Best Enemies | Part Six
Notes: Yikes. After a long hiatus, I think I've finally gotten back into the Sarkney groove. I feel more comfortable with this than I've felt writing in the past few days. . . So try not to trip over the characters, if they seem a little more off than usual. I'm actually really proud of this chapter, especially the chat between Syd and Si in the second scene.
I would also like to say that the Sixpence None the Richer's first album (the first three songs in particular) heavily influenced this chapter. It's an older CD, but if you don't have it, I suggest picking it up.
* * *
He was still carrying her when she decided to speak.
"I can't stand her."
Sark merely adjusted her weight on his shoulder.
"I really can't. I don't know why you insist of having her stay here."
When he didn't even bother responding, she turned at the waist, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. "Sark?"
Sark didn't answer her and continued walking along the halls to their room.
"Oh, don't be like this." She lifted a hand in earnest, and let it fall against his back in defeat. "Dammit, Sark, don't go mute on me again! You know how much I hate when you do this." She let herself fall gently against his back and tried to be content with the nice view she had of his butt. When it wasn't effective and did nothing to settle the uneasy feeling in her stomach, she knew she had a problem.
He shifted her again and opened the door, stopping once to deposit her on the bed like a package. Whereas before, this gesture would have been light and mischievous, or even a part of their foreplay (which usually didn't last that long anyway), it now only served to show just how angry he really was.
One thing she'd learned about Sark--if she'd learned nothing else--was that when Sark was angry, he got quiet. The angrier he was, the quieter he became. When he went all out mute, she knew she was in for it.
Pissed would be putting it mildly.
Sark dragged the heavy wingchair over from the window and placed it at the foot of the bed. He sat down and regarded her with classically blank eyes.
His thousand-yard stare.
Got to her every time.
She finally had the decency to look down in shame.
After several minutes, Sark sighed very, very quietly. She met his gaze and was relieved to see the frustration in them. This was something she could deal with.
"I am extremely disappointed in you," he finally remarked, his voice sounding hoarse, as if it hadn't been used in a very long time.
Sydney didn't attempt to apologize but she did stay on the bed to hear him out.
"The only thing I asked you," he got up and moved to sit next to her, "was to try and be civil to her. Honestly, I didn't think it would be that difficult for someone of your caliber to compartmentalize what you were feeling. Obviously, I was wrong."
That stung. She didn't know what hurt more, that he regarded her as a fellow agent, or that she'd failed him in his one request, after all he'd done for her.
Sark reached into her waistband with a familiar ease and drew out the broken half of the CD. It ran jagged at the end and would have undoubtedly cut her if allowed to remain much longer.
He ran his finger over its uneven form and wasn't surprised when Sydney's hand came into his line of sight and met his. He let her lace their fingers together and sighed again, leaning against the bed.
Silently, she took the disc away from him and reached over his resting form to place it on their nightstand. Then she rested her cheek against his shoulder and grabbed his other hand, placing it on her hair. Absently, Sark began to comb his fingers through it, the habitual action calming them both.
He shook his head, letting his eyes drift over her battered body. She hadn't made it out unscathed and had the bruises to show for it. The image of Allison punching Sydney in the side ran parallel in his mind with one of Sydney kicking the back of her knees.
"I don't expect you to understand this--but when I walked into that room. . . God." Sark's hand tightened in her hair, as if to reassure himself that she was really there, really with him. "I'm almost positive my heart stopped beating."
Sydney knew what that admission had cost him and felt her heart swell while she fought down feelings of remorse, if for no other reason than worrying him. "I won't say I'm sorry."
He grabbed her hand and kissed her bloodied knuckles. "That's not what I'm asking."
He went to the dresser and got out the bandages and a warm washcloth from the bathroom. Sark ignored her sharp intake of breath, her hiss of pain, and focused solely on his task. It wasn't that he was immune to her hurts, because God knew just how much he cared. Though he had tried to express that to her, albeit a touch poorly, he wondered if she would ever truly understand.
"You would do best to be careful with these for the next couple of days," he muttered, his voice devoid of its earlier concern.
