Author: HF
A/N: A little collection of scenes of my take on what happened. Answers questions with more questions. AU due to to few incongruencies with S3 canon. Definitely AU as S4 begins.
Rating: mild R
Summary: When Sark met Julia, he didn't know what to feel.
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to J. J. Abrams and such.
It was never supposed to go so far. The conditioning she went through would let her forget herself, and allow her to kill indiscriminately. She would destroy the power, and she would either live through it, or she wouldn't. Thirty years, he had been preparing for this day, and it still wasn't easy to live with.
It didn't help that down on the dance floor, she was bumping and grinding with Simon Walker, known for mild money laundering and petty thievery.
That wasn't his daughter.
A few more glasses, and he could almost fool himself.
- - - - - - -
"I can get you out."
"The price?"
"An extraction."
"May I ask who?"
"Sydney."
"Why me?"
"What have you got to lose?"
"Once the job is done, you will return to imprisonment. Your release will be arranged. Don't get any ideas, Sark. Do not fool yourself that Irina or I would hesitate to hunt you down ourselves."
- - - -
He remembered the first time he went against Irina's direct orders. He'd thought it over that night, and fueled by his erratic and incredibly stupid jealousy over Tippin, decided that his death was best for the situation. He knew, or at the very most, theorized that Irina's order not to kill him was because of his friendship with her daughter. She'd had no qualms (at least none she revealed) about Francie's death, so he didn't really believe much was being put on the line.
Nonetheless, he was still relieved that all he'd been was chastised. Much like a child would have been, but he let that slip.
After all, he got what he wanted: Another notch lower in Sydney's little tower of morality, done for the sake of love. A part of him laughed and rejoiced. A smaller part of him mourned.
When Sark met Julia, he didn't know what to feel.
- - - - - - -
Sark didn't expect to find her so quickly, and definitely not with Simon.
He almost swallowed his tongue when he saw them. Sydney, pinned against the wall, in the throes of passion. Simon, as he bucked against her and as she gasped and moaned. And when climax hit and her eyes fluttered open to meet his…. He would have laughed, if it were a laughing matter. She rode out the sensations, eyes caught between fear, embarrassment and passion.
"Simon, we have company," she whispered to the masculine form that covered her.
"Wha-?" He turned to find Sark leaning against the door frame, smirk, and yes, tongue in place. "Have you no fucking decency?" Simon cursed, moving to tuck himself back into his pants before turning fully. Sydney, he realized, was avoiding his gaze- blushing and pulling the short little number she had on down as far as it went. Which wasn't very far, he noticed.
"Perhaps if you'd closed the door, such an encounter would have been avoided." God forbid. "Javier let me up."
"Oh nevermind," Simon admonished. "Go clean up, Julia. And join us outside if you want, and of course if Mr. Sark doesn't mind?"
"If you think it's wise." Julia. Did she choose that name on purpose? No, how could she have? She didn't know his first name. Or did she? Sydney Bristow certainly had more layers than he'd accounted her for. At the rate she was going, she really was taking after her mother nicely.
"I trust her."
Well now. Simon had never been the brightest. Sark shrugged his assent.
- - - -
When Julia sauntered into the room, she'd given him the most stunning smile, that he swore it was another person. "Mr. Sark," she'd drawled, no fear, no recognition in her eyes.
"Julia," he said, returning her grin with a tentative smirk of his own. "Right on time."
"Well, get to business then." Simon, eyeing the both of them, and not liking what he was seeing.
"I have a job for you. Not the usual sort. I need you to break into a security box of mine, and return to me anything in it. I will assist in any way I can, but I can't be seen on the premises." He took a piece of paper and scrawled the bank name, the alias he used, and box number. "Do forgive me for not preparing a file in advance. I've been rather busy."
"I shouldn't even bother asking why, should I?"
"Exactly, and you will be heavily compensated for it."
Simon nodded, "Is it urgent?"
"Yes."
Simon turned to Julia. "Backup?"
"Of course," she said, leaning over to stick her tongue in Simon's mouth.
His cue to leave.
- - - - - - -
"I found her."
"I'm impressed."
"However, it may be a little difficult to extract her as quickly. I'll need more time."
"A week."
Click.
- - - -
Fortunately for him, Simon has enough trouble that Sark has an excuse to stick around.
He got Sydney alone on the third day.
"Simon's out. Come back later."
Sark didn't budge. "I think I'll wait." He walked in and made himself comfortable on one of Simon's expensive couches. The lackeys made a move to stop him, but Julia waved them away.
"It's fine," she said airily. They left the room. She curled up at the other end of the couch.
"So tell me about yourself, Mr. Sark."
"I must say, you're a much better liar than I remember."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He almost believed her.
"Sydney."
She blinked. "Fuck you, it's Julia. I don't know why Simon's all up your ass all the time on the basis of a promise."
