Sporks and Fries II: The Sporkening
By Kira
kira@sd-1.com |
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. Really. Seriously!
Chapter One: Strawberry Shampoo and Brown Bags
The television show Highlander had, at one time, been popular. Starting in the early 90's, this show, inspired by the movie series of the same name, brought a kind of fan service feel to the entire Highlander genre, and, with it's sexy male lead, brought in it's share of interested female viewers, looking for the softer side to the decapitating McCleod. The show survived for quite a few seasons, and still has a devoted fan base.
Mr. Sark is one of these devoted fans.
It was no surprise to anyone that, at 3 o'clock, he was seated in front of his large television set, tuned to TNT. A large bowl of kettle corn popcorn sat to his right, a large glass of Diet Coke to his left. He was a man in heaven, ready to watch the re-runs of his favorite show. There was just something about it that he couldn't get enough of, and in this insane world of death and mindless bloodshed, he found solace in this piece of old Americana.
In fact, he was such a huge fan of this show that he would, on occasion, place himself into the show with the other characters. Raising his hands above his head (at the end of the opening), he would say "Mr. Sark, of the clan of Sark." But his face would fall immediately after that, as he had no first name and "Mr." just didn't fit in with what he was trying to say. He's already tired looking at things for a first name, but found that most of his documents and belongings held fake names, and that wasn't going to help him at all. He needed a first name.
An so the show progressed, and no one bothered him as he sipped his Diet Coke and watched people get their heads cut off. But it was at the end, when Ducan was talking to someone else on the screen, that Sark's full attention was brought to the content of the show and not other things.
"There can be only one," Duncan said, as if he were speaking directly to Sark. His ice blue eyes went wide, and he could have sworn a large spotlight was focused on him at that exact moment. And a choir of young boys starting singing in Latin behind him, for this was truly a magical moment.
"Mr. Sark," the Duncan on the screen said, turning to face him. Sark looked around before pointing to himself and mouthing 'me?'. "Yes, Sark. There can be only one. It is up to you to make sure you are that one."
Then the screen launched into the ending credits and a wordless version of the opening theme.
Sark launched himself from his seat, spilling the popcorn and Diet Coke all over his floor.
"I will be the only one!" he cried to the air. A random guard shook his head and hung it, wondering if the pay was really worth all this frustration. The choir sang loud, the light blindingly bright.
Grinning like a damned idiot, Sark stood this way until a commercial came onto the screen. He calmed, and noticed the spilled things.
"It's going to be a bitch to get that out," he muttered, and went to find some cleaning supplies, but was soon sidetracked by this undying need for a long, shiny sword….
. .
Will sat at the counter, eating some strawberry ice cream.
"Why does this entire house smell like strawberries?" Sydney asked, entering the kitchen. Will shrugged and pushed the dish over the edge of the counter into the kitchen, hoping she wasn't heading in there. The last time he ate ice cream for breakfast, she'd kicked him over the couch and let him lie there unconscious for a few hours only to wake up with a fresh coat of dust covering his face. Apparently, she'd left him there for a full three days before she decided she needed the use of her coffee table and pushed him off it.
She was getting meaner, lately, ever since she found him almost naked with her boyfriend. Of course, he felt it was completely worth it.
He grinned and leaned on his hand. "What's wrong with strawberries?"
"They're gross," Sydney wrinkled her nose and walked into the kitchen – and promptly slipped and fell right on her ass. Will turned at least four shades of red and scurried out of there before she realized that the large puddle of strawberry ice cream she'd slipped on was his. But in running from Sydney he ran, literally, into a towel-clad Michael Vaughn still wet from the shower. And like a five year old boy caught in the act, Will was stunned as he sat on the floor, thrown there by his own momentum.
"H – hi," Will stuttered. Vaughn grinned down at him, running a hand through hanging, wet hair.
"Morning, Will. Where's Sydney?" he asked. Will just – sat there.
"WILL!" Sydney's voice roared from the direction of the kitchen, but he didn't hear her. All he was thinking about was that wonderful man standing before him, and how he would love nothing more than to run his hands over that wet chest, through the strawberry smelling hair. Wait –
"Did you use my shampoo?"
"The strawberry one?"
