Disclaimer: JJ owns (my soul) Alias. I don't. Crap.

Bulletproof

Chapter Two

The day seemed to make even less sense when Sydney awoke; the room seemed smaller than before, and tinted gray. The sunlight streaming through the blinds covering the glass door to the balcony was blindingly bright in the shade of her vision, and she made a noise of frustration, turning away from the window and keenly aware of the cold sheets over her bare shoulders. She buried her head in her pillow, trying to remember why the ache in her body seemed to be settling somewhere inside as well.

Flashes of the night before came flooding back. Gunshots swirling in her head, her mother—no. Irina Derevko's body limp on the ground. A whirring sound, beating blades against her mind's attempts to stop the room from hurting so much. She no longer felt so dizzy, or even as weak, but rather, her joints seemed to be bending the completely wrong way, and her limbs were settled into a dull state of numbness, so she could barely feel where her arm rested on the bed.

A sudden wave of nervousness washed over Sydney. My arm. I can't feel my—

She sat straight up, the sheets tangled in her legs, and grabbed Sark by the shoulders where he had been sleeping peacefully beside her. He awoke with a start, but by the time he realized what was happening Sydney had already flipped him onto his stomach and pinned him to the bed, her knee digging into his back. She held his face to the mattress. "What have you done to me?" she hissed.

His reply sounded somewhat amused. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, Ms. Bristow, though I must say, such a rude awakening is entirely—" his words were buried in the mattress as she shoved his head down.

"I can barely feel my arms and legs," she said in a don't-screw-with-me-or-I-won't-hesitate-to-suffocate-you voice. "What did you do?" Sark gave a muffled response.

Sydney allowed him room to turn his head and speak clearly. "Oh, that." He paused, as though trying to remember everything he had done to Sydney Bristow last night. "I injected you with a simple pain reliever. It was supposed to help with your wound."

"Pain reliever my ass. Are you recording all this right now, so the truth serum will start making me spout information for you to take back to your master? Oh, wait." Sydney leaned closer so she was right next to him, her breath tickling his ear. "Your master's dead."

"Not my master. Your mother," Sark said, not missing a beat.

Sydney released him and moved from the bed, standing up by the window glinting with the red glow of morning sun through the blinds. She tried not to shiver, the very illusion of sunlight so far from home giving her the chills. "If that's what you think, you're not as smart as I gave you credit for," she said softly. She slid open the glass door to the balcony and stepped outside, resting on the stone edge of the balcony's railing. Moments later, Sark came up beside her, the sheets laying in abandoned tangles on the bed.

There was only quiet for what seemed like ages. The morning was slowly sinking into a newborn day, and the outlines of buildings were silhouetted against a backdrop of lazy pink and melting orange. Sydney let her mind drop into the numbness now fading from her body, ignoring Sark's words and the reality of blood ties she couldn't seem to escape, no matter how far she traveled around the globe killing the very people her mother – Irina Derevko had considered allies.

"You've changed so much."

Sark's voice tread carefully, husky and soft as though he was trying not to frighten a skittish animal. Sydney lifted her chin and stared out at the edifices gleaming a darkened silver, refusing to acknowledge his statement as truth she feared or lies she could deal with. One of the many things in her life that needed fixing, she thought.

Sark moved closer to her, leaning down to brush her bare skin with his lips. Sydney tensed, angry at him for managing to curve himself right into the corner of her mind where she kept things to Not Dwell On. Right now it was occupied by Irina's eyes, glassy and black against her pale, drawn face and the angles of her cheekbones Sydney knew matched her own.

"It was only a few years ago I would've seen a smile on your face before my very presence wiped it off," Sark said, his words sweeping over her neck, and she thought she could feel him smirk against her skin. "Now, there's nothing left for me to touch." His fingers stroked her shoulder, delicate steps down her arm and tapping the inside of her wrist. He ran his thumb over a scar carved into her wrist and up the palm of her hand.

"I remember this," he whispered. "Prague. Two years ago."

The light bathed the balcony in a fire-tinted, porcelain glow, and she closed her eyes to breathe in the morning air. Not to feel his hands dancing lightly across hers.

"One of Irina's associates," Sark said softly. Sydney did not flinch at the name.

"I was waiting for you at the end of the hallway, and he tackled you with a knife. You almost lost a finger." He nearly chuckled, and something boiled inside of Sydney.

"When we got back to the hotel, you were bleeding, and I said—"

"Fuck the CIA," Sydney finished.

This time he did chuckle. "I made you come up to my room so I could bandage it. You fussed the entire time. Nearly punched me at one point, when I poured the alcohol on it, if I remember correctly."

