"Vaughn." An apology hung in the air between them, a pause pregnant
with tension. But the words didn't follow. Disgust masked by pity
contorted familiar features and he was gone. Sydney didn't know why she
persisted. Why she kept going to him, even now. What's a little masochism
between ex-lovers? Isn't that what friends are for?
Now the disgust was hers, disgust with herself, with him, but especially with the little tramp he'd married. Not that she knew her. Oh no, Vaughn would never let his worlds collide like that, past with present, his here and now with his once and was. To him, Sydney Bristow was no more than a phantom, and anyone who said otherwise was an unwelcome intrusion. So why did she insist? Why did she welcome the burn? Sydney closed her eyes to block out his face. In the darkness, she could still feel him with a ubiquity unnatural. Greedily, her thoughts followed his every move and in the past two months the emotions had gone past love to obsession. She didn't just want him. She needed him.
"Jesus fucking Christ." The expletive exploded softly from her lips, escaping before she could take note of her surroundings, where she was, who she was with. Too late she realized she was not alone. The soft clucking behind her and to the left startled her, guilt tingeing skin.
"Well, Agent Vaughn is many things, though I was not aware he was our savior."
Arrogance so dry it practically scorched, but Sydney lacked a clever retort. He had caught her in a moment of weakness, a moment of shame. Interestingly enough, she had never heard sarcasm wrapped around a British accent before.
"He's not. What do you want Sark? Why'd they let you out of your cage?"
"They needed my expertise." He was now in front of her, dark blue eyes colored by an unidentifiable emotion. Irritation and curiosity did battle and curiosity won out. At least Sark wasn't running from her as if she carried the plague. Instead he stood, immobile, arms linked by metal cuffs behind his back. The gray jumpsuit customary to prisoners did nothing to hide his lanky frame. Broad shoulders curved to lean arms, all compact muscle held taunt, as if in anticipation.
Anticipation of what?
"And now?"
"Now they allow me a moment of leisure. Of course, if you're concerned for your safety, you can see I still have my entourage." A slight head gesture indicated the two suited agents, guns cocked at the ready, standing a respectable distance away to allow Sydney a moment of intimacy, if not privacy.
"You could never hurt me Sark."
"Not like he can hurt you." He finished the thought effortlessly. His words merely reflected what was already evident on her own expressive features. Funny how even now, in the presence of a dangerous criminal and longtime adversary, Sydney's thoughts flitted back to him. Funny how things had changed, estranged from all that was familiar, intimate and consorting with the enemy. Where was the line and when exactly did she cross it? Funny how right and wrong, good and evil blurred so easily. Was this how her mother felt?
It was a disturbing thought. Sydney willed herself to move, to walk away, to lift her foot and set it down again, but she remained rooted. Her mother, the infamous Irina Derevko. She too had been drawn to this blond assassin, cold as ice. Is that how it worked? Once you've been burned too much, all you can handle is ice?
Sark continued to watch her and she returned the favor. He was so detached, so devoid of emotion. Now she began to realize why her father hated him so much. Why Vaughn hated him so much. Two years with the CIA and he had yet to reveal anything of importance. Rather he tantalized them with bits and pieces, half-truths hidden in riddles layered with deception. It must be maddening, to hold at their fingertips the means to rid the world of evil and not be able to use it. But what did it mean to her? What was evil when the face of good brings only grief?
"Welcome the pain Sydney." He spoke so matter-of-factly and so softly it took her a minute to recognize that he had spoken at all. Whether he was trying to be philosophical or was merely playing with her, Syd was too far gone to care. So instead she waited for him to fill the silence with an explanation.
Cocking one eyebrow, he took her willingness to stay as an invitation to go on. "Pain is the only thing the reminds us we're alive." He continued to look down at her with the same unidentifiable expression. Somehow Sydney knew it wasn't pity. She had seen enough pity in the past weeks to identify it. Odd how the most insightful words could come from a known terrorist. Odd how it was no longer pain that she was feeling. Rather, whatever it was, was driving her to throw Sark back on the desk and straddle him in one fluid motion.
Odd.
Sydney closed the distance between them defiantly. One of the agents in the corner coughed, unsure of where this may lead. Pity stayed his hand, thankfully, for Sydney was tired of playing by their rules. After all, where had their rules ever gotten her? A back alley in Hong Kong, her one shot at happiness carried off by the ghost of tomorrow, and her very existence buried in thousands of had beens and weres? No, no, it was her turn. Sark remained still, unflinching and unsympathetic. He for one would never grant her pity. Raising her arm slowly, Sydney allowed fingertips to graze the curve of his cheek. The texture of smooth skin brought a tingle of electricity as well as the cool, dry heat of contact. Moving from cheek to lips, Sydney felt a rush of desire in her own knees, finally identifying Sark's unidentifiable expression.
Lust.
Without thought, Sydney replaced fingertips with lips. The kiss was at once brutal and soft. It felt like he was crushing her from the inside out. How he managed to convey such firmness without moving a single muscle was beyond her. And in that moment Sydney made one last realization, seeing into the soul of her mother. They were one and the same. For when you've fallen this far, your only path seeks absolution in sin.
