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 Safe House
xXx
The purring of the engine ceases and the amity withers with the fading of the car's hospitable hum.
Sydney glances out the window, her forehead rested against the glass, and stares down at the whirlwind of sand surrounding the tires. She furrows her brow and pushes away from the pane with her hands, turning to greet Sark's blank stare.
"Why are we still in the desert?" she asks demandingly.
He tilts his head back and rests it against the leather of his driver's seat, his gaze warily watching the horizon before them. He parts his lips and lets out a hiss of air.
"While you were sleeping, I took the courtesy of calling a loyal contact. He'll be arriving soon with the needed equipment," Sark explains. He unbuckles his seat belt and places his hands against the steering wheel, drumming against it with impatient fingers. As they wait, a silence falls between them.
"Sark, when I said that I wanted answers, I was serious," she says, dragging his attention away from the rearview mirror. He turns to look at her, penetrates her with his stare, and then looks away.
"I know," he says, resting his elbow against the door. She inwardly groans and returns to idly gazing out the window, unsure of what she's looking for, but intent on doing it any ways. When she casts him a weary look, she finds him scrutinizing her with as much concentration as he had the road. He suddenly laughs, then looks away again.
"Remember that mission in Paris, where Sloane sent us after the missing NSA terminal… I told you that it was a pity we were traveling separately because we could've used the opportunity to get to know each other."
She remembers quite vividly the costumes they wore. The oddest of couples in all of Paris. He wore a cape and she wore an orange construction hat. They both stuck out like sore thumbs.
He glances at her and laughs again, a bitterly regretful chuckle.
"And it's simply amusing because now that we have time on our hands to spare, I don't know what to say."
She sighs and folds her arms across her chest, eyeing Sark suspiciously as his expression becomes grave and he turns to look out his window again.
"Does my dad know about this?" she finally asks, curiosity getting the best of her.
"As far as the world is concerned, we're both supposed to be dead," he says, "but the Covenant caught on quicker then I'd hoped."
She rubs at her forehead with her palm and leans back into the folds of her chair.
"We've both come back from Hell before, though."
His gaze suddenly flickers from her towards the horizon and he quickly climbs out of the car. Before she can follow, he's at the passenger's door, opening it for her. She brushes away his hand as she steps out of the car, refusing to believe that there still exists the shell of a courteous man beneath his smug grin and cocked brow.
The contact parks his midnight blue Acura RL opposite them on the road, his car facing southbound while Sark's faces north.
"Sydney, I don't think any introductions are required," Sark says as he takes her hand and guides her across the road to Weiss.
xXx
"What—how?" Sydney asks as they make it across the empty road.
"Don't talk, I'll explain as we move," Weiss says, hurriedly rushing to open the trunk of his car. He lifts up the hood and points to the various kits labeled with abbreviations like 'ART' and 'DIS'.
"Your standard firearms—sigs, glocks, revolvers, there" he says with one hand beneath the hood and the other furiously pointing at certain supplies. "Your wigs, clothes, accessories—you can go through it later—over here."
He continues rattling off their list of supplies but never takes a breath to explain what he's doing assisting them with the chase they've thrown themselves into. He breaks a sweat as he speaks and hastily wipes his brow with his sleeve. She can only stare at the two men as they discuss what materials Weiss did and didn't bring with him. At least she can bask in the relief that he's in good health.
Finally, Weiss turns to look at her.
"Syd', we did this for your own good, okay?" he says before tossing the car's keys to Sark. He catches them effortlessly and tucks the ring around his index finger before reaching into his own pocket and giving Weiss the keys to his Coupé. For a moment, she is perplexed by this exchange, but realizes the circumstances of the situation and heads towards the passenger's side of the car.
"I am not getting in until somebody tells me what the hell is going on," Sydney insists with her back facing the car. Weiss pulls a suitcase out from the backseat and opens it, pulling out a walkie-talkie.
"Yogi Bear, the picnic basket is safe, it's on its way to Yosemite," Weiss says, his face contorted with pleasure as he does his best to suppress his laughter. She furrows her brow, but smirks any ways.
"I was hoping that'd earn me the satisfaction of seeing you smile," Sark says, his expression still as bleak as it was before. He glances down at the firearm in his hand, checks for the number of cartridges, then tucks it into his waistband. "My one request throughout this entire operation was that we refer to your father as Yogi Bear. I'll have to credit the rest of that rather unneeded comment to Weiss' improvisational wit."
She turns to stare at Sark at the mention of her father.
"He knows?" she asks, her hands pressed on the top of the car.
