Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC and the people at Bad Robot
Rating: PG-13, for language and sexual themes in future chapters
Pairing: Sydney/Sark, suggested Sydney/Vaughn and Sark/Lauren
Summary: When Sydney makes the fatal mistake of trusting Sark with a gun in Man of His Word, Season 4, Sark takes the opportunity to revenge himself on Vaughn for Lauren's murder. However, after spending a prolonged time together, Sark and Sydney begin to develop feelings that neither of them anticipated.
Author's Note: An AU version of the events in Man of His Word. What might have happened had Sydney trusted Sark with a gun during the fight with Anna at the club.Chapter 2- Blondes Have More Fun Tuscany
Sydney lazily rolled over in her sleep. She had spent the past fifteen minutes in the heavenly state between sleep and alertness. She was just asleep enough to ignore the pounding headache- a result of last night's drinking binge- yet awake enough to fully appreciate the good mattress she was lounging on and the gentle touch of the Italian sheets. She made a content noise in the back of her throat and rolled over to position herself in the narrow beam of sunlight let into the room by the closed drapes.
Abruptly, a merciless hand tore open the blinds, almost blinding Sydney and scaring away any lethargic thoughts. To replace them was the pounding headache she rightly deserved after almost finishing an entire bottle of '84 vintage red wine. "Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," came the cold, drawling accent of Julian Sark.
Sydney struggled to sit up and peered around blearily. She knew she would be looking more than a little rough, but didn't care enough about impressing Sark to do anything but run her hand through her tangled brown strands. "What time is it?" she asked, forgoing any morning pleasantries. She noted the thrown food had been cleared away. Last night's empty tray and dirty dishes had been replaced by a first class continental breakfast of fresh fruit, muffins, freshly buttered toast, crisp bacon and two pitchers- one of milk, the other of orange juice.
Sark was now leaning against her bed post, looking as well put together as usual in dark blue slacks, a matching jacket and a silk blue shirt with the top buttons left undone. He also wore his customary smirk. "It is seven thirty in the morning," he answered. "Get up and take some food into the bathroom. We've got a long day a head of us."
"Into the bathroom?" frowned Sydney. She got out of bed and crossed to the table, selecting a particularly savoury-looking slice of honeydew melon. "Why?"
"I want you as unrecognizable as possible," Sark explained. "Your guise as Julia Thorne kept you hidden for two years. It should work for a trip to London. I intend to dye your hair."
Sydney, munching on a piece of toast, almost choked. "You're going to dye my hair?"
"Why not?" Sark shrugged, opening a box of drugstore hair dye. "I don't trust you not to dispose of it if left alone, and you might say something revealing to Lena and Josie."
"You're not dying my hair," Sydney argued, raising a defensive hand to her natural, rich brunette locks.
"Look, you can do this willingly or by force," Sark said, pulling on the provided rubber gloves. "Either way, you are leaving this room a blonde."
Sydney studied him momentarily. She suspected she could convince him to allow a wig, yet she knew when to pick her battles, and this wasn't one of them. "Fine," she agreed, swallowing an orange slice.
"You are so very co-operative," Sark said dryly.
"Nothing pleases me more than helping my captor keep me prisoner," Sydney said with a mock grin.
"If only," Sark said wistfully, leading her into the bathroom. "Consequently, we will be accompanied today by five of Antonio's personal snipers. They could make any attempt at escape end…somewhat messily."
"I expected as much," Sydney shrugged. She stood facing him with an almost cocky 'so-what-are-you-going-to-do-now' look on her face.
"You'd better wet you hair," Sark ordered, reading the instructions. "And then we can go from there."
Sydney obliged and then perched on the edge of the tub. She laughed a little when Sark squirted the first goop of dye into his hand. "What do you find so amusing, Agent Bristow?" he snapped.
"Even you can appreciate the ridiculousness of this situation," Sydney laughed. "Super spy Julian Lazaery: hair dresser. Wasn't something I ever pictured you doing."
"I'm adaptable to circumstance," Sark retorted. He moved in front of her and, with no visible hesitation, began running his fingers through her damp hair, roughly massaging the dye into every strand. He unconsciously moved closer, pulling Sydney's face into his abdominal region. He was silent as he worked, at times leaning over her to reach the back of her hair. When his hot breath brushed against her neck, Sydney had to suppress a shiver. The whole process was almost arousing. She noted hair dying as an activity to try with Vaughn, then almost laughed out loud. Vaughn would never do anything like this. He would lower his gaze and stammer out something charming about her being more adept or being beautiful just the way she was.
Lost in thoughts, she almost didn't notice Sark had stopped until he was face to face with her. "Now, just wait fifteen minutes and shower." He stopped. "What do you find funny now, Agent Bristow?"
