Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.
Ersatz Liaison
Chapter 2________ the Verdict
Cause' I'm a train wreck waiting to happen,
Waiting for someone to come pick me up off the tracks,
A wild fire born of frustration.
Born of the one love that gets me so high,
I've no fear at all.
-Sarah McLachlan
Trainwreck
_______________xxx
The coarse alleyway splits before her, the fork at the corner of the angular apartment building dauntingly chanting coaxing remarks. To the left, a target dexterously avoids spilt waste bags, dodging the light and welcoming the shadows. His footfalls are barely audible, like the sound of rainfall, already vanishing before she can identify him. To the right, another objective speedily ascends the fire escape ladder, skillful and experienced. She makes a quick decision and pursues the road to the right.
He's stepped onto the grating, continues to climb the rickety metal steps to the next level. Sydney fires a warning shot, the traditional revolver in hand. The bullet misses, ricochets off a railing and drops to the eroded path below. He's moving faster with the smell of gunpowder as his impetus. She keeps her steady pace because it's obvious to both of them that he's running out of levels to climb.
She expects him to climb up the last flight of stairs but instead he leans out over the railing, swings one foot over, then the other. He crouches, balancing on the few inches of grating he's given, and pushes himself off the fire escape with a clothes wire as his safety line. Sydney curses beneath her breath and aims for the cord, changes her mind, and aims for his landing point instead. By the time he reaches the fire escape platform opposite her, the bullet is already moving and lodges itself into his shoulder. As he yells in pain, she fires again, knocks his leg out from beneath him. He's grappling for the railing but his hand is too slick with blood and Sydney watches as his body drops to the alley floor with a thud.
She's running to his side to finish him off by no mental decision of her own. Her finger places itself on the trigger and she fires again and again until she riddles his chest with bullets and her only comfort is the click-click of the revolver, reminding her to reload the gun. She keeps her eyes on the blood as it pools around his body, can't bring herself to look at the face she saw before he fell four stories. Click-click. She continues to pull the trigger. Even as Vaughn's body grows cold and lifeless. Click-click.
Click click.
Knock. Knock.
The knocking on the door urges Sydney back into the arms of the scent of wood and vanilla that clutches onto her. The bed beside her is empty, but not cold. He's left her, earlier than he usually does, but she can't blame him. He's got people to kill, partners to betray, so is the life of Julian Sark.
The rapping continues and Sydney brushes off her reverie worries. Just another dream to contribute to the appalling pile she has similar to it, the two years' worth of nightmarish visions. She climbs out of bed and pulls on her robe, knows that it's Weiss thudding at the door, performing his routine morning call to make sure she hasn't suffered a beating from the enemy or from a bottle of liquor. She notices the Armani suit, belt and boxers missing from the floor. It would make sense for Sark to get dressed before leaving, of course, though she could appreciate a souvenir from time to time.
"Hey," Weiss says when she opens the door, his appearance just as unkempt as hers. "Headin' to work in a few."
"All right, I'll catch up."
"Mmkay."
The conversation ends and Sydney closes the door on Weiss' retreating back. The atmosphere is already dismal and guilt begins to build on her shoulders. For a few brief minutes, her thoughts are of Vaughn, then of the crucial mistake of last night. She tries to reassure her insecurities and opens the cupboard, looking for the box of Lipton tea packets, the kind she's never drank before but keeps for certain reasons. She finds it, dumps out the contents, and counts up the packages. Four. The same as yesterday.
It's not that big of a deal. Her sanity relies on the thought for the rest of the morning, as she showers off the events of the evening, drives to work and walks into the debriefing to find one member missing. Then her mind switches gears and the guilt creeps away until it's needed again.
Dixon begins talking but Sydney only catches brief clips of what he has to say.
"Agent Michael Vaughn… missing… Lauren… also in danger..."
Her father's acute glare scrutinizes her and she quickly breaks out of her trance. No need for Spydaddy to know about her intentionally secret worries and relations. She tunes in during the middle of the video footage from one of the many surveillance satellites of the CIA, watches as an ambulance hurtles under a bridge. And doesn't come out the other side.
"It's—it's the oldest trick in the book," Marshall stutters in disbelief. Sydney glances towards him as the other members in the room do and gives him an obligatory smile, shows him that she thinks it's okay he spoke his mind.
"As of right now, we are assuming the Covenant is behind this, so we will approach this situation with extreme caution. We are also assuming that if the Covenant is behind this, they will keep Agent Vaughn alive until a ransom is proposed. Marshall—I want you to analyze the footage, see if you can find anything worth looking at. We'll hold another debriefing once we gather enough information."
