Part 9A
Jack's stone face was in place, and despite his condition, Sark tried to match it with his own facade.
"Mr. Sark," Jack addressed with enough disdain.
"Hello, Mr. Bristow," Sark said with an imperceptible swallow. Jack stopped at the edge of Sark's painfully uncomfortable hospital bed, and the stare-down began.
Sark wasn't about to allow Jack think he was going to be intimidated, sick or not. So he kept his silence and just smirked. It was the longest smirk of his life, with the possible exception of their first meeting.
About two full minutes later, Jack ended the charade.
"I'm here to brief you on your current status."
Sark shot him a look. "My current status—are you referring to my medical condition, my standing with the CIA, or my relationship with your daughter?"
Jack was silent for a moment, but then, surprisingly, adopted a semi-smirk on his face. "All of the above, actually."
It was Sark's facade that broke. He couldn't help but be surprised that Jack was getting to the point, on all the topics Sark wanted answers to—even Sydney.
"You collapsed in Spain, after which Sydney and the team took you to a CIA hospital. Marshall's discovery led the medical team to know how to treat you—with Sydney's blood. You started to recover almost immediately, but the side effects of the virus continued to run its course. You were transferred here for observation and treatment a day after the mission."
"So I'm cured, thanks to Sydney?" Sark summed up. Jack gave a short nod.
"You had some rough spots just getting over the virus, but the staff here was able to get you past that," he said. Sark narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion.
"Mr. Bristow, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you were almost concerned for me." Sark's smirk popped up immediately, but Jack just remained stone-faced.
"I'm concerned only for Sydney and her welfare," he clarified. "However, since you seem to play a role in that, I will say this: the moment you don't respect her the way that she deserves, I will personally hunt you down."
The intense sincerity in his eyes startled Sark, but also made him realize what Jack had said.
"So," Sark began tentatively, "does that mean you approve of me as a . . . suitor, for lack of a better word?" The silence and dark glaring eyes were all the answer Sark needed. And that answer made him beam.
He almost thought he saw some levity in Jack's eyes, which made him think this whole rough talk had been a protective father ploy. However, Sark didn't doubt Jack's resolve.
"I have one question, Mr. Bristow," Sark said politely with just respectable traces of a smile on his lips. "If I'm to be able to court your daughter, I imagine it's not from that glass cell."
Jack glared, reluctant almost to admit the truth. "Due to the pleas of Agent Weiss, Vaughn, and my daughter, the CIA reviewed your situation. Given your willingness to change your allegiances to help us, and your performance in Spain, you have been pardoned."
Sark's grin spread to both ears. He had to admit, it almost pleased him to hear this from Jack.
"However," Jack said, cutting off Sark's early victory grin, "there are certain expectations."
Sark nodded. "I assumed as much."
Jack dug into his suit coat and produced a thick envelope. "Your agreement. Review it and sign it, and you'll be free to leave this facility tomorrow."
With that, Jack turned to leave.
"Mr. Bristow," Sark said, stopping the stern man. Jack turned, solemnly watching Sark. "Thank you." Jack just nodded, and left.
Sark released a long, stress-filled breath. He suddenly felt ready for another nap, drained from the face-off with Sydney's dad.
But he forced himself to sit up as much as he could and read the letter dictating his future. He almost strangled himself with the various tubes and wires on him, but managed to avoid that tragedy. He reached for a tall bottle of water next to his bed. His sip was long, washing out the cottony and generally unpleasant taste in his mouth.
He unfolded the letter and started reading.
However, that didn't last long, as he discovered later. Sydney walked in a few hours later to find him sleeping, the letter resting on his hospital gown-clad chest.
She was smiling at the sight, something that despite his grogginess he saw as a good sign.
"You look amazing," he said, his voice still grating. She did look great; he'd never seen her dressed so casually. She wore dark, fitting jeans and a tan oversized sweater. It was comfortable, and gave Sark the sense of what she would look like in her apartment. This was Sydney, the real Sydney.
She smiled at his compliment.
"I'd say the same for you, but your hair could really be considered a weapon right now," she said, laughing a bit.
Sark tried not to seem embarrassed, but he thought of how pathetic he must have looked to Jack Bristow. To see how bad it was, he raised one hand and gingerly touched the spiky hair.
She was right; it was out of control.
"Well, I'd love to see your hair after sleeping for the majority of the last few days," Sark said with a smirk. She just laughed harder.
Her laughter lightened him. It made him breathe easier. When she quieted down though, he could tell it hadn't been so easy the last few days.
"You had us worried," she said, the concern quite evident in her longing brown eyes.
"Us? Don't tell me Agent Vaughn's been biting his nails over my condition," he said jokingly. She cracked a smile, but stayed serious.
"You were hardly infected long when you collapsed," she said quietly.
"So much for Sloane's 4-hour theory," Sark said with a light grin. She smiled quickly.
"I was afraid you wouldn't make it," Sydney continued. "And that I wouldn't ever be able to tell you the truth."
He hadn't meant to be so obvious, but he sat up straighter to hear what was coming next.
