Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.
P o t e n t
The Drive
xXx
It's the smell of seclusion that disturbs her.
She slowly opens her eyes and enjoys that brief moment of peace before the storm. Her vision is distorted and relays kaleidoscope images back to her mind, slipping glimpses of colors and shapes. A striking blue distinguishes itself from among the monochromatic settings, then vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Her head drifts to the side and hits the car door, forcing a cry of pain from her throat.
Her vision clears minutely, coinciding with her head's minor collision with the vehicle's interior. With her logic still in pieces, she concludes that the run in with the inanimate object contributed to her current condition. Her head tilts to the side and hits the passenger side window. She pulls back, then lets her skull drop against glass again. The ground beneath maintains the same speed, but arms reach out from the shadows and grab at her shoulders. There's a buzzing coming from the manifestation, but she ignores it. Her world spins around her as her vision regains strength.
Finally, the buzzing becomes a static formed of words that hold no meaning.
"Agent Bristow, I'll have to ask you to stop…"
Stop, a curious word. She contemplates it as she remains inactive, drowning in the plush leather seating of the hovering platform. She's on a space ship, Operation Black Hole's gone off on a tangent and taken her with it. The world no longer holds reason as her hands quake in her lap. The static starts again as her body leans towards the window.
"Shut up!" she screams, swatting at the figure beside her. It's slowly defining itself as time passes. It has a profile, broad shoulders that loom over her when it turns, tall, or maybe just a tall torso, fingers, a whole set of them, and it is a man.
He snatches a hand and fiercely clutches onto it.
"Understand, Agent Bristow, that I will not show you any leniency simply because we're meeting under different circumstances. You are still Sydney and I am still Sark."
And as though he's set off a trigger, the last of her delusions slip away and the only thing that remains is the carcass of a migraine. Its weight is a tragic burden but she forces herself to prevent any further displays of humiliation. She faces forwards, her hand slowly creeping towards her holster. He observes her from the driver's side and realizes that her actions are still weak and drug induced. At least her shoulder had finally stopped bleeding.
"And I should mention—I have removed all firearms from your possession. Be wary of your actions, Agent Bristow, your co-worker certainly wouldn't appreciate it."
Her head snaps to the side at the mention of Weiss. The existence of another person on the foreign plane he's brought her to provides her with the smallest flicker of hope.
"Where is he?" she says, the first real sentence that's come from her lips in a while.
"Getting friendly with his escort and his escort's glock."
The biting sarcasm only adds to the tension between them. She turns her attention back towards the front and for the first time, realizes that they are venturing down a deserted route in the middle of the desert. All she can see for miles is sand and a few scattered mountains.
"Wake me when we get to Irina's," she mutters as her eyes flutter close like the lens of a camera. Sark glances over at her and admires the stubborn streak concealed beneath the drugged outer appearance. He forces himself to return his eyes to the road before him. Irina, he snorts, that's well behind him. There were hundreds of miles to go, or at least however many it would take to convince him otherwise.
xXx
He's racing the sun, following that fading burst of luminosity along the desert's edge. Quite a change from the snowy landscape of Iceland. He booked his last flight on the Covenant provided personal plane several hours ago with Sydney as his unconscious passenger. The pilots had only one question to ask—"Would you like anything to drink, sir?"
"Yes, a glass of wine," he'd said.
There aren't any other vehicles for miles along the deserted highway and he swears that he can hear the sound of the earth spinning beneath him. He hasn't enjoyed freedom quite like this for a while and with the accelerator clamped down beneath his foot, this new feeling is dangerously exhilarating. The needle inches towards ninety miles per hour and as the wind whistles past him, gliding along the smooth paneling of his BMW, he takes a moment to look at his hostage.
She's been sleeping for the past hour, her veins running with morphine and some form of adrenaline. He slows down the car as he sees her slowly awaken. There was no need for an enemy to bask in the glory of his content. That was his own private sanctuary where no one, not even the clandestine Sydney Bristow, could reach.