Sydney actually laughed, and the sound startled her. "That's because you don't exactly have the world's best bedside manner." She glanced up to meet his eyes for the first time since last night, and they were a sheer, crystalline blue tinted with cream-colored light of the sun, playing off the pale lowlights of his skin. He smiled at her, a gesture that always came off as slighted with cockiness, though she had learned now to see through into the softest of hints there was something else slightly more tolerable under that smile. He leaned in to kiss her, and Sydney met his lips with hers, bringing her hand up to hold him close while they kissed.

He pulled away, the smirk returning, and said, "Then you did punch me for endangering your position at the CIA."

"You deserved it."

"I didn't." His voice was full of mock hurt. "Besides, no one made you come up to my room. That, Ms. Bristow, was entirely your will." He moved to kiss her again, capturing her mouth with his, and Sydney was struck slightly off-balance as his tongue swept across hers, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders to keep steady.

"Why do you still call me that?" she murmured into his lips. He only kissed her harder before mumbling, "What?"

"Ms. Bristow." She let her mouth linger over his, until he could barely stand it. She smiled against his mouth. "Makes me feel old."

Sark grinned at this, an expression she was unused to seeing, and it took her a moment to even figure out what he was doing. "Formalities, Ms. Bristow. We are, after all, still colleagues."

"We're anything but colleagues," Sydney replied, tracing his jaw line with her tongue, enjoying the shiver she could feel him struggling to suppress. "We're mortal enemies."

"If that's so—" he gasped slightly when her mouth dipped to his collarbone, "then why are you trying to seduce me, Sydney?"

Sydney looked up from his chest, her eyes dancing. Sark frowned. "I didn't say you could stop."

She smiled and began trailing kisses down his neck, her teeth leaving barely traceable bite marks where she wanted to make him groan, and he did when she reached a spot just behind his ear, her hands bracing his shoulders.

Suddenly, Sark pulled away, and Sydney looked up at him, confused. His eyes were glinting with what she would've mistaken for malice a few short years ago, but now, her pulse racing against her skin knew better.

"Bed. Now." He said with an inarguable conviction, and a smile spread over her lips.

"Make me," she whispered against his neck.

In one swift move he had scooped her up and was carrying her to the bed, and she opened her mouth to protest when he dropped her a little less than gently onto the disheveled sheets. Before she could get a word out, however, his mouth was on hers in a fierce hunger she was less than inclined to deny, and he was practically tearing at her thin shirt, fighting to get it over her head. Finally, the shirt was tossed to the floor, and Sydney turned her head when he bent to kiss her again, half to punish him, half to let his mouth trace over neck. Sark growled into the curve of her neck, pinning her to the bed by her arms, but always careful to avoid the tender wound burned into her shoulder.

His hands slid down her stomach, and Sydney kicked the sheets out of the way, aching to feel his body pressed to hers. Sark obliged, laying down so their legs were tangled and he was kissing her chest. Her breathing was shallow, hitching when he reached her navel his tongue drew circles on her skin, and she tangled her fingers in his close-cropped hair when he unzipped her pants and slipped them off, his mouth dipping lower. She swallowed the moan rising in her throat and shut her eyes, his breath warm on her thighs, and his fingers brushed across her hips, just barely holding her down. Time felt as though it were rushing in her head before Sark finally looked up, a wickedly knowing expression on his face. He rose to lay atop her once more, and when his eyes met hers, they registered what she was going to do a split second before she flipped him on the bed, straddling him. He raised an eyebrow at her, but she simply reached down to slide the boxers off his legs, briefly fingering the scar lining his thigh, compliments of their work in Siberia a few years ago. She traced the thin white line, and he grabbed her wrist suddenly, his grip tightening to the point of nearly hurting her. Sydney raised her eyes to his, and they were as fierce as she remembered meeting them in the field every time they were pitted against each other. It was a sharp reminder, almost painful, of the lives that awaited them both outside the dark sun pouring into the hotel room.

Moments later both were fighting not to cry out against the other's shoulder, and the walls seemed to lean in as he moved inside her, and Sydney though she might have bitten hard enough to draw blood from Sark's pale skin, a drop of copper running down the porcelain curve of his shoulder, stars slowly dying behind her eyes. Sark's breathing was shallow to match her own, and he rested his cheek on the dip of her collarbone, his heart beating lazily against hers as the sun was beginning to finally rise above the boxes framing the sky, as unwilling to begin the day as they were.

Sydney almost found herself drifting off to sleep again, when Sark's voice, very annoyed, said in her ear, "You bit me."

She closed her eyes, trying to block the light filling the room from by the glow in front of her eyelids. "Sorry."

"You aren't." He rolled off her, and she heard him shifting on the bed, nudging her with his foot.

She kicked him back, and he made an indignant noise. "Not particularly, no," she replied. "Besides, it's hardly comparative to what you've done to me over the years."

"Excuse me?" She opened her eyes to find Sark leaning over her, his eyes wide in defense. Sydney held back a smile. It was really too easy sometimes.

"You're the one who threw an axe into my leg," he accused her, and he sat up, running a hand through his tousled blonde hair.

