Spoiler Warning & Disclaimer: does contain references to the end of "Resurrection," the season 3 finale. The characters aren't mine.
There are a thousand questions she doesn't ask when he sits down beside her, and only one she does.
"Did you know?" She doesn't feel she needs to clarify. It's been several weeks since his escape and her departure. Of course he's gotten word by now; that must be how he knew she would be here, sweating her ass off in this bar, in Rio de Janeiro, alone.
Sydney doesn't believe in coincidences anymore, if she ever did. Nothing is predestined. There are no supreme deities worthy of her faith. There are no accidents. There is no fate. If there were, it would certainly not involve this woman and this man running halfway around the world to get away from (almost) everyone who has done them harm.
Of course, if he knows, it follows that everyone else must. Dixon. Kendall. Vaughn. (Vaughn, who isn't here, who cares for her from a distance, out of habit.)
She doesn't care.
Maybe he's come to kill her.
She can't find the energy to care about that, either.
"No," he says, and it's as close to honest as he's ever sounded.
"You never asked? You never wondered who you were really working for?" It has to be a lie. Of course he must have known. The Sark she remembers would have been too clever to follow a faceless, nameless leader. Then again, maybe where she is now is where he was last year. Maybe this is how he felt when he was extracted from that cell by an organization solely interested in taking everything he had left. Maybe everything he had was already stolen from him when they found him in that club in Stockholm.
Maybe he just didn't care.
Her thoughts are becoming hazy, disconnected. She shakes her head as if this will clear up the problem. All she succeeds in doing is looking ridiculous.
He meets her eyes. "Did you?" That's not an answer, she wants to say, but now he seems to expect one from her.
"He was my father," she hisses.
Sark has the audacity to appear amused. She hates him. "And what is he now?"
She's silent, then, decisively: "Nobody." The bartender takes her glass away, and she traces circles in the condensation on the surface of the bar. She looks over at his hands, pale and nearly smooth. Who would guess what they had done over the years? She looks down at her own. What do they say about her? Do they say: I've killed your lovers, both times in self-defense, so did you choose poorly or am I just lucky? (Must be the first. There is no luck, she recalls, adding that to the list of things in which she no longer believes.)
Nothing, she decides. Nothing says anything about anything. Whatever it is, that's just what it is. Her hands are clean. So are his. That's what they are.
She probably should have stopped drinking half an hour ago.
He laughs, the bitterness sounding suspiciously like commiseration. "Look at what trusting them has done to us."
Her head snaps up. 'Us.' (Them?) There's the slightest hint of empathy behind his eyes, almost compassion. Pity? She blinks, and when she looks back, his expression is as impassive as it's always been.
A hallucination. A mirage.
But he's still there, and that's absurdly comforting.
She orders another round.
There are a thousand questions she doesn't ask when he sits down beside her, and only one she does.
"Did you know?" She doesn't feel she needs to clarify. It's been several weeks since his escape and her departure. Of course he's gotten word by now; that must be how he knew she would be here, sweating her ass off in this bar, in Rio de Janeiro, alone.
Sydney doesn't believe in coincidences anymore, if she ever did. Nothing is predestined. There are no supreme deities worthy of her faith. There are no accidents. There is no fate. If there were, it would certainly not involve this woman and this man running halfway around the world to get away from (almost) everyone who has done them harm.
Of course, if he knows, it follows that everyone else must. Dixon. Kendall. Vaughn. (Vaughn, who isn't here, who cares for her from a distance, out of habit.)
She doesn't care.
Maybe he's come to kill her.
She can't find the energy to care about that, either.
"No," he says, and it's as close to honest as he's ever sounded.
"You never asked? You never wondered who you were really working for?" It has to be a lie. Of course he must have known. The Sark she remembers would have been too clever to follow a faceless, nameless leader. Then again, maybe where she is now is where he was last year. Maybe this is how he felt when he was extracted from that cell by an organization solely interested in taking everything he had left. Maybe everything he had was already stolen from him when they found him in that club in Stockholm.
Maybe he just didn't care.
Her thoughts are becoming hazy, disconnected. She shakes her head as if this will clear up the problem. All she succeeds in doing is looking ridiculous.
He meets her eyes. "Did you?" That's not an answer, she wants to say, but now he seems to expect one from her.
"He was my father," she hisses.
Sark has the audacity to appear amused. She hates him. "And what is he now?"
She's silent, then, decisively: "Nobody." The bartender takes her glass away, and she traces circles in the condensation on the surface of the bar. She looks over at his hands, pale and nearly smooth. Who would guess what they had done over the years? She looks down at her own. What do they say about her? Do they say: I've killed your lovers, both times in self-defense, so did you choose poorly or am I just lucky? (Must be the first. There is no luck, she recalls, adding that to the list of things in which she no longer believes.)
Nothing, she decides. Nothing says anything about anything. Whatever it is, that's just what it is. Her hands are clean. So are his. That's what they are.
She probably should have stopped drinking half an hour ago.
He laughs, the bitterness sounding suspiciously like commiseration. "Look at what trusting them has done to us."
Her head snaps up. 'Us.' (Them?) There's the slightest hint of empathy behind his eyes, almost compassion. Pity? She blinks, and when she looks back, his expression is as impassive as it's always been.
A hallucination. A mirage.
But he's still there, and that's absurdly comforting.
She orders another round.