04//Fibs and Fairytales
--- It just takes some time
Little girl, you're in the middle of the ride.
Everything, everything will be just fine,
Everything, everything will be all right, all right.
"The Middle" - Jimmy Eat World ---
Sydney's last comment left Sark flabbergasted. It could've been a trick; it could've been some stupid game she was playing on him. The expression on her face told a different story. She looked confused and partially frightened.
Sydney Bristow was never frightened.
Sark just stared at her. This wasn't real; this was too good to be true. He could tell her anything, anything he wanted. She would believe; she would have no other choice but to believe him. A small smile tempted to erupt from Sark's lips. He watched as she brought her knees up to her chest and held onto them tightly. For a moment, Sark actually felt sorry for her. She was in a bad situation with the wrong person. He shook off the feeling as quickly as it came.
"You're Sy-andra. You're Sandra." Sark dismissed the idea of revealing her true name. It could bring memories Sark didn't want her to see yet. She nodded and looked out the window but Sark continued to watch her. A bruise began to appear on her cheek as her limp brown hair fell to her shoulders. Though she looked beaten and tired, she looked strangely sexy to Sark.
An idea popped into Sark's head; a completely cynical and evil idea. It could work; it could work if Sark followed it very closely and precisely. Being sure that all his colleges and employees knew of it. He smiled at himself; it was horrible.
Yet, it was so him.
"Oh honey," Sark cooed at Sydney, leaning over and cupping her face with his left hand. She looked at him with a bewildered look but remained silent. "You must've hit your head. You have no idea who I am?"
"You're Sark, right?" She said, her voice small and fragile.
"Yes, I'm also your fiancée." He told her, wiping the hair out of her face. Normally, if he had told this to Sydney Bristow, he would have been down on the floor in an uncomfortable position in less then 15 seconds. Sydney would spat insults and win. Yet, this was different. Sark was talking to Sandra now. Sandra opened her mouth briefly but then closed it. They both sat there, looking at each other, as an evil laugh filled Sark's head.
"Oh," Sydney finally said as Sark removed his hand from her head. He sat back in his seat, looking pleased with himself. Sydney looked down at her left hand and Sark held his breath, he had forgotten about the ring. "Then where's my-"
"Oh, you must of lost it in the accident." He cut her off; he made a mental note to steal a ring from Irina later.
"Accident? What Accident?" She asked, her voice alert and full of worry.
"We . were . at a party in England," Sark said slowly, how was he going to pull this off? "There were some explosions while we were in the library and books fell on you." Damn it! He shouldn't have said that, he shouldn't have said that. Stupid Sark! Stupid, Stupid!
"Library? Why were we in the Library?" She continued to question him. You would think after almost dying, she would feel tired. This was Sydney Bristow, weak wasn't in her vocabulary.
"You see, Sweetheart, we're agents." This could work out. This had possibilities, potential even, "We were trying to steal some papers to bring back to Sloane." He quickly lied. This wasn't as easy as he thought. "You do remember our boss, right?"
"Sloane? Uh, no I don't." she said, sitting back and directing her attention once more out the window. Sark gave a small breath of relief, she didn't remember anything. Not a bloody thing.
"You must be exhausted," he breathed out as he stood up and straightened his tie, "You go ahead and sleep. We should be in Ireland in about an hour. We have a meeting with Sloane in the afternoon. I'm going to go and fix myself a drink." As he was about to walk into the next cabin, her voice stopped him.
"Aren't you going to kiss me goodnight?" her voice sounded innocent and genuine, like she was really expecting it. It felt foreign to Sark, to hear her voice ask that. Most of the time she screamed obscenities or scowled at him. Sark stiffly walked over to Sydney and placed a small, uncomfortable kiss on her forehead. She smiled in return, turned her head away and closed her eyes, drifting off in what seemed like a comfortable sleep.
Sark was going to have to get use to the kissing part of his plan.
He walked back into the bar section of the plane and fixed himself a martini. Once he was done mixing the toxins together, he moved towards the couch and sat down to watch Ireland come closer into view. While sitting there, Sark began to formulate his on how he was going to use Sydney Bristow in order to get what he wanted.
--
Back in LA, it was 4:00 in the afternoon and Vaughn sat in his computer chair. With his Starbucks in one hand, he watched the phone intently. Anytime, Sydney was going to call to confirm she had in her possession the pictures of the document.
That should've been 3 hours ago.
Something was wrong, Vaughn had the gut feeling something was not right. He felt horrible about it too. They're goodbye at the airport a few days ago was not how he wanted it. He wanted his "I'll miss you's," to sound at least genuine. He wanted to say, "I love you," but couldn't. God knew he wanted to, but couldn't.
He reached absently into his pocket and fingered a small black box. Or as he referred to it, his good luck charm. Though, he knew for this situation. Luck wasn't enough.
