* * * *
Two days later Jack was still trying to determine exactly what had occurred on the airplane that night. Based on all that he knew of Sark, putting up a struggle over the handcuffs would have been extremely uncharacteristic. Ordinarily he would have expected sardonic compliance from the boy. Perhaps a condescending smirk; a hint of arrogant amusement at their presumed fear of him. Fighting with the guard over something so small and ultimately pointless was a futile gesture, immature and unproductive. Efficiency had always been one of Sark's most distinguishable characteristics, along with impassivity and level-headedness. There were only three reasons that Jack had been able to come up with to explain such aberrant behavior. Either there had been a strategic purpose for the struggle that Jack could not see, confinement was beginning to wear on Sark far more than he had imagined, or there was something deeper going on.
He didn't believe the first and had seen no other evidence of the second. It was the third alternative that concerned Jack the most. Immature, he thought again. It had been a childish impulse that had prompted the sudden stubborn desire to refuse a quiet submission to the handcuffs. Jack had a suspicion that all childish impulses had been suppressed in Sark even while he had still actually been a child. That they would begin to surface again now was disturbing. Jack wondered if the boy's own subconscious was betraying him.
For the first time in his life, Sark knew that he was someone's child - not abstractly, but specifically. He now knew exactly who his parents were. Was he beginning to think of himself as their child, Jack wondered? Had that realization unconsciously loosened some long-stifled inhibitions within him? Was Sark acting like a child because suddenly, unexpectedly, finally… he was one?
And that brought Jack back to the implications that he had been trying ineffectively to ignore. Although intellectually he had accepted the indisputable findings that Marshall had uncovered, he hadn't believed that his emotional view of the situation had altered much at all. Regardless of his heritage, the boy was simply the most valuable operative he currently had at his disposal to help him find Sydney. He was cold-blooded, hardnosed, and indifferent. He was Sark.
Except that Jack had called him Stephen.
He had called the boy by his given name in a tone and manner that had demanded and expected instinctive obedience. It had not been a directive from a senior agent to a subordinate. It had been the unmistakable command of a father to a son and it had been evident that despite having never heard it before, Sark had clearly recognized it for what it was. With that name, spoken in that tone, Jack had acknowledged their relationship more explicitly than he'd ever done before.
They had agreed from the outset that their awareness of their connection changed nothing. Yet somehow, somewhere… something had.
* * * *
In the wake of the successful mission - both in terms of reestablishing Sark's credibility and in testing the poison capsule - Kendall had grown a bit more comfortable with the concept of Sark in the field and more confident of their ability to control him. A second mission was authorized within weeks. Jack was not surprised to discover at the briefing that Kendall had realized just how useful the boy could be to them in this capacity. He was only surprised at how little time it had taken the director to warm to the idea.
Superficially the new assignment would serve to increase Sark's visibility in the right circles. For the CIA, however, it was an opportunity to gain intelligence that might otherwise have been much more difficult to obtain. In the two years prior to his American incarceration, Sark had begun to establish a formidable reputation. Enigmatic though his motives and true loyalties might be, it had become a widely known fact this charmingly harmless-looking young man was not a player to be taken lightly. Doors would be opened for him that not even an agent as skilled as Sydney would easily have been allowed to pass through. Now that Kendall had the means to exploit this break, he seemed intent on using it to the fullest extent possible.
"And all for the price of room, board, and the occasional minor surgery," Sark observed dryly. "I used to get paid quite a lot for this, you know." His tone was carefully flippant and Jack knew he was assiduously trying to avoid any sort of interaction which would recall that uncomfortable moment of connection to mind. The boy's toughest walls had been resurrected and only Sark the hardened spy spoke through them.
"I thought it wasn't about the money," Jack said, not any more willing to push the boundaries again either.
"Well, it isn't. But if I'm going to be perforated every time we do this, I think I ought to get some sort of compensation. That last scar still itches."
"How about for compensation we don't ship you to Camp Harris when you get back?" Kendall growled through the satellite link.
"So nice to see that everyone's sense of humor is still intact. You do remember that I'm cooperating willingly, don't you?"
Sark didn't seem to expect an answer and Kendall didn't bother to reply. In the silence that ensued Jack studied the boy seated across from him on the plane once again. Sark didn't fidget, he realized. Instead, he seemed to settle into a meditative trance curiously similar to what Jack had occasionally observed Irina employ while in their custody. Or perhaps not so curiously. Sark had been with her for half his life. It was only natural that he had picked up some of her practices. Or been taught them. It was with another small jolt that Jack reminded himself that this boy was not merely a precociously talented operative. Sark had been explicitly trained for this job from the time he was nine years old. He already had as much field experience as many agents Jack knew who were twice his age. His apparent youth was still unnervingly deceptive.
"What about another blanket?" Sark said suddenly. "If you're going to persist in keeping me in that ice box, could I at least leverage another blanket out of this mission?"
"We'll discuss that option later, Goldilocks," came the terse, crackling response.
Jack barely heard the soft mutter as Sark prepared to slip back into his meditation. "Goldilocks… Perverse bastards."
As Jack continued his observation he recalled another time when the boy had complained of his cell's frigidity. As if abruptly remembering the same event, Sark's eyes opened once more. The boy met his gaze without the defensive screening that had been there for the past few weeks. Now there was simply a weariness in his expression that made him look older than Jack had ever seen him. Suddenly one corner of his mouth twitched upward in a wry, crooked grin and a little of the tiredness seemed to lift.
"I just want another blanket, athair. It doesn't mean anything."
