He was surprised to find her beside him when he awoke the next morning, surprised she hadn't disappeared during the night. Sleeping peacefully, her fingers laced between his own, it would be easy for an outsider to underestimate her capacity for destruction. After so much time spent apart, he found it difficult now to reconcile this woman with the single-minded, heartless employer he'd served for so long.
But, then, Sydney would undoubtedly find it difficult to reconcile the man who remained loyal to Derevko with the man who had spent the night getting intoxicated and tattooed with her in Germany. Would she consider it a betrayal? That would depend on her definition of their tenuous connection, he supposed. After all, doing what is expected of you cannot technically be counted as a betrayal.
She would be arriving soon, unless she did not. He would have to tell Irina before she discovered Sydney on her doorstep, before she could reveal the way she'd found them. If he told her himself it would be one failure; if Sydney told her, it would be two. When she woke, he vowed.
He lay still, then, as the Sunday morning sunlight fell across his chest and her arms. She shifted, moved closer. He felt her heart beat steadily against his side and watched as time slid gently to a stop.
* * *
When he awoke a second time that day, she was gone. Lightning did not, indeed, strike twice. He rose and wandered the grounds looking for her. Instead he found a bedroom occupied by Eduardo and another man, who monitored a wall of security screens. When the second man turned his head to reprimand the unauthorized visitor, Eduardo touched his hand to the man's shoulder. "She said he was okay," he explained, as if he were not quite convinced yet but felt it would be best to follow orders.
Sark held up his hands in mock surrender.
"She's downstairs," the other man said shortly from his seat beside the window, and he simply nodded in response, leaving them to their intent inspection of the street below from the variety of views provided by an array of security cameras. Time had only made her more paranoid, it appeared. If only he could dismiss her paranoia as irrational, outdated, a relic of her discarded past.
He found Irina in the kitchen once more, staring out the window.
"Good afternoon," he offered.
She turned to him and smiled.
"I have something to tell you," he continued quickly.
"Sydney," she said.
"Yes."
"They saw her arrive at the station not long ago."
He did not ask who 'they' were. It was irrelevant. He monitored her carefully for signs of fury or even disappointment, but none were forthcoming.
"She'll be here soon."
"I'm sorry."
She nodded in response, averting her gaze.
"What would you like me to do?" he asked, almost dreading the reply.
She remained silent, and after a moment turned her back to him again.
He pushed himself backward and leaned against the doorframe. They stood there in silence, together alone.
He heard the voice of the nameless man, shouting something he couldn't make out in Spanish, then at least two pairs of feet pounding down the stairs.
Irina did not move. Neither did he.
He heard shouting: the nameless man, Eduardo, an unmistakable female voice demanding answers. One of the male voices ceased to speak; it was then that he forced himself to investigate.
Beyond the doorway, the nameless man lay motionless, splayed across the stairs that led to the street below. Eduardo had two guns trained on Sydney, who matched him with one; an identical furious desire for vengeance lit up her eyes and his. Sark wordlessly placed himself between them.
"Go," he commanded over his shoulder.
Eduardo remained in place.
"GO," he repeated. "Esto no está para usted!" His meaning could not be questioned. The man pushed himself past Sydney--her one weapon now aimed steadily at the center of Sark's chest--and disappeared down the street on foot.
"Where is she?"
A pause.
"Please?" It was just a whisper, but it meant everything. He clung to protocol: feel what you must, display nothing unless it's necessary to get the job done. He understood she probably believed him to be even more reprehensible and heartless than ever before, as he stood calmly before her, unmoved by her righteous plea. She was right, and he was wrong, and she had clearly allowed herself to forget the barrier between them that kept him from abandoning all he ever had to align himself with that which was good and true. He had allowed it to happen, chasing her down anonymous streets, role-playing, pretending this would not be where they would end up.
"I'm sorry," he said, investing the words with as much emotion as if he had been tossing off an apology to someone whose shoulder he'd accidentally bumped while passing on the sidewalk. But it was true, even if she chose not to figure that out; he was sorry for what had been done to her, for letting her believe that after enough time had elapsed and enough distance laid down between he and his employer, he could be different. Most of all, he was sorry for what he had to do.
Confusion flickered behind her eyes. It was clear to him that she wouldn't really shoot, at least not fatally, despite her efforts to present a mercenary front. He stepped forward, and she said nothing. He was about to make a sudden move, get the job done, as distasteful as he might have found it to be this time, when a hand on his shoulder pulled him back. He did not fight. Irina traded places with him. Sydney raised her gun with renewed enthusiasm.
"You decided to do it yourself," Sydney assessed, glancing over Irina's shoulder at Sark. "Commendable."
"You shouldn't have come."
"What else did I have to do?" she asked in a voice so low it sounded closer to a hiss than a bitter accusation.
Irina shook her head to signify regret (mostly false, he supposed). "What happened was entirely unforeseen."
"Right. And--"
She fell forward, unceremoniously dropping to her knees, whatever fight had remained in her drained out entirely now. Behind her, Eduardo stood, wielding a tranquilizer gun.
"Thank you," Irina said.
"May I ask what you're going to do with her?"
She appeared genuinely surprised by his question, and did not answer.
"Martin," he explained softly.
She nodded, understanding now. "Sacrifices must be made sometimes," she said, clearly with little interest in continuing the conversation, her distraction evident. "You know that. So did Martin."
He stood there, staring wordlessly, as if he could not believe anyone would pledge their loyalty to this woman, who cared nothing about anyone else. She turned away from him, and Sark watched him disappear a second time.
Surveying the damage, she continued: "We'll have to take care of Martin, and then work quickly with Sydney."
"Will he talk?"
"No."