Sydney realized thoughts of Vaughn had brought a soft smile to her face. "I was thinking about Vaughn," she said honestly.
A look of disgust flitted across Sark's cold face. "How perfectly unsurprising." He washed his hands in the sink. "Be ready in forty-five minutes. Our plane leaves in four hours. You'll find some clothes in the wardrobes."
In less than an hour, Sydney was sitting in a limo with Sark en route to the plane that would take them to London, England. Sydney's hair was a touch blonder than Julia's had ever been- verging on platinum. She was dressed in form-fitting tan slacks and a dark blue blouse that escaped being sensible by its low cut. She also wore a pair of dark glasses that effectively hid her eyes.
She glanced over at Sark. He looked perfectly relaxed, reading a thick book written in Italian. "What are you reading?" she asked, marvelling that she was even bothering to make small talk with such a man.
"Harry Potter," he drawled glancing at her over the pages.
She rolled her eyes. "I was being serious."
"So was I," Sark said quickly. "I had a meet in a theatre once, but the man was compromised. Harry Potter was the film, so I stuck around to watch. It was actually quite decent. Antonio had a copy lying around, so I borrowed it."
Sydney, looking closer, saw he was telling the truth. "I really don't know you at all," she sighed, leaning back in her seat.
"Few do," Sark admitted, laying the book in his lap. He leaned over and flicked a strand of her blonde hair. "Do you like it?"
"No," Sydney said firmly.
"You should," Sark said with a smile. "I like my women blonde- after all, aren't they supposed to have more fun? Besides, I'm sure Agent Vaughn will be pleased."
"Why do you say that?" Sydney asked warily.
Sark smirked openly. "You look more and more like his ex-wife every day."
Sydney impulsively lashed out, slapping the cocky British bastard. "Don't you ever say anything like that again."
Sark rubbed his cheek, still smirking. "You shouldn't let words affect you so much, Sydney. It's a weakness of yours."
"Go back to your book, or to hell, or wherever," Sydney hissed. "Just don't speak to me."
"As you wish," drawled Sark, picking up the Italian translation. The remainder of the ride passed predictably in silence.
When they reached the airport, Sark cordially helped her out of the limo. He looped his arm through hers and gave her one of his most charming grins. "Pretend as though you want to be with me," he ordered softly. "I assure you the alternative is much less enjoyable."
Sydney forced her stance to relax, but every time she felt his hand brush her back as he ushered her into the airport, she couldn't help but want to cut it off. They hadn't been in the airport more than two minutes before a man dressed in the airport uniform approached them. "Signor David Jones, si?"
Sark nodded. "And this is my darling wife, Kate," he introduced, putting on an American accent. "Have all the preparations been made?"
"Yes, of course," the employee nodded. "We just need you to go through customs and then your plane is awaiting you out gate 8."
"Thank you very much," Sark nodded, handing the employee a considerable tip. The man left and Sark ushered Sydney towards the line at customs.
"We're using one of my aliases?" Sydney whispered. "Why? You know the CIA will pick up on that right away."
"Maybe I want them to," Sark said with a half-grin. "I know you're angry with me, Sydney, but even you can appreciate I know how to do my job."
"I just don't know what your job is yet," Sydney frowned. Sark just kept on smiling, and handed their bags to customs.
In a record-setting half hour, they had boarded the place, which turned out to be Sark's private jet, which Sydney supposed explained the necessary preparations. One of the airport attendants came out on to the plane to see if they needed anything before they left. Sark ordered lunch and an expensive bottle of wine. Sydney coldly announced she wasn't hungry and Sark ordered for her as well. The plane looked more like a sitting room than anything else, with larger seats than any first class section had ever seen, two couches, a desk and a fridge. Sydney sat down in one of the chairs and crossed her arms, almost verging on a sulk. This entire situation was getting ridiculous. She had been able to find comfort last night in wine and food, but this afternoon she was thinking of the possibility of losing another two years of her life. She hoped that her staring into the surveillance cameras would tip the CIA off. She was desperately in need of rescue.
The food arrived and the engines started up. They were soon in the air and headed for London. Sark again offered Sydney some food, and she declined it. "Do you think by starving yourself you will enjoy our time together more?" he asked, frustrated.
Sydney finally fully lost her temper. "I don't know what the hell kind of game this is to you, Sark, but this isn't 'our time together!" she shouted. "We are not on some sort of social outing! I'm a prisoner to you- I don't know why, or what you expect to gain from this, but that doesn't change the situation! So cut the bullshit and clap me in chains! I'd be a lot more comfortable than sitting here trying to pretend I don't want to claw your eyes out!"
