Authors' notes: Okay, so, um. I am overwhelmed by the love. Thank you! I know it's been a long time and I've confessed to abandonment, but I think this is going…oddly. I've had writer's block and total lack of confidence, but I started rewatching my Season Three tapes and a kernel of an idea came to me. I jumped on that and forgot the previous idea, which was to totally screw the Portugal mission and have Sark order Sydney to leave, thus breaking one of the terms…la la la. It sucked. So, right…please be tolerant. I know this has like *zero* banter, but I hope you stay with me in case I can write this.
Unbeta'd like nobody's business.
Again, this fic flies by the seat of its own pants. You have been warned.
--Part 5a--
Sark awoke just as his train pulled into the Lausanne station. It had been a trip of hellish discomfort; his right arm had been constantly jostled in its sling, claims of miraculously smooth travel by Swiss Rail bedamned. He intended to crush the company right after he was finished with the Covenant; false advertising was a crime that could not go unpunished.
Worse luck, Sydney wasn't there to comfort him. Her form of comfort of course meaning she would accuse him of being a brat but still clandestinely fluff his pillow while he pretended to sleep.
Thanks to Jack Bristow, Sark had to fluff his own damned pillow. Or let Agnese, the terrifying Italian widow next to him, do it. She had offered to fluff other things as well. A man of less gentlmanly courtesy would have laughed in heavily made-up Agnese's face but Sark had contented himself by pleading a vow of chastity. He was grateful he had decided against the leather. In jeans and a turtleneck, he could pass for a student and he led her to think he was feverishly eager to enter the seminary.
Considering her amusement at his youthful looks, he bet Sydney would have gotten a kick out of his deception. Although, Sark speculated, if Sydney had been sitting next to him he doubted Agnese would have attempted to pick him up.
Ah, well, there were good reasons for traveling separately. Despite his confident predictions of success, the operation had not gone exactly as hoped. They had entered the Covenant building easily and split up to plant their surveillance equipment but on his way back to the rendezvous point, Sark had gotten caught.
A lone guard had surprised him, a huge mountain of a man who had broken Sark's arm before even making the requisite villainous gloat. Sark had reversed the hold -he still winced in pain at the memory- and killed the guard. A necessary act, it would not do for the Covenant to know they were their security had been breached. But the shot had rung out clear and loud and Sark had been forced to enact Plan B. Over the com, he told Sydney not to return to their villa but head straight for the air strip where his private plane waited. Once he made it there, however, he had found a note. Her father had sent a warning, advising them to travel separately and in disguise because the NSC was investigating Sydney's disappearance. What was more, Jack had also sent an itinerary. Naturally his beloved daughter traveled first class on a jet while Sark was left to the train, never mind that Sark had a broken body part. It appeared that Jack Bristow, travel agent, was as cold a bastard as Jack Bristow, secret agent. He couldn't fault the man, however, as the NSC could be a serious threat to his plans.
His thoughts broke were interrupted by a rude touch, Agnese stood before him, blocking the aisle. She gave him two smacking kisses, one on each cheek, before reaching her grabby hand behind him and slipping a piece of paper in his back pocket. Sark cringed with embarrassment. If he didn't have a broken arm, she never would have gotten close to him.
"That's my phone number," the widow winked as Sark moved past her. "Call me if you are ever in Locarno. I could introduce you to a different kind of calling."
He supposed it would break his cover if he gave her the finger as the train pulled away. It would make him feel happier though. He pushed his hand through his hair and sighed in resignation before picking up his pack with his good arm.
Damn her father anyway.
***
Due to the marvel of flight, Sydney arrived in Switzerland before her lusty widow-besieged partner. She had taken her father's advice seriously, tinting her hair red and taking on the persona of an eccentric folk artist.
She hadn't seen him since she had left LA. They had spoken on the phone but her father had never given any indication of the anger she knew he had to feel. She loved her father but was fully aware of his overprotective tendencies. She thanked her lucky stars he had not been around when she had begun to date in earnest.
Sydney was supposed to meet her father in a café; it was small but popular with the tourists. He had reserved a balcony table where few were brave enough to venture as winter approached.
He stood as she approached and she threw herself into his arms. He held her tight before they sat down at the table.