Dixon concludes his speech, shuffles his papers, and tries to distract himself with other current affairs while the room slowly empties. Sydney's feet remain bolted to the floor, her hands suddenly like lead weights. Any second now, he'll dash into the room, excuse himself for his tardiness and the events of the past forty-eight hours will go unnoticed. She stares at the table, thinks hard of his silhouette before it was marred by his unperceived marriage, and fails to notice her father's stare.
_______________xxx
"Sydney," he says, "we need to talk."
She's mentally aching, can't see through the thick veil of drowsiness the five Tylenols have induced. Her father doesn't look approving, but he helps her to her feet and guides her towards the conference room. One step at a time, Jack's trying to help her get back on her bike. She's ten years old again, but no feelings of nostalgia make the bridge of her nose tingle with hoarded tears. Just memories of an experimental Project Christmas and a dead mother.
"Sydney."
She hears her name again, turns to see Dixon standing in the corner of the room. He steps out of the shadows, reinstates his role as mysterious head figure and tries to soften his expression, just for Sydney, just for the unpleasant news he's about to tell her.
"Michael? Have they found him?" she immediately asks, prays to God that it's not that. Dixon and Jack exchange glances, realize the severity of her obsession.
"No, Sydney, it's about your health. Your father and I have discussed this and we think that it is best that you take some time off—to cope with the—situation."
She knows what that translates to, they can't bring themselves to tell her the truth.
Sydney, your addiction to this married man could fuck up everything. We enjoy your presence, but for now, keep it on the down-low.
They wait for a response, the father and teacher figure tilt towards her, their heads nearly colliding from the bottled up anticipation.
"Okay."
She turns around and walks away, astonishes both mentors with her unfeigned acceptance. Jack doesn't question her decision, understands that it was more his choice than hers, but doesn't feel any guilt.
As she walks away, she bites her tongue, reminds herself that she's still in public and there's miles between her and her apartment. The taste of metallic liquid interrupts her thoughts.
Miles between her and her apartment.
Miles
between her and her last asylum.
_______________xxx
Years of investigating with fruitless results and ironically, the accolade at the end of the proverbial rainbow reaches him before he can reach her. She's insistent on his return into her corporation, but he's learned to stray from the master that kicks him too much. Her words are poisonous, covered in thorns, but so attractive that he can't help but sample them. She scribbles out a location and time and leaves it taped to his front door. He returns from a successful bout of negotiating to find the steep cliff that looms in front of him.
The café. Three hours.
He realizes the severity of her proposition, understands that she wouldn't waste precious time keeping tabs on a candidate for lapdog. His breath is haggard as he walks into his apartment.
"Good to see you decided to come," Irina says, gesturing towards the seat directly across from her. The night air is unpleasantly cold, reminds Sark of years long ago when he'd spent time contemplating his loyalty. She looks like Sydney, even smiles like her, but the two women are utterly different. Hours of bedside conversation allow Sark to confidently reveal Sydney's sheer detestation for her mother, but he only speaks of her secrets to himself.
"I imagine that you'd have given me no other choice," he replies as he takes his seat across from her. His body faces towards the street, only brief glances suggesting the target of his attention. He can't stare at her, can't even confront her, without thinking about Sydney.
"By now, you have probably guessed that the proposal I have for you is a little more serious than just an errand. It's a favor."
Sark immediately quirks his eyebrow in interest. A favor.
"I know about you and Sydney," she says. Ah, that kind of favor. Her comment is followed by silence.
"And I know that she's still attached to Michael Vaughn, although he's temporarily out of the picture."
Sark wants to grimace, fire a bullet into his leg, anything to prevent his conscience from wandering into taped off territory. He nods briskly, avoids eye contact.
"I'll give you time to consider joining back up with me again," she says, preparing to leave.
"Wait—what about your proposition?" Sark quickly stands up, stalks her until they reach the curb and her chauffeur pulls the car to a stop before Irina.
"Sark, telling you of my intentions will be meaningless if I am not guaranteed one hundred percent of your loyalty. As of right now, I can only remind you of your poignant attachments to certain subjects. Sever these connections and I will contact you again."
The car door slams shut and the tinted windows conceal Irina's silhouette from the public. Sark takes a step away from the curb as the car cuts into the steady stream of traffic and leaves her lingering offer in his palms.
_______________xxx
Sydney deserts her possessions in the Land Rover clandestinely parked in the lot across from the tenement. Her footsteps resonate throughout the serenity of the disrupted lobby, then follows her as she steps into the empty elevator and rides up to his floor.
