Eric Weiss opened his front door and slipped outside for a quick run (to the deli) before bed. He tripped over a large square box.
"Hmm. Pizza," he murmured aloud. He bent down to get a better gander.
"It's still warm. Seems fresh. Receipt on box time was stamped only twenty minutes ago. . ." Weiss thought for a second, weighing the options in his mind. 'Run or pizza? Run? Pizza? Run? Pizza?' . . .
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He pulled her into the darkness, pressing her against the door. She gasped as his hands created liquid fire on her skin as he roamed over her black tank top.
"I never thought you'd get here," he whispered gently before claiming her lips roughly. She whimpered and put her hands on his chest. He used her distraction to thrust his tongue into her mouth. Her hands moved from their position of protest to eagerly ripping his shirt off to expose his built chest and abs.
"Don't I get a chance, darling?" he asked as he took his own turn disposing of her top. He growled when he saw her black lacy bra that left little to the imagination.
"Julian, please. We can do this later. We have things to discuss now." Lauren raised her hands to face level. Squashed in between her manicured fingers were the features of Sark's boyish, yet cute face. He gave her an unforgettable puppy-dog look.
"They can wait." He slipped out of her grasp and pinned her hands to the wall above her head. He quickly reclaimed his stake on her lips. When he finally pulled away, with much reluctance, Lauren smirked and put her hands to his lips.
"Oh, Mr. Sark, I do believe you just skipped at least five steps."
"Oh, really?" He replied, eyebrows raised.
"Yes, I believe there were a few things we were supposed to do before number twelve."
"For the life of me, I can't imagine what those could be," Sark feigned innocence.
"Well, there were a few little, not-important things." Sark was genuinely confused now by Lauren's words. He just assumed she meant three hundred hours of conversation. (They were at two hundred and ninety - seven at the last count.) "Like marriage." Lauren prompted slowly.
"Oh." Sark was frozen. 'Oh, crap. What am I to do now? The little whore wants me to marry her. Fuck, she's already married. I don't even like her! She's just a good screw . . . Or is she? Fuck! I'm supposed to be using her for a little fucking in between my plans for world domination, not falling for her. Damn, I really am falling for her. Fucking hormones. If it hadn't been for them . . .'
Lauren nearly burst when she saw the emotions flick across Sark's face. She loved making him squirm.
"Calm, Dear. I'm only joshing. My first attempt at marriage wasn't that successful. I don't think I'll be trying it again any time soon."
Sark tried not to let his sigh of relief sound too loudly. Inside, though, he was fighting back some sort of emotion of regret. "Don't worry about the steps, babe. No one follows them anyway."
"Oh, Julian, but it's the way I learned them." Lauren batted her eyelashes annoying-ly.
"And you've done everything else your prestigious schools taught you to?" Sark snapped, tiring of her games and whiny demeanor. 'Maybe I'm not falling after all. Maybe I'm just addicted to the sex.' Sensing the hurt/confused look on her face, Sark switched topics quickly.
"What do you have in the bag?" He gestured towards the small yellow tote that had been abandoned in the entryway.
"Well, you see Julian, I brought some toys - er - tools." She smiled at his raised eyebrows and continued, "I think it's time, once and for all, to find out how large you really are."
"But, dear, I'm five foot -"
Lauren cut him off impatiently. "No! I mean, Jules Junior."
"Oh . . . him"
"Syd, open up. Syd! Open up. It's me. We need to talk." After a long pause, Vaughn began to pound on the door again. "Sydney, open the door. Please? It's important. I just want to talk." A light flickered on upstairs. Vaughn glanced upwards hopefully. "Sydney, please. I just want to talk." He heard the deadbolt slide out of place and the lock turn. The door opened a crack. "Thank God. Syd, can I talk to you?"
"I hope we'd do more than that. You look delicious!" A very feminine, yet very male voice called out. Vaughn peered at the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the abrupt change in light. He stood shocked and still as a very tall, very built man wearing a pink paisley, silk robe and a face masque gave him the eye.
"What do we have here? A very hot guy in desperate need of sleep calling out for some chick." The strange man gave Vaughn another assessing look. "Hunny, if she threw you out, she definitely does not deserve you . . ." His voice trailed off as he glanced approvingly at Vaughn's suit-clad body. "Mmm Mmm."
"I'm John, by the way. John Karol." Vaughn managed to close his shocked mouth finally and responded to John's overtures.
"Vaughn. Michael Vaughn."
"Ooo. I like it. Very James Bond. Let me guess, you work for the CIA?" John joked knowing full well that Vaughn was a colleague of Sydney's at the State Department. John's girly laughter stopped as he noticed still-semi-shocked Vaughn's eyes widened while he tried desperately to think of a cover.
Noting the expression on Vaughn's face and his wide eyes, John abruptly stopped laughing.
"Oh. My. God. You do. I mean, you are. I mean, oh FUCK! You're a hot, male spy. This is so much better than the strippers that one time . . ." John slipped into his fantasies of being with a double agent while Vaughn abruptly turned around, and ran in the other direction.