"He was the mastermind behind this entire scheme," he replies, opening the car door.
"But you told me that he thought I was dead!" she yells in response, alerting Weiss of her rising temper. He throws the radio back into the suitcase after listening to the static filled response and snaps the latches down.
"I told you that the figurative world thought you were dead, not your father," he says before climbing into the car. He starts the engine and Sydney has no choice but to quickly follow him before making a fool of herself. She slams the door shut and watches as Weiss backs away from the car, to the other side of the road where the BMW is parked.
"Where's Weiss going?" she asks Sark, her eyes still focused intently on her co-worker.
"He's going to make sure no one ever knew we were here," he says in perfect synchronization with Weiss' opening of the suitcase. He places the car into reverse, then executes a U-Turn with deft precision. She stares behind them at Weiss as he tosses something through the Coupé's broken windshield, throwing his body into the sand seconds before the car detonates into thousands of pieces of twisted metal and glass. As naïve as it is, she finds herself mourning the loss of the vehicle that she called 'home' for a period of forty-eight hours. Good-bye to the comfortable leather interior and soft hum of the engine—and even the classical music Sark dared to play when he thought she was sleeping. She turns back to face the road before them in time to see a helicopter soar overhead towards the wreckage.
xXx
After leaving the desert behind them, Sark opted for taking a more scenic route. One that traveled along the coast and through empty mountains with roads wrapped seductively about them. One that greeted the shoreline on one side and thick forest on the other. One that he somehow knew would satisfy Sydney.
She stares out the window, unwilling to admit how placid the panorama makes her. Every now and then he'll look at her and she swears that the gears run in his head, coming up with excuses to fill the gaps in the plan that he, her father and Weiss worked so covertly to concoct. She's gathered enough information to create her own explanation for their actions, but it's unstable and easily toppled.
She idly runs her finger along the glass, tracing the outline of the road as it blurs by. It's night again and the moon is high above them. The Acura blends in well with the peaceful settings, although it could never replace the mollifying hum of the BMW Coupé. Unable to contain herself, she turns towards Sark.
"How did you know that I'd get back in the car?" she asks, referring to their minor conflict back in the desert.
He shrugs as he continues increasing the speed.
"I didn't," he says.
xXx
He pulls off the road and onto an unlabeled dirt trail that goes for miles. They drive along in silence again as the trees surrounding them cast shadows across the car. Finally, there is a part in the forest to a clearing where a discreet cottage sits. It's two floors and entirely composed of wood. There are matching brown shutters to each dark window and the front porch is screened in. Sydney is slightly comforted by Sark's presence.
She climbs out of the car the same time that he does and together they approach the cabin. He walks ahead of her as he digs in his pocket for the key to the front door.
"Was it part of the plan to shoot me in the arm?" she asks as he unlocks the door and opens it to let her enter first. He doesn't laugh at her sarcasm and responds by slamming the door shut behind them.
"No, but neither was it part of the plan for the Covenant to realize that I'm still very much alive," he says with some sternness. "And before you ask, your father arranged for this current dwelling, so if you have any complaints, direct them to him."
Already they've made a careless mistake credited to uncontrolled emotions. The cabin should be deserted, but rarely has she encountered a safe house whose whereabouts are truly unknown. She pulls out the revolver that's kept her hip heavy for the past few days and proceeds down the hall as Sark lithely takes the steps upstairs, two at a time.
Most of the rooms have no doors, only doorframes with rusty hinges. She takes her time checking each room even though the furnishings are considerably sparse. The kitchen has a working refrigerator and stove, but the shattered coffeepot only takes up space on the bare counter. She checks beneath the table and chairs for bugs or bombs, pinching the bridge of her nose to prevent any agitation from the dust. It could have been a fantasy home for someone, somewhere, before age overtook it.
After clearing the kitchen, she slowly walks into the small living room. No television, but a laptop already set up for her by her father and Weiss, no doubt. She performs the routine search again, flipping over the couch's pillows and rifling through the contents of the wastebasket. Just a soiled napkin from a burger someone ate. Weiss, she concludes again.
Another flight of stairs leads up to the second floor from the living room. It's a spiral staircase that rotates twice before touching the upper floor. She warily proceeds with her revolver aimed to the ground. The steps lead up to a single hall where a few windows let in enough moonlight for her to tell that Sark is nowhere to be found. Suddenly the tables have turned and she feels more like the escort then the victim. Did Sark make a break for it as she examined the lower floor or was he a better man than that?
A creak on the floorboards sends her pivoting on her heel, revolver pressed in the chest of the body before her. There's a grunt of disapproval and she feels agile hands pushing hers away.
