5. "And when she laughs I travel back in time, something flips the switch and I collapse inside. It's all wrong."
Her lips are sealed the next morning when they meet again, but he notices they are bare and swollen and suspects that they taste of salt and limes. She is oddly devoid of disguises this morning. Perhaps she intends to remind her father of a time before all of this began, if such a time ever really existed. He doesn't pretend to understand.
He greets her amiably, keeping his voice low although there is no one else to be found in the lobby at this unspeakably early hour. "Are you ready?"
His perceived sensitivity to her presumed condition seems to soften her slightly; she does not offer a biting remark or aim a surreptitious glare in his direction.
"Will you drive?" she asks instead, without looking directly at him.
He tries not to smile as he takes the keys from her outstretched hand.
****
In the car, they don't speak until he kills the engine in front of the address Irina provided. Then he says: "You should be careful. This won't be what you expect."
"I know my father," she reiterates, then pauses. "Look, about what happened last night, I--"
"Are you ready?" he asks again. He won't give her the pleasure, muted as it may be by traces of guilt, of discovering that he was actually affected by what transpired--or didn't--between them. Not that he was, of course. No.
She nods.
He takes a deep breath; he doesn't have to issue this warning, but he feels compelled to do it anyway. "You really should try to prepare yourself for the man you'll meet in there. He won't be the same man you knew before."
She closes her eyes and shakes her head firmly, but after a moment she says, "I know." Another hesitation. "Thank you."
He does not ask for further clarification.
She leaves without another word or a glance behind her.
And so he waits.
* * *
Sydney does not want to see what is unfolding before her. Convinced her bleary eyes are playing tricks on her disoriented mind, she looks away, then back again, hoping that the figures will have rearranged themselves into more pleasing positions.
It doesn't work.
There he is, her father, presumably enjoying his breakfast at an outdoor table. He is reading the newspaper. Behind him, Sloane stands, staring into the distance, his hands on her father's shoulders.
Well, she can't approach him with Sloane right there, obviously. She crouches behind a column and considers her next move.
Miraculously, a phone rings inside the house, and Sloane leaves to answer it. Sydney remembers a set of numbers printed on the page with this address; but that would mean Sark was observing from somewhere close by, which of course he would not be. She is also reluctant to assume that despite all his warnings to be careful, he would really give a damn about whether her father decided to put an end to her misery or not. He probably had his orders to return at least her father to Derevko in tact, regardless of whether or not she was successful at persuading him to come home without a fight.
But there would be no resistance, of course.
"Dad?" She steps forward, into the light.
She wonders if she should be pleased that he still cares, as she watches the color drain from his face.
"They told me you were dead."
"I'm not."
He stares, and she takes the opportunity to scan his eyes for a sign that her father no longer resides in this body, as she's been repeatedly informed. She finds none; they must have been mistaken. Finally, he rises and pulls her into a long, tight hug. "I'm so glad you're here," he whispers into her hair.
"Come home with me," she says.
He backs away like she's burned him. "No." His voice turns raspy, hollow, as if she's said the one thing she really shouldn't have. "Stay."
"I can't." She tries to sound apologetic.
And now, suddenly, he's colder. "Who sent you?"
"I wasn't sent by anyone."
"Bullshit, Sydney. No one knows where we are."
She shudders inside at his use of 'we.' "She knows," she admits.
"Derevko. Who else?"
"I'm not working for her. God, I would never." She looks away. "Come home with me."
"Stay."
"With Sloane?" She bites back a laugh. "I don't think so."
"There's a lot you don't understand."
She tries again. "Please."
He looks like he's about to reiterate his inability or lack of desire to return with her, but instead he closes up the newspaper very slowly. She glances toward the door; Sloane will be back soon. "All right," he relents. "On one condition."
"Anything," she says.
* * *
Only later does she realize that it should have been more difficult to convince him to come home, and that it should have taken more effort to separate him from Sloane. As it was, he merely went inside, packed a bag, and met Sydney at the car. She did not ask whether he bid Sloane farewell or if this escape was intended to be covert.
She did not ask whether it could really be counted as an escape at all.
He is displeased to learn that Sark has accompanied her, and she would try to explain his presence if she could find words that would make it all make sense. She can't, so she doesn't. He says, "Let me guess; he's not working for Derevko, either." But he doesn't quite sound angry, nor does he make a move to break free from the moving vehicle.
She sighs. "It's complicated."