"Yeah."
"Oops. Sorry, Will, I thought it was Syd's."
Will was grinning like a 12 year old. Vaughn had used his shampoo. His! Oh, there were only a few more steps and Vaughn would be all his – he would win!
Sydney's steps could be heard stomping towards them, but were interrupted by a knock at the door. She paused, then turned and put on her hostess face before answering it. But as soon as she did, a scream came from her lips. Vaughn and Will rushed to the door, but Will soon lagged behind, carrying a towel with him as he did.
. .
There are some things people laugh at when they watch them on TV, or see in real life, but when put in that situation themselves finally see the seriousness of it all. The devotion, the feeling and emotion.
And so, Will Tippin, who had always thought it silly to keep items of band members thrown from stages, or never washing a hand again after that special person touched it, found himself in a quandary. You see, he was standing in the middle of the living room he now could call his own, hugging a white towel to his chest, his eyes large and shining. If animated, there would have been large yellow and white stars in them as he looked off towards the front door.
He was never going to wash that towel ever again.
Not only that, he was searching his star-struck mind for his digital camera's last location, praying he could figure it out and find it in the next thirty seconds as Vaughn ran towards the door, concerned for his girlfriend as well as putting on a *very* good show. It clicked in his head, and faster than Speedy Gonzalas, he was off, running for his room, the towel now pressed hard against his chest (and subsequencially making a large wet mark on his t-shirt).
It was because Will was back in his room digging through his closet that he didn't see who was at the front door.
Sydney did, and was on the floor, unconscious, from fainting at the sight of Mr. Sark standing on the front porch dressed in black – as always – and a long wide black trench coat, the handle for a sword sticking out from inside the black abyss.
But, the image of Sark standing there with the sword didn't really bother her that much. It was what he was doing when she opened the door that caused her to scream and fall on the tiled floor. Sark had quickly sheathed the sword he was now carrying, but Weiss continued to huddle against the wall of the house, lying in the decorative bushes out there, his suit coat slashed into small, narrow strips that hung off him like ribbon. Like a frightened animal, his eyes were wide, hands pressed against the wall.
Well, that was, of course, until Vaughn came to the door.
He thought he'd died and gone to heaven. A heaven with a just-out-of-the-shower naked Vaughn, his dirty blond hair still wet sitting messily atop his head, a piece falling into his clear green eyes. But that was only the beginning of his trip south this fine morning, a trip Sark was on as well. Yes, kids, this one traveled down the well-chiseled face, the long, beautiful neck, to his still damp chest just yearning for some hands to be run down it only to end at his –
*flash*
Surprised, Vaughn turned.
*flash*
"I got him!" Will cried as if he were a 13 year old catching her favorite band off-guard. He jumped up and down, giddy, the towel still clutched in his hand, the other hand holding his small silver digital camera. Weiss came out of his trance after taking in the back half of the love of his life, jumping up from his position in the bushes and sweeping past Sark to take a look in the camera's viewfinder.
"Good morning, Mr. Vaughn. I see everything is hanging…correctly for you today," Sark smirked, checking his hair in the window next to the door. Vaughn blushed, looked down, and screamed a scream to rival Will's from Taipei before running back into the house. He attempted to take the first towel he saw – the one Will was still holding, but was unable to.
"Mine!" Will said. Vaughn ran away.
"So, how'd the picture come out?" Sark asked.
"I call doubles!" Weiss cheered.
Vaughn ran back to his room and quickly threw some clothes on. There was no way he was letting naked pictures of himself out in any way – he was not going to be the target of blackmail *or* a unwilling model in a magazine. Well, being a model would be fun, he giggled to himself, and then, he'd have more admirers.
Wait. He had four. More were not needed.
When he arrived back in the living room, he found Will standing on the couch, holding the camera above his head as Weiss stood on the ground next to it, jumping up and down in an attempt to grab it from him. Sark, however, was who worried him, as he stood off to the side, silent, playing with one of Sydney's ponytail holders as if he were contemplating its correct usage.
Weiss finally decided enough was enough, and leapt up at Will, causing the pair to fall back, tumble over the table behind the couch, and end up sprawled at Vaughn's feet. Oh, but it didn't stop there. The pair continued to roll around on the ground shouting things at each other, such as:
"Give me the camera!"