"I keep my word."
"But apparently you can't remember a name."
Sark didn't say anything.
"Come on," she whispered, crawling over to him, placing a hand on his thigh that was slowly creeping to indecent places. "Can't I convince you? We've got time to kill."
Her breath on his neck and hungry touch was almost enough.
Sark swallowed and tightened his grip on her wrist. "I can't afford to get on Simon's bad side at the moment, iJulia./i"
"He won't care," she said, paying his hand no mind and kissing the sensitive flesh of his neck.
"Julia, love, you're breaking my heart."
She peeled herself off of him and sat back. "Something wrong?"
"You know I don't like seeing you with other men on my turf."
Sark composed himself.
Simon only shook his head and laughed as Julia pouted up at him. He had a file in his hands. "I've got the information," he said, and handed it to Julia with a kiss and a glare at Sark.
She flipped through it, and there was only a picture and a single piece of paper. Sark didn't catch what it said.
She smacked her lips at Sark and stood. "I'll see you boys later."
- - - - - - -
"What does she do?"
"She's Simon's own personal hitwoman."
"Just do your job."
Click.
- - - -
"Why?" He asked.
She laughed, and it was beautiful, even at his expense. A playful kiss is placed on his lips. "Maybe I just have a thing for British bad boys."
Sark coughed and pulled away slightly. "Bristow, putting me in the same category as Simon isn't the way to seduce me."
An eyebrow is cocked at him, the name ignored, and that haughty, condescending air that reminds him of the old Sydney glimmered for a moment as she spoke in a low tone, "But I was under the impression that you already were."
- - - - - - -
Panic ran through him immediately when he woke. He rarely slept. It was a luxury that left one too vulnerable. And he definitely never slept in the presence of another.
Damn bitch had slipped him something, injected him.
Fuck, his head hurt.
"Good morning, Sark."
His vision cleared enough to see her dressed- if you could consider the burgandy slip hanging off her curves sufficient clothing- and lounging at the end of the bed. And that he was still nude, albeit covered by the sheets.
"I don't remember taking it quite this far," he managed to say, giving the chains on his arms a shake for emphasis.
"Oh we didn't," she said, grinning as if she couldn't help it, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "So like a man to roll over and fall asleep after sex."
Sark grit his teeth, though well aware of the attempt to bait him. "I hardly think that you went through the trouble of seducing and drugging me just to mock me."
She shrugged. "Maybe I did. God knows I'll take my entertainment where I can find it."
"Well, that explains Simon then."
"Shut up about Simon already," she complained, pinching the flesh of his thigh through the sheet. "One would think you were jealous."
He refused to so much as flinch at the quick pain. Dear Lord, he realized. That didn't sound like a complete lie. Not like anything she said actually did, but he was beginning to believe she really had some sort of emotional bond with Walker. Sark was torn between relief and disgust. That meant she wasn't completely lost, even if he didn't hold her taste in high regard.
Well, sometimes.
Because she was now crawling over his uncovered torso, dripping kisses from his stomach and up his neck. He swallowed.
He was confused again. It was really starting to irritate him.
She seemed to sense the change in his demeanor, and showed her sympathy by throwing her head back in a throaty laugh. "What's wrong, Mr. Sark?" She taunted him. "You can dish it out, but you can't take it?"
"What's happened to you?"
"I think you know."
"You believe... no," he corrected himself, "You're pretending to be this Julia Thorne."
Her nose wrinkled as she sat on his chest, not bothering that it was crushing him and making it difficult to breathe. Bitch was doing it on purpose. "Clo-ose, but not quite. I AM Julia, love."
"No, you're not, Sydney." He said flatly.
"Aren't I?" She reached into the drawer of the bedstand. When she straightened once again, a switchknife was in her hand. He flinched visibly as she touched the cold metal to his chest. She traced designs on the pale skin over the sternum, not quite breaking skin, but close enough for it to leave trails of red.
He stared at her movements before deciding to speak. "You're Sydney Bristow. CIA agent. Bane of my existence. Morals so thick you could suffocate."
"Such disdain for those morals," she said, face going empty. The knife snapped shut. "Shouldn't you be happy that I've finally fallen off my high horse?" Her face turned sad for a millisecond before she hid her face in his neck, but he'd caught it. Years with Irina taught him to read even the coldest, and Sydney was not quite there yet. "Sydney's dead," she said blankly into his neck. "I'm Julia now, whether I like it or not." She sighed and lay in the crook of his neck for the longest time.
He didn't say or do anything. What the hell could he do, chained there?
"Sydney. Julia. Whatever you want to call yourself, I believe my arm has fallen asleep."
"Too bad," she murmured.
"You couldn't remove the chains?"
"Don't be stupid. You're here until I can let you go." It was all said matter-of-factly; the playfulness from earlier is gone.
"I have to use the toilet."