The speed is back at fifty when she finally wakes up, her immediate reaction that of utter horror. All the events of the past several hours will hit her right about…
"God damn it," she hisses before they make eye contact. Her hand smashes down on the smooth dashboard, but he barely flinches. "Sark, I'm only going to warn you once. Stop this car and let me off right now or there will be Hell to pay."
He returns his gaze to the falling sun, his expression so resolute and unrevealing that she swears it will drive her delirious.
"Agent Bristow—"
"Cut it with the courtesy shit. We crossed that line hours ago when you knocked me out and kidnapped me."
"If you insist—Sydney—I will leave you at the side of the road."
She's surprised by his blunt reply, but before she can retaliate, he quickly cuts her off.
"But let me tell you what will happen once you have traveled the hundred miles back to civilization," he begins. "You will go to a pay phone, you will dial the number of a dependable contact, and you will find that all connections between you and all your former affiliates have been terminated. If you return to the CIA and to Dixon, he will inform you that your allegiance to the department is now under investigation and you will immediately be transferred to the closest correctional facility. If you decide to run, you will become an enemy of the state and an anonymous correspondent will casually inform the CIA of your coordinates."
"You bastard!" she cries out, her hands flailing animatedly before her. "What the hell have you done?"
"I did what I needed to do. Now, if I were you, Agent Bristow," he says roughly, "I would stay in the car."
He annunciates each word, carefully rolling it across his tongue before letting it drip from his lips like poison. And suddenly, Sydney's worries about her personal health are a figment of the past. She can wastefully squander away time without agonizing over the consequences for Sark has unknowingly accepted all of them on a silver platter.
xXx
Their combined stubbornness creates the silent atmosphere needed for the remains of the evening. The moon slashes open a scar of light across the desert panorama, riding across stray mountains and irregular dips and rises. It cautiously avoids the dimly lit road and allows the passengers to drive along in pitch darkness. Sark keeps the headlights turned off, so eager to remain covert in even the most isolated of settings.
Sydney turns to look at his profile, illuminated by the moonlight, and sneers. How old could he possibly be? Her age at the least, she hopes. She doesn't look at Sark as the opposition, but the competition. It's envy that drives her to throttle him with the telephone cord, throw pick axes at his limbs and deftly apply any maneuver capable of handicapping him. She refuses to accept second place, especially from a man like him.
The thought of Weiss is the only thing that keeps her calmly rooted in her seat. If not for the risk of placing him into harm's way, she would have thrown Sark onto his back in the middle of the desert, angrily buffeting him until the knuckles of her fists burst. She finally turns away and stares determinedly at the empty road ahead.
As far as he's concerned, right now he's her only fear. He can feel her flinch every time his hands stray from the steering wheel. She hasn't attempted to begin any pointless conversations either. There aren't witty remarks floating around him and in turn, he doesn't need to spend time preparing any. Her apathy is corrosively eating away at him, but that's okay because in a couple of hours they'll be in Oregon and he swears that he'll tell her when they cross the border.
xXx
"Welcome to Oregon," she mutters as they cruise past. He turns to look at her because she's broken the five-hour long silence with three single words. Three single words that truly hold no meaning. But they're the most placid three words he's ever heard.
It's almost four in the morning and the car's fuel is running low. The perfect opportunity to explain the circumstances of his proposition. He turns into the lot of a nearby gas station and parks behind a dark blue SUV.
"Stay," he harshly commands as he opens the driver's side door and steps out. Not the smartest thing to be doing when placed in a situation such as his, but he's slipped through the hands of the Covenant before and he'll just as easily do it again.
As he waits for his receipt, he notices the license plate of the car in front of them. Washington, state, just a tourist returning home. From where he stands, he can see the car's owner. Fiery red hair, cell phone in hand and sunglasses flailing madly about in the other.
He takes his credit card and the receipt and steps back into the car where Sydney quietly waits. Home, he wonders, what impression does a home leaves on one's mind?
