I thought that once we got off the plane things would be better, less awkward. Atleast we could have an open conversation about the situation without the obstacle of cover stories. It would have been so much easier if I could even begin to fanthom what the 'situation' was...
As I sat in the passenger seat of our far too expensive rental car, I tried desperatly to string together something to say while watching as the scenery whipped by; he drove far too fast but was always in complete control of the car so it was hard to worry about that.
I had plenty of other things to worry about. A question that would get answers was at the top of my priority list, a saucy remark to show that I wasn't frightened by this turn of events, that he wasn't in control of me like he was of the car that he whipped around sudden, sharp curves with ease. The problem was that I could think of nothing coherent, and the strained silence was too much to bear on top of my frustration.
He must have been in the same mindset as me, reaching for the dial on the radio at the same time as I did. I pulled my hand back as if I'd just been shocked, but he just gestured at the radio with a slight wave of his hand, "Be my guest..."
I spun the dial past a bubble gum pop station, alternative, a classical station with a glance at Sark, various Russian singers or news channels, and turned the dial back when I heard a familar english voice.
If I let you get too close you'll set your spell on me... So darlin' I just wanna say, just in case I don't come through... I was on to every play... I just wanted you...
I can't help but laugh a nervous, strained laugh at the irony of it all as I turn off the radio, silently damning Fiona and catching the slight twitch in Sark's lip as he attempts to hide a smile.
"Nothing good on the radio?" his voice holds amusement at our unspoken joke, and I know he's not mocking me. I laugh again, but the lyric keeps replaying in my head, making me paranoid. We haven't been together but a day, and he's already haunting my dreams, gaining my trust though I know he's anything but worthy.
"What happened on the plane?" he asks carefully, taking advantage of the break in silence.
I dreamt I was in bed with you...
"Nothing, just... nothing." My ability to lie never fails to diminish when I'm around him, and I'm conveniently short on punchy remarks when they'd now be very useful as a shield.
He smiles, "What remains of my hand would beg to differ... You can talk to me, Sydney. I know I've done nothing to merit the privilege, but I must admit I'm starved for conversation."
Starved for conversation? This from the man that kills in cold blood probably five out of every ten people he meets.
"I'm not responsible for your lonliness. The penalties for your career choice aren't my problems," the words are carefully clipped, anger bubbling just beneath them. It's a strange comfort to be back on this level with him; adversaries, enemies. A torn safety net mending itself with each cold remark. It's a twisted comfort to look at him as a cold blooded killer once again and the thought of his lips on my skin, and the vivid dream of his body against mine are like foggy memories of years ago. Easily forgotten.
"I could say the same to you," his British accent smooths over the statement, and his white hot rage is only apparent by the way he jerks the car around the next turn causing my right shoulder to smash into the car door. I wince, knowing I've struck a nerve with him, and I'm suddenly very frightened of this near stranger beside me, but show no signs of it.
"Your 'career choices' have taken the lives of how many loved ones, Sydney? Your fiance, Noah, and handler makes three. Am I not right?"
It's all I can do to not choke on the lump in my throat, and hot tears stream freely down my reddened cheeks. "How dare you!" There's so much more for me to say, but it all gets stuck and I can't fight the convulsions that shake my body with each round of sobs.
Out of the corner of my eye I see his lips part shakily as if he has something to say. He's overstepped a line between us by about a mile, and it's obvious that he knows there's a point of no return, where an apology will only be an insult because it can never begin to pacify the situation that's been created.
"You made choices that put you into this life, Sydney. You think I'd have chosen this for myself? That I like blood on my hands?" his voice is strained and I wonder if he's even talking to me anymore, and for how long he's kept this to himself.
"Sometimes you adapt to the life you've been given- forced into- because it's all you can do to live another day," he continues quietly, voice raw, "You were atleast privileged with a bloody choice."
Somehow the statement doesn't sound bitter or selfish, but truthful. Atleast in his mind it's truthful. He has no idea...
We fall back into a charged silence for only God knows how long. It's the first time I've seen Sark ruled by his emotions. I've know doubt that it's the first time that he's let his emotions be seen. No one knows what to say, but I feel the need to make my own confession before this car ride is over.
"CIA... SD-6. I had no choice in any of it. I thought I did, but it was chosen for me and I never even knew it... I was like a Goddamned robot and somebody just had to flip a switch- mention being a spy. I was programmed. You can't possibly understand what it feels like to stumble across the fact that your path in life was predeterminded from the time you were a child. You can't possibly know."