She sighed and got out of the bed. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Fine. I'll take away the cuffs. And just so there's no misunderstanding between us, I will shoot you if you so much reach for any weapon that's not-" she gestured at his groin with the gun that had replaced the knife.
"Duly noted, Bristow."
She raised an eyebrow, standing there as if a petulant child.
"Thorne."
"Good boy."
- - - -
In determinate hours later, he lay on the bed, head propped up by a couple pillows, all the better to watch.
Through half-lidded eyes, he watched as a pink tongue lapped at his thigh, stopping at the angry bruise she'd given him earlier.
"Sorry," she whispered, but he didn't think it was for the bruise. After all, the reminder of a rather more serious wound had barely warranted a half-sympathetic kiss. Unless she'd forgotten. He didn't want to think about that.
"My life's in danger, isn't it?"
She looked up at him with a sad smile. "Not really, not anymore."
She refused to elaborate. He made a note to worry, to press further, later, when he didn't have a beautiful woman between his legs.
- - - - - - -
When they make love, he calls her Sydney.
She has a strange scar on her stomach.
When he asks, she goes into the bathroom and cries.
He doesn't ask again.
- - - -
She bit her lip with a sad smile on her face. Eyes were hardened, but he saw the vulnerability within. "I..." she started. "I don't know who I am anymore." She gave a shrug. "I can't be Sydney anymore. Hell, I don't think I want to be Sydney anymore. Julia has a hell of a lot more fun." She said, eyes brightening. "Without those pesky morals to get in the way."
He regarded her darkly. "You can't just pick out personalities like choosing the most effective ammunition, Sydney."
"Why not? Isn't that what you did? Or maybe not you- my mother. Just like she chose this for me."
His eyes narrowed, but he had to admit she may have a point. She was partly right. Moreso than she knew. "She didn't choose who I am today, Bristow. I let myself become this. No person can have that much control over our lives."
"God, that's rich, Sark," she snapped. "You're the one who speaks of destiny. I'm the prophecy girl. My fucking destiny is planned out. Rambaldi, remember?"
"Rambaldi does not plan out lives. He predicts certain aspects in the course of events. How we carry out those predictions is our choice. That is destiny. And that is what your mother believes. She would never force anything. She watches the course of events. And yes, she may manipulate situations to fall in her favor, but she would never intervene outright. Whoever screwed you over... it would never be your mother. I assure you."
- - - -
He won't tell her why he's there. She makes him call off Simon's job.
She feeds him slices of apple before she leaves.
He's chained. He's weakened. All he can do watch her dress and walk out the door.
And when he escapes, it is too late.
- - - - - - -
Irina's on the ground, just a body, bleeding away her life.
The woman kneeling in her blood is Sydney.
Sark doesn't know what to do. A tentative "Julia?" is ignored. A louder, sharper, "Sydney!" only results in a keening noise falling from her mouth. So he ignores the body and gets Jack's job done. She doesn't even fight.
- - - -
"You'll have to do one last thing."
Her eyes are red-rimmed and incredulous.
"It's for Sark."
- - - - - - -
"I'll take care of the rest."
Sydney nods once, and seals the envelope with the tape inside. "I'll be living a lie."
"But you'll be living again." And you won't hate me like you do now. It's selfish, but Jack can't help but hold onto it.
She is silent, but she climbs onto the cot. Jack gestures, and the doctor places the mask over her face. Ten... nine... eight... seven...
Darkness.
- - - -
Epilogue:
That day, in the cell, he'd been thinking and rethinking all the different scenarios he was being thrown into. Wondering how Jack managed it. Awed that he'd kept his promise, albeit a year later.
For a second he thought she'd been a hallucination conjured up by his melancholy. When he found it was truly her, that delightful laugh escaped him almost against his will. So she was alive. And, he noted with relief, herself again. Sans two years of her life and the memory of him. But also no memory of Simon, her jaunt as an assassin, or her mother.
The laugh was bundled with surprise, respect, and amusement at her and himself. Trust Sydney to fall rock bottom and climb back up. Trust him to fall for someone so haunting and unattainable.
My life's in danger, isn't it?
He swore there was something in her eyes when she stared back at him. He held onto that as he walked into uncertainty.
- - - -
Jack remembers an exhange of words. Short and angry, but it won't stop running through his head.
"The prophecy still has not been fulfilled. The proceedings of destiny cannot be guided by the hand of the CIA."
"I should kill you now, and we'll see if it's fulfilled or not."
"Do it. It won't change."
"You know a lot more than you're letting on, Irina."
There was only that secret smile, sad and knowing.
Nadia.
So much pain, and it had to happen all over again.
Then she finds the file. She learns the truth of their betrayal and goes through the pain all over again.
"You were never supposed to find that."
Tears streak down her face. "I'm just a puppet to all of you, aren't I?"
Jack wonders if it will ever stop.