--
--- It just takes some time
Little girl, you're in the middle of the ride.
Everything, everything will be just fine,
Everything, everything will be all right, all right.
"The Middle" - Jimmy Eat World ---
Sydney's last comment left Sark flabbergasted. It could've been a trick; it could've been some stupid game she was playing on him. The expression on her face told a different story. She looked confused and partially frightened.
Sydney Bristow was never frightened.
Sark just stared at her. This wasn't real; this was too good to be true. He could tell her anything, anything he wanted. She would believe; she would have no other choice but to believe him. A small smile tempted to erupt from Sark's lips. He watched as she brought her knees up to her chest and held onto them tightly. For a moment, Sark actually felt sorry for her. She was in a bad situation with the wrong person. He shook off the feeling as quickly as it came.
"You're Sy-andra. You're Sandra." Sark dismissed the idea of revealing her true name. It could bring memories Sark didn't want her to see yet. She nodded and looked out the window but Sark continued to watch her. A bruise began to appear on her cheek as her limp brown hair fell to her shoulders. Though she looked beaten and tired, she looked strangely sexy to Sark.
An idea popped into Sark's head; a completely cynical and evil idea. It could work; it could work if Sark followed it very closely and precisely. Being sure that all his colleges and employees knew of it. He smiled at himself; it was horrible.
Yet, it was so him.
"Oh honey," Sark cooed at Sydney, leaning over and cupping her face with his left hand. She looked at him with a bewildered look but remained silent. "You must've hit your head. You have no idea who I am?"
"You're Sark, right?" She said, her voice small and fragile.
"Yes, I'm also your fiancée." He told her, wiping the hair out of her face. Normally, if he had told this to Sydney Bristow, he would have been down on the floor in an uncomfortable position in less then 15 seconds. Sydney would spat insults and win. Yet, this was different. Sark was talking to Sandra now. Sandra opened her mouth briefly but then closed it. They both sat there, looking at each other, as an evil laugh filled Sark's head.
"Oh," Sydney finally said as Sark removed his hand from her head. He sat back in his seat, looking pleased with himself. Sydney looked down at her left hand and Sark held his breath, he had forgotten about the ring. "Then where's my-"
"Oh, you must of lost it in the accident." He cut her off; he made a mental note to steal a ring from Irina later.
"Accident? What Accident?" She asked, her voice alert and full of worry.
"We . were . at a party in England," Sark said slowly, how was he going to pull this off? "There were some explosions while we were in the library and books fell on you." Damn it! He shouldn't have said that, he shouldn't have said that. Stupid Sark! Stupid, Stupid!
"Library? Why were we in the Library?" She continued to question him. You would think after almost dying, she would feel tired. This was Sydney Bristow, weak wasn't in her vocabulary.
"You see, Sweetheart, we're agents." This could work out. This had possibilities, potential even, "We were trying to steal some papers to bring back to Sloane." He quickly lied. This wasn't as easy as he thought. "You do remember our boss, right?"
"Sloane? Uh, no I don't." she said, sitting back and directing her attention once more out the window. Sark gave a small breath of relief, she didn't remember anything. Not a bloody thing.
"You must be exhausted," he breathed out as he stood up and straightened his tie, "You go ahead and sleep. We should be in Ireland in about an hour. We have a meeting with Sloane in the afternoon. I'm going to go and fix myself a drink." As he was about to walk into the next cabin, her voice stopped him.
"Aren't you going to kiss me goodnight?" her voice sounded innocent and genuine, like she was really expecting it. It felt foreign to Sark, to hear her voice ask that. Most of the time she screamed obscenities or scowled at him. Sark stiffly walked over to Sydney and placed a small, uncomfortable kiss on her forehead. She smiled in return, turned her head away and closed her eyes, drifting off in what seemed like a comfortable sleep.
Sark was going to have to get use to the kissing part of his plan.
He walked back into the bar section of the plane and fixed himself a martini. Once he was done mixing the toxins together, he moved towards the couch and sat down to watch Ireland come closer into view. While sitting there, Sark began to formulate his on how he was going to use Sydney Bristow in order to get what he wanted.
--
Back in LA, it was 4:00 in the afternoon and Vaughn sat in his computer chair. With his Starbucks in one hand, he watched the phone intently. Anytime, Sydney was going to call to confirm she had in her possession the pictures of the document.
That should've been 3 hours ago.
Something was wrong, Vaughn had the gut feeling something was not right. He felt horrible about it too. They're goodbye at the airport a few days ago was not how he wanted it. He wanted his "I'll miss you's," to sound at least genuine. He wanted to say, "I love you," but couldn't. God knew he wanted to, but couldn't.
He reached absently into his pocket and fingered a small black box. Or as he referred to it, his good luck charm. Though, he knew for this situation. Luck wasn't enough.
--