"I know that." Hurt, Sydney snatched her hand back and finished wrapping it herself.
Sark was swiftly holding her by the arms with a gritty look in his eyes. "Do you? Really?"
And suddenly, they weren't just talking about her hands anymore.
Angrily, she grabbed one of her sweatshirts and pulled it over her head. "I can take care of myself." She was sure to slam the door on the way out.
* * *
Sydney didn't know why, but she always sought out the balcony facing the water when she needed space. The sight of the vast open sea was so intimidating, so demanding in its simplicity and expanse, she couldn't help but feel awed. It was rare for other people to show up at the same time, however, and she was a bit startled to see Simon coming through the glass doors.
"Sorry. Didn't know anyone else was out here."
Sydney grabbed his arm. "No. Stay."
"Sydney. . ."
She directed her gaze back out to the city harbor below them. "It's amazing, isn't it? How these ships come in and out every day, and no one has a collision?"
Simon gave her a look that clearly intimated he thought she was strange. "I guess."
"No, think about it. All it takes is one wrong move, a little pressure from another side. . . and it could be all over in a matter of seconds."
He glanced away. "Sure."
"Simon," she turned to him, looking pleadingly into his eyes. "Don't you understand? People have accidents all the time."
"It's really not an accident unless you're sorry, is it, Love?"
And now he was staring at her with green eyes that knew all too well what she had done while she was Julia, what she was capable of as Sydney, and how badly she had messed up by unnecessarily provoking Allison into that fight.
"I guess you're right," she slowly admitted, unable to hold his penetrating gaze any longer.
He shrugged. "There are times," Simon said carefully, "when that's just not what you want to hear."
She closed her eyes against the wind and let her arms rest against the railing. When he turned to leave, Simon pretended not to see the tear sliding down her cheek.
* * *
She didn't know how much longer she'd been out there when the footsteps returned.
"Simon, I just--"
Allison was staring at her intently. "No, really. What were you going to say?"
Sydney stiffened and pretended that the sight of her bloodied features didn't bother her. Just because she looked like Francie didn't mean she'd done to *Francie*. She would never hurt her best friend that way.
'But what about all those times you blew her off,' a little voice inside her head questioned. 'And all those times you lied to her, straight to her face? Don't you feel horrible for never setting the record straight?'
Allison, who had been smirking at Sydney's reaction, now looked slightly panicked at the sudden display of emotion in her eyes. "I'll just leave you alone. Wouldn't want to offend you, or anything."
She left without waiting for a parting remark and once again, it was just Sydney and the sky. Sydney was so engrossed in cataloging her grief and justifying her guilt, that she didn't hear the shaky sigh just outside the door.
She didn't hear Allison sigh and couldn't have known she was leaning with her back to the wall, trying to deal with the new hand life had just dealt her. She didn't know that the other woman was having second thoughts, about her job, Simon, and life in general.
She couldn't.
Because once you lose that connection with a person, it's very nearly impossible to get it back.
If you have enough determination, you can work at it, chip away the layers, and grab it by the horns until you weaken it to a point where it's tame enough to deal with on a day-to-day basis. But Sydney wanted nothing to do with the stranger wearing Francie's face.
And so she didn't know that the connection between them was just waiting to be reopened.
* * *
---SIX MONTHS EARLIER---
Allison stepped off the train and let her hand fall in his, cursing their aliases. She was no foreign princess, not by a long shot, and he knew it. How many princesses would seek out the utility closet and drag their security detail in after them? Simon winked, adjusted his suit and led them along until they were inside a darkened stairwell.
She yanked her hand back and tore up the stairs, unlocking the single door at the top. While the outside of the building looked dilapidated and desperately in need of some attention, the inside of the flat was actually fairly new, with a contemporary sort of style.
Allison took one look at the comforting décor and forgot she was mad at Simon. "I love this place."
He smiled and wrapped his arms around her from behind. "I can't believe you didn't like it before, I thought you loved the color red. Said it reminded you of passion."
