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 Confrontation
xXx
The collective symphony of the pitters and patters of rain against the rooftop wakes her up in the middle of the night, the air thick with humidity and the sound of wrinkled sheets. Outside in the hall, she hears him stir, periodically stopping at windows, then swaggering on with his rhythmic footsteps alerting her of his whereabouts.
They halt at her door and she hears the squeal of the rusty hinges as he walks in.
She sits up and pushes away the strands of hair still stuck to her forehead. She's aware her thin clothes are doused in sweat and adhere to her figure like a second skin, but she's comforted by his rosy complexion and glimmering forehead. He holds his cotton shirt in his hand by his waist, nude from neck down to the waistband of his boxer shorts, and gestures towards the window.
"The house will be a little cooler if we open all the windows," he explains, walking over to hers. He unlocks the inside pane, then pushes it up and secures it. The outer screen catches the persistent raindrops, the spray colliding with his chest as though it were a brick wall. He wipes away the residue with an impatient hand and throws his shirt over his shoulder.
"Sark," she says, resting her elbows across her knees, "you remember when you mentioned starting a family?"
He nods and takes a seat in the rocking chair by her bed. He situates his feet on the ground and suppresses the natural swing of the chair. Laying his arms across his knees in the same fashion as Sydney, he laces his fingers together and lets his hesitation ride the silence.
"What about it?" he asks.
"Have you ever thought about what would happen to them if any of your organizations were to catch up with you?"
He eyes her warily, then leans back, causing the chair to fluidly sway back and forth.
"I'll have to make sure they won't 'catch up' with me, won't I?" he says calmly.
And it seems that with the confidence he so easily displays that faltering isn't an option for him. She glances at her palms again, slashes and cuts and battle scars creating a map of her skirmishes with trepidation, and finds her gaze searching Sark's legs. There, that jagged axe wound from her failed escape attempt. She tries to remember the pounding of blood in her head that led her to violence, but she falls short, distracted by Sark as he moves to sit beside her.
"What do you plan on doing once we reach Russia?" he asks, having lost the chance to interrogate her about it before. She shrugs in response, feelings of animosity towards her parents rearing up despite her efforts to pacify them.
"Arrange to meet my mother to discuss a few things," she says, brushing a few strands of hair from her face.
"I meant—the larger picture," he replies, turning to look at her. She shrugs and returns his gaze.
"I've always wanted to live in France, along the coast," she says, "Maybe in a cottage, a little nicer then this one, with a cook."
"So I take it that my gourmet cooking didn't cater to your needs," he jokingly says, nodding with a feigned understanding.
For the first time in what seems like days, she laughs, a genuine laughter that surprises even her. Her mirth strikes her as surprising, considering her company and her situation, and the path she's forced to tread. Doubts and worries suddenly crowd her head, her mind incapable of containing them all, and she wonders whether the rain has moved indoors because her eyes leak water. She feels her laughter fading into contained mumblings of consternation and covers her forehead with her quivering palms.
She wants to believe that she's correct in making her own decision and demanding the lives of the unrighteous, but the void of concern that grows with facing her murderous half and leaving her choices to others swallows her until she's three again and obediently falling into the ruse her parents created. It cuts even deeper that Sark's finally won, hoodwinking her with the cooperation of those that once provided comfort.
The tears are short-lived as she's left in the arms of fatigue, Sark's presence eerily soothing. She looks up at him as if to say 'Yeah, like you've never cried before' but he probably never has and the lack of a weakness stings.
"I don't want this," she says firmly, gripping onto the thin sheets with concentration. He looks at her, inquires with his tilted head and raised brow, and she shakes her head.
"I'm just stuck right now, stuck between a hard place and a rock," she continues, emphasizing the "k" in rock. Sark looks away and folds his shirt, smoothes out the wrinkles in his boxer shorts, anything to keep his gaze from straying.
"I want to go back to L.A., Sark. I want to go back to when my apartment wasn't burned down, when I wasn't dead… when I was still enthralled by Marshall's ability to stick a camera in a tampon," she says with a hint of sarcasm. He scoffs and slowly stands up, throwing the shirt back over his shoulder. It's understandable what Sydney's trying to code with nostalgic phrases and clichés. Still in love with a broken man.
Sark stifles the claws of envy, not here, and not now. He cocks his head towards the door and briefly grits his teeth together before announcing his departure.