Sark's door is locked, taped, and gilded shut with the guarantee that his pursuers remain kept at the front door. She has the spare key that allows her entrance to the prohibited—the only spare key he has, he claims.
_______________xxx
After several months of furtively meeting at covert locations, the question of trust came into play. Their most recent encounter led them both into the inviting folds of an Italian bed and breakfast. Words were drowned in their wild bucking and foreplay that only they two could share. Hushed whispers from his lips trailed down the curve of her neck and found a shell of sanctuary upon her breast.
"Sydney," he harshly murmured as he reached his apex and collapsed beside her. She moved her fingers along her cheek, wanted to brush the few strands plastered by sweat to her forehead. His hand grabbed hers, kissed her fingertips, sent feelings of unlocked intimacy down her spine. His shaft which remained between her lips felt the tremors of her body.
"I have to go," she finally said, tried to pull away and unlace her legs from his.
"When is Vaughn expecting you back?" he mocked, a smirk played on his lips, but fire flickered in his eyes. The blue wave couldn't prevent the sudden sting of jealousy from peering out, revealing true intentions.
"The CIA is expecting me back on a flight to L.A. at eleven," she said, purposely dodging the trap carefully laid out before her. Vaughn had Lauren, a fact that Sark knew very well. His subliminal envy made her feel wanted. His hands roamed down her spine, pulled her closer and tested her patience.
"It's only seven," he reminded her, letting his length slip out. She rolled out of the bed, rushed to put on her clothes
"I have to get back to the hotel room before Michae—before they find out I'm not there," she reassured him. She swayed her body purposely, knew his watchful eyes were approving of his possession.
"When will our next meeting be? Rome? Madrid? Perhaps Berlin," he asked. She shook her head and avoided the predictable argument. Her hands searched beneath the bed for her pleated slacks. By the time she stood back up, he had slid off the covers and was searching in his coat pocket for something.
She was slipping into her blouse when he finally displayed his find. A pair of her panties, lacy and red, the kind that he had admitted to having a fetish with. Her brow quirked and she took them from him on her way out, shoving it hastily into her purse.
"I'll call you," she said as the door closed behind her. It took the pain of her nails severing the skin of her palms to prevent her lack of control at the sight of his unadorned body. The lock clicked shut as her feet dragged her down the hall. The click hurt.
The intimacy ceased as soon as their bodies left the bed. It was an adaptation they had both received after years of training in a field as dangerous as theirs. Trust was a foreign word to Sydney, and one that was easily tossed around with Sark. Her thoughts lingered on their unlikely relationship. As she found herself stepping into a cab, she prayed that his face wouldn't appear at the window. If it had, her reason would have disappeared just as quickly as her innocence had.
It wasn't until she opened her
purse at her hotel room that she noticed the extra weight of her underwear. She
found a key hastily shoved beneath the seams of the waistband and held it in
her palm. Yes, to Sark, trust was easily thrown around.
_______________xxx
She enjoys the feel of the lush carpet beneath her sore feet and inhales the aroma of wood and vanilla before the turn of the key in the lock transports her back to his austere bedroom.
"Hello, Sydney," Sark says before depositing his coat onto the wall rack. She only leaves her shoes at the door when she's in demand of his immediate attention. His voice is monotone and as Sydney walks out of his bedroom, he does not look satisfied by her appearance. She tilts her head quizzically and approaches him.
"Hello," she replies, helping him out of his suit jacket. He lifts his arms robotically, lets her strip him of the burdening material, and while she lays it across the arm of one of his couches, he walks into the bedroom by himself. Sydney quirks a brow in suspicion and traces his steps.
"So what do you want?" he asks when she stands in the doorway. She's brushing imaginary lint from her sweater, a distractive tact that Sark has perfected. His brow rises at her refusal to make eye contact, his patience having already been stretched tightly for the evening.
"I need to know where Lauren is."
Her choice of conversation topic is not intended to insult Sark but he takes it offensively and silently curses her attachment to her imaginary figment. He exasperatingly rubs his shorn head and tilts his head up at the right angle to catch her brief glance.
"Why does it hold any importance with you?" he inquires, slants his head back at a brash angle. Sydney gently pushes away from the doorframe, closes the distance between them in a number of steps.
"I'm no longer on active duty. My father suggested to Dixon that I take a break. What would you do in my position?" she shoots back. Her wavering voice inflicts a wound on her confidence and she finds herself retreating from her original intention.
"Lauren might not have anything to do with this," he warns.