* * * *
Two days later Jack was still trying to determine exactly what had occurred on the airplane that night. Based on all that he knew of Sark, putting up a struggle over the handcuffs would have been extremely uncharacteristic. Ordinarily he would have expected sardonic compliance from the boy. Perhaps a condescending smirk; a hint of arrogant amusement at their presumed fear of him. Fighting with the guard over something so small and ultimately pointless was a futile gesture, immature and unproductive. Efficiency had always been one of Sark's most distinguishable characteristics, along with impassivity and level-headedness. There were only three reasons that Jack had been able to come up with to explain such aberrant behavior. Either there had been a strategic purpose for the struggle that Jack could not see, confinement was beginning to wear on Sark far more than he had imagined, or there was something deeper going on.
He didn't believe the first and had seen no other evidence of the second. It was the third alternative that concerned Jack the most. Immature, he thought again. It had been a childish impulse that had prompted the sudden stubborn desire to refuse a quiet submission to the handcuffs. Jack had a suspicion that all childish impulses had been suppressed in Sark even while he had still actually been a child. That they would begin to surface again now was disturbing. Jack wondered if the boy's own subconscious was betraying him.
For the first time in his life, Sark knew that he was someone's child - not abstractly, but specifically. He now knew exactly who his parents were. Was he beginning to think of himself as their child, Jack wondered? Had that realization unconsciously loosened some long-stifled inhibitions within him? Was Sark acting like a child because suddenly, unexpectedly, finally… he was one?
And that brought Jack back to the implications that he had been trying ineffectively to ignore. Although intellectually he had accepted the indisputable findings that Marshall had uncovered, he hadn't believed that his emotional view of the situation had altered much at all. Regardless of his heritage, the boy was simply the most valuable operative he currently had at his disposal to help him find Sydney. He was cold-blooded, hardnosed, and indifferent. He was Sark.
Except that Jack had called him Stephen.
He had called the boy by his given name in a tone and manner that had demanded and expected instinctive obedience. It had not been a directive from a senior agent to a subordinate. It had been the unmistakable command of a father to a son and it had been evident that despite having never heard it before, Sark had clearly recognized it for what it was. With that name, spoken in that tone, Jack had acknowledged their relationship more explicitly than he'd ever done before.
They had agreed from the outset that their awareness of their connection changed nothing. Yet somehow, somewhere… something had.
* * * *
In the wake of the successful mission - both in terms of reestablishing Sark's credibility and in testing the poison capsule - Kendall had grown a bit more comfortable with the concept of Sark in the field and more confident of their ability to control him. A second mission was authorized within weeks. Jack was not surprised to discover at the briefing that Kendall had realized just how useful the boy could be to them in this capacity. He was only surprised at how little time it had taken the director to warm to the idea.
Superficially the new assignment would serve to increase Sark's visibility in the right circles. For the CIA, however, it was an opportunity to gain intelligence that might otherwise have been much more difficult to obtain. In the two years prior to his American incarceration, Sark had begun to establish a formidable reputation. Enigmatic though his motives and true loyalties might be, it had become a widely known fact this charmingly harmless-looking young man was not a player to be taken lightly. Doors would be opened for him that not even an agent as skilled as Sydney would easily have been allowed to pass through. Now that Kendall had the means to exploit this break, he seemed intent on using it to the fullest extent possible.
"And all for the price of room, board, and the occasional minor surgery," Sark observed dryly. "I used to get paid quite a lot for this, you know." His tone was carefully flippant and Jack knew he was assiduously trying to avoid any sort of interaction which would recall that uncomfortable moment of connection to mind. The boy's toughest walls had been resurrected and only Sark the hardened spy spoke through them.
"I thought it wasn't about the money," Jack said, not any more willing to push the boundaries again either.
"Well, it isn't. But if I'm going to be perforated every time we do this, I think I ought to get some sort of compensation. That last scar still itches."
"How about for compensation we don't ship you to Camp Harris when you get back?" Kendall growled through the satellite link.
"So nice to see that everyone's sense of humor is still intact. You do remember that I'm cooperating willingly, don't you?"
Sark didn't seem to expect an answer and Kendall didn't bother to reply. In the silence that ensued Jack studied the boy seated across from him on the plane once again. Sark didn't fidget, he realized. Instead, he seemed to settle into a meditative trance curiously similar to what Jack had occasionally observed Irina employ while in their custody. Or perhaps not so curiously. Sark had been with her for half his life. It was only natural that he had picked up some of her practices. Or been taught them. It was with another small jolt that Jack reminded himself that this boy was not merely a precociously talented operative. Sark had been explicitly trained for this job from the time he was nine years old. He already had as much field experience as many agents Jack knew who were twice his age. His apparent youth was still unnervingly deceptive.
"What about another blanket?" Sark said suddenly. "If you're going to persist in keeping me in that ice box, could I at least leverage another blanket out of this mission?"
"We'll discuss that option later, Goldilocks," came the terse, crackling response.
Jack barely heard the soft mutter as Sark prepared to slip back into his meditation. "Goldilocks… Perverse bastards."
As Jack continued his observation he recalled another time when the boy had complained of his cell's frigidity. As if abruptly remembering the same event, Sark's eyes opened once more. The boy met his gaze without the defensive screening that had been there for the past few weeks. Now there was simply a weariness in his expression that made him look older than Jack had ever seen him. Suddenly one corner of his mouth twitched upward in a wry, crooked grin and a little of the tiredness seemed to lift.
"I just want another blanket, athair. It doesn't mean anything."
* * * *