Now the disgust was hers, disgust with herself, with him, but especially with the little tramp he'd married. Not that she knew her. Oh no, Vaughn would never let his worlds collide like that, past with present, his here and now with his once and was. To him, Sydney Bristow was no more than a phantom, and anyone who said otherwise was an unwelcome intrusion. So why did she insist? Why did she welcome the burn? Sydney closed her eyes to block out his face. In the darkness, she could still feel him with a ubiquity unnatural. Greedily, her thoughts followed his every move and in the past two months the emotions had gone past love to obsession. She didn't just want him. She needed him.
"Jesus fucking Christ." The expletive exploded softly from her lips, escaping before she could take note of her surroundings, where she was, who she was with. Too late she realized she was not alone. The soft clucking behind her and to the left startled her, guilt tingeing skin.
"Well, Agent Vaughn is many things, though I was not aware he was our savior."
Arrogance so dry it practically scorched, but Sydney lacked a clever retort. He had caught her in a moment of weakness, a moment of shame. Interestingly enough, she had never heard sarcasm wrapped around a British accent before.
"He's not. What do you want Sark? Why'd they let you out of your cage?"
"They needed my expertise." He was now in front of her, dark blue eyes colored by an unidentifiable emotion. Irritation and curiosity did battle and curiosity won out. At least Sark wasn't running from her as if she carried the plague. Instead he stood, immobile, arms linked by metal cuffs behind his back. The gray jumpsuit customary to prisoners did nothing to hide his lanky frame. Broad shoulders curved to lean arms, all compact muscle held taunt, as if in anticipation.
Anticipation of what?
"And now?"
"Now they allow me a moment of leisure. Of course, if you're concerned for your safety, you can see I still have my entourage." A slight head gesture indicated the two suited agents, guns cocked at the ready, standing a respectable distance away to allow Sydney a moment of intimacy, if not privacy.
"You could never hurt me Sark."
"Not like he can hurt you." He finished the thought effortlessly. His words merely reflected what was already evident on her own expressive features. Funny how even now, in the presence of a dangerous criminal and longtime adversary, Sydney's thoughts flitted back to him. Funny how things had changed, estranged from all that was familiar, intimate and consorting with the enemy. Where was the line and when exactly did she cross it? Funny how right and wrong, good and evil blurred so easily. Was this how her mother felt?
It was a disturbing thought. Sydney willed herself to move, to walk away, to lift her foot and set it down again, but she remained rooted. Her mother, the infamous Irina Derevko. She too had been drawn to this blond assassin, cold as ice. Is that how it worked? Once you've been burned too much, all you can handle is ice?
Sark continued to watch her and she returned the favor. He was so detached, so devoid of emotion. Now she began to realize why her father hated him so much. Why Vaughn hated him so much. Two years with the CIA and he had yet to reveal anything of importance. Rather he tantalized them with bits and pieces, half-truths hidden in riddles layered with deception. It must be maddening, to hold at their fingertips the means to rid the world of evil and not be able to use it. But what did it mean to her? What was evil when the face of good brings only grief?
"Welcome the pain Sydney." He spoke so matter-of-factly and so softly it took her a minute to recognize that he had spoken at all. Whether he was trying to be philosophical or was merely playing with her, Syd was too far gone to care. So instead she waited for him to fill the silence with an explanation.
Cocking one eyebrow, he took her willingness to stay as an invitation to go on. "Pain is the only thing the reminds us we're alive." He continued to look down at her with the same unidentifiable expression. Somehow Sydney knew it wasn't pity. She had seen enough pity in the past weeks to identify it. Odd how the most insightful words could come from a known terrorist. Odd how it was no longer pain that she was feeling. Rather, whatever it was, was driving her to throw Sark back on the desk and straddle him in one fluid motion.
Odd.
Sydney closed the distance between them defiantly. One of the agents in the corner coughed, unsure of where this may lead. Pity stayed his hand, thankfully, for Sydney was tired of playing by their rules. After all, where had their rules ever gotten her? A back alley in Hong Kong, her one shot at happiness carried off by the ghost of tomorrow, and her very existence buried in thousands of had beens and weres? No, no, it was her turn. Sark remained still, unflinching and unsympathetic. He for one would never grant her pity. Raising her arm slowly, Sydney allowed fingertips to graze the curve of his cheek. The texture of smooth skin brought a tingle of electricity as well as the cool, dry heat of contact. Moving from cheek to lips, Sydney felt a rush of desire in her own knees, finally identifying Sark's unidentifiable expression.
Lust.
Without thought, Sydney replaced fingertips with lips. The kiss was at once brutal and soft. It felt like he was crushing her from the inside out. How he managed to convey such firmness without moving a single muscle was beyond her. And in that moment Sydney made one last realization, seeing into the soul of her mother. They were one and the same. For when you've fallen this far, your only path seeks absolution in sin.