Her eyes had closed when he came to her and her expression grew more troubled as he spoke. She swallowed out the image of the last red room she'd spent time in. "It does remind me of passion," she purred, turning in his embrace. "But my memory's been a little off lately. Maybe you should give me a refresher course. . ."
Simon grinned lasciviously. "I think that's definitely in order."
She laughed throatily and matched his grin. "*This* is why I love you."
He halted his attentions to her bare shoulder and looked up. "And here I thought it was because of my mind. You only want me for my body," Simon pouted.
"--Right now," she added, nipping at his lower lip playfully. "I'll deal with your mind later."
"Ooh." They stumbled into the bedroom. "You know I love it when you talk dirty."
* * *
Hunger necessitated that they eat sooner rather than later. While he set about fixing them some sort of nourishment, Allison was catching up on mail that hadn't been seen in months. She was dressed in his shirt and boxers, looking more relaxed than she had in a long time.
"What do you feel like having?"
She looked up with a smile. "Whatever. I'm not picky."
He snorted.
"I'm *not.*"
"Sure you aren't, babe."
Allison rolled her eyes and went back to the local newspaper. "Did you know the neighbors were evicted two weeks ago?"
"The Billingses?" Simon frowned, remembering the older couple with a fondness he rarely showed toward anyone but her.
She bit her lip, scrolling down the page. "Yeah. Says here someone tried to buy them out and they wouldn't sell. So the super had them evicted."
"They name the new tenant?" he asked very casually.
Allison fixed him with a knowing grin. "Planning something?"
Simon pressed a hand to his chest with a wounded expression. "Just want to welcome them to the neighborhood and all that."
"Mmm hmm," she murmured, reading the text carefully.
He added some cheese to the two slices of bread in the pan and cooked them while waiting for more information. He wasn't surprised when she got up and headed for the computer in the living room, for she was excellent at getting information and always got what she needed.
Three minutes later, she had the printout in her hand with a dullish looking frown. Simon flipped the sandwiches over and then lifted them onto plates, handing one to her. She set it down unsteadily and held the paper out to him. "I think you should read this."
The reading went into further detail about the eviction and the super's greedy attitude. "Bastard," he muttered, biting savagely into the grilled cheese. 'The new owner, Ms. Julia Thorne, had the apartment entirely redone. The workers came and toiled for over seven weeks, gutting the flat and remaking it in her image. Ms. Thorne declined to comment, but. . .'
By the time he looked up, she was glaring at him with tears shimmering in her eyes. "All I want to do is move on. And she's *everywhere*!"
To himself, Simon wondered what bothered her more; that Sydney had been the one to do it, or that she'd done nearly the same thing Allison had asked for on arrival. It was almost eerie, the way their actions ran parallel at times.
She continued to rant angrily, now swiping at items on the shelves. The glass vases fell, unattended, to the floor and shattered. The books landed on their bindings and nearly split down the middle. He'd seen her angry before, but not like this--never like this.
When she had finished destroying their living quarters, Allison looked at him defiantly, no hint of apology in her. She followed his gaze as he surveyed the damage and remained silent.
Simon bit his lip and gauged her carefully. Then he walked until he stood in front of her, their toes touching. "You know," his voice was nearly a whisper, "you're really quite jumpable when you get all fired up like that."
Against her will, she felt her lips curving into a smile as they suddenly moved under his. "You're such a jerk."
* * *
Allison was asleep. When she slept--really slept--she was dead to the world. He knew ever since Sydney's arrival and Sark's subsequent break out Allison had been lucky if she'd gotten three hours each night. Granted, in their world, six hours was heaven, and most people could function on at least four, if they were traveling back and forth, but when in a long-term assignment like this--you needed every bit of sleep you could get.
With her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, and thin sheet covering them, Simon could almost pretend they were a perfectly normal couple. He could toy with her near waist-length hair and imagine that she'd grown it out for him, instead of using it as another feature to separate herself from Francie. The same went for her dislike of the color red. It was a little known secret that Francine Calfo's restaurant had been painted in a vibrant shade of crimson. It went well with her personality and brought life to the inside.