Sark stood, looking almost stricken. He rolled his tongue along his teeth, obviously fighting to get control of his own temper. "Will you gentlemen please excuse us for a moment," he said. The two hulking body guards filed out of the room without another word. Sark remained at the table, running his finger along the edge of a wine glass. He looked up abruptly and then walked over to her. He grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her to her feet.
"My reasons for keeping you here are my own, Agent Bristow," he said. His voice was cold, with no hint of mocking or sarcasm. "As you are so intent on being a prisoner, I'm sure you can understand that. This is certainly not a social outing, and if you understood the danger you are currently in- the danger only my goodwill protects you from, I doubt you would view it as anything but a prison escort. I admit I am baffled by your desire to be treated as a prisoner, but let me assure you- it is not a pleasant situation. I have spent plenty of time as a prisoner of your government to realize exactly how little you want that. But if you truly would rather be locked in a small space with no human contact and treated as little more than an animal in a cage for the duration of your stay, it can be arranged."
He threw her down in the chair, a look of disgust on his face. Sydney took a shaky breath, for the first time seeing Sark truly angry. "Sark…I didn't mean…I didn't think…"
"That is exactly what you did not do, Agent Bristow," Sark said, clearly more in control of himself. "Now, please come and join me for lunch."
Sydney rose quietly and moved with Sark to sit down. He served the lunch, which she was amused to see was macaroni and cheese. "Allison," he said, hesitant to step on a nerve already. "Told me you loved macaroni and cheese."
"Yeah, I do," Sydney confirmed, taking a generous helping. She shot Sark a shaky smile and then began to shovel one of her favourite foods into her mouth. For the first time she could remember, macaroni and cheese tasted like ashes.
Los AngelesVaughn stretched wearily, his body aching from spending five long hours at a computer. The buzzer, announcing the arrival of employees through the subway entrance, went off. He swivelled around to see travel-weary Dixon and Eric making their way towards him. He could tell by the looks on their faces they had found nothing substantial, but he made his way over to them anyways.
"How did it go?" he asked, fighting down the bubble of hope in his stomach.
"I'm sorry, man," Eric apologized. "We know Sark left the club, carrying an unconscious blonde and accompanied by an Italian man."
"Any ID on the Italian?" Vaughn demanded.
"Antonio Manna," Dixon supplied. "Long time member of the Italian mob. And that's all anyone knows. We couldn't even get a place of residence."
"Damn it!" cursed Vaughn. "How can she just have vanished? How can this be happening again?"
"It's not happening again," Eric said firmly. "We know she's alive, we know she's with Sark and we're going to do all we possibly can to get her back safe."
"Sark isn't the type of person who stays MIA for very long," Dixon said in his comforting voice. "When we find him, we'll find her. Don't worry, Vaughn. Syd's a big girl, she can take care of herself."
"I let her down again," Vaughn said hollowly.
Eric clasped him on the shoulder, at a loss for words. "Eric!" came the excited voice of Nadia. She had recently awoken from her coma and was throwing herself into the search for her sister. She was looking pale, with dark circles under her eyes, but those eyes were lit with excitement that could only mean one thing. She was clutching a folder and accompanied by a grinning Marshall. "Look at this!"
"You found her?" guessed Vaughn, hurrying over to his girlfriend's sister.
"Maybe," nodded Nadia. She spread the folder out on Vaughn's desk and drew out the pictures held therein. "These are stills of surveillance footage taken from an airport in Tuscany two hours ago."
Vaughn pulled the photos towards them. It was a shot of Sark and a blonde woman. The blonde had her back turned to them, but Sark, speaking to her with an irritated look on his face, was clearly identifiable. "Pull all the names and locations of every passenger today!" Vaughn demanded.
Marshall hurriedly sat down at Vaughn's computer. After a few minutes of frantic clicking, he had pulled up the flight lists for all outgoing planes at the airport that day. "Look at this!" he said excitedly. "David and Kate Jones left today on a private plane for Austria an hour and a half ago."
"Kate Jones was Sydney's most common alias at SD-6," Dixon informed them. "She used it when she had to work with Sark."
"Why would Sark use that alias?" Eric frowned. "It's like a red flag saying 'here I am.'"
"I don't know," Marshall admitted, still clicking away at the computer. "But that private plane is registered to Julian Lazaery."
Vaughn exchanged excited looks with Nadia. "Go tell your father you and I are leaving on a plane for Austria as soon as he can get us a flight chartered."
