Part 2
He watches her over the rim of his glass. He doesn't even seem to notice the - no matter how much she hates to admit it - delicious food on his plate. A deep plate for her, a normal one for him. She's surprised for a moment that despite the lack of dishes, he manages to make it seem perfectly normal. His silence is making her uncomfortable again, despite the soft piano music drifting through the spacious flat. The clinking of cutlery is deafeningly loud, increasing the headache that's been dormant until now. She wonders if she should have accepted the wine to take the edge off things. But that would have been suicidal, wouldn't it? She can't afford inebriation should push come to shove.
He doesn't seem to worry about that, though. His lips touch the wine-glass frequently, obviously he's not worried about drinking in her company. He doesn't make a show of drinking wine as she had expected him to. The merest hint that the vintage pleases him is the brief unguarded moment in which he closes his eyes.
Plate cleared and growling stomach pacified, she sets down the cutlery, wipes her mouth neatly on the starched linen napkin, folds it tightly in her lap and looks at him squarely. "What now?"
"Usually, you compliment the cook."
"Sark, the fact that you cook at all is surreal enough. Please don't make me acknowledge it by telling you how wonderful it was."
He notices the hidden compliment and nods. "Always delighted to break with a stereotype."
"You assume I think in stereotypes?" she bristles.
"Sydney …" His tones says it all. Bastard. Not enough that he's annoying. He's also right - at least when it comes to her opinion of him.
"So help me break with a few."
He shakes his head. "I'm not your tutor."
It irks her that he doesn't accept the bridge she's just built for him. It would have been a good way to finally start some kind of conversation, something to stop this awkward banter. "Damn right you're not," she bites back, letting her anger show. "But it's not as if that's ever stopped you before." It's a low blow and not true, and she knows that he knows. But to her surprise, he chooses to ignore the comment.
"Would you like to have a look around the flat with the lights turned on?"
She refuses to flinch. Funny how he manages not to allow her to forget why she's here, what she's done. The invasion of his privacy must have cut deeper than she thought.
"I have quite a good view from here, thanks."
They fall silent again as Debussy's "Reverie" fills the rooms. He sips his wine casually, never taking his eyes off her, and her throat involuntarily tightens at the sight, the implication. She should have accepted the glass when he offered. If only to let the wine alleviate her headache. But, of course, he's not going to offer it to her again. She's had her chance.
She's surprised at how relaxed he seems. She's wound up tight, her muscles fighting the prolonged tension.
He smiles at her, head cocked slightly to the side, eyes inquisitive and amused. "Still afraid of what I'm going to do with you?" The taunt might be easier to take if there wasn't the hint of a warning reverberating in the smooth and playful voice.
"I'm not afraid of you, you presumptuous egotist." Her answer is half anger and half bravado. His eyes unnerve her. There's still anger flickering in them, veiled, but present. She doesn't think that he'll actually do something that would hurt her, but can she be sure?
His hand moves to touch his chest, right over his heart. "Sydney. You wound me."
"Good." She smirks nastily.
He rolls his eyes and stretches his legs, ostensibly oblivious to the tension in the air. "This is becoming a bit tedious, don't you agree?"
"What, are you already sick of the new toy?" she mocks.
An elegant eyebrow rises. "You consider yourself a toy?"
She runs a hand over her forehead, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You give me a headache."
The music washes over her and for the first time during this evening, she enjoys its calm. The pain behind her temples eases slightly when she closes her eyes, ignoring the warning bell in her mind telling her not to let him out of her sight. She was right. The stereo does sound amazing.
There's a rustling of fabric she ignores; he probably just got up to refill his glass. Maybe he'll pour one for her after all.
"Pain, dear Sydney, can sometimes be the lesser of two evils." His voice is low and his breath is warm and moist and too damn close to her.
His fingertips touch her temples, leaving fire and ice in their trail to her hairline and she can't help the flinch this time. Her eyes snap open and she tenses, all muscles prepared for fight. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
He continues to pull the tight band from her hair and releases her ponytail, shrugging. "I thought you said you had a headache?"
"I …" She grapples for words, pushes strands of hair behind her ears. "I do. Is that a reason to touch me?"