She smiled, his slim figure outlined with half-shadows and the strains of morning shifting through the blinds, and said, "You probably deserved it."

"Well, that's hardly fair." He rose from the bed, shrugging on his white button-up shirt tossed on the back of the chair. He turned to slip into his boxers, and Sydney's eyes shifted to his gun lying on the bedside table. She looked at his back turned to her, and kept her vision trained on him as she started to slide over to his side of the bed, the gun within inches of her reach–

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said, his voice as careless as his movements. He turned to face her and slipped another gun out of the pockets of his pressed black pants, pointing it at her with a sigh as though she were some annoying child who kept touching breakable things after being told a hundred times not to.

Sydney locked eyes with him. "There's a lot of things we'd do differently." His eyes flashed, and in one swift movement she had grabbed the gun and rolled off the bed to stand facing him, their guns nearly touching.

Neither moved for a moment, until Sark sighed again and said, "Go ahead, then, if you're so quick-thinking. Shoot me."

Sydney gripped the gun tighter. "What?"

"I daresay you'll find it to be lacking ammunition. So, have at it." He cocked an eyebrow, and Sydney felt that familiar annoyance boil up inside her. Sark had always been able to get to her, always been able to tap into her so easily. It was part of what made him a good agent, even if it was for the wrong side, a worthy opponent. She wouldn't call it exactly admirable, but...

Something like that.

Sydney hesitated for a moment. She had little doubt he was lying, but if she gave it up now it left her completely vulnerable, rather than defense with a gun that may or may not be loaded. Sark simply stood watching her, as though quite interested himself what she was going to do. Finally, she whirled around and fired at the mirror on the opposite wall. The glass shattered with the bullet's eruption from the barrel and the sound was spectacular; shards of glass blasted from the wall and raining down upon them, the frame hanging uselessly from the nail. Sark ducked and hid his face to avoid the sharp edges spiraling toward him, and Sydney moved forward instantly to tackle him. He hit the ground and yelled out in pain when his forearm dug into a razor-edged piece of the mirror on the carpet, and Sydney grabbed his gun, dropped in the struggle. She stood quickly and pointed both guns at him, and he stumbled to his feet, holding his arm where a stain of red was billowing through.

Sark looked up at her from his arm, breathing labored, and smiled. "You never did take my word for things."

"That's because you're a sociopath," she replied.

Sark looked hurt. "I resent that. I only lie when necessary. You obviously knew I wouldn't fight you unless we were evenly matched. It's only fair." Sydney snorted at his admission of 'fair'.

"So you lied to me first? For what, to see if I'd believe that the gun was empty?"

"Obviously," Sark said, pulling off his jacket and heading toward the bathroom, as though completely unaware of the two loaded weapons trained on him. He took a towel from the rack and pressed it to his wound, a fairly deep cut by his elbow. The white towel was stained with a half moon-shaped trace of red when he pulled it away. "If you believed something like that so easily, especially coming from me," he pressed the towel to his cut again and winced slightly, "You're not the agent the CIA seems to believe you to be."

"Glad I could prove you wrong," Sydney said, her eyes never leaving him, the guns aimed directly at his head. Without warning, Sark moved toward her, and she nearly pulled the trigger out of pure surprise. He gave her an odd look as he slipped by her to exit the bathroom, and pulled a wrap of bandage out of his bag by the chair. "You never had to prove anything to me, Sydney, you must know that. The only one who knew of your caliber more than I-" he began to unravel the bandage, "–was your mother." He paused with the bandage for a moment, then held it out to her. "Would you like to do this?" he offered. "Since I was so kind to do the same for you last night."

"I'm sure you can manage," Sydney said, and Sark frowned.

"I must say, Ms. Bristow, your lack of courtesy is really starting to aggravate me. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have either of the two weapons you have turned against me at this moment, so a little thanks wouldn't kill you." He started to unravel the bandage, wrapping it around his forearm fairly clumsily, but managing to tape it at the end. Sydney held her breath. She would not let him get to her like this, though she could hardly believe his brashness to do so with two guns focused on him.

Sark finally managed to get the bandage taped around his arm, and he gave her an annoyed look as he sat down to put his shoes on. Sydney watched him carefully, his movements smooth in the morning shadows, and she slowly relaxed. Standing and slipping his jacket on, he held out a hand toward her.

She raised an eyebrow. Sark rolled his eyes, and Sydney noted somewhere in her mind how ridiculous the move made him look. "Give me the gun," he said, his boredom with her childish games obvious.

Sydney remained motionless.

"Give me the gun, please."

She flipped it over and handed him the empty pistol, relaxing the slightest inch. "Maybe you've learned something yet," she said.

"Yes, well." Sark pocketed the gun. "Perhaps you haven't been completely useless, Ms. Bristow." He opened the door, and without looking back, stepped outside, shutting it quietly behind him.

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