He sighs heavily, and I flinch at the realization. I want to stop him, tell him he doesn't have to say it, but it's too late.
"We both should learn to not make assumptions..."
As I sat in the passenger seat of our far too expensive rental car, I tried desperatly to string together something to say while watching as the scenery whipped by; he drove far too fast but was always in complete control of the car so it was hard to worry about that.
I had plenty of other things to worry about. A question that would get answers was at the top of my priority list, a saucy remark to show that I wasn't frightened by this turn of events, that he wasn't in control of me like he was of the car that he whipped around sudden, sharp curves with ease. The problem was that I could think of nothing coherent, and the strained silence was too much to bear on top of my frustration.
He must have been in the same mindset as me, reaching for the dial on the radio at the same time as I did. I pulled my hand back as if I'd just been shocked, but he just gestured at the radio with a slight wave of his hand, "Be my guest..."
I spun the dial past a bubble gum pop station, alternative, a classical station with a glance at Sark, various Russian singers or news channels, and turned the dial back when I heard a familar english voice.
If I let you get too close you'll set your spell on me... So darlin' I just wanna say, just in case I don't come through... I was on to every play... I just wanted you...
I can't help but laugh a nervous, strained laugh at the irony of it all as I turn off the radio, silently damning Fiona and catching the slight twitch in Sark's lip as he attempts to hide a smile.
"Nothing good on the radio?" his voice holds amusement at our unspoken joke, and I know he's not mocking me. I laugh again, but the lyric keeps replaying in my head, making me paranoid. We haven't been together but a day, and he's already haunting my dreams, gaining my trust though I know he's anything but worthy.
"What happened on the plane?" he asks carefully, taking advantage of the break in silence.
I dreamt I was in bed with you...
"Nothing, just... nothing." My ability to lie never fails to diminish when I'm around him, and I'm conveniently short on punchy remarks when they'd now be very useful as a shield.
He smiles, "What remains of my hand would beg to differ... You can talk to me, Sydney. I know I've done nothing to merit the privilege, but I must admit I'm starved for conversation."
Starved for conversation? This from the man that kills in cold blood probably five out of every ten people he meets.
"I'm not responsible for your lonliness. The penalties for your career choice aren't my problems," the words are carefully clipped, anger bubbling just beneath them. It's a strange comfort to be back on this level with him; adversaries, enemies. A torn safety net mending itself with each cold remark. It's a twisted comfort to look at him as a cold blooded killer once again and the thought of his lips on my skin, and the vivid dream of his body against mine are like foggy memories of years ago. Easily forgotten.
"I could say the same to you," his British accent smooths over the statement, and his white hot rage is only apparent by the way he jerks the car around the next turn causing my right shoulder to smash into the car door. I wince, knowing I've struck a nerve with him, and I'm suddenly very frightened of this near stranger beside me, but show no signs of it.
"Your 'career choices' have taken the lives of how many loved ones, Sydney? Your fiance, Noah, and handler makes three. Am I not right?"
It's all I can do to not choke on the lump in my throat, and hot tears stream freely down my reddened cheeks. "How dare you!" There's so much more for me to say, but it all gets stuck and I can't fight the convulsions that shake my body with each round of sobs.
Out of the corner of my eye I see his lips part shakily as if he has something to say. He's overstepped a line between us by about a mile, and it's obvious that he knows there's a point of no return, where an apology will only be an insult because it can never begin to pacify the situation that's been created.
"You made choices that put you into this life, Sydney. You think I'd have chosen this for myself? That I like blood on my hands?" his voice is strained and I wonder if he's even talking to me anymore, and for how long he's kept this to himself.
"Sometimes you adapt to the life you've been given- forced into- because it's all you can do to live another day," he continues quietly, voice raw, "You were atleast privileged with a bloody choice."
Somehow the statement doesn't sound bitter or selfish, but truthful. Atleast in his mind it's truthful. He has no idea...
We fall back into a charged silence for only God knows how long. It's the first time I've seen Sark ruled by his emotions. I've know doubt that it's the first time that he's let his emotions be seen. No one knows what to say, but I feel the need to make my own confession before this car ride is over.
"CIA... SD-6. I had no choice in any of it. I thought I did, but it was chosen for me and I never even knew it... I was like a Goddamned robot and somebody just had to flip a switch- mention being a spy. I was programmed. You can't possibly understand what it feels like to stumble across the fact that your path in life was predeterminded from the time you were a child. You can't possibly know."
He sighs heavily, and I flinch at the realization. I want to stop him, tell him he doesn't have to say it, but it's too late.
"We both should learn to not make assumptions..."