His comment stings, and reminds her that she had tried to leap over a canyon, believing it to be a fissure, when agreeing to their relationship. In some aspect, he stills loves Lauren as much as she loves Michael.
"Why else would she call your apartment at one in the morning to tell you Michael's dead?" she asks, croaking out the last word. She's run through the possibilities thousands of times in her head but the one that remains the most obvious whimpers in the corner, intimidated by the shadow of a doubt.
"If you're thinking that I had something to do with this," he tilts his head down, makes sure their eye contact is unshakeable. He can't finish the sentence with Sydney's faltering confidence screaming of its blatancy.
"Where is she?" Sydney asks again, her voice stronger, aggressive. He's even more wounded by her inability to see the aftereffects of her own words.
"I don't know," he lies. His certainty is faked to a degree of belief, but Sydney refuses to depart from the subject.
"Where is she!" she nearly yells, this time. Sark realizes he's made a grave mistake by allowing her entrance into his life. His vulnerability lures him into an inescapable pit which continues to grow bigger with each comment Sydney throws in.
"You're asking the wrong person," he says, lying again. "I'll see you later."
He finishes the conversation and the argument and perhaps finishes something more. She furrows her brow in her injured feminine way and backs out of the bedroom. He hears her slip on her coat and shoes, then walk out the door. She leaves behind the remnants of promise as well as a collection of other emotions, but she doesn't leave behind the spare key.
Sydney makes contact with the only other person in her life that could be apart of such a conspiracy. Her mother. After years of hiding from both her and society, her reputation remains infamous and her location, discreet. Only her daughter knows.
She walks into her mother's office unannounced, sees the various screens emitting images of the surveillance around the building.
"So you were expecting me," she says with a hint of disgust. "As always."
Her mother places her fingers in a steeple fashion atop her desk, swivels her leather chair closer towards it. Manipulation and conniving flow from her pores as she stares at her daughter with the same eyes as that which she'd passed onto her. Brown hair and a lithe body along with a graceful but sturdy frame. Two women after one another's hearts.
"Hello, Sydney. I suppose you're here to ask about Lauren's whereabouts," Irina predicts, her steady gaze never leaving Sydney's.
"Yes," she replies, refusing the seat before her. She folds her arms across her chest.
"Why do you think I would know?" her mother asks.
Sydney wants to tell her mother that she believes her to be omniscient, but she refuses to allow her mother any satisfaction from their meeting.
"Just tell me where she is," she demands.
Her mother shakes her head, clucks her tongue in feigned disapproval.
"What would your father think if he could see you now? Wasting away your vacation on such unimportant things like this," Irina cajoles.
"Don't you tell me about what my father would think," she warns. Their mother-daughter conversation always leads to a dead end. "Just tell me where the hell Lauren is."
There is a brief moment of silence as the two woman analyze each other. Irina finally leans back in her seat and shakes her head.
"I don't know, Sydney. I'm the wrong person to ask," Irina admits. Her daughter furrows her brow and suppresses the biting remark she has stored in mind.
"I should've known better than to come to you for help," Sydney spits out before walking out of the office.
Irina waits until she sees the figure of her daughter leave the premises. A faint longing briefly flickers alive, then vanishes. She turns her attention back to her previous client.
"You can come out now," she says, facing the side door.
Sark steadily opens the door and walks out into her office. He takes a seat in the leather armchair before her desk and rests his chin on his bent fingers.
"I'll do it," he says.
Her father leaves a message on her answering machine, claims to have car trouble, their signal that a family conference is in hand. Sydney waits at the harbor where Vaughn had first touched her hand and reassured her of her sanity. It's also the harbor where Sark had purposely crippled her for the enjoyment of dominating her as they rolled around on the sand below. In a city so big, she was running out of discreet locations.
"Sydney," her father says as he sidles up alongside her to enjoy the view of the frothing waves. "Your mother told me about yesterday."
Sydney keeps her lips sewed shut, quashes the childish belief that her parents are conspiring against her. She glances down at the waves, tries to remember the trail of blood she'd left as her body was possessed by Sark. The pain she expects the memory to bring does not greet her, to her surprise.
"I've asked Dixon to place you on active duty again," he continues, his negotiating earning himself a glance of approval from his daughter. "We've come across intel that a Russian scientist has been enlisted by the Covenant to rebuild Markovic's cloning machine. Griffarov Felzer."
Sydney stares at her father as his gaze fades away and loses focus. She's heard of the name before, an underground scientist whose intricate trading pattern leaves no clues behind for the CIA to trace. She may have even seen him, once or twice, while parading around Moscow and rattling bullets through the streets. He appears feeble and old, but his mind is constantly running, manipulating everything to his benefit.