LondonSydney and Sark rode from Heathrow airport to his home just outside of London in perfect silence. Sydney felt she should say something several times, but couldn't bring herself to speak to the man who was not only holding her prisoner, but had effectively made her feel about six years old. The ride, though really only about half an hour, felt as though it lasted all day. They came to a stop and Sark rolled down his window. A guard saw him and nodded his greeting. "This is Julia Thorne," Sark introduced Sydney by her long-time Covenant alias. "She will be staying with us for some time. Give her clearance to the first two floors."
"Yes sir," agreed the guard.
"Thank you," Sark said. "Open the gate."
The window rolled up again and the limo proceeded up what Sydney assumed was Sark's driveway. They came to a stop and the engine turned off. "Welcome home," Sark said emotionlessly, getting out of the car. He opened her door and helped her out, giving her the first look at where she assumed she would be staying.
It was an enormous redbrick house, with great bay windows, a least four floors and two huge oak doors as a main entrance set on top of a sweeping staircase. Sark motioned that she should head towards the house. She did, though her confidence was much bolstered when he joined her. As they reached the doors, one swung open to reveal an old butler. "Welcome home, sir," he greeted, seeming genuinely pleased to see his employer.
"Hello, Lawrence," Sark said, with one of the first warm tones Sydney had ever heard from him.
"Who is this beautiful lady?" Lawrence inquired.
"Julia Thorne," Sark said, his tone again clipped.
"Shall I arrange a tour for her?" the butler offered.
"No, she doesn't need a tour," Sark declined. "She'll be remaining in her rooms for the duration of her stay. I rang ahead. Mrs. Beresford should have her quarters prepared."
"Yes," nodded Lawrence. "I believe she mentioned the Gold Room was being made ready."
"Thank you," Sark smiled wearily. "I'll take her there myself. And no, she doesn't have any luggage."
He took Sydney's arm and led her through the wide entrance hall, up a grand staircase carpeted in red. Sydney tried to take in as much of the house as possible, but Sark moved quickly. Everything was impeccably clean and fine, yet had the distinctive feel of being unlived in. "Do you come and stay here often?" she asked timidly.
"No," he said shortly. He stopped outside a closed black door and unlocked it with a key he fished out of his pocket. "Welcome to your prison," he said with mock cordiality.
Sydney had to admit she was impressed. Her 'quarters' consisted of a sitting room, the room they had entered now, a bedroom and a washroom. Everything was done very tastefully in red and yellow. The furnishings were all simple pieces, yet the simplicity added to the overall effect of the room. Sydney was slightly relieved to see there was a television- at least she would be assured of a way to pass some of the long hours spent here. There were several Spanish pieces of art hung on the walls. One in particular caught Sydney's eyes- a painting of several Spanish horses galloping along a river on an open field. "It's very nice," Sydney said lamely. "Quite a decent prison."
She could practically feel Sark roll his eyes, so said nothing more. "I am pleased that you like it," Sark said, his voice lacking in any type of emotion. "You will be spending your time in this room. I can't allow you to roam the house, you understand. You'd undoubtedly try to escape."
Sydney nodded, not seeing any point in denying the obvious. "I'll have Mrs. Beresford come up later on tonight to see about getting you some clothes. She'll take your measurements and get some clothes made to fit. Just a few basic necessities." He paused. "There are some female sweatpants in the dresser in your room that would probably fit, if you want to be more comfortable."
Sydney perked up at that. "Why do you have female sweatpants?" Sydney asked, unable to still her curiosity. "Were they the last prisoner's?"
"Uh, no…" Sark said, clearly uncomfortable. "They were Lauren's. I offered her this home as a place to stay whenever she travelled in London."
Sydney made sure her face was a mask, but abandoned any wishful thoughts of sweatpants. "Oh."
"Yes, well," Sark grasped for words. "I'll join you later for dinner. Right now, I have to get about settling in. I haven't been here since I was taken into US custody three years ago."
Now it was Sydney's turn to feel embarrassed. She wasn't sure why she was. Sark was a terrorist and certainly belonged in jail. Perhaps it was simply his relatively polite behaviour when she was in his custody. He turned to go, but she stopped him with a question she knew wouldn't wait until dinner. "Why did you use my Kate Jones' alias?" she demanded for the second time. "You must have known Vaughn, Marshall and Dixon would recognize it from SD-6."
Sark turned in the doorway. "When I asked the employee if all preparations had been made, I wasn't referring to the jet," he said, face blank. "I paid him to alter the flight schedules. If the CIA checks, they will think we have flown to Austria."
"Oh," Sydney said again, fighting against the acute disappointment flooding over her. "Yes, of course. You would cover your tracks."
"I'll see you this evening, Agent Bristow."
And he was gone, leaving Sydney alone to despair.