"I'm going to close the rest of the windows," he explains, excusing himself. She stands up as he takes his first step out of the room.
"Are you all right?" she asks, interest, not worry, baring the inquiry. He backtracks, finds himself where he was seconds ago, and pivots on his heel to face her.
"Sydney, tell me, are you consumed by the idea of returning to L.A. for the life it provided you or the man that it took from you?" he rejoins, watching her expression become bleak as he pushes the blade in harder. He doesn't regret his words, doesn't regret invoking that feeling of fury in Sydney, and certainly doesn't regret bringing to light taboo.
"Is this about Vaughn?" she asks, approaching him in quick strides. He could have stopped the fire before it became a conflagration by turning and leaving her without an answer, again, for the hundredth time, but instead he finds his lips forming the word 'Yes' and before he can stop himself, it slips out like air.
She stalls, her contorted expression of anger reaching a blip, fathoming his words with precise obsession.
"What?" she says, fast and quick, almost unheard, but he catches it before it fades.
"Don't let him make the decision for you," he says sternly. "There is no one left for you in L.A."
And now the blade seems to protrude through her back, its journey complete. All that remains is the calming sensation that racks the body before death and when he looks directly into her eyes, he sees the belligerency withering.
She runs through names in her head, a mental pocketbook of identities and locations that no longer hold any meaning. Dixon has his children, Marshall has his wife and child, Weiss has Vaughn and Vaughn—Vaughn has Lauren. Her knees buckle but she presses her nails into her hands until the pain forces her to stand up straight. There is no one left for her but Sark.
"Oh fuck you!" she finally says, her temper dying fast. She moves to slam the door, her hand shaking from contained rage as it grasps the doorknob, but he's a step ahead of her. With his strong arm, he keeps the door ajar, her efforts to close it now wasted. She stares at him as he walks back into the room, taking three steps for every one she takes backwards. The space between them becomes nonexistent as he pushes his body against hers, trapped between the wall and his libido.
He swiftly dips his head down, his lips brushing past her ear and his breaths caressing the side of her neck. She exhales slowly between clenched teeth, the hiss of air hitting his collarbone, then past his shoulder and into the wide space behind him. Her heartbeat is erratic, too fast, and with his neck pressed against hers, he already knows.
"Do you mean that, Sydney? Do you want to sacrifice what's left of your innocence to satisfy your rage?" he says, alluding to her false disposition. His hand slips onto the curve of her hip and slowly progresses upwards, but she firmly places her palm against it before it can reach her breast.
"I can make my own god damn decisions, Sark," she replies, "I don't need you to tutor me on how it's done."
He relinquishes his hand from her side and places it on the wall next to her head.
"Then prove it," he demands, her eyes trained on his mouth as he runs his tongue over his lips. His intense expression softens as the stalemate ensues, and finally he pushes away from the wall and walks out of the room.
She feels the wall sliding along her back as she hits the ground with a soft thud that's quickly drowned out by the rainfall, and she wonders when the room became so cold.
xXx
The storm passes, a subsiding shower dripping rainwater onto the cabin's rooftop. She walks downstairs, aware that Sark is not on the bottom floor, and softly treads through the halls until she finds herself at the front door. She walks onto the screened-in front porch, giving her a perfect view of the Acura and the forest beyond. It goes for miles, the headlights of the cars that rarely drive by completely unnoticeable from her position.
The humidity is replaced by a calming breeze that slips through the screens and seeps into her skin. She pulls the robe around her tighter, the edges worn from overuse, and takes a seat in a wicker chair. Hours have passed since he confronted her, made her realize how attached she was to a figment, and then left her cold and alone.
She runs a hand through her hair as she pulls her knees up close to her body. Sark had been right about one thing. She'd been willing to sacrifice a new beginning for an old ending. Vaughn had made his decision and she'd made hers, sitting in the rocking chair of her bedroom, listening for his reassuring breathing.
Sark is a different breed of romance and a different kind of ending. Rough, swift, understanding and impossible. She sighs, her breath coming out slowly. It's crossed her mind thousands of times since she woke up in his car, delirious and drugged, but it's farfetched. She wants it, though, wants him.
The front door opens and she turns in time to see Sark handing her a cup of tea. The string dangles off the edge of the mug, anchored by the tag. It comes as no surprise that it's the same brand her mother used to drink when they were on good terms, when she was too young to appreciate the taste. She mutters her thanks and takes the cup, holding it tightly between her hands.
