******A/N – Please read!!
If anyone is very familiar with the movie 'Heathers', it's known that the ending that was filmed was not the original. JD wasn't the only one that was supposed to blow up, but that ending was scrapped for a lighter one. Sort of like 'Inebriety'.
I have two endings that I'm going to publish with this story. Consider this one the 'JD gets blown up while Veronica's cigarette gets lit' version.
Thanks to pie and Trix for the beta and help, and all those reviewers out there. Hope you like it.
Chapter 12 – Ending 1
The two weeks that followed the demise of SD-6 were the most relieving and heartbreaking time that he had ever experienced. Looking back on it now still made him emotional, even though his current surroundings were quite tranquil.
When he woke the morning after his admission to Sydney, he almost didn't want to leave her side. Never mind that it was just past three am. The way her nude body was curled up against him – leg casually draped over his, arm resting on his chest, her hand involuntarily stroking near his heart when he made any movement, made it difficult at best to leave.
And she'd told him that she loved him. The morning after, his emotions were mixed over the endearing words that she barely let escape before they both fell asleep. As he looked over her peaceful form, her soft face barely lit by the artificial light from outside, he grew slightly weary.
What he was about to do had been perfectly planned, down to the last detail, but if one thing went wrong this could be the last time that he would see her. He never had the chance to tell her that he felt the same.
He contemplated waking her, but decided against it after he noticed the evenness of her breathing, indicating that she was sound asleep. Goodbyes were never easy, and it was probably better to keep things short. It was impersonal, but he hoped that the vague note that he'd left would be satisfactory. If all went well, they would be together again soon. After placing one last kiss on her temple, Sark carefully removed himself from her grip and began his eventful day.
His favorite personal belongings packed and on their way overseas, Sark sat in his Mercedes, watching the old man's house. 4:15am. It was time. He'd set it up to where he would have fifteen minutes in order to complete the first part, and after taking one last deep breath, he quietly exited his car to enter Arvin Sloane's abode.
His spacious home, to a normal person, would be difficult to access and navigate, but his research gave him entry and a straight path to his destination. When he entered the room, he saw the lump of his target, alone in the king sized bed.
Gun already cocked, Sark slowly approached, prepared for anything. Luckily, Sloane was none the wiser. Sark slipped the ring that was especially made for Sloane on the old man's finger, its purpose to block the Alliance's track. With Sark's touch, Sloane stirred in the darkness.
"Good morning, sir." Sark pressed his Glock into Sloane's temple, putting just a small amount of pressure on his head. "As much as I hate to wake you this early, we have a strict schedule to adhere to."
Sark would always remember the look of utter amazement and pure terror on Sloane's face during that interruption. If the old man could have turned any whiter, he would have glowed in the early morning.
Many hours and even more miles away from Los Angeles, Sark sat in a folding chair in the corner of a dark deserted warehouse, watching the man that had killed his mother squirm in the chair that he was strapped to. Sloane chuckled slightly, as the irony caught up with him.
"I don't suppose you'd appease an old man as he once did you by providing him something to drink."
Sark sat up from his casual lean in the corner, resting his elbows on his knees. "That was the plan."
Sloane appeared confused, and Sark could only grin, his smile daunting. He'd had the upper hand over this man ever since their meeting in the back of the ambulance. One of Sark's last acts of revenge sat tightly bound in front of him, his time coming to an end.
"I remember being in close to your same situation, just over a year ago. Something about me betraying you on our first venture together and the interrogation technique that was developed by the Khmer Rouge…well, in your case there is no glass ball."
"But you proved yourself worthy of my trust," Sloane stated, a slight crack in his voice from the leather strap that was tight around his Adam's apple. "You've helped us move forward in our cause."
Sark shook his head. "The cause of which you speak was never ours. Although noting the disbelief that you've displayed all day about your situation, I obviously portrayed my role extremely well. My agenda has been successfully executed."
"I just can't fathom what you think you're achieving by doing this."
Sloane's voice had grown slightly weary over the many hours that he had been strapped to the chair. Sark could only smile, reveling in how well his plan is unfolding.
"You have never been one to see the bigger picture, even when it's laid out right in front of you."
Sloane didn't reply to Sark's cut and Sark could tell that the old man knew there was something larger in play. Knowing this had gone on long enough Sark decided to make his move.
"My mother never told me one word about my father," Sark began as he stood, walking slowly over to Sloane. "I never really thought about him either… well, that was until I found out that he had killed her."
Sloane's eyes followed Sark as he walked over the lone table in the room. After removing the cork to the bottle of Chateau Petreuse, he continued. "From that day, I vowed to make sure that bastard paid for what he did." Sark turned around, glass of wine in one hand, a vial of powder in the other. Sark held it up for Sloane to see. "Sodium Morphate. I'm sure you are more than aware of the effects it has on the body."
