Disclaimer- I do not own ALIAS.
Summery- Some illusions hurt.
Rating- PG-13
A/N- This takes place during the S3 finale, if things had gone a little differently. It is all based on one line Sark said during the beginning of the episode.
Illusions
He had made love to Sydney Bristow.
More to the point, a woman impersonating Sydney Bristow.
At the time it had not mattered to him whether or not it was really her. He had wanted to pretend, so he had.
It had been easy until it was over.
Because she was not Sydney Bristow. Nor would she ever be Sydney. In reality, she was the opposite of her.
Which had been alright then. He had not been able to handle the real Sydney.
But now he felt slightly sick. It had hurt his memory of her.
And that disgusted him.
He wanted nothing to destroy his image. His mind had a photo gallery of Sydney in various disguises, but he preferred the way she always looked when she was not using a stolen name or a fake security clearance. He did not want her to be someone else.
He wanted her to be Sydney. Always.
He had liked to think the Sydney he had once watched over through hidden cameras in her home was only his. He had liked the idea that when she was alone she dropped everything and became herself- a separate, beautiful entity that was Sydney A. Bristow- one only he got to see.
When she had begun to see Michael Vaughn, that illusion had shattered. He had seen Sydney Bristow. He had loved her.
And Julian could not make that into an illusion. Not when he saw the love burning in Sydney's eyes.
It had hurt.
That had not been an illusion either.
Pitiful Mr. Vaughn held no illusions. He offered Sydney something real, and she took it.
What did Sark have to offer? Sarcasm and pain.
Julian did not want to give Sydney that. He wanted to give her love, a home- himself. He could not do that as Sark.
Because Mr. Sark was an illusion. Just like Kate Jones. Just like Julia Thorne. Just like the Paris nightclub singer. Beautiful, but fake. Something better discarded.
Only his was an illusion he could not drop.
He felt that he owed Sydney that, before anything. He would never tell her how he felt until he could accept who he was. Both the cold-hearted assassin, and the man inside. Until he knew that in reality she would accept him.
But that would never happen.
He was safe.
Until he saw her again, when he would hurt her. When he would make her bleed.
He sometimes thought he came away more battered than her after their encounters.
He looked to the left. She was gone, the impersonator. She had gone back to another facade.
It was surprising how little that hurt.
So he got out of bed, the expensive sheets. Turned on the water. It was colder than ice.
He could stand anything.
Ridiculously rough towels for their price.
He buttoned his shirt. He hid the gun under his jacket. He took up his illusion.
It was one way to live.
The mask lay on the bed, mocking him. He picked it up tentatively. It was this illusion that made him afraid. Would he ever earn something real?
Or would he just lie, would he just cheat? Would he always live in reality without really being there? Would he always only have an picture of Sydney?
Perhaps he would just get over it.
After all, wasn't love, like everything else, just an illusion?
Fin.