Allison had never liked red from that point on.
Four months ago, when he had first brought her to his flat, she'd paled at seeing the walls and demanded he change them immediately. Having just admitted he was in love with her, and being on the high of having her love him in return, had moved him to call a painter before they were out of the building. They stayed in a hotel for three nights while the entire flat was redone.
Rome wasn't built in a day, but his little niche in London was.
After that, she'd just been so floored that he would go such a distance for her irrational requests and think nothing of it, her behavior was nothing short of angelic. Their comfort level hadn't been where it was now, and so he was still a little wary of holding her after he heard her crying in the middle of the night--not sure if she'd hit him or kiss him--but somehow they had survived it.
Simon absently kissed the side of her head.
He loved her, not because she was stuck inside another woman's body, but in spite of it. You could not lose that much of yourself and expect to survive if you were not a strong enough person.
Allison was an extremely strong woman.
She had to be.
Or else she just wouldn't have survived.
She moaned once in her sleep and then settled with her head close to his neck. Simon wrapped his arm tighter around her and looked at the moonlight filtering over her cheekbones.
They would get through this.
They'd gotten through everything else.
* * *
Sydney had gone back to the room later that night to find Sark missing. It hurt, but she wasn't worried about him. Sark could take care of himself, something they both knew very well. So it was with a bit of surprise the next morning that she awoke to find him sitting on the edge of her bed, watching intently.
"Um," she struggled past her grogginess, "Good morning?"
He continued to stare at her, his face unreadable. "Get dressed. We're going out."
She blinked and he was gone.
Sydney glanced down at the sheets puddled about her waist and then at the door. With a rebellious look, she put her head back down on the pillow, where it remained for another five minutes exactly.
Exasperated at herself and the situation, she screamed under her breath, tossing her legs over the side of the bed. Mechanically, she searched for clothes and the appropriate accessories. Black t-shirt, black pants, black shades. What else did she need? Maybe a funky purse with her fake ID.
With one last sweep of the room, Sydney cursed the fact that he was once again telling her what to do.
And she was listening.
* * *
Sark didn't comment on her tardiness, and she didn't offer an explanation. When he merely gestured with his chin to the Mercedes, Sydney reached inside her bag for a bandanna to tie over her head. He peeled out of the lot before she had a chance to put her seatbelt on and continued to drive recklessly until she finally got her anger to subside long enough to rest her hand atop his on the gearshift.
Getting the message, but not wanting to listen, he shifted again, flipped her hand off and took a curve just a little too sharply for her comfort. Resigning herself to the inevitable, Sydney managed to toe off her flip- flops and plant her feet firmly on the dash. Sark refused to comment.
She looked out the window.
He continued to drive.
* * *
Not until they were inside the town's main roads did Sark finally lessen the pressure on the accelerator and Sydney found she could breathe normally again. It wasn't that she was worried they were going to have an accident-- because she wasn't, she trusted him enough to get them out of every possible situation--or that she didn't feel safe in a car with him--because she'd never felt anything but.
Driving was one of three ways Sark got the anger out of his system. The more reckless he drove, the more infuriated she knew he was. By expression, he was courteous, almost normal. He asked if the temperature was okay, if she'd like him to put the top up, if there was anywhere in particular she wished to go.
Sydney answered yes to this first and no to the rest.
And so they came to be driving along in a two-lane road, taking in the sights of normalcy and ordinary lives when a black sedan pulled next to them. Sydney noted it and knew Sark had seen them coming a while back. He pulled ahead in traffic, not wanting to lose a race, and let a smile cross his face briefly.
When the sedan pulled next to them again, she got worried.
He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at the car and she knew his eyes had widened in shock even with sunglasses on.
"Sydney, get down!"
She ducked and nearly cracked her head on the dashboard as Sark slammed on the brakes.
Something whooshed past her and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She looked up just in time to see the explosion.
"What the hell was that?"
"A missile," he breathed calmly, his only show of nerves as he pulled them back into traffic smoothly and headed back for the scenic route.
"How did you know to--?"
"You told me."