Sark was dispatched to dispose of Martin, and the familiarity of former tasks brought a rush of comfort. He enjoyed filling his old role, knowing his place again. This was home.
Or so he tried to convince himself, anyway.
But, then, Sydney would undoubtedly find it difficult to reconcile the man who remained loyal to Derevko with the man who had spent the night getting intoxicated and tattooed with her in Germany. Would she consider it a betrayal? That would depend on her definition of their tenuous connection, he supposed. After all, doing what is expected of you cannot technically be counted as a betrayal.
She would be arriving soon, unless she did not. He would have to tell Irina before she discovered Sydney on her doorstep, before she could reveal the way she'd found them. If he told her himself it would be one failure; if Sydney told her, it would be two. When she woke, he vowed.
He lay still, then, as the Sunday morning sunlight fell across his chest and her arms. She shifted, moved closer. He felt her heart beat steadily against his side and watched as time slid gently to a stop.
* * *
When he awoke a second time that day, she was gone. Lightning did not, indeed, strike twice. He rose and wandered the grounds looking for her. Instead he found a bedroom occupied by Eduardo and another man, who monitored a wall of security screens. When the second man turned his head to reprimand the unauthorized visitor, Eduardo touched his hand to the man's shoulder. "She said he was okay," he explained, as if he were not quite convinced yet but felt it would be best to follow orders.
Sark held up his hands in mock surrender.
"She's downstairs," the other man said shortly from his seat beside the window, and he simply nodded in response, leaving them to their intent inspection of the street below from the variety of views provided by an array of security cameras. Time had only made her more paranoid, it appeared. If only he could dismiss her paranoia as irrational, outdated, a relic of her discarded past.
He found Irina in the kitchen once more, staring out the window.
"Good afternoon," he offered.
She turned to him and smiled.
"I have something to tell you," he continued quickly.
"Sydney," she said.
"Yes."
"They saw her arrive at the station not long ago."
He did not ask who 'they' were. It was irrelevant. He monitored her carefully for signs of fury or even disappointment, but none were forthcoming.
"She'll be here soon."
"I'm sorry."
She nodded in response, averting her gaze.
"What would you like me to do?" he asked, almost dreading the reply.
She remained silent, and after a moment turned her back to him again.
He pushed himself backward and leaned against the doorframe. They stood there in silence, together alone.
He heard the voice of the nameless man, shouting something he couldn't make out in Spanish, then at least two pairs of feet pounding down the stairs.
Irina did not move. Neither did he.
He heard shouting: the nameless man, Eduardo, an unmistakable female voice demanding answers. One of the male voices ceased to speak; it was then that he forced himself to investigate.
Beyond the doorway, the nameless man lay motionless, splayed across the stairs that led to the street below. Eduardo had two guns trained on Sydney, who matched him with one; an identical furious desire for vengeance lit up her eyes and his. Sark wordlessly placed himself between them.
"Go," he commanded over his shoulder.
Eduardo remained in place.
"GO," he repeated. "Esto no está para usted!" His meaning could not be questioned. The man pushed himself past Sydney--her one weapon now aimed steadily at the center of Sark's chest--and disappeared down the street on foot.
"Where is she?"
A pause.
"Please?" It was just a whisper, but it meant everything. He clung to protocol: feel what you must, display nothing unless it's necessary to get the job done. He understood she probably believed him to be even more reprehensible and heartless than ever before, as he stood calmly before her, unmoved by her righteous plea. She was right, and he was wrong, and she had clearly allowed herself to forget the barrier between them that kept him from abandoning all he ever had to align himself with that which was good and true. He had allowed it to happen, chasing her down anonymous streets, role-playing, pretending this would not be where they would end up.
"I'm sorry," he said, investing the words with as much emotion as if he had been tossing off an apology to someone whose shoulder he'd accidentally bumped while passing on the sidewalk. But it was true, even if she chose not to figure that out; he was sorry for what had been done to her, for letting her believe that after enough time had elapsed and enough distance laid down between he and his employer, he could be different. Most of all, he was sorry for what he had to do.
Confusion flickered behind her eyes. It was clear to him that she wouldn't really shoot, at least not fatally, despite her efforts to present a mercenary front. He stepped forward, and she said nothing. He was about to make a sudden move, get the job done, as distasteful as he might have found it to be this time, when a hand on his shoulder pulled him back. He did not fight. Irina traded places with him. Sydney raised her gun with renewed enthusiasm.
"You decided to do it yourself," Sydney assessed, glancing over Irina's shoulder at Sark. "Commendable."
"You shouldn't have come."
"What else did I have to do?" she asked in a voice so low it sounded closer to a hiss than a bitter accusation.
Irina shook her head to signify regret (mostly false, he supposed). "What happened was entirely unforeseen."
"Right. And--"
She fell forward, unceremoniously dropping to her knees, whatever fight had remained in her drained out entirely now. Behind her, Eduardo stood, wielding a tranquilizer gun.
"Thank you," Irina said.
"May I ask what you're going to do with her?"
She appeared genuinely surprised by his question, and did not answer.
"Martin," he explained softly.
She nodded, understanding now. "Sacrifices must be made sometimes," she said, clearly with little interest in continuing the conversation, her distraction evident. "You know that. So did Martin."
He stood there, staring wordlessly, as if he could not believe anyone would pledge their loyalty to this woman, who cared nothing about anyone else. She turned away from him, and Sark watched him disappear a second time.
Surveying the damage, she continued: "We'll have to take care of Martin, and then work quickly with Sydney."
"Will he talk?"
"No."
Sark was dispatched to dispose of Martin, and the familiarity of former tasks brought a rush of comfort. He enjoyed filling his old role, knowing his place again. This was home.
Or so he tried to convince himself, anyway.