"I'm relieved to find you're alright, Sydney. This ill-conceived plan of yours to ally with Sark-"
"Dad, you're the last person I thought I'd ever have to lecture on pragmatism. There are things I need to know-"
"But with Sark?" Jack's voice was remarkably even but Sydney could he was strained.
"There's nothing I can do with the CIA that you can't accomplish. Working with Sark only increases my chances. Between his connections, yours, mine, and Mom's," Sydney broke off. "And don't think I won't ask you about her, either. I don't see how a partnership with Sark is any worse."
"Irina is a completely different matter." He looked at her closely. "Unless he isn't. Sydney, are you sleeping with Sark?"
"Are you sleeping with Mom?" Sydney glared at him pointedly. "Please, Dad. I need you to have faith in me."
"You can't tell me you trust the man. Do you remember who he is? What he's done?"
Sydney went very still and tried to find the words to explain. After a few moments of silence, she began. "Did you know that I went to Francie's restaurant, Dad? Just once, the first week…I was back. It wasn't something I planned on and I don't know what I expected. A parking lot? A Krispy Kreme? I told myself I was prepared for anything, but I wasn't. Have you been there lately? They've expanded the dining room and there were still people waiting outside for lunch. One of the waiters told me it was named one of the top ten in the city. It's thriving! They're still using the menu Francie chose, and the same dishes Will washed. Francie's dead and her restaurant is known nationwide for her bouillabaisse. Do you know how wrong that is?'
"It's wrong. So, so wrong. My best friend is dead and I know that Sark is at least partially responsible. I can't lie to myself about that. Once I would have gladly cut his throat but the world has changed, Dad. I'm confused and drifting; I felt hollow in LA. I need some purchase on reality besides vengeance and if it's understanding from Sark…I've chosen to take it."
Her father had closed his eyes briefly. She took his hand on top of the table and waited until he looked at her again.
"I trust you, Sydney. But I don't trust Sark." Her father's voice took on steel and his eyes refocused over her shoulder. "And I'm prepared to kill him if you get the smallest paper cut."
"Remind me to start sending your love notes on perfumed rubber sheets." Sark sat down at the table, next to Sydney.
"Shut up," Sydney said familiarly.
Jack stood up abruptly, "Sydney, if you'll excuse us. I want to have a word with your…confederate."
TBC
Here's hoping none of you regret asking me to continue…
Unbeta'd like nobody's business.
Again, this fic flies by the seat of its own pants. You have been warned.
--Part 5a--
Sark awoke just as his train pulled into the Lausanne station. It had been a trip of hellish discomfort; his right arm had been constantly jostled in its sling, claims of miraculously smooth travel by Swiss Rail bedamned. He intended to crush the company right after he was finished with the Covenant; false advertising was a crime that could not go unpunished.
Worse luck, Sydney wasn't there to comfort him. Her form of comfort of course meaning she would accuse him of being a brat but still clandestinely fluff his pillow while he pretended to sleep.
Thanks to Jack Bristow, Sark had to fluff his own damned pillow. Or let Agnese, the terrifying Italian widow next to him, do it. She had offered to fluff other things as well. A man of less gentlmanly courtesy would have laughed in heavily made-up Agnese's face but Sark had contented himself by pleading a vow of chastity. He was grateful he had decided against the leather. In jeans and a turtleneck, he could pass for a student and he led her to think he was feverishly eager to enter the seminary.
Considering her amusement at his youthful looks, he bet Sydney would have gotten a kick out of his deception. Although, Sark speculated, if Sydney had been sitting next to him he doubted Agnese would have attempted to pick him up.
Ah, well, there were good reasons for traveling separately. Despite his confident predictions of success, the operation had not gone exactly as hoped. They had entered the Covenant building easily and split up to plant their surveillance equipment but on his way back to the rendezvous point, Sark had gotten caught.