* * *
Notes: Yikes. After a long hiatus, I think I've finally gotten back into the Sarkney groove. I feel more comfortable with this than I've felt writing in the past few days. . . So try not to trip over the characters, if they seem a little more off than usual. I'm actually really proud of this chapter, especially the chat between Syd and Si in the second scene.
I would also like to say that the Sixpence None the Richer's first album (the first three songs in particular) heavily influenced this chapter. It's an older CD, but if you don't have it, I suggest picking it up.
* * *
He was still carrying her when she decided to speak.
"I can't stand her."
Sark merely adjusted her weight on his shoulder.
"I really can't. I don't know why you insist of having her stay here."
When he didn't even bother responding, she turned at the waist, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. "Sark?"
Sark didn't answer her and continued walking along the halls to their room.
"Oh, don't be like this." She lifted a hand in earnest, and let it fall against his back in defeat. "Dammit, Sark, don't go mute on me again! You know how much I hate when you do this." She let herself fall gently against his back and tried to be content with the nice view she had of his butt. When it wasn't effective and did nothing to settle the uneasy feeling in her stomach, she knew she had a problem.
He shifted her again and opened the door, stopping once to deposit her on the bed like a package. Whereas before, this gesture would have been light and mischievous, or even a part of their foreplay (which usually didn't last that long anyway), it now only served to show just how angry he really was.
One thing she'd learned about Sark--if she'd learned nothing else--was that when Sark was angry, he got quiet. The angrier he was, the quieter he became. When he went all out mute, she knew she was in for it.
Pissed would be putting it mildly.
Sark dragged the heavy wingchair over from the window and placed it at the foot of the bed. He sat down and regarded her with classically blank eyes.
His thousand-yard stare.
Got to her every time.
She finally had the decency to look down in shame.
After several minutes, Sark sighed very, very quietly. She met his gaze and was relieved to see the frustration in them. This was something she could deal with.
"I am extremely disappointed in you," he finally remarked, his voice sounding hoarse, as if it hadn't been used in a very long time.
Sydney didn't attempt to apologize but she did stay on the bed to hear him out.
"The only thing I asked you," he got up and moved to sit next to her, "was to try and be civil to her. Honestly, I didn't think it would be that difficult for someone of your caliber to compartmentalize what you were feeling. Obviously, I was wrong."
That stung. She didn't know what hurt more, that he regarded her as a fellow agent, or that she'd failed him in his one request, after all he'd done for her.
Sark reached into her waistband with a familiar ease and drew out the broken half of the CD. It ran jagged at the end and would have undoubtedly cut her if allowed to remain much longer.
He ran his finger over its uneven form and wasn't surprised when Sydney's hand came into his line of sight and met his. He let her lace their fingers together and sighed again, leaning against the bed.
Silently, she took the disc away from him and reached over his resting form to place it on their nightstand. Then she rested her cheek against his shoulder and grabbed his other hand, placing it on her hair. Absently, Sark began to comb his fingers through it, the habitual action calming them both.
He shook his head, letting his eyes drift over her battered body. She hadn't made it out unscathed and had the bruises to show for it. The image of Allison punching Sydney in the side ran parallel in his mind with one of Sydney kicking the back of her knees.
"I don't expect you to understand this--but when I walked into that room. . . God." Sark's hand tightened in her hair, as if to reassure himself that she was really there, really with him. "I'm almost positive my heart stopped beating."
Sydney knew what that admission had cost him and felt her heart swell while she fought down feelings of remorse, if for no other reason than worrying him. "I won't say I'm sorry."
He grabbed her hand and kissed her bloodied knuckles. "That's not what I'm asking."
He went to the dresser and got out the bandages and a warm washcloth from the bathroom. Sark ignored her sharp intake of breath, her hiss of pain, and focused solely on his task. It wasn't that he was immune to her hurts, because God knew just how much he cared. Though he had tried to express that to her, albeit a touch poorly, he wondered if she would ever truly understand.
"You would do best to be careful with these for the next couple of days," he muttered, his voice devoid of its earlier concern.