He didn't understand. Why was there a very, very stereotypical gay guy living in Sydney's house? Vaughn glanced down at the address written on his slightly-sweaty palm and then back at the house. This was it. Sydney wasn't there. He sank into the soft sands of the beach. 'Fuck.' What was he going to do now? -
John turned to the interior of the house where Sydney Bristow was hiding in the corner.
"Thanks, John. I don't think I could deal with that right now." She looked exhausted, mentally, physically, and spiritually. She was worn out and haggard.
"What are friend for? You needed the facial, if nothing else. Plus, if you decide he's not your type, or not up to standards . . . I get first dibs." John giggled. "He's quite the cute one."
"I don't think he swings your way." Sydney grinned back.
"Never hurts to try. Imagine how many straight guys out there are just waiting for an opportunity like me to come 'round, but won't go seeking the experience. After all, how do you know you're not gay unless you've given us an equal shot?" John waited for Sydney's acknowledging nod before continuing, "Now, want to tell me what's going on? Why didn't you tell me you worked at the CIA? It's so much more romantic than the boring 'State Department' cover."
Sydney took a deep breath before pouring into the story, starting with finding out that she was working for the enemy all the way up to coming back from her disappearance. John sat there nodding, occasionally making gasps or supportive comments at the appropriate moments.
Syd had met John at Carrie's belated bachelorette party. Carrie and John had been close in college and had stuck together. She considered him "one of the gals". She also thought that he'd have the most fun with the strippers, that had "accidentally" showed up in the middle of the "serene", "subdued" gathering.
Ever since meeting, Syd and John had gotten close. Now he was her friend and confidante.
When Syd got to the point in her story when everyone but Vaughn realizes Lauren is an evil double agent for the covenant, John halted her with his hand.
"What's her hair like?"
"Her hair?" Sydney questioned in surprise.
"Yeah, I'm not getting a full picture of her. You can tell a lot about a person by their hair." John waited for Sydney's response, but just got a pondering stare. "So what's her hair like?"
"I don't know . . . It's blond," Syd finally spouted the most random, obvious thing she could think of about Lauren's hair.
"Naturally? Or chemically?"
"Chemically. Ugh. Horrible dye job. It's way too yellow - makes her look like she died last week, especially when she's wearing dark clothes."
"Pale? Fake hair? Should have known she'd be evil. What about style?"
"Excuse me?"
"Straight? Curly? Up? Down? Cornrows? Mohawk? Or is it a Mullet? Because that would explain her personality . . . Or lack thereof," John added as an afterthought.
"She used to wear it straight, but recently she's been going for the sleek, but slight wave, neo-noir look. She could almost pull it off, if her eyebrows weren't pitch black."
John gasped in horror at the news. "Why didn't you tell me right away? That explains so much."
"Well, her very very very dark roots are coming in also." John's hand was now at his heart, trying vainly to calm it's rapid beating.
"Stop! Stop! Now! My poor heart can't take any more of this horrible news. Not only is she ruining the femme fatal image," there was a dramatic pause inserted here, "She's doing it with roots."
"Sorry, John, you just can't hide from the truth," Syd joked.
He rolled his eyes. "Next you'll be telling me she descended from two feuding families of goat herders and sheep robbers."
"It was tragic." Sydney agreed angelically.
"Yes, one day the sheep robbers expanded the business to goats."
"Everyone has to make a living somehow."
"There was a huge court battle over the 'finders keepers' clause of the goat's contracts," John expanded the story.
"And after all that, they ended up giving the goats to the judge."
"He ate well for weeks." Sydney grimaced at this addition to the fable, but went on.
"The families never mended their broken ties. Until one day, Ethel and Dave came along."
"It was most appalling. She was engaged to be married. He was due to enter the seminary. She got pregnant. He took care of her."
"But, the jealous fiancé never understood. He came to get Dave that night."
"Poor Dave. He was never the same . . .Alive." John bowed his head in a moment of mock reverence. "Thank God that's not a true story. Can you imagine all the horrible Disney flicks that would be made?" John shuddered in mock horror. He looked at Syd's expression. "Tell me it's not true . . ." She still just gave him a knowing look. "Please?"
"Sorry, but it would explain a lot."
"Such as?"
"Her aversion to wool."
"And the hair."
"True. I almost forgot about the hair."
"What am I going to do with you? You really need to learn the finer points of hanging with gay guys. Number 1 : Hair is important. It's a vital accessory. Everyone has it. Even bald guys have hair. You can tell almost everything about a person from their hair. Just ask Elle Woods."
"Umm, OK. John, how's about we leave off the martinis now."
-
Jack opened his eyes and looked down at the head lying on his chest. 'Needs to change the hairstyle. Kind of pretty, though. Could be worse. . .'
He felt a stirring in his arms. Katya looked up at him with wide eyes.
"I knew you'd be as good as you looked." When Jack's facial expression failed to register her compliment, she continued. "Want another go?" Without any reply, Jack lowered his face to meet hers . . .
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A/N: Sorry, Syd and Vaughn Fluff/Sex is coming soon. I didn't want to go too deep in these chapters. There will be less Lauren/Sark in the future (sorry, ya'll)- leave a review. (I work w/ a reward system.)