"Damnit, Sark!" she hisses. He steps into a patch of light and she realizes that he's smirking.
"And what exactly would you have done if I'd been an assailant, Sydney? Buffet me to death?" he jokes as he motions towards the revolver. She glances down at the firearm and nearly slaps herself for having left the safety on. By the time she flicked the latch, she could've found herself lying in a pool of her own blood. Another careless mistake contributed to rash emotions.
"The ground floor is clear," she says, finding her voice again. Although her nerves are standing on edge, she manages to control herself in a somewhat dignified manner.
"As is the upper floor," he replies, tucking his own firearm back into his waistband. "I'm going to take the suitcases out of the car, feel free to join me."
With that said, he walks towards the flight of stairs leading directly to the front door and she willingly follows. Slightly better now that his mood is one of amusement instead of bitter resentment, she walks outside with him.
"Now that we're here, care to tell me what's going on?" she asks as soon as he opens the car's trunk. He hefts out the first suitcase and sets it down on the ground, only to be picked up seconds later by Sydney.
"This idea—" he pauses, lifting out another case, "—was your father's. But I wouldn't be surprised if your mother took some part in this as well."
She raises a brow and heads towards the cabin. Her mother, still apart of her life? The thought was unwelcome. Irina Derevko had forfeited all relations with her daughter as soon as she'd escaped CIA custody. Sydney swallowed the lump in her throat and kicked aside the screen door. Sark followed her onto the porch and together, they opened the front door and dropped off the suitcases.
"What exactly is this 'idea' of my father's?" she queries as she walks back outside again.
Sark is silent until they reach the car again. Just three suitcases left. Someone will have to make a return trip. She picks another one up by the handle and holds it until Sark chooses one to take with him.
"He wants to pull you out of the entire system," he replies. Together, they return to the cabin, drop their things off and walk back to the car in silence. When Sark takes the remaining suitcase into his arms, Sydney slams the hood shut and walks beside him.
"As in—the CIA?" she asks, opening the door for him. He nods in thanks and drops the suitcase down beside its companions.
"No," Sark says, leading her to the kitchen for a beverage. "Out of the CIA, out of their surveillance, out of the Covenant's surveillance, out of the workings of the government and the underground."
He tosses her a bottle of water and she deftly catches it.
"Did he tell you why?" she asks, controlling her temper. Her father was being reckless, taking the life of his daughter into his own hands. She looks to Sark for an answer but he shakes his head and puts the bottle of water aside.
"Do you even have to ask?" he counters.
Sydney glances down at her hands, countless scars and battle wounds, all reminders of the work that punishes her with every reward she brings back. It's a painful business that's only brought on more hate with every mission she accomplishes. Especially those after her unexpected disappearance, which she knew was a key motivation behind her father's decision. After all, if she had a daughter, would she want her back in the line of work that took her away in the first place? It was only hurting her more and more every time she entered the office, seeing Vaughn across the debriefing room's conference table, comfortably seated beside his Barbie-esque wife. The same woman who had so eagerly allowed for Sydney's imprisonment.
She tucks her hands into her pockets, but Sark's already seen the ragged cuts that run across her palms and fingers. She's not ashamed of them in the least, but under Sark's glare, she finds herself fidgeting with the inner lining of her pockets. Her shoulders rise as she inhales in the musty odor of the room.
"So how do you factor into all of this?" she asks, hoping to change the subject. He tears his stare away from her hidden hands and rakes them up her body until they finally meet her eyes.
"Your father found me through Irina," he explains. "I was enjoying a glass of Merlot in a deserted apartment in Okhotsk when your father found me focusing the crosshairs on Cheylo—"
"Vladiya Cheylo? One of the Covenant members behind the bombing in Pechora?" she asks, unknowingly interrupting his explanation. He nods and takes another drink of water. A silence falls as she realizes just how deep Sark's treachery goes.
"Your father came to me with a proposal, explaining that he and Irina had been deliberating over this for some time. You see, you aren't the only agent who lost two years, Sydney. I was useless to most of my former employers and my contacts were all but ousted. I was expectant of a deal like this from your father. The terms were that I keep you alive and refrain from falling to my inclinations and surprisingly enough, your father trusted me with ease."
Sydney drums the kitchen table with impatient fingers, still focused on the fact that her mother had decided to make a decision with her father about her even though both had been absent from her life for a good period of time. Her father, as helpful as he was, never gave her anything more then the names of obliging contacts capable of pulling her out of a rut. She lets out a sigh and leans back against the sturdy table.