"Just make sure he doesn't interfere." With that, Jack stares out the window and does not speak to either of them again for some time.
If Sark is curious, he keeps his mouth shut. He is nothing if not patient.
* * *
It is not the first question he asks when they are alone.
Jack has fallen asleep, or is pretending; either way, they'll keep their voices down and their words to a minimum, anyway.
She sits alone, far from her father, staring at her hands. He approaches. "It seems you were right."
She looks up, startled by his sudden presence before her, and nods.
"You wouldn't mind if I--" He turns away. "No."
She can tell by the way he pauses in position that he's expecting her to say what she says next: "No, what?"
He leans in close, talking fast. "You wouldn't mind if I checked for something, would you?"
"You're not serious," she hisses into his ear.
"You're right. I shouldn't have asked." He backs off.
She grabs his sleeve, pulls him closer again. "You won't find anything. He's on the level."
His smile reads: I seriously fucking doubt that, princess, and just like that, she hates him all over again.
She devotes her energy to keeping her body perfectly rigid as he clumsily imitates her father's earlier embrace. (How? Did he see them, or is he guessing?) She can feel his fingers pressing into her skin below her shoulders, beneath her collar. As her mind begins to race, leaping to conclusions, then leaping with equal agility into rationalizations, her body softens. He pulls away, not a little surprised, but works not to let it show. He clears his throat and, with a quick glance over his shoulder at Jack's supposedly sleeping form, pushes a small, round object into her hand.
She closes her fist around it without bothering to look.
"I'm sorry," she starts.
And he wants to say, "don't be," but he doesn't, because that way perhaps he can pretend she's asking forgiveness for something she doesn't quite understand she did.
So he nods like it's nothing.
She hesitates. "And, look, about last night--"
And maybe it's sheer proximity and boredom or heat-induced delusion, but he thinks he must have whispered "do it again."
Because she almost does.
There would likely have been less anger this time, and more reciprocation. With his eyes closed, he could even have pretended they aren't where they are. Still, when she abruptly steps back, she looks as horrified as he feels.
But she doesn't protest when he kisses her because he can, and it's in that moment he realizes what a master she must be; any questions he might have had regarding the nature of what exactly it was he wasn't supposed to interfere with simply drift away, utterly vaporized.
He would regret this later, certainly.
Her lips are sealed the next morning when they meet again, but he notices they are bare and swollen and suspects that they taste of salt and limes. She is oddly devoid of disguises this morning. Perhaps she intends to remind her father of a time before all of this began, if such a time ever really existed. He doesn't pretend to understand.
He greets her amiably, keeping his voice low although there is no one else to be found in the lobby at this unspeakably early hour. "Are you ready?"
His perceived sensitivity to her presumed condition seems to soften her slightly; she does not offer a biting remark or aim a surreptitious glare in his direction.
"Will you drive?" she asks instead, without looking directly at him.
He tries not to smile as he takes the keys from her outstretched hand.
****
In the car, they don't speak until he kills the engine in front of the address Irina provided. Then he says: "You should be careful. This won't be what you expect."
"I know my father," she reiterates, then pauses. "Look, about what happened last night, I--"
"Are you ready?" he asks again. He won't give her the pleasure, muted as it may be by traces of guilt, of discovering that he was actually affected by what transpired--or didn't--between them. Not that he was, of course. No.
She nods.
He takes a deep breath; he doesn't have to issue this warning, but he feels compelled to do it anyway. "You really should try to prepare yourself for the man you'll meet in there. He won't be the same man you knew before."
She closes her eyes and shakes her head firmly, but after a moment she says, "I know." Another hesitation. "Thank you."
He does not ask for further clarification.
She leaves without another word or a glance behind her.
And so he waits.
* * *
Sydney does not want to see what is unfolding before her. Convinced her bleary eyes are playing tricks on her disoriented mind, she looks away, then back again, hoping that the figures will have rearranged themselves into more pleasing positions.
It doesn't work.
There he is, her father, presumably enjoying his breakfast at an outdoor table. He is reading the newspaper. Behind him, Sloane stands, staring into the distance, his hands on her father's shoulders.
Well, she can't approach him with Sloane right there, obviously. She crouches behind a column and considers her next move.
Miraculously, a phone rings inside the house, and Sloane leaves to answer it. Sydney remembers a set of numbers printed on the page with this address; but that would mean Sark was observing from somewhere close by, which of course he would not be. She is also reluctant to assume that despite all his warnings to be careful, he would really give a damn about whether her father decided to put an end to her misery or not. He probably had his orders to return at least her father to Derevko in tact, regardless of whether or not she was successful at persuading him to come home without a fight.