"We believe that Lauren Reed has agreed to be the first to undergo the cloning procedure," Jack says. "She's now listed as a fugitive for treason and because of her connections to the Covenant."
Sydney bites her lip to keep herself from boasting.
"Monday morning, Dixon expects you to be at the debriefing. And Sydney—regardless of what Dixon says, bring her back alive. Do not let your emotions get the best of you," Jack says.
"That's easy for you to say," Sydney retorts, the first comment she's contributed to the conversation. She unknowingly brings back memories of Jack's vulnerabilities and the failed mission that released Irina from CIA custody. He looks sternly at her, the muscle in his jaw ticks, and he turns away. Sydney watches as he walks down the dock and disappears among the throng of tourists and vendors crowding the boardwalk.
_______________xxx
Sunday evening leaves Sydney contemplating what she'd do if she ever had the opportunity to hold the gun to Lauren's head. She nurses a bottle of beer and squints her eyes at Lauren's dossier's picture.
"Not the way I'd prefer to become intoxicated, but it's one way, nonetheless," he says as he walks into her living room, his footsteps barely audible. Sydney doesn't bother to look up, already knows that Sark will be standing there when she turns, and slips the profile back into the folder.
"I'm not drunk," she argues while setting the bottle on top of the dossier. She stands up and greets him unresponsively, declining his invitation to enter his grip. He stalks her as she walks into the kitchen, throwing his jacket across the couch as a sign that he plans on staying the evening.
"Would you like to know how I prefer to become intoxicated?" he whispers as walks up behind her. His hands run down her sides, then to her waist and clutches her hips, pressing them back into his erection. She can feel it against her thigh and some part of her desperately craves his heightening libido, but she repudiates and firmly presses her palms against the kitchen counter.
"They've put me on active duty again—I have to wake up early tomorrow," she cautions before jabbing her elbow into his ribs. She hides the fact that she's lost trust in him.
He barely groans and continues to hunt her around the room.
"You're still angry about the other day, aren't you?" he queries, reaching out to grab her hand before she can leave the kitchen. "Would it make you feel better if I told you that I'd make it up to you?"
Sydney turns around and viciously throws her hand across his face. It leaves a mark, a burning red against his skin, but he barely flinches and holds on tighter.
"Don't try to negotiate for sex, Sark," she spits out, tries to pull her hand away.
He twists it behind her back and pulls her against him again, inhales the scent of alcohol and her shampoo, and smirks.
"I don't need to negotiate for sex," he brazenly states while pulling away the collar of her sweater. He nips the flesh at the base of her neck and feels her pulse grow faster beneath the river of kisses he plants.
Sydney lurches forward and manages to slip her hand out of his rough grasp. She throws her body into a roundhouse kick and successfully lands a hit to his gut. He grimaces as he's knocked back into the kitchen wall, but finds himself grinning with nostalgia.
"You always like to start it off rough," he says.
_______________xxx
She waited for her contact to arrive, an aging spasmodic woman from the east coast with intel meant specifically for Sydney and her quest to find her mother. The boardwalk was crowded, but the various docks that led away from the masses of tourists were often deserted or speckled with amorous couples. Sydney recalled the last time she had ever come here—with Vaughn, to talk about the mess that her double agent status had made out of her life. Now, she was miles away from that brief moment in her life.
She watched as the figure of a man began to approach her from the entrance to the dock. No, it wasn't Vaughn. Her hallucinations were getting the best of her. As he got closer, she could distinguish a minimal amount of features beneath the crescent moon's light. Short light hair, and bright colored eyes. He sauntered as he walked, kept his hands in his pockets. Perhaps he was here to tell her that her contact couldn't make it.
When he was several inches away, she realized the identity of the stranger. She couldn't fire, not with the throngs of people meters away and idling lovers as witnesses. Her first instinct was to run, find a more isolated location where she could released her fury in a series of punches and kicks.
"Sydney," Sark said, dipping his head quickly. She reacted instinctively, delivering a kick to his stomach that sent him reeling several feet back. Then her legs carried her down the dock and into the swarm of people on the boardwalk, skillfully working her way around patrons.
He was following her, she could tell by the string of profanities that tourists unleashed as they were knocked aside. She noticed an unattended flight of stairs that had been chained off—the ferry wasn't in service for the evening. As others looked away, she hurdled over the obstacle and rushed down the steps and onto the sliver of sand beneath the dock above. The lights of stores and lamps faded as she ran further away from the public and closer towards the shadows cast by the more vacant docks.