He takes the seat beside her. Instead of nudity, he opts for a hooded sweatshirt and sweat pants. Is it really that cold? She lets go of the cup with one hand and places it on the armrest of her chair. Goosebumps run up her arm beneath the robe. Yes, it's chilly.
He leans back and props up one leg on the knee of the other. Neither of them wants to initiate the conversation, but reluctantly, he drops a pebble of a statement into their silence.
"Are you feeling better?" he asks, taking a sip of the tea. She sets her cup down on the stand between them, letting her hand idle on the stand's flat surface.
"I'll live," she replies. Her voice is composed, almost nonchalant, but inside she's shriveling away with each second that he keeps her company. She bites her bottom lip and loosely hugs her knees.
"Your father and I spoke a few minutes ago," he says, staring at her, "and it seems our time has run out."
"So the Covenant's finally caught up with us," she responds with a nod.
"We'll be taking a flight to Sheremetjevo International airport in Moscow from Bandera State Airport tomorrow morning at seven," he explains, his gaze now fixated on the Acura. His brow knits with concentration. He knows she's going to point it out, mention that the massacre in Iceland could have been prevented, and leave him with an even heavier burden of guilt, but she remains silent, her fingers drumming the table top. He feels the vibrations through his clenched fist and turns to look at her hand. The constant movement of her digits is just enough of a distraction to keep her from noticing the quake of her body.
He sees the rhythm break several times as a spasm overtakes her hand, skipping the index finger and proceeding onto the middle. It occurs a few more times before he quickly reaches out and pushes his palm against the top of her hand. He wants to pull away before spoiling his lifelong belief that any physical contact less then sexual is dangerous, but he's already crossed that line and somehow finds himself content with their positions.
Her gaze slowly drifts down to their hands just as he laces his fingers in between hers. For a second, he thinks she'll pull away, but instead, she pulls in her fingers around his and says nothing. They fall into a comfortable silence, the only sound that of the fading rain.
xXx
Night falls and they eat dinner separately. He takes it in the living room where he can continue working on correcting last minute details on their forms while she eats alone in the kitchen, after he leaves to take a shower. They avoid each other with intense precision, making sure to take a different staircase if they hear the other one groaning with added weight, or leaving rooms seconds before the other enters. She sits in her room most of the day, deliberating whether to wear the blonde wig or the black wig. She decides neither and chooses a brunette one.
Her closet is empty and the toiletries are disposed of as soon as she finishes her shower. The Covenant would take hours to find the cabin, but they'd find it in the end. She steps out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her when she hears him cough politely.
"Is this a good time?" he asks, standing by her door. She's hesitant, but gestures for him to enter.
"What do you want?" she inquires with a hint of impatience, shivers crawling down her spine. It's cold and her hair is wet and the chance of catching pneumonia is high.
"The outfits, for tomorrow," he answers, still standing close to the door. She nods and walks over to her bed, his clothes laid out along the sheets as though the wearer had simply deflated and vanished. She hands him the Armani suit lined with minor modifications unable to be picked up by the normal security check at the airport.
He leans forwards and takes the clothes from her arms, casually running his hand along her shoulder. She sucks in a breath of air, hoping he doesn't notice.
"It's healed," he says, referring to the bullet wound that he'd inflicted.
"Yours?" she counters, and he nods. She continues holding the towel protectively to her chest as he rakes his gaze along the suit. They were mere hours away from a new life.
New lives, he reminds himself, it's plural. They aren't going to share a single life. They are going to pursue different lives. He repeats the phrase over and over again in his head, but it doesn't sink in.
She glances up at him, waiting for him to do something—but not leave. She doesn't want him to leave most of all, but as though he's completely ignorant of her, he turns and steps out of her room. Her throat goes dry and she walks back to her bed to take a seat.
They have a few hours left. Of course he won't do anything unpredictable. She picks up her wig and clothes for tomorrow and sets them on the wicker rocking chair by her bed. It could keep her company and make her oblivious to the world around her. She needs to towel off her hair and change into something warmer but her limbs refuse to cooperate, stapled to the bed sheets.
She sits up as he walks back into the room, no suit in his hands.
"Sydney," he says as he covers the distance between them in a few quick strides. He stops directly in front of her and opens his mouth to say something, but only brief glitches of hesitation slip out. "I--.. I…"
She stands up, her full height allowing her to meet his gaze if she tilts her head at a slight angle.