"I know that." Hurt, Sydney snatched her hand back and finished wrapping it herself.
Sark was swiftly holding her by the arms with a gritty look in his eyes. "Do you? Really?"
And suddenly, they weren't just talking about her hands anymore.
Angrily, she grabbed one of her sweatshirts and pulled it over her head. "I can take care of myself." She was sure to slam the door on the way out.
* * *
Sydney didn't know why, but she always sought out the balcony facing the water when she needed space. The sight of the vast open sea was so intimidating, so demanding in its simplicity and expanse, she couldn't help but feel awed. It was rare for other people to show up at the same time, however, and she was a bit startled to see Simon coming through the glass doors.
"Sorry. Didn't know anyone else was out here."
Sydney grabbed his arm. "No. Stay."
"Sydney. . ."
She directed her gaze back out to the city harbor below them. "It's amazing, isn't it? How these ships come in and out every day, and no one has a collision?"
Simon gave her a look that clearly intimated he thought she was strange. "I guess."
"No, think about it. All it takes is one wrong move, a little pressure from another side. . . and it could be all over in a matter of seconds."
He glanced away. "Sure."
"Simon," she turned to him, looking pleadingly into his eyes. "Don't you understand? People have accidents all the time."
"It's really not an accident unless you're sorry, is it, Love?"
And now he was staring at her with green eyes that knew all too well what she had done while she was Julia, what she was capable of as Sydney, and how badly she had messed up by unnecessarily provoking Allison into that fight.
"I guess you're right," she slowly admitted, unable to hold his penetrating gaze any longer.
He shrugged. "There are times," Simon said carefully, "when that's just not what you want to hear."
She closed her eyes against the wind and let her arms rest against the railing. When he turned to leave, Simon pretended not to see the tear sliding down her cheek.
* * *
She didn't know how much longer she'd been out there when the footsteps returned.
"Simon, I just--"
Allison was staring at her intently. "No, really. What were you going to say?"
Sydney stiffened and pretended that the sight of her bloodied features didn't bother her. Just because she looked like Francie didn't mean she'd done to *Francie*. She would never hurt her best friend that way.
'But what about all those times you blew her off,' a little voice inside her head questioned. 'And all those times you lied to her, straight to her face? Don't you feel horrible for never setting the record straight?'
Allison, who had been smirking at Sydney's reaction, now looked slightly panicked at the sudden display of emotion in her eyes. "I'll just leave you alone. Wouldn't want to offend you, or anything."
She left without waiting for a parting remark and once again, it was just Sydney and the sky. Sydney was so engrossed in cataloging her grief and justifying her guilt, that she didn't hear the shaky sigh just outside the door.
She didn't hear Allison sigh and couldn't have known she was leaning with her back to the wall, trying to deal with the new hand life had just dealt her. She didn't know that the other woman was having second thoughts, about her job, Simon, and life in general.
She couldn't.
Because once you lose that connection with a person, it's very nearly impossible to get it back.
If you have enough determination, you can work at it, chip away the layers, and grab it by the horns until you weaken it to a point where it's tame enough to deal with on a day-to-day basis. But Sydney wanted nothing to do with the stranger wearing Francie's face.
And so she didn't know that the connection between them was just waiting to be reopened.
* * *
---SIX MONTHS EARLIER---
Allison stepped off the train and let her hand fall in his, cursing their aliases. She was no foreign princess, not by a long shot, and he knew it. How many princesses would seek out the utility closet and drag their security detail in after them? Simon winked, adjusted his suit and led them along until they were inside a darkened stairwell.
She yanked her hand back and tore up the stairs, unlocking the single door at the top. While the outside of the building looked dilapidated and desperately in need of some attention, the inside of the flat was actually fairly new, with a contemporary sort of style.
Allison took one look at the comforting décor and forgot she was mad at Simon. "I love this place."
He smiled and wrapped his arms around her from behind. "I can't believe you didn't like it before, I thought you loved the color red. Said it reminded you of passion."