"I know we didn't promise anything, any future between us. And I know that I was the one pushing you away." She tucked her hair behind one ear. "And I regret that."
Sark didn't say anything for several moments. He ran various speeches in his head, different scenarios. He finally bit his lip and tried from scratch.
"Sydney, I know you have a life that you want to keep up. You have friends and your father. Deep down, I wanted you to leave them all for me, but I realize now that isn't fair." Sark drew in a deep breath, preparing himself for his next admission. "I'll stay with you and join your life, if you want me. And if you don't, you'll never have to see me again." He paused, watching her reaction. But Sydney was blank, maybe stunned at best. Sark tried humor.
"Of course, that's assuming this letter says I can go free."
She laughed, and Sark realized something was holding her back from making the decision.
"The letter says you cannot engage in terrorist plots. It says you either have to help the CIA in its efforts, or lead a normal civilian life," Sydney filled him in. "But it leaves that choice to you."
Sark leaned back heavily. It was a choice he didn't think he'd have. He actually assumed that if the CIA did pardon him, they would force him to hunt down Irina and others. But somehow he had been given the chance to leave this business.
"I didn't think they would allow me a choice," Sark said, staring at the letter.
"They didn't at first," Sydney said. Sark looked up to her, pressing her to continue. "But I convinced them that because you didn't have a choice before, you were forced into working for my mother and doing the things you've done."
There was some bitterness there as she referred to his past actions.
"How do you feel about those things?" Sark asked cautiously. Relationship-wise, Sark knew he was playing with fire. But he had to know if she'd accepted him.
"You know how I feel about your past actions," Sydney said just as carefully. "But I feel good about you as you are now."
Sark cracked a sarcastic grin. "What, weak and helpless?" She laughed aloud again as she shook her head.
"No." She looked at him directly. "Strong and changed." With that, she leaned over him and kissed him on his forehead. "Rest up. Think about your options. I'll see you in the morning."
With that, she turned and left. Sark followed her with his eyes, waiting for her to look back.
She did.
Morning came, and Sark was a mess. He showered, though it took ten minutes to be detached from all the IVs and machines. He didn't realize how dirty he was just from lying around, but man, the shower felt good!
As he dressed in the suit left for him, Sark's mind was in disarray. He hadn't decided which way to go—stay in the industry or get out and live as he dreamed about since he met Sydney.
He knew he'd be forced to go after past associates if he stayed with the CIA. And he knew that he wanted out of this business. Sydney probably expected him to leave.
But if he left completely, how would he see Sydney? He could stay in Los Angeles, but being in LA meant that the CIA would probably keep constant tabs on him or worse.
Maybe that's why she didn't answer about me staying or leaving. Either way, she wouldn't be happy. If I willingly chose to stay with the CIA, she'd think I'm addicted to the danger. He nodded to himself. But if I leave, she won't come with me. And I can't stay without the CIA constantly watching for me to slip up.
So where does that leave me?
Sark used his fingers to spike and style his hair, looking at the mirror in the tiny bathroom. He noticed how thin his face was. His cheeks almost sunk a bit, and he had gray bags under his eyes.
He smirked at the reflection briefly, then turned and left the medical services unit. Two guards escorted him to the briefing room, where the ensemble of agents and superiors awaited.
Kendall spoke first.
"Mr. Sark. I believe Agent Bristow brought you up to speed about your situation. You've been given your options." He paused for effect. "What have you decided?"
Sark took a deep breath, and pulled the letter out of his suit jacket. He stared at it for two seconds before surveying the people in the room.
Vaughn was tight lipped and as wrinkly as ever. Weiss had a positive expression, and practically gave Sark two thumbs up. Jack was as readable as a wall, while Sydney wouldn't look at Sark.
He looked back at the letter, then tossed it on the semi-circular table. He let out a long sigh.
"I'd like to propose a third option," Sark began. He saw Sydney's head snap up, and it gave him hope that this was the right decision, for both of them. "I will leave and be a civilian, but I can be brought back as a freelancer to help your agency." Sydney's eyes seemed to ask him what he was doing.
"Sark," Kendall said, "how is this any better than the other options?" Sark shot the bald man a condescending look.
"I have little desire to continue in this business, whether working for you, Derevko or myself. But I'd like to stay in Los Angeles," Sark said, with a flick of his eyes towards Sydney. "I don't want you constantly monitoring me, and I don't want to be pulled in frequently either. So I leave it up to Agent Sydney Bristow to contact me should I be needed. This way, you feel confident in my loyalties, you receive my help when necessary, and I don't have to see you very often."
Kendall almost smiled at that. "So you want the best of both worlds."
Sark smirked at him. "As best as it can be." He glanced at Sydney, who was trying to hide a smile. Weiss didn't even try to hide it. And Vaughn looked worried and defeated.
Kendall looked to Jack, who didn't move a muscle. Kendall looked back to Sark. "Agreed."
Sark nodded. "Good. If you'll make the necessary adjustments, I'll sign the document." Kendall passed the letter to an agent, who hurried out of the room.