But there would be no resistance, of course.
"Dad?" She steps forward, into the light.
She wonders if she should be pleased that he still cares, as she watches the color drain from his face.
"They told me you were dead."
"I'm not."
He stares, and she takes the opportunity to scan his eyes for a sign that her father no longer resides in this body, as she's been repeatedly informed. She finds none; they must have been mistaken. Finally, he rises and pulls her into a long, tight hug. "I'm so glad you're here," he whispers into her hair.
"Come home with me," she says.
He backs away like she's burned him. "No." His voice turns raspy, hollow, as if she's said the one thing she really shouldn't have. "Stay."
"I can't." She tries to sound apologetic.
And now, suddenly, he's colder. "Who sent you?"
"I wasn't sent by anyone."
"Bullshit, Sydney. No one knows where we are."
She shudders inside at his use of 'we.' "She knows," she admits.
"Derevko. Who else?"
"I'm not working for her. God, I would never." She looks away. "Come home with me."
"Stay."
"With Sloane?" She bites back a laugh. "I don't think so."
"There's a lot you don't understand."
She tries again. "Please."
He looks like he's about to reiterate his inability or lack of desire to return with her, but instead he closes up the newspaper very slowly. She glances toward the door; Sloane will be back soon. "All right," he relents. "On one condition."
"Anything," she says.
* * *
Only later does she realize that it should have been more difficult to convince him to come home, and that it should have taken more effort to separate him from Sloane. As it was, he merely went inside, packed a bag, and met Sydney at the car. She did not ask whether he bid Sloane farewell or if this escape was intended to be covert.
She did not ask whether it could really be counted as an escape at all.
He is displeased to learn that Sark has accompanied her, and she would try to explain his presence if she could find words that would make it all make sense. She can't, so she doesn't. He says, "Let me guess; he's not working for Derevko, either." But he doesn't quite sound angry, nor does he make a move to break free from the moving vehicle.
She sighs. "It's complicated."
"Just make sure he doesn't interfere." With that, Jack stares out the window and does not speak to either of them again for some time.
If Sark is curious, he keeps his mouth shut. He is nothing if not patient.
* * *
It is not the first question he asks when they are alone.
Jack has fallen asleep, or is pretending; either way, they'll keep their voices down and their words to a minimum, anyway.
She sits alone, far from her father, staring at her hands. He approaches. "It seems you were right."
She looks up, startled by his sudden presence before her, and nods.
"You wouldn't mind if I--" He turns away. "No."
She can tell by the way he pauses in position that he's expecting her to say what she says next: "No, what?"
He leans in close, talking fast. "You wouldn't mind if I checked for something, would you?"
"You're not serious," she hisses into his ear.
"You're right. I shouldn't have asked." He backs off.
She grabs his sleeve, pulls him closer again. "You won't find anything. He's on the level."
His smile reads: I seriously fucking doubt that, princess, and just like that, she hates him all over again.
She devotes her energy to keeping her body perfectly rigid as he clumsily imitates her father's earlier embrace. (How? Did he see them, or is he guessing?) She can feel his fingers pressing into her skin below her shoulders, beneath her collar. As her mind begins to race, leaping to conclusions, then leaping with equal agility into rationalizations, her body softens. He pulls away, not a little surprised, but works not to let it show. He clears his throat and, with a quick glance over his shoulder at Jack's supposedly sleeping form, pushes a small, round object into her hand.
She closes her fist around it without bothering to look.
"I'm sorry," she starts.
And he wants to say, "don't be," but he doesn't, because that way perhaps he can pretend she's asking forgiveness for something she doesn't quite understand she did.
So he nods like it's nothing.
She hesitates. "And, look, about last night--"
And maybe it's sheer proximity and boredom or heat-induced delusion, but he thinks he must have whispered "do it again."
Because she almost does.
There would likely have been less anger this time, and more reciprocation. With his eyes closed, he could even have pretended they aren't where they are. Still, when she abruptly steps back, she looks as horrified as he feels.
But she doesn't protest when he kisses her because he can, and it's in that moment he realizes what a master she must be; any questions he might have had regarding the nature of what exactly it was he wasn't supposed to interfere with simply drift away, utterly vaporized.
He would regret this later, certainly.