"You cannot handle the nakedness!"
"I was there!"
"In small doses."
"Get off me! I don't want you, and I want him!"
"No *I* want him!"
"Me, you half-wit reporter!"
"No, me, you overweight clown!"
"That's *it*!"
And they rolled on past Vaughn. He stood there, simply blinking, then shook his head. Silly men rolling around his floor. He *had* to be dreaming.
"Mr. Vaughn?" Sark asked from across the room, his voice sounding somewhat timid. Vaughn looked up at the blond, who now had a ponytail hanging, well, sticking off to the side, more and more hair escaping the loose elastic band with each passing second.
"Yes," Vaughn replied, biting his fist. "Sark?"
"Does this look manly?" he asked, pointing to his hair. Vaughn couldn't help it, and broke out laughing, having to clutch his stomach.
Mr. Sark did *not* enjoy being laughed at, no matter who was doing the laughing. And as quickly as construction sweeps onto narrow roads in the city, his mood changed, and the sword was out.
"Are you laughing at me?" he growled.
The sight of Sark standing there with a large sword sobered him up almost immediately.
"There can be only one!" he cried, holding the sword above his head and cutting off a large chunk of the ceiling fan.
He leapt for the two men *still* rolling around and now arguing over who loved Vaughn more. Weiss caught sight of him first, and ducked out of the way, rolling off into a bedroom.
It was the towel that got it.
Will cried like his mother had been killed, cradling the poor now sliced towel in his hands. His blue eyes were filled with tears as he looked up to Sark.
"Why?" he asked. "Why the towel? It never did anything to you!"
"It was in my way," Sark shrugged. Will looked down to the towel.
"Poor thing," he mumbled. "Poor, poor thing."
Weiss decided sitting in the bedroom with the door locked would be the best option at that time.
. .
"Ugg. How long have I been out?" Sydney asked, leaning up as she rubbed her head. Vaughn rushed over to her side, now fully dressed yet still as yummy. He gave her a hand and helped her up from the ground. The first thing she noticed was that the sun was no longer up.
"All day!?" she asked, somehow forming a large, red haze around her. Vaughn cowered, wishing he wasn't too tall to fall and hide behind one of the barstools, and just stood his ground hoping for the best instead. She took three large steps to close the distance between them.
"Well, umm, you looked comfortable?" he asked more than stated.
"Comfortable? I was passed out in the front entrance!"
"I bought you a present!" Vaughn tried, smiling. Sydney's face lit up.
"Where is it?"
"What?"
"My present!"
"Oh! It's here!" and he ran to the other side of the couch, giving the sleeping Will a sideways glance. That towel was still in his arms, cradled there like an injured child. Sark slept in the corner, corralled there by extension cords and a printed copy of The Picture Will had given him as a peace offering. He looked harmless.
Weiss was still in the bedroom, now shifting through the drawers in an effort to find Vaughn's. It was with his hands holding some…clothing…, a guilty look on his face that he was found by Vaughn, who had rushed in there to retrieve the bag.
"Eep!" Weiss exclaimed, and dove to hide behind the bed. Vaughn grabbed the bag and gave Weiss a sideways glance.
The man smiled back, waved, and waited for him to shut the door so he could resume his previous activities.
"Present!" Sydney grinned, rushing to meet him halfway. Vaughn pulled the first present out of the bag, which was in fact, a large brown box with holes poked in it. She looked through the holes and gasped, leaning back.
"A bomb!"
"Bomb!"
"Bomb?"
The boys were up, and Weiss, who had seen the bag's contents before, hid behind a half-opened bedroom door. Sark, being the brave one, walked up and took the lid off the box.
He read: "This hamster is a pipe bomb."
"Umm…Vaughn?" Will asked.
"Yeah?"
"Why did you put a little cardboard sign around the hamster's neck saying it's a pipe bomb?"
"So Donovan wouldn't eat him."
"Right."
"Bomb!" Weiss cried, and ran out of the house, the ribbon his coat had been reduced to flying in the wind. Vaughn gave him a look, knowing about the man's fear of exploding things and small animals, and reached into the bag to extract the other gift…