A lone guard had surprised him, a huge mountain of a man who had broken Sark's arm before even making the requisite villainous gloat. Sark had reversed the hold -he still winced in pain at the memory- and killed the guard. A necessary act, it would not do for the Covenant to know they were their security had been breached. But the shot had rung out clear and loud and Sark had been forced to enact Plan B. Over the com, he told Sydney not to return to their villa but head straight for the air strip where his private plane waited. Once he made it there, however, he had found a note. Her father had sent a warning, advising them to travel separately and in disguise because the NSC was investigating Sydney's disappearance. What was more, Jack had also sent an itinerary. Naturally his beloved daughter traveled first class on a jet while Sark was left to the train, never mind that Sark had a broken body part. It appeared that Jack Bristow, travel agent, was as cold a bastard as Jack Bristow, secret agent. He couldn't fault the man, however, as the NSC could be a serious threat to his plans.
His thoughts broke were interrupted by a rude touch, Agnese stood before him, blocking the aisle. She gave him two smacking kisses, one on each cheek, before reaching her grabby hand behind him and slipping a piece of paper in his back pocket. Sark cringed with embarrassment. If he didn't have a broken arm, she never would have gotten close to him.
"That's my phone number," the widow winked as Sark moved past her. "Call me if you are ever in Locarno. I could introduce you to a different kind of calling."
He supposed it would break his cover if he gave her the finger as the train pulled away. It would make him feel happier though. He pushed his hand through his hair and sighed in resignation before picking up his pack with his good arm.
Damn her father anyway.
***
Due to the marvel of flight, Sydney arrived in Switzerland before her lusty widow-besieged partner. She had taken her father's advice seriously, tinting her hair red and taking on the persona of an eccentric folk artist.
She hadn't seen him since she had left LA. They had spoken on the phone but her father had never given any indication of the anger she knew he had to feel. She loved her father but was fully aware of his overprotective tendencies. She thanked her lucky stars he had not been around when she had begun to date in earnest.
Sydney was supposed to meet her father in a café; it was small but popular with the tourists. He had reserved a balcony table where few were brave enough to venture as winter approached.
He stood as she approached and she threw herself into his arms. He held her tight before they sat down at the table.
"I'm relieved to find you're alright, Sydney. This ill-conceived plan of yours to ally with Sark-"
"Dad, you're the last person I thought I'd ever have to lecture on pragmatism. There are things I need to know-"
"But with Sark?" Jack's voice was remarkably even but Sydney could he was strained.
"There's nothing I can do with the CIA that you can't accomplish. Working with Sark only increases my chances. Between his connections, yours, mine, and Mom's," Sydney broke off. "And don't think I won't ask you about her, either. I don't see how a partnership with Sark is any worse."
"Irina is a completely different matter." He looked at her closely. "Unless he isn't. Sydney, are you sleeping with Sark?"
"Are you sleeping with Mom?" Sydney glared at him pointedly. "Please, Dad. I need you to have faith in me."
"You can't tell me you trust the man. Do you remember who he is? What he's done?"
Sydney went very still and tried to find the words to explain. After a few moments of silence, she began. "Did you know that I went to Francie's restaurant, Dad? Just once, the first week…I was back. It wasn't something I planned on and I don't know what I expected. A parking lot? A Krispy Kreme? I told myself I was prepared for anything, but I wasn't. Have you been there lately? They've expanded the dining room and there were still people waiting outside for lunch. One of the waiters told me it was named one of the top ten in the city. It's thriving! They're still using the menu Francie chose, and the same dishes Will washed. Francie's dead and her restaurant is known nationwide for her bouillabaisse. Do you know how wrong that is?'
"It's wrong. So, so wrong. My best friend is dead and I know that Sark is at least partially responsible. I can't lie to myself about that. Once I would have gladly cut his throat but the world has changed, Dad. I'm confused and drifting; I felt hollow in LA. I need some purchase on reality besides vengeance and if it's understanding from Sark…I've chosen to take it."
Her father had closed his eyes briefly. She took his hand on top of the table and waited until he looked at her again.
"I trust you, Sydney. But I don't trust Sark." Her father's voice took on steel and his eyes refocused over her shoulder. "And I'm prepared to kill him if you get the smallest paper cut."
"Remind me to start sending your love notes on perfumed rubber sheets." Sark sat down at the table, next to Sydney.
"Shut up," Sydney said familiarly.
Jack stood up abruptly, "Sydney, if you'll excuse us. I want to have a word with your…confederate."
TBC
Here's hoping none of you regret asking me to continue…