"Sark?" she asks.
He dips his head down and presses his lips against hers, hard, a craving demanding satisfaction driving his actions. He brings his hands to her face and slips his fingers into her wet hair, pulling her closer. Her head turns, her body pressing against his, her hand drifting away from the towel. He's close, close enough to hold it up with the tightness between them. She wraps her arms around his neck and finds her heart at a roadblock, not allowing her to breathe.
This isn't how it was supposed to be, a relationship of such extremities is a hazard to all those involved. She wants to say no but she's spurred on by his neediness and the desperation in his touch. He's wanted it for as long as she has, and like two forces of nature, they've finally collided with so much fervor that resistance seems nonexistent.
He pulls away and starts to explain himself but his eyelids have already closed halfway and desire deafens them both. She mumbles a 'shh' and pulls him to her again, needing that rough touch but gentle stroke. She hasn't felt anything but longing for years and suddenly fulfillment is more important to her then the Covenant or the CIA. Her tongue brushes across his crooked lip and he opens up for her, the neediness between them weakening the walls they both built up so heavily before.
Her heartbeat pounds in her head, the same heartbeat that'd driven her to hurting him so many times before. She can hear nothing but the thump-thump as it increases with the hardness that nudges her through her towel. Its persistent and she pulls her lips away from his, his eyes immediately opening with the break in contact.
"Sark," she whispers against the corner of his mouth. Her gaze moves down, then back up.
"Sydney," he says, kissing her collarbone, "I need you."
She pushes away from him and loosens her towel, letting it pool around her feet. He lets her pull off his sweatshirt as he takes off his sweatpants and boxers and kicks them aside.
He leans against her again, running his hands through her hair as she guides him backwards towards the bed. They break apart for seconds, enough time for both of them to slip onto the bed, bodies intertwined with sheets and the sound of hushed moans. She drags her kisses from his mouth down to his chin and along his neck, running her tongue along his jugular vein. He groans and flips her onto her back, his fingers quickly plunging into her. She clutches onto his neck, her nails digging into his nape, and relaxes when he pulls them out.
"Sark," she moans, but he quickly covers her mouth just as he enters her, her chest rising to meet his. He whispers inaudible nothings into her ear followed by strenuous grunts of pleasure as she writhes beneath him, back arching periodically. T
They both become desperate, needy, hands losing themselves along the contours of their partner's body, memorizing every scar, every bump, every detail, every groan that slips out. She swears that she'll regret this because once they touch down in Russia, they'll no longer be the Sydney and Sark they are now. She basks in his company for the few hours they have left, his pushes becoming faster and deeper.
She finally breaks, her entire body quaking with relief, and she whispers his name against his ear. He comes soon after, supporting himself with his arms long enough to roll to the side to keep from falling on top of her. He pulls out and collapses alongside her, her head immediately tucking itself against his chest. She turns her back towards him and holds on tightly to the arms that wrap around her. Their breathing is strained, but calms down quickly, and soon there's silence. She wonders if he's sleeping or if he's thinking the same thing she is.
This moment will never have existed once they reach Russia.
xXx
She wakes up hours later with her body covered with Sark instead of a sheet. Her legs are wrapped around his and his arms are around her waist. It's still dark out and she can feel his slumbering breath against the nape of her neck. She wonders what it would be like to wake up to this the next morning and the morning after that. And every morning of every day of every year for the rest of her life.
She stifles a snort of disbelief and turns around to face him. He looks almost cherubic. She stifles another snort and runs her knuckles down his cheek. His eyes open, the bright blue gaze piercing through her.
"We've got to go in a few hours," she says, and like that he climbs out of the bed and leaves her cold and alone. He grabs his things from the floor and quickly dresses, his movements so coordinated and lithe that she wonders whether he's done this before. She wants to slap herself for being so stupid. Of course he'd done this hundreds of times before.
Thousands, even.
The sex had been so raw and rough that maybe it truly held no meaning for him. Just sexual satisfaction. She squeezes her eyes as he turns away, trying to drown out the ugly thoughts, but it's too late. She feels soiled.
His expression is nonchalant when he turns around to look at her, completely clothed, while she sits on the bed, naked. She meets his stare, refusing to come off as the lesser, and returns the feelings of indifference.
