged lips. Sark met her halfway, in a tender kiss that submerged Sydney into a smoothbeautifullyfolded world. It coated her insides with honey, and subdued her senses into one concentrated feeling. It had been so long since she had felt anything. He was probing inside her being.
Sark put a hand on her back and pulled her closer, and ran his fingers through her hair. He felt like he was on a strange drug, heightening his senses, but muffling his consciousness. So this is what life feels like.
The chairlift jolted, and started once again, jarring them apart. Sydney and Sark looked at each other, breathing hard. He still had an arm around her waist, Syd's senses electrified at the spot.
"Stay with me." he whispered, half questioning, half pleading.
"Okay." she whispered back, and he kissed her once more, hard, fingers massaging the back of her head, holding her. For once, she didn't need to know where she was going. She was content with where she was.
Thirty seconds later when the door opened, the two casually exited the compartment and began walking towards the lift tower, sans skis, sans coat, sans everything. Sydney smiled to see the lift operator gawking at them, in their ripped shirts and jeans, no shoes. He opened the door and beckoned them in, jabbering in Italian. Syd smiled at him, momentarily silencing him.
"Do you have any shoes we can borrow?"
Syd wasn't even sure if the lift would open on time anyways, it depended on how much damage the avalanche had inflicted, she supposed.
"Favorite movie?" Sark asked.
"Amelie." she said, smiling. Sark gave her a quizzical look. "Well, it's just so idealistic and beautiful. Like, the way the world should be."
"Complete with innocent heroes finding sanctuary in porn shops?" Sark said, smirking.
"Of course." Syd said, her grin widening to match Sark's. She had never imagined she'd be having a light conversation with the likes of him. But somehow, it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. Sark leaned in mischievously, glancing at her with raised eyebrows, in what Sydney took to be a perfect impression of Puck. Startlingly un-Sarkish.
"How many couples are having orgasms right now??" he whispered.
"Fifteen!" she whispered back, in a high, chirpy impression of Audrey Tautou. They burst out in laughter.
"I'll admit, that movie wasn't bad." he said after the laughter subsided, shrugging his shoulders.
"And what would you presume to be the best movie ever?"
"The Godfather series, of course."
"I should have guessed."
Syd shook her head, smiling. Typical.
"Hidden talents, other than killing people?" she asked.
"Isn't that enough?"
"C'mon, Sark."
"Fine. I will tell you this much: I have never lost a poker game."
"Again, highly predictable."
"Well then, Miss Bristow, since my answers are oh-so-unsatisfactory, what are your hidden talents? And you can't use singing, I've already heard that one."
"Well, I'm not sure if I have a talent for it, but I REALLY like photography." Sark was sure that she DID have talent. One thing he had learned form working with Sydney Bristow was, she mastered anything she attempted. Not everyone could beat him in a duel with latajangs.
"I haven't done much of it lately though, since the CIA inquiry where they accused me of taking blackmail pictures against the government." Sark remembered hearing about that. Funny how they had completely trusted Haladki, but they were constantly suspicious of the stubbornly-patriotic Sydney Bristow.
"Please tell me that you've learned enough from this conversation to quit your job as soon as you get back." He sounded so much like Will there, it was uncanny, Syd thought. A sharp-sting pang in her gut. Will.
"It's not that simple and you know it. They don't let you just 'walk out' when you've been privy to as much classified information as I have. Plus, there is literally nothing else for me TO do. We've been over this. I have nowhere to go."
"You could always-" Sark hushed the words before they could bubble up any farther in his throat. Sydney looked at him, expectant.
"What?" she asked.
"Never mind." Syd could hear the weight in his words, and wisely chose not to press the subject.
"I have one," he said, breaking the silence.
"What CD is playing in your car right now?"
"Easy. Soundtrack to Chicago."
Sark tilted his head and raised his eyebrows in a look of consideration.
"Not bad at all."
"And what does the Psycho-Assassin-Spy listen to on his way home from work?"
"Why, what every Psycho-Assassin-Spy has: Gershwin." Sydney closed her eyes as a clarinet from Rhapsody in Blue smoothly slinked up the scale, and trembled down again inside her head. It made her melt into a puddle every time she heard it.
"Perfect music for relaxation." Sark continued. Nowadays, relaxation only came in the form jazz. He watched Syd close her eyes and tune out the world. A hint of a smile appeared on her face, her lips turned upward in a sideways seductive grin. If Sark was guessing right by the facial expression, he would bet that she had tuned in to Rhapsody in Blue. Totally instrumental, and totally compelling.
After the song came to close in her head, Syd lazily opened her eyes. Sark was staring at her. Sydney blushed. She had retreated too far into her head.
"Sorry." she said. God, I sound like a schoolgirl.
"No, it was fascinating." It was unnerving to see Sark look so sincere.
"Ummm . . . . . . . . Favorite alcoholic beverage?" She said in a ditch effort to keep the tone light.