He starts the car and feels the engine purr around him. This, this is what home should feel like. Always moving, always humming, quiet and loud at the same time. He turns to look at Sydney, her eyes trained on the pavement slipping away beneath the tires. And maybe a companion—for financial convenience, of course. He guffaws mentally, then waits until the road is empty again.
"By now, you've probably determined the perfidy of my alibi," he says, initiating an overdue conversation. His tongue is slow to form the words, like hinges on gates that need oiling. It's embarrassing at first, revisiting the early years of puberty, but she doesn't notice.
She nods, her brow raised with unconcern, her elbow rested against the door and chin poised atop her balled fist.
"When did you realize?" he asks so calm and cool, as though he's unaffected by this lapse in judgment. She can see through the icy exterior to the man who's trembling inside. Trembling, no, shaking. And he'll soon be curled up in a fetal position, pleading for mercy. She looks in the rearview mirror. The road's empty, except for the SUV that trails behind them.
"As soon as you turned off the road and into that gas station. 'The CIA's after you', my ass. You son of a bitch, I can't believe you pulled that stunt," she sneers.
Sark glances towards her, then furrows his brow and faces the road.
"Agent Bristow, you'll have to take my word, but my plan is not to hurt you," he states, his eyes suddenly darting towards the rearview mirror. "And if you trust me, I'll trust you enough to return your revolver."
Sydney releases a mixture between a snort of disbelief and a laugh.
"You know, as soon as you give me back my gun, I'm going to shoot your dick so far up your—"
The sound of shattering glass quickly changes the tone of conversation from that of casual acquaintanceship to one of severity. The side view mirror closest to her lies in shards across the road, vanishing behind them as Sark pushes down on the accelerator.
"Sydney!" he calls, demanding her attention by breaking down the walls of professional regard. "I need your word!"
Another bullet fires and breaks through the windshield, nearly nicking her shoulder, and the SVU draws closer, riding the car's bumper. She pulls her body towards the center of the car, then realizes the heightened vulnerability.
"Sark, this isn't exactly an easy decision and forcing me into it won't help," she hisses, "But considering the circumstances, I find it necessary that we call a temporary truce until all conflicts are settled…"
Her voice fades off as she sees the butt of her revolver peering out from Sark's tightly bound fist.
"Take it!" he demands, his voice suddenly rough. She nods as she rotates in her seat, then rolls down the window. Sark's foot clamps down on the accelerator and soon, the BMW is pushing ninety.
Sydney leans out the window, gun poised before her in an uncomfortable weaver position. With her rear firmly rested on the car window's edge and her feet tucked beneath the seat, she fires twice. The fruits of her labor reap in the benefits, shattering the windshield and providing the two of them with the fireworks display of the brain's inner workings. She pulls herself back into the car, her hair tousled from the brisk night wind.
She tucks the firearm into her waistband and quickly adjusts her seat belt.
"I'm going to give you from now till Washington to convince me that your life is worth sparing," she threatens as he slowly pulls the car's speed back down to fifty-five.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to make a pit stop," Sark says, his left arm uncontrollably shaking. Sydney glances towards him, then notices the growing spot of red across his shoulder. "It appears that I've been shot."
xXx
He manages to pull off to the side of the road with as much reserve as possible, the carcass of their assailant hours behind them. He refused to stop so immediately after the attack, afraid of any other tails that would take advantage of their minor pause in travel. By the look on Sydney's face, he could tell that she was fairly impressed.
The car finally ceases it's humming and the comfortable atmosphere of hospitality that once surrounded him slowly fades away.
"You've lost a lot of blood," she says without having to examine the wound. Sark opens the driver's side door with his unwounded arm, then slams it shut behind him. He considers making a snide remark about the blatancy that Sydney's just pointed out, but keeps his mouth shut instead. No need to anger the only left arm he has left.
Sark struggles to open the trunk, but a somewhat reassuring body shoves him aside and opens it for him. Sydney finds the first aid kit hidden beside the black suit cases full of fire arms and bills and flicks open the latches.