"So the operation in Iceland…" she says before fading off.
"The meet in Iceland was a set up," he finishes for her. "Your father leaked false intel to Kendall. However, since Weiss was assigned to accompany you on the mission, we had no choice but to let him know of our plans. He turned out to be quite useful, though. He covered up for our disappearances and will carry the secret of our existence to the grave."
Sydney's face suddenly contorts with emotion, unsure of whether to feel happy with her new independence or angry at her parents' betrayal.
"What about my team?" she asks.
He tilts his head down, then looks up at her from beneath his shadowed brow.
"We had to Sydney, or else it wouldn't have been believable," he says. She covers her mouth as her face screws up with emotion again. At least six other field agents had come with her and Weiss to Iceland, lives that her father had so easily sacrificed for the life of his daughter. She chokes as she does her best to swallow her tears. She's half successful as her eyes brim over with saline.
"How could you?" she yells, casually wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. "They had families—they had lives."
She expects Sark to look at her with disgust at her weakness to sympathize so easily, but instead she sees nothing in his stare. It's as though he can't compute what she's doing. She takes a deep breath and calms herself, biting her tongue to keep the tears from falling.
"And how is that any better then the people you've assassinated or guards you've carelessly killed," he says, glancing out the window for distraction.
"Because they're bad!" she explains. "They shed blood because their superiors tell them to and they do it without question. It's as though they're programmed to kill without reason."
His gaze immediately snaps back to land on her, as if taunting her with the irony of her own words. His lips remain tightly clamped together, preventing him from pointing out the obvious. Realizing how satirical her statement is, she picks up her water bottle and throws it at Sark, unable to control her rage any longer. He moves his upper body aside as the bottle collides with the wall behind him. He'll let her vent because she deserves that much.
"Don't even!" she says with an accusing finger pointed at Sark. "They deserved it!"
"No more then those agents in Iceland did?" he asks. She stares at her hands again, defeated in the game that she's played nearly all her life.
"Sydney, your parents did this for your own good," he explains.
"Then why'd you do it?" she questions.
"Ask me that again once we arrive in Russia," he says. "But for now, I think you should try and get some sleep."
She doesn't want him dictating to her but she leaves the kitchen and heads upstairs any ways. She'll take a shower first, because she hasn't showered in days, and suddenly she finds that she needs to wash off more then just her sins.
xXx
She hears him climbing up the steps a few hours later, the creaking of the steps giving away his location. It's a soothing sound though—those of another presence in the cabin. She turns onto her side and curls up her legs, just a little.
She admits that it's terrifying to realize that she's just as much of a murderer as Sloane, or her mother—or Sark. But she should've expected such revelations when traveling on the road with an enemy of the state.
The door opens and the sliver of light that she expected isn't there. He turned off the hallway lights, how… eerily considerate. She sits up in bed, knowing that the moonlight should provide enough of her silhouette for Sark to realize her current position. He leans against the wall beside the door and folds his arms across his chest.
"Is it still bothering you?" he asks. She pulls her knees up to her chest and throws her arms across them. The sheets are thin, but the clothes her father provided in the closet warmly cover her.
"What?" she replies, turning to see that he's taken several steps away from the wall.
"The fact that you're a murderer," he says, never missing a beat. He's close to her bed now, but it's a large bed and she's tucked safely in the middle. She sighs and shrugs.
"I knew it, but I just never accepted it," she looks up at him, "you can sit down, if you'd like."
He declines with a shake of his head. As always, the urbane Sark prefers standing to sitting. She nods in acceptance and lies back down again.
"Good night, Sydney," he says cordially, turning to leave the room. She closes her eyes and tries to rub away the memory of his face's shadows cast by the moonlight. Scars grown old run across the bridge of his nose, down his cheeks, invisible to everyone but her. She rubs her nose in defiance and rolls over again. How was he so—unflawed? Tomorrow morning, she swears, the ball of anxiety in her stomach will have unknotted.
xXx
He prepares breakfast for the both of them—scrambled eggs and orange juice. She greets him as she walks down the spiral staircase, just a flicker of a smile, and nothing more. The events of last night are a memory and somehow, Sydney knows that it won't come back to haunt her. Before they can sit down to eat, he pulls her to the laptop set up on the living room's coffee table. He drags the cursor across the screen and clicks on a visited link in the middle of a list of news articles. Another browser appears.