"Sydney!" he called out from behind her. She stopped running and pivoted, facing him with an irritable glare.
"What the hell are you doing here, you sneaky son of a bitch!" she yelled back.
"Looking for you," he said as he slowed to a stop in front of her.
"And now you're going to be sorry you found me," she hoarsely whispered, throwing herself against him and to the ground.
He reacted forcefully, knocking her off of him, but she retorted by delivering a kick into his side. Before she could pull her leg away, he pulled out a switchblade and purposefully dug the tip into her upper leg. She gasped in pain and as she took a second to place pressure on the wound, Sark threw the switchblade into the crashing waters and picked her up off the ground. His cradling technique irked Sydney, who lashed out and managed to push him away from her. As she dropped onto the ground, her injured leg was unable to stand beneath her and she quickly leaned against one of the many wooden columns supporting the dock.
"Son of a bitch," she cursed again, watching Sark with hateful eyes. He briskly walked towards her, but before she could prepare her attack, he gestured towards her leg.
"You won't get very far with that. I hadn't meant for the knife to have cut you that deep," he said. The innocence was commendable but his indifferent expression led Sydney to believe that it was a façade. But she let him advance towards her and rip off a slip of his white shirt to tie around her leg. A part of her wanted to thank him, but a bigger part of her refused to acknowledge the criminal who'd humiliated her with his underhanded tactics and feigned naivety.
"What do you want?" she spit out when he didn't take the opportunity to kill her.
"I want that street in France," he replied, suddenly pulling her hips towards his and fiercely planting a kiss on her lips. She turned her head, realized that she wouldn't get very far with her leg in such condition, but tried to get away from him anyways.
"That was a mistake," she hissed as she pushed him away to hobble past.
"You've thought about it, haven't you?" he said, her pace taking her farther and farther away. "I've seen you, touching your lips whenever you pick up a gun, waking up with my name on the edge of your tongue. The only reason I'm not forcing it on you is because I know you want it too."
Sydney glanced behind her, a bare second that motivated Sark to pursue her and stop her slow escape. She couldn't deny that her thoughts hadn't lingered on their rendezvous in France for weeks afterwards, but to give in to Sark was to give up her dignity.
"I want you Sydney—more then I've ever wanted anything," he stated when he caught up to her and clutched her shoulders.
"So what happens you finally get me?" she sneered, slapping his hands off. "You're disgusting, Sark. Just stay away."
"I don't think I'd ever be able to 'get' you. Afterall—you've got Vaughn," he ridiculed her. The fact that Vaughn could never be with her had been biting at her nerves every time she'd gone into the office. The only time when she didn't think about Vaughn was when she thought about Sark.
She quirked a brow when she turned back to look at him. Then her hands were around her neck and his hands beneath her rear, hoisting her up to rest against one of the dock's columns. He set her down so he could assist her with the removal of her pants, and she did the same, with her fingers slipping beneath his jacket. They tossed the clothing items aside and Sark gently laid Sydney onto the sand. He slipped his hand beneath her panties and initiated a series of orgasmic engagements.
By the time he delivered his last thrust into her, they were both breathing heavily from fatigue. Sand had worked its way into various orifices and the distance that had been between them had dramatically shrunk.
He helped her up and they wordlessly put their clothes back on. With her head cradled against his collarbone, he led her back up the steps, away from the boardwalk and to his car. They ignited the fire again at his apartment and the next morning, Sydney was gone.
_______________xxx
Sydney doesn't want to reminisce with Sark, but she does any ways. The memory is the only one that gives her comfort at night when the pillow beside her doesn't respond. When the realization hits that Michael's managed to move on and she still resides in the past, her only savior is the touch that reminds her she's very much alive. She could use that touch—the day before her return to the CIA, where upon she'll pass by his deserted desk, and feel alone. She takes several steps towards him and runs her knuckles down his arm when she reaches him.
"Have I ever told you how I prefer to get intoxicated?" she asks, her stern expression a contrast with her coaxing words.
"No, but I'd like to know," Sark replies as he slowly begins to dip his head down towards her. Sydney trails her knuckles further down, towards his abdomen, past his waist and to the bulge that sends shivers through both their bodies when she brushes against it.
"Like this," she barely manages to whisper before she employs her lips against his and finds his touch against her back.
He leads them both towards her bedroom, where he dexterously kicks open the door behind him and closes it when they walk past the threshold.
She unbuckles his belt and he steps out of the pants. They reverse roles and soon their garments are scattered across the floor and his full arousal is pressed against her thigh. Their faces pull apart for seconds as Sark hoists her up into his arms and places her on the bed. He lays down beside her, but her impatience drives him. He rests his body over hers, supports himself with his arms and gently positions the tip of his shaft at the lips to her entrance. He slips the tip in slowly, then pulls out.