He gives a long-suffering sigh, visibly fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Acupressure, Sydney. I don't approve of pharmaceuticals."
Her gaze drops to his hands, immobile now on the arm rest of his chair. They're pale, a stark contrast to the black leather. Long fingers; the slender, beautiful hands of a piano player.
He shrugs again in a "your loss" gesture and makes to rise from his crouch. "If you'd rather keep the headache …" His hands move away from the chair and without thinking, she grasps them, traps them where they are when a fresh wave of pain assaults her.
She can't believe what she hears herself say. "Don't."
His eyebrows rise again but he has the good grace not to give her any variety of smile.
The touch of his fingers is careful at first, he's seeking her acupressure points with a look of utter concentration on his face. She can smell the wine on his breath, and the innocent scent of him hits her again. She breathes deeply and closes her eyes - from the new pain his hands bring as a counterpoint to the pain of the headache, as well as from the need to evade his intense eyes. She's never had those eyes trained at her from such a short distance. To say it's unnerving would be the understatement of the year.
His fingers press downwards against her temples where her eyebrows end and the pressure seems to go right to her skull. Her face slackens as she relaxes into his touch. He's good at this, she has to admit reluctantly. The music fades into the background. All she hears is his breathing, and hers, and strangely enough, it doesn't bother her half as much as it should. Those hands, now searching the pressure point between her eyebrows, are much gentler than she would have ever imagined. It doesn't seem to fit once again, the dissonance of the killer's hands being gentle too stark.
It's all she can do not to purr when the pain lessens and the gentle circling motion puts her more at ease than she's been in a long while.
The touch of skin on skin as his hand brushes her lips in what she hopes is an accident jolts her out of her reverie. Her eyes fly open, only to be ensnared by the proximity of his. Her first urge is to recoil in shock over the invasion of her private space, but his hands move lightning-quick, cupping the back of her head.
"Don't move. I'm not finished yet."
Her scalp prickles. Her mouth is dry. Her pulse races. Adrenaline rushes through her veins, and if she wasn't so conditioned from the former acupressure, she might actually feel fear. She reminds herself that she hates this man, but he is too close and … damn, he has nice eyes. This close, they appear to take up his whole face. She searches them, uneasily. They're completely unreadable, though. He could be planning on throttling her and she wouldn't know. This is dangerous, risky and unwise. Letting him get this close to her was her first mistake, but she can't help but notice the thrill this situation gives her. The mixture of apprehension and expectation is more intoxicating than any amount of alcohol she could have had tonight.
She swallows, her gaze travelling from his eyes to his lips and back again. Pale eyes, translucent skin, soft lips. If he spent more time in the sun, she guesses he'd break out in freckles. She ignores the warning bells shrilling in the back of her mind as his fingers curl tighter into her hair. Interpretation of this gesture alone could drive her into a fight. But she doesn't allow her instincts to take over, fights the apprehension and relaxes into his grip. If this is about dares, if this is the way he wants to play … Well, two can play that game. She's not going to let him win.
Her scrutiny of him seems to take him by surprise, his former demand apparently forgotten.
Not so much in control any more, are we?
Her gaze returns to his eyes. "You were saying?" she murmurs, feels her breath deflecting from his lips, sees his eyes smoke over. In a way, it's pathetic how alike men are. She treads familiar ground here.
He inches closer, fingers tightly wound in her hair, his lips now mere inches from hers. This is easy, easier than she had imagined. Apparently, even a man like Sark can't resist a full dose of feminine tricks. It makes her feel stronger and weaker at the same time. He isn't supposed to fall for her routine. And she isn't supposed to anticipate those - soft, narrow, crooked - lips on hers.
His eyes are half-closed but still holding her gaze unwavering, cold, accepting her dare, he's close enough so she can taste his breath on her lips. Her pulse speeds up, the blood is rushing in her ears. Her breathing comes in rapid, silent pants. Heat pools in her stomach.
Just a few more millimetres. You know you've lost. Come on, give in already. You know you want to. You damn well know you want --
"Do you fancy some dessert?"
