Ordinary Superman
"Close your eyes."
Sydney found herself obeying before he even finished the sentence. Why did she follow his directions so eagerly? Like a lamb to the slaughter. She felt, rather than heard, Sark approach her. Years spent as an assassin honed such abilities.Her line of thought was abruptly ended by Sark's touch. And by his will all rationality fled her. God, what was happening? His fingers were cold. And she enjoyed it.
"No." It came out as a question more than a definitive.
"No?" Amusement tinted a honeyed voice. Lips curled into a boyish smile. But those eyes. Those eyes were neither boyish nor the least bit amused. What she saw there, what she felt in his gaze. It frightened her. Moreover, it seduced her. Now that said something. It said something about Sydney, to be seduced by fear. A gaze like his was powerful, dangerous, made more so by her own weakness. No matter, because she could barely hold his gaze for more than a moment.
And still he touched her.
He didn't treat her like Vaughn did. Had. Not even back in the day, when passion, not pity, defined her relationship with Vaughn. He didn't look at her like Vaughn did either. Vaughn, Vaughn had worshipped her once, watched her every move with adoration and desire. Their relationship was hardly as staid as Sark made it feel. There had been excitement with Vaughn, once and perhaps still. Somehow this was different. This wasn't excitement. Sark didn't drink her in like she was a delicate flower to be admired, far from it. His eyes followed her every move in an almost cruel way, possessing her, defining her, bending her to his will. Even blind she knew he did not take his eyes off her. Would not take his eyes off her.
If Vaughn had been love, Sark was something entirely new. Sark was frightening. If by frightening she meant exhilarating of course. Only, she was startled again by her own willingness to find comfort in the present situation. Comfort? When was Sark's presence anything but a threat, much less comfort?
Oh, but what a boyish charm those lips, those eyes could contort themselves into, while still belying below the surface a deadly control. Was it a projection? Was he creating an illusion for her to feed upon? Or was that other world, that other Sydeny, that weak Sydney the illusion?
An interesting puzzle.
Then again, she wasn't the only one in the room suffering from an identity crisis. Who exactly was Mr. Sark? At shallow depths, the sarcastic twisting smirk showed a boy who was not a boy, one quick to laughter, wearing his emotions writ across his face. Lingering beneath was a stillness, like a glacier, untouched by external influence. Here lay the assassin, the man who could kill as easily as he could breath. Glimpses of that coldness betrayed him, exposing the outer illusion to be incomplete. And deeper still? That Sark she felt during the briefest of moments, hinted by their shared kiss, vaguely present in his very touch. No single layer could define him.
She opened her eyes, no surprise registering at him standing directly in front of her. He dropped his hand, but the intimacy of contact had not been broken. Marble. Marble and gold, marble and gold and ice, he was made of marble and gold and ice.and something else. He was a mystery she could not fathom, would not fathom, could not hope to fathom. Each move was a surprise for her but no matter what she did, how she anticipated, he was three steps ahead. Hell, he was miles ahead and still he mocked her. There was truly naught she could do but remain trapped, entranced. Along came a spider weaving his web.
So she fell back on the only thing she knew for sure.
"What the hell do you want Sark?" She spoke fast to fool herself. She moved backwards quickly to get away from him, to get away from herself. It was a question with no answer.
And then she fled.
Leaving Sark to smile, bemused by this interesting turn of events. "Well now, Agent Bristow, this was unexpected."
But he spoke to his own reflection, mirrored by planes of glass.
What the hell was wrong with her? There, the same question. A myriad of answers. In what perverse alternate reality did Sark become the Lex Luthor to her Lois Lane? And when exactly had Sydney begun to find characters like Lex Luthor sympathetic? When your ordinary Superman runs off with the babysitter, her mother's voice told her. Stop it. This was not the time to be hearing voices. Especially dead, psychotic, ex-KGB voices. So who's voice would you rather hear instead? Your own rationalizations? Or Vaughn, who refuses to understand? This was the first sign of madness, hearing imaginary voices that is.
...
It was about faith. It was about faith and it was about honor. Her father had called Vaughn a boy who was never good enough for her. So had he ever had faith? Had he ever had honor? Had he ever truly loved her if that love could be supplanted?
He said he didn't regret moving on with his life. It didn't make it any easier. And now she stood, soul bared and anger driven, in front of this wisp of a blond that looked like she would blow ever if Sydney so much as sneezed. Yet somehow, that was neither met nor matter for her to ponder. Sydney's anger and indignation had a new focus, another motive.
"What do you mean they demand Sark?"