Her eyes had closed when he came to her and her expression grew more troubled as he spoke. She swallowed out the image of the last red room she'd spent time in. "It does remind me of passion," she purred, turning in his embrace. "But my memory's been a little off lately. Maybe you should give me a refresher course. . ."
Simon grinned lasciviously. "I think that's definitely in order."
She laughed throatily and matched his grin. "*This* is why I love you."
He halted his attentions to her bare shoulder and looked up. "And here I thought it was because of my mind. You only want me for my body," Simon pouted.
"--Right now," she added, nipping at his lower lip playfully. "I'll deal with your mind later."
"Ooh." They stumbled into the bedroom. "You know I love it when you talk dirty."
* * *
Hunger necessitated that they eat sooner rather than later. While he set about fixing them some sort of nourishment, Allison was catching up on mail that hadn't been seen in months. She was dressed in his shirt and boxers, looking more relaxed than she had in a long time.
"What do you feel like having?"
She looked up with a smile. "Whatever. I'm not picky."
He snorted.
"I'm *not.*"
"Sure you aren't, babe."
Allison rolled her eyes and went back to the local newspaper. "Did you know the neighbors were evicted two weeks ago?"
"The Billingses?" Simon frowned, remembering the older couple with a fondness he rarely showed toward anyone but her.
She bit her lip, scrolling down the page. "Yeah. Says here someone tried to buy them out and they wouldn't sell. So the super had them evicted."
"They name the new tenant?" he asked very casually.
Allison fixed him with a knowing grin. "Planning something?"
Simon pressed a hand to his chest with a wounded expression. "Just want to welcome them to the neighborhood and all that."
"Mmm hmm," she murmured, reading the text carefully.
He added some cheese to the two slices of bread in the pan and cooked them while waiting for more information. He wasn't surprised when she got up and headed for the computer in the living room, for she was excellent at getting information and always got what she needed.
Three minutes later, she had the printout in her hand with a dullish looking frown. Simon flipped the sandwiches over and then lifted them onto plates, handing one to her. She set it down unsteadily and held the paper out to him. "I think you should read this."
The reading went into further detail about the eviction and the super's greedy attitude. "Bastard," he muttered, biting savagely into the grilled cheese. 'The new owner, Ms. Julia Thorne, had the apartment entirely redone. The workers came and toiled for over seven weeks, gutting the flat and remaking it in her image. Ms. Thorne declined to comment, but. . .'
By the time he looked up, she was glaring at him with tears shimmering in her eyes. "All I want to do is move on. And she's *everywhere*!"
To himself, Simon wondered what bothered her more; that Sydney had been the one to do it, or that she'd done nearly the same thing Allison had asked for on arrival. It was almost eerie, the way their actions ran parallel at times.
She continued to rant angrily, now swiping at items on the shelves. The glass vases fell, unattended, to the floor and shattered. The books landed on their bindings and nearly split down the middle. He'd seen her angry before, but not like this--never like this.
When she had finished destroying their living quarters, Allison looked at him defiantly, no hint of apology in her. She followed his gaze as he surveyed the damage and remained silent.
Simon bit his lip and gauged her carefully. Then he walked until he stood in front of her, their toes touching. "You know," his voice was nearly a whisper, "you're really quite jumpable when you get all fired up like that."
Against her will, she felt her lips curving into a smile as they suddenly moved under his. "You're such a jerk."
* * *
Allison was asleep. When she slept--really slept--she was dead to the world. He knew ever since Sydney's arrival and Sark's subsequent break out Allison had been lucky if she'd gotten three hours each night. Granted, in their world, six hours was heaven, and most people could function on at least four, if they were traveling back and forth, but when in a long-term assignment like this--you needed every bit of sleep you could get.
With her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, and thin sheet covering them, Simon could almost pretend they were a perfectly normal couple. He could toy with her near waist-length hair and imagine that she'd grown it out for him, instead of using it as another feature to separate herself from Francie. The same went for her dislike of the color red. It was a little known secret that Francine Calfo's restaurant had been painted in a vibrant shade of crimson. It went well with her personality and brought life to the inside.