"Any REALLY good red wine. You?" Sark said, leaning back against the wall as he imagined the smooth husky taste gliding down his throat. Liquid comfort to go with the jazz.
"The same." Syd contemplated the endless times she had sat down on her couch with Francie with a glass, girl chats and crying sessions after hard missions. She stopped herself from thinking about how much she missed those days. Now the wine was gulped instead of savored, accompanied by a strangled expression to hold back pain, instead of the laughter that once emanated from her.
"In fact, I think that's the only thing in my cupboard right now. I go out so much, I don't even have food at the house." She continued, smiling.
"Me too." Sark said. "No, wait-I bought a box of Cheez-it's the other day. They go perfect with Cabernet."
Syd snorted and doubled over.
"You're joking!" she said, between spurts of laughter. "The smooth, dignified, cold-as-ice Mr. Sark has Cheez-it cravings?? Caviar yes, Cheez- its, no."
"I can see it now . . . . . . You're going to blackmail me into surrendering myself to the CIA, solely on the audacity of a Cheez-it addiction."
"God, I would kill for some junk food right now." Sydney said, her stomach rumbling.
"And Petreuse . . . ." Sark said, his eyes flaming with the temptation of it.
"And a REALLY good Baguette, with some oil and balsamic vinegar." Syd said, closing her eyes and bit her lip. "Oh yeah . . . . ."
"I think we had better quit." Sark said, stomach aching.
"I second that." Syd thought a moment.
"Okay, I've got a good one. When did you enter the espionage business?"
"Same as you. In college. Your mother's assistant at the time, Khasinau, came to me in my dorm one day." Sark had suddenly taken great interest in a rip in his shirt. Sydney didn't ask how he knew about her recruitment. It seemed to be that Sloane had had Sark tracing her for a long time. Surprisingly, she wasn't as angry as she should hav ebeen.
"Why did you take the job?" Syd asked, pressing.
"He said he had a way for me to regain control in my life."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know how long your mother had been considering me-long enough to know my family had died and I had no emotional ties. And most importantly- no money."
The conversation had taken a serious turn again.
"What were you studying in college?"
"Philosophy, ironically enough." Sydney grinned in surprise.
"Philosophy? You know that gets you absolutely nowhere in the real world."
"I didn't care" Sark said simply. "I liked it. I love Levien's theory of Existentialism-It is impossible to tell if anything is actual fact except for the fact that you exist. It helps with the guilt." Syd nodded. It was always best not to think about things in their job. The things they'd done.
"Do you get the headaches?" she asked.
"Yeah. And the dreams?" he asked. Syd nodded. The dreams were the worst. She had had them continually every single night, but she was never used to the waking up in a cold sweat, breathing hard, muscles tense. The faces, blank chalkboard faces of the people she'd killed, flashing through her head before she awoke. Some nights she would see just one person-Danny, her father, Noah . . . . . . . . . . But other nights they just flashed through her in succession, like a flip book. A Book of the Dead.
"Sark?" she asked, looking up at him.
"Yeah?"
"How did your parents die?" she wondered if he would even answer her.
"They were murdered. My baby sister too. Some protestor opened fire in the street. Northern Ireland's not the safest place to grow up, I guess." The seas were raging in his eyes once more. Syd took his hand and squeezed. She hadn't ever really thought of them as kindred spirits, but in a way Syd knew exactly what he was going through. The cold-always cold, that comes from suppressed emotions. The headaches.
Sark gazed silently down at the empty box, which had once held a dove.
"He said it would give me control, Sydney. But it never worked." It had only been the artifice of control. No more real than his expression.
"I know, Sark. I know." Though he still maintained the same hardened expression, Sydney could see the little boy lost inside his eyes. Lost amongst the storm. Lost like her, with nowhere to go.
Without thinking, Sydney began to lean forward, feeling his warm breath on her blue-tinged lips. Sark met her halfway, in a tender kiss that submerged Sydney into a smoothbeautifullyfolded world. It coated her insides with honey, and subdued her senses into one concentrated feeling. It had been so long since she had felt anything. He was probing inside her being.
Sark put a hand on her back and pulled her closer, and ran his fingers through her hair. He felt like he was on a strange drug, heightening his senses, but muffling his consciousness. So this is what life feels like.
The chairlift jolted, and started once again, jarring them apart. Sydney and Sark looked at each other, breathing hard. He still had an arm around her waist, Syd's senses electrified at the spot.
"Stay with me." he whispered, half questioning, half pleading.
"Okay." she whispered back, and he kissed her once more, hard, fingers massaging the back of her head, holding her. For once, she didn't need to know where she was going. She was content with where she was.
Thirty seconds later when the door opened, the two casually exited the compartment and began walking towards the lift tower, sans skis, sans coat, sans everything. Sydney smiled to see the lift operator gawking at them, in their ripped shirts and jeans, no shoes. He opened the door and beckoned them in, jabbering in Italian. Syd smiled at him, momentarily silencing him.
"Do you have any shoes we can borrow?"