"Fire Destroys Apartment Building in L.A.," she mumbles aloud, scrolling down to read the rest of the article. Beneath the headline is a picture of her former residence, in ruins, with smoke still rising from the ashes. She thinks she sees Weiss in the picture, huddled beneath a blanket and beside a fireman who's guiding him away from the site. She inhales a ragged breath of air and suddenly breakfast doesn't seem as enticing.
"Your father arranged for the fire," Sark says. "It's to give us time to leave for Russia."
"The CIA thinks it's the Covenant," she realizes, "So that they'll stop looking for my body and focus on finding the Covenant."
"And the Covenant will be temporarily distracted by this change of events, which will give us enough slack to leave safely," he finishes for her.
"So I guess there's no turning back then," she says, and he nods in response. She stands up and walks towards the kitchen, Sark following closely behind. They both take a seat at the table, but Sark refuses to eat until Sydney does.
"What are you getting out of all of this?" she asks.
"The same thing you are," he answers, leaning back in his seat.
She reluctantly takes a bite of the scrambled eggs and he does the same.
"You've kept surprisingly calm about this entire situation," he says, narrowing his eyes in a scrutinizing fashion. She pushes around the yellow mess on her plate with her fork, driving the eggs in circles around the frictionless track.
"It wouldn't exactly be too professional of me if I took out my rage on the messenger instead of the sender," she says, standing up to throw away the plate. He stands up and follows her. Combined, they may have eaten one plate's worth of breakfast.
She leans back against the kitchen counter and watches Sark as he rinses the pan in the sink.
"What are you going to do after we land in Russia?" she asks.
He keeps his eyes on the running water, then turns off the tap and sets the pan back on the stove to dry.
"Start a new life, obviously," he says, walking into the living room. They sit on separate couches, him in front of the laptop, her beside it.
"I mean—do you plan on pursuing a different… line of work?" she clarifies.
"I've always considered starting a family," he says as her eyes widen, just a bit. "Has the thought never crossed your mind, Sydney? Parenthood? Don't tell me that you've never thought of it. Redeeming yourself by correcting the faults of your mother and father…"
She hates when he does that. When he analyzes her so perfectly and takes away any form of a rebuttal that she could possibly conjure. She stares at the couch's drab floral design and sighs.
"When do we leave?" she changes the subject.
"In a few days," he says.
A few days, she could deal with Sark for a few more days.
xXx
The rest of the day passes by quickly as Sark works on the forms needed for their flight to Russia and Sydney prepares their inventory for the trip.
They'll have to pack lightly in order to avoid suspicion so she plans for a suitcase and a carry-on for both of them. They'll be the newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. Nitbrushev, returning to Russia for their honeymoon. The wedding was in a chapel in Bellevue, Washington and it was small, with the few American relatives they had as witnesses. There were no traditional customs involved, and originally they wanted to honeymoon in Aruba. Natalia's mother is sick, though, and they're going to visit her.
She finishes memorizing the lengthy description of the circumstances behind their expedition to Russia before going to bed. Tomorrow, she'll go through the wigs and clothing Weiss provided them with in hopes that she'll find something reasonable for the two of them to wear. She hears Sark walking up the steps and quickly closes the door. Every single confrontation with him is doing something to her. Not driving her insane, maybe close to it, but it feels good. They speak on the same level, discuss the same experiences, and she knows if someone were to walk in on their conversation, they wouldn't have a clue.
The footsteps stop at her door and she takes a silent step away, half hoping that he'll walk in, half hoping that he won't, but to her dismay, he continues on and she hears him enter his bedroom.
She walks to her bed and sits down, the springs soundlessly complaining as they sink to allow her room. She rolls onto her side and curls up again, staring at the fading moonlight that daunts her from the treetops. It's ironic that she finds herself most comforted by the presence of someone who she should hate, and that if not for her father's doting worries, she wouldn't even be in this situation at all. Her head spins whenever she tries to think of what she'll say when she meets her father again. Would she yell at him for making such a brash decision without her acknowledgement? Scold him for dragging Weiss and innocent lives into the twisted plot to keep his daughter out of harm's way? Another option has recently surfaced though, one she finds herself scared of thinking about, but seems so logical.
She should thank him.
xXx
Author's Notes: I realized that the best part of a relationship is the chase. So I'm going to draw out the fluff that leads up to their wild confessions as long as I can, simply because I think it makes everyone happier. Also, I am not –learned- in any of the topics that I might've brushed over in the story. No, I have no knowledge about Russia. I just look up random locations in my Atlas. And no, I've got no idea how the CIA works, much less the Covenant, so in conclusion, I would like to say, forgive me for anything that didn't make sense. But R&R anyways because that's why I love you all.