Allison had never liked red from that point on.
Four months ago, when he had first brought her to his flat, she'd paled at seeing the walls and demanded he change them immediately. Having just admitted he was in love with her, and being on the high of having her love him in return, had moved him to call a painter before they were out of the building. They stayed in a hotel for three nights while the entire flat was redone.
Rome wasn't built in a day, but his little niche in London was.
After that, she'd just been so floored that he would go such a distance for her irrational requests and think nothing of it, her behavior was nothing short of angelic. Their comfort level hadn't been where it was now, and so he was still a little wary of holding her after he heard her crying in the middle of the night--not sure if she'd hit him or kiss him--but somehow they had survived it.
Simon absently kissed the side of her head.
He loved her, not because she was stuck inside another woman's body, but in spite of it. You could not lose that much of yourself and expect to survive if you were not a strong enough person.
Allison was an extremely strong woman.
She had to be.
Or else she just wouldn't have survived.
She moaned once in her sleep and then settled with her head close to his neck. Simon wrapped his arm tighter around her and looked at the moonlight filtering over her cheekbones.
They would get through this.
They'd gotten through everything else.
* * *
Sydney had gone back to the room later that night to find Sark missing. It hurt, but she wasn't worried about him. Sark could take care of himself, something they both knew very well. So it was with a bit of surprise the next morning that she awoke to find him sitting on the edge of her bed, watching intently.
"Um," she struggled past her grogginess, "Good morning?"
He continued to stare at her, his face unreadable. "Get dressed. We're going out."
She blinked and he was gone.
Sydney glanced down at the sheets puddled about her waist and then at the door. With a rebellious look, she put her head back down on the pillow, where it remained for another five minutes exactly.
Exasperated at herself and the situation, she screamed under her breath, tossing her legs over the side of the bed. Mechanically, she searched for clothes and the appropriate accessories. Black t-shirt, black pants, black shades. What else did she need? Maybe a funky purse with her fake ID.
With one last sweep of the room, Sydney cursed the fact that he was once again telling her what to do.
And she was listening.
* * *
Sark didn't comment on her tardiness, and she didn't offer an explanation. When he merely gestured with his chin to the Mercedes, Sydney reached inside her bag for a bandanna to tie over her head. He peeled out of the lot before she had a chance to put her seatbelt on and continued to drive recklessly until she finally got her anger to subside long enough to rest her hand atop his on the gearshift.
Getting the message, but not wanting to listen, he shifted again, flipped her hand off and took a curve just a little too sharply for her comfort. Resigning herself to the inevitable, Sydney managed to toe off her flip- flops and plant her feet firmly on the dash. Sark refused to comment.
She looked out the window.
He continued to drive.
* * *
Not until they were inside the town's main roads did Sark finally lessen the pressure on the accelerator and Sydney found she could breathe normally again. It wasn't that she was worried they were going to have an accident-- because she wasn't, she trusted him enough to get them out of every possible situation--or that she didn't feel safe in a car with him--because she'd never felt anything but.
Driving was one of three ways Sark got the anger out of his system. The more reckless he drove, the more infuriated she knew he was. By expression, he was courteous, almost normal. He asked if the temperature was okay, if she'd like him to put the top up, if there was anywhere in particular she wished to go.
Sydney answered yes to this first and no to the rest.
And so they came to be driving along in a two-lane road, taking in the sights of normalcy and ordinary lives when a black sedan pulled next to them. Sydney noted it and knew Sark had seen them coming a while back. He pulled ahead in traffic, not wanting to lose a race, and let a smile cross his face briefly.
When the sedan pulled next to them again, she got worried.
He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at the car and she knew his eyes had widened in shock even with sunglasses on.
"Sydney, get down!"
She ducked and nearly cracked her head on the dashboard as Sark slammed on the brakes.
Something whooshed past her and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She looked up just in time to see the explosion.
"What the hell was that?"
"A missile," he breathed calmly, his only show of nerves as he pulled them back into traffic smoothly and headed back for the scenic route.
"How did you know to--?"
"You told me."
* * *