"I want this to last forever," she whispers against his ear as he bends down to place a kiss at the corner of her eye. He slows down until he's not moving anymore and glances down at her. His hesitance represents his inner conflict as he battles to say or not say something. He swallows the words down, and continues with his new routine. With each thrust, her body writhes with unleashed words of affection and cries of pleasure. Finally, he's within her, her folds clutching and unclutching, a purposeful exercise that Sydney's perfected for him.
"Sydney," he raggedly whispers, before pulling out and plunging into her for the last time. She moans in synchronization with him, and he collapses alongside her, a drugged slumber falling over her eyes. She calls out his name, this time. Not Sark. Julian. He pulls her body to his, rests his head in her hair and waits until she's breathing slowly and deep in sleep.
"I'm sorry," he says before slowly letting her go and stepping out of the bed.
_______________xxx
The hotel's actions are temporarily ceased as Sydney and Weiss venture down the hall to Lauren's apartment. The small crew they've brought along ambles behind, awaiting the commands from the agents leading the venture. Sydney glances at the hotel's room number and nods her head to show her certainty.
She hasn't talked to Sark in days, ever since she found herself alone again the morning after and drowned herself in a puddle of remorse. She's been too focused on their latest mission—finding Lauren and bringing her back, alive, to the CIA for interrogation. Intel about the rebuilding of Markovic's cloning device lets the CIA know that only days separate them between peace and another Francie debacle.
Weiss gestures towards the expectant group dressed in black who hastily surround the room's door. She knocks once. Then twice. Then a furious third time. Weiss grabs her fist, pulls it down to her side and takes in a deep breath of air, indicating for her to do the same. He then turns towards the agent beside him, jerks his head towards the door twice, and pushes Sydney back. Moments later, the door is off its hinges and against the wall.
Sydney is the first to rush in with her semi-automatic pointing ahead of her. Her thoughtless actions are only obvious to Weiss, who warned her beforehand to allow the others to ensure the room was safe. He rushes in after her and the small troop follows.
"She's dead," Sydney snarls as she quickly spins around in her step. She nearly collides with Weiss who stands at the door to the bedroom. He sees the half naked body lying across the bed, a bullet delivered through the back of the head. Her blonde hair covers her face and the puddle of blood trickles off the mattress and to the carpeted floor. He's too masculine to cover his mouth and swallow the bile crawling up his throat. His expression of indifference is all he needs to get by. Sydney brushes past him and pushes aside the other field agents, angrily proceeds towards the door to the apartment.
"Syd!" Weiss calls after her before she can get into the elevator and report to the CIA of their target's status. She lets the doors slide open, then shut, without her in the mirrored booth, and steps back to allow Weiss a moment to state his argument. "Syd, what's the problem? She's dead—and apparently she's been dead for a while. No offense, but I thought that's what you wanted."
She wants to tell him about Sark and how its more then obvious that he did it. Only one man would be enough to lure Lauren to bed, then have the audacity to slaughter her. Her theory about their unrequited love for one another immediately disappears and a part of her heaves a sigh of relief. She watches Weiss' confused expression and says the most palpable excuse.
"How the hell do we find Michael, now?" she snaps back. Weiss takes in a deep breath of air and lets her retreat down the stairs.
Marshall's panicking voice forces the objective of the mission to flee in another direction.
"Sydney—Sydney, we've just received intel that there was a contact for the Covenant in the building. They alerted the Covenant—they're performing the cloning procedure with another person," he stutters out through the phone. Sydney signals for Weiss to come towards her, half whispers and half mouths the urgent message Marshall has for them. Weiss leaves her in the hall to reform the crew and send them back to their assorted vehicles for the goose chase Marshall's about to send them on.
"Calm down—who else has signed up on such short notice?" she asks.
"See—that's just it. Nobody has willingly signed up," Marshall says slowly.
"Michael," Sydney breathlessly replies as she runs to the apartment to tell Weiss.
The white unmarked vans haphazardly screech to a halt at the entrance to the warehouse. The large and ineffective building is the worst place to perform such a delicate operation, but Marshall insists that the location is correct. With only three exits, the blasphemy of the entire foundation leaves Sydney questioning Marshall's certainty.
Sydney throws open the back doors to the vehicle she arrived in and jumps down, following the line of field agents as they softly tread towards the back entrance. Weiss gestures with his thumb towards the front entry, lets her know that they'll intrude from several directions.