"Close your eyes."
Sydney found herself obeying before he even finished the sentence. Why did she follow his directions so eagerly? Like a lamb to the slaughter. She felt, rather than heard, Sark approach her. Years spent as an assassin honed such abilities.Her line of thought was abruptly ended by Sark's touch. And by his will all rationality fled her. God, what was happening? His fingers were cold. And she enjoyed it.
"No." It came out as a question more than a definitive.
"No?" Amusement tinted a honeyed voice. Lips curled into a boyish smile. But those eyes. Those eyes were neither boyish nor the least bit amused. What she saw there, what she felt in his gaze. It frightened her. Moreover, it seduced her. Now that said something. It said something about Sydney, to be seduced by fear. A gaze like his was powerful, dangerous, made more so by her own weakness. No matter, because she could barely hold his gaze for more than a moment.
And still he touched her.
He didn't treat her like Vaughn did. Had. Not even back in the day, when passion, not pity, defined her relationship with Vaughn. He didn't look at her like Vaughn did either. Vaughn, Vaughn had worshipped her once, watched her every move with adoration and desire. Their relationship was hardly as staid as Sark made it feel. There had been excitement with Vaughn, once and perhaps still. Somehow this was different. This wasn't excitement. Sark didn't drink her in like she was a delicate flower to be admired, far from it. His eyes followed her every move in an almost cruel way, possessing her, defining her, bending her to his will. Even blind she knew he did not take his eyes off her. Would not take his eyes off her.
If Vaughn had been love, Sark was something entirely new. Sark was frightening. If by frightening she meant exhilarating of course. Only, she was startled again by her own willingness to find comfort in the present situation. Comfort? When was Sark's presence anything but a threat, much less comfort?
Oh, but what a boyish charm those lips, those eyes could contort themselves into, while still belying below the surface a deadly control. Was it a projection? Was he creating an illusion for her to feed upon? Or was that other world, that other Sydeny, that weak Sydney the illusion?
An interesting puzzle.
Then again, she wasn't the only one in the room suffering from an identity crisis. Who exactly was Mr. Sark? At shallow depths, the sarcastic twisting smirk showed a boy who was not a boy, one quick to laughter, wearing his emotions writ across his face. Lingering beneath was a stillness, like a glacier, untouched by external influence. Here lay the assassin, the man who could kill as easily as he could breath. Glimpses of that coldness betrayed him, exposing the outer illusion to be incomplete. And deeper still? That Sark she felt during the briefest of moments, hinted by their shared kiss, vaguely present in his very touch. No single layer could define him.
She opened her eyes, no surprise registering at him standing directly in front of her. He dropped his hand, but the intimacy of contact had not been broken. Marble. Marble and gold, marble and gold and ice, he was made of marble and gold and ice.and something else. He was a mystery she could not fathom, would not fathom, could not hope to fathom. Each move was a surprise for her but no matter what she did, how she anticipated, he was three steps ahead. Hell, he was miles ahead and still he mocked her. There was truly naught she could do but remain trapped, entranced. Along came a spider weaving his web.
So she fell back on the only thing she knew for sure.
"What the hell do you want Sark?" She spoke fast to fool herself. She moved backwards quickly to get away from him, to get away from herself. It was a question with no answer.
And then she fled.
Leaving Sark to smile, bemused by this interesting turn of events. "Well now, Agent Bristow, this was unexpected."
But he spoke to his own reflection, mirrored by planes of glass.
What the hell was wrong with her? There, the same question. A myriad of answers. In what perverse alternate reality did Sark become the Lex Luthor to her Lois Lane? And when exactly had Sydney begun to find characters like Lex Luthor sympathetic? When your ordinary Superman runs off with the babysitter, her mother's voice told her. Stop it. This was not the time to be hearing voices. Especially dead, psychotic, ex-KGB voices. So who's voice would you rather hear instead? Your own rationalizations? Or Vaughn, who refuses to understand? This was the first sign of madness, hearing imaginary voices that is.
...
It was about faith. It was about faith and it was about honor. Her father had called Vaughn a boy who was never good enough for her. So had he ever had faith? Had he ever had honor? Had he ever truly loved her if that love could be supplanted?
He said he didn't regret moving on with his life. It didn't make it any easier. And now she stood, soul bared and anger driven, in front of this wisp of a blond that looked like she would blow ever if Sydney so much as sneezed. Yet somehow, that was neither met nor matter for her to ponder. Sydney's anger and indignation had a new focus, another motive.
"What do you mean they demand Sark?"