Her thoughts screech to a halt and she recoils. She hasn't heard what she thinks she just heard, right?
"W--What?" It's out before she can stop it. Not so much in control any more, are we? her inner voice mocks.
His eyes are laughing at her as he lets go of her head. "Dessert, dear Sydney. A sweet dish, usually served after the main course. Do you fancy some?"
Damn him. Damn him to seven hells and a few more afterwards. On a second thought, he might actually like it there. She doesn't know whether to throw a temper tantrum, to laugh or to cry.
She's sorely tempted to slap him across the face. Instead, she summons all the dignity she has left, and answers: "Depends on what you've got."
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She wakes up to pale sunlight filtering through the blinds of her window.
Flowers on her nightstand.
There's a strange taste in her mouth, as though her tongue has been burned by too much cardamom. The momentary disorientation passes quickly, and she sits up, trying to clear her mind of fog of sleep.
The interior of her bedroom feels stifling and she once again hates the CIA for putting her into a fully furnished apartment without asking her preferences first. Sark's apartment was superior on so many levels that she doesn't even want to think about what he might say to this place of hers.
Sark. What a strange thing to think of, first thing in the morning.
Memory creeps and her heart rate speeds up unpleasantly. She remembers his apartment, and being surprised by him. The fight. And the dinner. His simmering anger. The acupressure. Everything afterward is a blur. Although, she clearly remembers the dessert: Something with dark chocolate and exotic spices; creamy and rich, melting on her tongue, the taste bursting in her head.
Hazily, she remembers a kiss - or several? - more intoxicating than any of the wine she could have had.
There are faint, cut-off pictures of pale skin and laughing eyes, of strong hands and narrow lips.
With a groan she realises that she can't tell for sure. That she can't remember everything. Her heart beats painfully against her ribs, the feeling of amnesia too familiar, making her vulnerable. She stands up, shakily. The room sways with her and she reaches for the edge of her bed to steady herself.
There are flowers on her nightstand. She's sure they weren't there the night before. White freesias, their scent innocent and fresh.
The strange taste in her mouth suddenly makes sense.
And slowly, one more memory trickles in, one that sets her in motion.
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Her car screeches to a full stop in front of his building. She leaves it where it is, doesn't bother with the parking garage, a possible ticket or any kind of subtlety. She picks the lock with practised ease and rushes up the dark stairs, not bothering to turn on the light.
When she reaches the floor of his loft, she pauses on the last step, tries to calm her breathing, readjusts her sloppy ponytail and brushes at the wrinkles of her shirt. Only then does she round the corner.
Her heart still hammers, the blood rushes in her ears. She's going to make him pay for this. If he's still asleep, she's going to give him the wake-up call of his lifetime. If he's awake, she's going to kick his sorry hide all across the apartment, and polish the parquet with it. She's going to --
The final step toward the door reveals it to be unlocked, and not even closed. She pushes it open gingerly. Her breathing is rapid, but her hands are steady. She won't make the same mistakes twice.
With practised ease, she opens the door fully and covers her exit, makes sure that there's no-one behind her back.
What she sees makes her stop dead in mid-movement.
The apartment is flooded with sunlight and it's … completely empty. She vaguely remembers that there wasn't much furniture in it to begin with, but now, there's nothing. Only the shiny parquet.
Her hand holding the gun descends slowly; she feels her arms start to shake along with her knees.
She sits down in the middle of the apartment, the gun slipping uselessly from her fingers, while she ponders whether or not she should throw a tantrum. For a long time, she simply stares at the empty room. The sun blinds her, her mind is void of thought.
It's only after several minutes that she notices something standing in the middle of the room, almost hidden by the gleaming sunlight.
She rises and slowly walks closer to the small object on the floor, expecting nothing short of a bomb. One she can defuse, of course - he likes her in the game more than he wants her out of it - but a bomb nevertheless.
But when she reaches it, she stares for a full minute again before she moves. Before she first impales it with her eyes and then starts to laugh.
It's a simple plate with two oval mounds of some exquisitely rich chocolate mousse. Next to it is a sheet of paper, saying nothing but:
"You never did finish your dessert, dear Sydney."
Finis