"Bring your things downstairs and I'll put them into the car," he says as he leaves. She swallows the bile in her throat and quickly finds something to put on. How could she have been so stupid? So clueless? It was animalistic what they'd done, so quickly and so without care.
She glances at the watch clipped to her suitcase. It was five so she had around a half hour to an hour to prepare. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, red marks where he'd grabbed her as he thrust and bruised her with his lips.
Two could play at this game.
She closed the room door and walked back into the bathroom, unaware that Sark stood inches away, listening to the sounds of insouciance.
xXx
They walk into the airport quietly, money the only word coming to one's mind upon seeing them. Bruno Nitbrushev has one hand on the waist of his new wife and the other tucked into his pocket. His jacket is open, as are the top few buttons of his shirt, revealing the expanse of chiseled skin. He walks with his head tilted up, a pair of expensive sunglasses tucked into his hair and an air of dignity that brings employees flocking.
At his side is Natalia, a brunette with hair that fans out and bounces when she struts. Her dress is strapless, low cut and quite revealing. She wears heels about an inch and a half high with laces that wrap around her legs. Her finger and toenails are painted blood red to match her lipstick and her eyes are surrounded with a rainbow of pastel eye shadow. She sways her hips at the right time, makes her lips pout with innocence and bats her eyelashes at officials.
They pass through the security check without so much as a false impression. The microphone in Bruno's watch goes unnoticed as does the microphone in Natalia's giant wedding ring. They walk onto the plane, hand in hand, but as soon as they reach their seats, they immediately separate.
She stares out the window the entire flight, only looking away for the in-flight meal. Even then, she stills casts weary stares out the window, curious as to why her food seems to grow instead of diminish. She eats more then half, though, and is surprisingly full.
Sark is careful to only transfer food onto her plate when she isn't looking. He's casually deceptive and manages to dump a spoonful of his own meal onto hers as a Stewardess walks past, watching. She needs to eat, though, considering that he hadn't helped her eating habits get any better. He's content when she eats more then half.
The flight is calm, although the most unnoticeable of turbulence problems sends Sark out of his chair. She constantly places her hand on his arm, reassures him that the Covenant is not flying behind them, and returns to looking out the window.
He first realizes that she'll touch him when he flinches unexpectedly. The first time is when a passing child tugs on his sleeve, mistaking him for her father. He pulls away quickly, alerting Sydney, who places a hand on his arm but continues to stare out the window. He repeats the process again with the smallest of fluctuations and every time, she follows through as promises and brushes her hand against his arm.
He plays this game for the rest of the flight, misery flooding through him as the captain announces their arrival at Sheremetjevo International airport. They land without any problems and he and Sydney leave first class and walk onto Russian soil.
Irina greets them, explaining that Jack can't make it due to unforeseen problems. But it doesn't matter, she says, because you're here. She talks to Sydney and not to him and he simply leaves without a good-bye or an explanation. They would understand. They would have to. He slips into the crowd of people, swaying with them, and asks for forgiveness from nobody.
Sydney turns towards her side and realizes that Sark is gone.
"Did he go to the bathroom?" she asks her mom, her throat dry from having not spoken a word since departing from the airport in Washington. Her mother shakes her head and raises a brow.
Sydney realizes that the rage she felt towards her mother is no longer there, just an emptiness that can't be filled. She glances around nervously, then turns back to meet her mother's scrutinizing stare. No, her mother probably already knew. She looks down at her blood red toes and accepts Sark's disappearance. It's what he wants, and it's what she tells herself she wants.
Her mother takes her hand and Sydney is a child once again, no worries, no attachments to any one else but Irina, and leaves the airport without seeing Sark.
xXx
Author's Notes: So much fluff and smut that I just burned out at the end. Most of you will probably notice how shitty the conclusion is, just a bunch of summarizations because I want to end this story and start my next one. There'll be one chapter left, and only one left because that's all I've got left in me. Why did I ruin their relationship, you may ask. Well, simply because the story would have been just boring with them cuddling and snuggling for the rest of the story. It's got more of an edge, don't you think? And let me mention again that I am not learn-ed in the skills of airport procedures and thus, just skipped over all of it, as am I not understanding of how complex all their damn gadgets are. I am also not a smut expert. Any ways, the next chapter will only be about half this size and it should really just be an epilogue, but I say… no. Have fun, my readers, and as always R&R.