"Syd—are you sure you wanna' be apart of this?" Weiss asks as the agents line up against the outer walls. She nods and realizes that the potential of losing another friend to the cloning procedure is highly plausible. Her finger itches to pull the trigger. She pats Weiss on the shoulder and walks back towards her cluster.
They snake several optic tubes through the shattered windows several feet above, allowing Weiss surveillance of the entire building. His breath is haggard as he scans the inside of the facility.
"It's him—it's him! Syd, it's Vaughn!" he says, reaching the brink of an asthma attack.
Sydney wants to enter the building but remembers Weiss' plan. His group would enter first, then hers. She hears the pattering of feet upon the cold cement through the thin walls. Moments later, the back entrance opens like a garage door and the field agents hurriedly burst into the warehouse, assembling themselves behind the piled up boxes and empty fragments of machines. Before Sydney can get past the group of agents, the sound of a bullet escaping from its chamber stops her.
"And Sark—Sark's there," Marshall continues after his lungs return. Sydney pulls the earpiece out of her ear, doesn't want to hear anymore, doesn't want to believe that Sark would take part in such an experiment. She could only think of one impetus strong enough to drive him to sacrificing his body to science.
"Put down your weapons, put down your weapons!" Weiss says loudly, his voice the most prominent among the chorus of warnings that the other group members yell out. She hears the clattering of materials against the ground and finally pushes past the few people left standing in front of her.
Sydney walks into the circle of light, stands alongside Weiss, watches as the few scientists and security personnel fall to their knees and place their hands behind their heads. She turns her attention towards the two stretchers placed in the center, one with the body of Vaughn and the other with the body of Sark. The cloning device is wheeled away from the door where it had been carted after their blatant arrival along with its cowering creator, Griffarov. He pleads for mercy, promises that he'll reveal any information they need, but Weiss shuffles him along with the rest of his Covenant companions.
Sydney searches the rest of the warehouse with her eyes, realizes that no other bodies are lying dormant on the ground, and steps towards Vaughn's body. She knows where the gun was. She just needs to find the bullet.
She presses her hand against his neck. A faint pulse, but a pulse nonetheless. His battered face is cold because of the brisk Russian weather and his body is littered with bruises and cuts. The only sign of his existence is his soft breathing and the rush of air that brushes against her hand when she lifts it across his lips.
With her chest collapsing against itself, she turns towards the parallel stretcher, her hand shaking as she runs her palm along the body's arm. No one else notices the way her heartbeat triples and her body teeters briefly. She slips her hand beneath his chin, fingers hesitantly stroking the skin.
No pulse.
In order to prove herself wrong, Sydney presses down harder on the throat, places both hands on top of the cooling flesh, searches for a pulse. The blood that soaks through his shirt and puddles around her elbows doesn't stop her frantic hunt for the brief flicker of life.
"Syd!" Weiss calls out, leaving the rest of the agents to handcuff the employees. "If I'd known you'd hated him so much, I would've let you shoot him."
His voice is cheery, bouncy even. His worries are gone now that his hockey buddy has been safely returned to them. Sydney can't bring herself to let go, can't bring herself to stare at the man who so calmly boasts of his kill.
"Why don't you sit in the ambulance with Mike—I'm sure he needs to see a friendly face," Weiss suggests, ushering her towards the medics that place his body on a different stretcher and wheel him away. He doesn't realize that her upper body is caked in blood and her legs quake with a lack of support.
"I can't—" she starts to mutter, but Weiss has already left her. She walks out of the warehouse, opts to meet Vaughn's body at the hospital, and walks outside towards the thin line of brush and trees around the facility. She leans over, pulls her hair behind her, and hurls into the bushes, a mixture of bile and dejection. Then her legs lose the ability to hold her up and she collapses to the ground, uncaring if her fingers mingle with her lunch.
Meanwhile, Sark's body is left for the later ambulance to retrieve. And inspected. And with no relatives to claim his body, it would be cremated. And eventually placed in a ziplock bag, labeled by his name, and locked away in a freezer.
She inhales deeply and covers her mouth to smother the wracking sobs that shake her body. The figment of blood drips across her lips and she desperately tries to remember its taste before falling victim to desolation.
Author's note: Okay—Just to let you know, Sark is not dead. If it's not obvious what went on, then just wait until the next chapter, which I'll post up shortly because this story's just as fun to read as it is to write. It's a little confusing, but hopefully all the questions will be answered in the third—and last, chapter. But be ready because the next chapter might be just as long as this one was. Keep reading, hope y'all enjoy, and review.