He could see a flash of recognition in Sloane's eyes. Sloane took his gaze from the vial up to Sark, looking him directly in the eyes. At first, Sark could tell he didn't believe him, didn't believe the son that he'd been looking for more than a year had been in front of him the entire time.
After a hard swallow and a deep breath, Sloane let reality sink in. "I had no idea about you."
"From what I've come to know about you, it surely was better that way."
"You have to know that I loved her."
Sark laughed, scoffing at Sloane's efforts. "Hardly. You killed her to gain your seat in the Alliance."
Sark watched as Sloane shivered from the memory of what he did, a lonely tear escaping from his eye. He then looked at Sark with a slight smile, one that looked of pride and hinted of admiration. A look, that Sark assumed, a father would give his son for a job well done. Sark felt bile rising in his throat, burning as he held it down.
"I can see her in you."
Sark felt the heat of fury whip through him. Fucking bastard. Instead of reacting to the distasteful comment, he calmly poured the powder into the wine, swirling the liquid to ensure the poison fully dissolved. He closed the gap between them and bent down to Sloane's eye level.
"You won't for long."
Within a short time after Sark forced the man to drink, Sloane stopped breathing. Unable to convulse due to his constraints, Sark watched his face twist into multiple positions, agony written all over each one.
After the entire first phase of his plan was completed, Sloane dead and dropped off in a remote location near Galway and the demise of SD-6 confirmed, Sark moved on to his second phase, contacting the woman that he loved.
Sark knew that Sydney was familiar with his background and that Marshall had studied his speech pattern, determining that Sark spent a good amount of time in Galway. Sending her a cryptic invitation would be the best route.
He expected her to come at her earliest convenience, but figured with the intel that he'd sent about Irina's whereabouts that it wouldn't be for at least a few more weeks. So he decided that he would do what he would normally do on a Friday night that he was free. Hit his favorite local pub for a few drinks and then come home, checking in with his contacts.
Just as he shut his front door, he came face to face with two familiar figures.
"Mr. Sark," Irina's lackey from Greenland, the one that he remembered Sydney dealing with, spoke to him. "We've been sent here to request your cooperation."
The early evening ensured not many people were around, but Sark still wanted to play things completely safe. He walked down the few steps from his door and moved the conversation to the side of his house.
"What does she hope to achieve by sending you two?"
"She wanted to give you one last warning before she took the necessary steps."
"Tell her to do what she wishes. I'm going to continue sending them what I have."
Sark saw a small twitch in the man's arm and knew that he had just cocked his gun. He wasn't worried though. He was ready, his gun easily accessible under his taupe wool sweater.
"Are you sure that's the message that you would like me to relay to her?"
"She won't be too surprised by it."
Out of the corner of his eye, he thought that he saw some movement, the presence of another person standing in front of his house watching them. His curiosity got the best of him and he allowed his eyes to quickly dart in that direction.
Fuck. Not now.
He would never be one hundred percent sure of what happened right after he returned his attention to Irina's men. The lackey had caught his eye movement and turned to find Sydney, armed and readying to shoot. Sark could only remember terror striking his body, hearing and watching that single shot that sparked from his gun, speeding right through her torso.
"No!"
The scream that bellowed from his mouth, starting deep within his stomach, deep within his being haunted him to this day, as did what little he remembered happening after.
Her blood loss was substantial, and her condition was dire upon arriving at the hospital. He didn't know what to do there. He wasn't used to losing this much control, having no way to immediately fix the problem. No detailed plan he could create would tell him if Sydney was going to be okay. So he waited for any news, after making an important, necessary phone call.
"Mr. Bristow, Sydney's been shot."
Sark looked to the front of the sixty-four foot Sunseeker Manhattan that he was controlling, sighing at the scenery that lay before him. The crystal blue water that sparkled with a hint of white on each crest, matched the clear blue sky above. His sigh was not for the beauties of nature, but for another beauty, one that he thought he'd never have the opportunity to see again. He didn't like to think about that day much, but it still stayed with him.
After five hours of waiting, Sark was informed that the surgery was as much of a success as it could be. She was still in critical condition, but they had stopped the internal bleeding and repaired what damage they could. She still had a long road ahead of her.
Sark stayed by her side, holding her hand for the first forty-eight hours after she was taken to her room. Even when Jack Bristow showed, distraught and surprisingly not looking for a fight, Sark wouldn't leave her side. At the end of the two days, it was Jack who had suggested Sark go home, get some rest also.