"Take off your shirt," she demands, but realizes that he's already performed the action.
He tosses the soiled jacket and shirt into the trunk, twisting his head to the side to examine the brutality of the wound. The bullet penetrated the flesh beside his shoulder blade and exited with enough force to hit the windshield, barely dodging a shattered bone or two. The wound managed to clot itself in the ample time he drove to escape unplanned disturbances, but dried blood covers his entire shoulder. Sydney dabs at the residue with a swab of alcohol, cleaning away the yellowed blood's remains.
"How does it look from the back?" he asks, or rather states. She glances up at his weary stare, then fiercely presses the swab of alcohol against the wound. His muscles twitch, but his expression remains blank.
"You'll live," she replies, tossing the dirty swab into the first aid kit.
She unrolls the gauze and slowly lifts up his arm. With one hand, she holds up the limb composed of pure muscle and a thin coat of flesh, while she tries to wrap the gauze around the injury with her other. The task proves to be quite impossible and Sark realizes this as she tries unsuccessfully to roll the gauze around his arm.
Using his free arm, he reaches across his chest and grabs the gauze from her hand. He pulls it across the front of his wound, then hands it back to her, upon which, she pulls it across the back of the wound. The understanding that this could be the first and last time they work together is a fleeting moment of regret. For once, Sydney has confidence in her partner.
When the roll of gauze is completely used, she ducks behind his lifted arm and grabs the gauze hooks from the first aid kit. She then fastens the gauze's end to the layer beneath it.
"Are you capable of driving with that arm?" she asks, slowly letting it drop down. He grabs his shirt from the trunk, then slowly and very warily manages to put his injured arm into the sleeve.
"I'll manage," he retorts with his gaze focused on the shirt's front. His weak hand struggles to hold the tiny buttons and yet he refuses to ask for help. The Sark she grew to detest stands before her, trying ineffectively to dress himself, and Sydney cannot help but sympathize with him.
"Well, now that you've uncovered my heinous plan, feel free to return to civilization," he says, finally accepting defeat and leaving the top half of his shirt unbuttoned. She nods, then turns to walk away, but this rare agreement between enemies cannot go unacknowledged. Not often does an adversary release his hostage a day later without a faintest physical injury. However, she finds her legs carrying her back in the direction of the gas station, protocol getting the best of her.
The sound of the car door slamming is all she needs to motivate her to walk faster, but something holds her back. The familiarity she found in the car, from the soft purr of the engine, is nowhere to be found. She turns around, desert sand swirling around her, and realizes that Sark is as incapable of driving as she is of walking back to civilization. The falseness of her conclusion is all but apparent, but she shuts the door on her doubts and looks up at the Oregon sun. The crunch of the sand beneath her feet is her only companion as she slowly walks back towards his car.
He glances at the passengers side, a pile of black clothes where she had once sat. It isn't easy walking about under the scorching sun with fifty pounds worth of inventory around, no wonder she'd deposited her belongings. He searches through the garments and finds nothing that could be of use to him. No, no aid that could drive him to his safe house in Washington. He scoffs and rests one hand on the wheel.
He's very capable of driving with one hand, but he won't admit that he's simply hunting for a reason to step out of the car and demand she return.
And suddenly emotions he worked so hard to ignore are rearing their ugly heads in vengeance. He clamps his right hand down on key in the ignition and starts to turn it, but the soft sound of footsteps alerts him to other distractions.
"I need answers," she demands as she comes to a stop before his open window. And like the time she glided through the cell's gates with a coded message of salvation, he sees her in the same light as before.
"Answers, yes, I think I have a few," he responds, unlocking the passenger's side door.
xXx
Author's Notes: I guess that this was really just a space-filler and mood-setter. I needed a couple of events (maybe a couple of chapters?) to build up the relationship between Sark and Sydney and as most of you can probably guess, Sark is planning to do his own thing with the help of Sydney. Also, I am not a doctor, nor even close to one, so if the injury-healing section made no sense, be a little lenient with me.