He took the man's advice, leaving after she woke and he had a chance to tell her goodbye. When he arrived home, he was welcomed by an email from one of his sources.
The Paris Club – Tuesday, 11:30pm. Making deal in private room.
Sark closed the email, gently tugging on his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger as he thought about what he had just read. The last time that he had given intel to the CIA, they botched it by sitting on what they'd had for too long. He made the decision that he needed to do this, needed to find some way to pay Irina back for what she inadvertently did to Sydney.
So a day later he found himself in a darkened alley, hiding in the shadows, as he quietly waited for her to emerge. At first sight of Irina, accompanied by three armed men, Sark felt no nervousness. He was on autopilot with one goal, and there she was right in front of him.
Sark aimed his Ruger, with added silencer, at one of the men, waiting until the door had closed. Once it was secure, the rest of the people inside oblivious to any outdoor noise, Sark pulled the trigger three times, perfectly hitting all three men.
Irina was left, no guards and no visible weapon. Just her in all black, hair tightly pulled back into a neat wrap. Sark materialized from the shadows, gun now pointed directly at his target. He watched as her eyes narrowed in disgust, not surprised one bit that he was the attacker.
"You really ought to look into hiring competent help." Sark taunted.
She was never one to look worried, but Sark saw a hint of concern flash through her eyes. "It certainly looks that way doesn't it?"
"She's going to live, no thanks to the two fucks you sent my way."
Sark watched a flush of relief run through her, Irina obviously wasn't aware of her daughter's well being. He stepped closer to her, keeping a steady aim on her. Once he reached her, he nudged her shoulder with the barrel of his gun, pushing her to walk forward.
"Move." Sark ordered her to his waiting van, climbing in the back with her.
He took her to the same abandoned warehouse that Sloane had died in, tying her in the same exact fashion, in the same exact chair. But unlike Sloane, there was no wine, no poison. Just the two of them, and a cell phone that he used to make one phone call.
"You'll find Irina Derevko in the old McKinley warehouse on N84."
And that was the end of Irina Derevko's freedom. She was sent back into CIA custody.
A few days later, Sydney was transported back to the States to recuperate in familiar surroundings. Sark of course couldn't follow, but received small amounts of communication throughout the months from Jack Bristow.
Nine months later, and she'd had a near full recovery. She was well enough to fly, so with the help of some old friends, Sark made contact with her again. When the two of them met at the airport, she showed him the letter.
Claudette –
It's been close to a few years I know, but somehow we had a miscommunication on your address. Julian was kind enough to send us the correct information and we hope that you both will be able to join us for our yearly Christmas gala. Enclosed are the dates of the party, but feel free to come as early as you like.
Looking forward to seeing you again.
Consuela Espinoza
So much had changed in those few years in both of their lives, but the ocean, and Buenos Aires as a whole seemed to stay the same. The same hotel they stayed at before with the same restaurant where they had danced. The same sites that they visited in their "off" time. The same yacht that their pseudo friends had taken them on. Her sitting on the bow, soaking in some of the sun.
As Sark pulled back into the dock, Sydney made her way back to him. Her state didn't allow for a string bikini like last time, but the yellow spaghetti strap tank top with a lightly floral print skirt that lay just above her knees, still displayed every bit of beauty that she possessed.
She slid her hands under his arms from behind, softly wrapping her lips around his ear lobe. "Thank you."
Her sultry voice sent vibrations down to his toes. He closed his eyes with the sensation of her nibbling wreaking havoc through his entire body. The past few days had been more than he could have ever asked for. Although most were under the impression that they were the Binoche's again, their feelings weren't created for some op or forced to satisfy the curiosity of onlookers. Their love for each other shone through, brightly, truly and deeply.
"If you keep this up, these people are going to get more than their money's worth."
Sydney laughed throatily in his ear, lining the outer with her tongue. "Is that a promise?"
Sark turned to face her, lovingly looking into her through her brown eyes. The softness in his face that used to surprise him, no longer did. He'd grown accustomed to showing it in her presence. And they would have many more days like this, that he was sure of now.
His smile matched hers, devilishly suggestive, inviting the other to freely explore whatever they desired. He moved her hair behind her ears, giving his hands full access to her face. Sark took a small nibble on her lower lip, still drowning in her eyes and with his hands intertwined in her hair. Sydney wrapped her arms around his neck as he made a full connection with her, gently kissing her lips, then alternating the sweetness with a brief lining with his tongue.
They had been through every obstacle imagined, and prevailed, their love for each other surviving even the rockiest of terrain. They stood by each other in times of doubt or sorrow, and now all that was left was pure passion and absolute devotion. He placed both of his hands on her face, taking his lips just less than an inch from hers.
"Always is a promise."
