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 3- Unspoken Stalemates London
Sydney spent an agonizingly long day wandering restlessly about her suite, alternatively looking for a way to escape and acquainting herself with what was beginning to look like a very permanent residence. There were no hidden entrances and although the windows were not locked, the surface of the wall was too smooth to scale. She contemplated jumping, but decided a fall to the pavement below would result in a broken limb at the very least. Eventually she retired to the bedroom and flopped down on the bed, mentally exhausted.
The digital clock on her bedside revealed it was only three o'clock. She could not even hope for a visitor, even if it was only Sark, for at least another two hours. Sydney was quickly beginning to realize she was going to be a very restless prisoner. She found herself admiring her mother and Sark for dealing with the extreme boredom of lengthy confinement. She rolled off of the bed, thoughts of days spent bored and alone hardening her resolve to escape.
She flung open the bedroom window and peered around. Her room faced to the driveway and although there weren't any visible guards, she had every reason to suspect there were hidden watchers somewhere on the premises. Sydney would have preferred to wait for cover of darkness, but wanted to be gone long before Sark returned. Working quickly, she ripped the covers off her bed and began tying them together. Vaughn had taught her a few Boy Scout knots, and after testing them, she was sure they would hold her weight for the relatively minimal time it would take her to shimmy down to the ground.
With an excited grin, she flung the makeshift rope out the window. Immediately, the sounds of gunshot filled the air. Caught off guard, Sydney flung herself against the wall and, by instinct, tried not to breathe. The shots silenced, and she heard footsteps running down the hall. Moving quickly she grabbed an ornate lamp that was sitting on the desk in the bedroom and hid behind the bedroom door, just as her suite's door crashed open. "Sydney!" came Sark's shout. Sydney was pleased to hear he sounded worried. "God, what has that twit gone and done?"
He came hurrying into the bedroom and had just enough time to take in the bullet shot sheets, before Sydney hit him full force in the stomach with the lamp. He staggered backwards with an 'oof.' Before he could recover, Sydney placed one foot on his chest and kicked up with the other, catching him in the chin. She landed smoothly on her feet and made a beeline for the door. She was halted by a strict looking woman, with her steel grey hair pulled back tightly in a bun, who looked to be at least sixty. Sydney prepared to charge past her, but was brought up short when the lady slapped her across the cheek. Sydney blinked, caught of guard. Before she could recover, the woman delivered an iron-fisted punch to her stomach, forcing the breath from her.
Grimacing, Sydney prepared to hit the woman, but by this time Sark had recovered. He barrelled into Sydney, slamming her to the ground. He flipped her on her back, pinned her arms to the ground with his hands and immobilized her legs by wrapping his own around them. "This is ridiculous!" Sydney howled, angry with herself for being subdued so easily. She writhed under him, desperately trying to free one limb. "Your household staff are all against me and can use force effectively!"
"That's not ridiculous!" Sark growled, though Sydney saw he was smiling. "That is a strategic move to protect a household. What is ridiculous is that I leave you alone for two hours and you try to scale a wall with my bed sheets! Which are ruined now, thank you very much. Do you have any idea how expensive those sheets were?"
"Get off of me!" Sydney snarled, throwing her body against him. She doubted the minimal force was enough to budge him, but he complied, even helping her to her feet.
"I don't understand you," he complained. "I bring you here in comfort, give you all the best in food and drink…can you not just accept your temporary situation? I promise you, no harm will come to you."
"No harm will come to me?" Sydney said in perfectly frigid tones. As she progressed, her voice became more heated. "Every second I'm with you, I come to harm! When you touch me, I feel tainted. I despise you! You are possibly the most evil person I've ever met, excepting Sloane and my mother. I have seen you kill innocent people- seen you burn them alive to make a demonstration! You kidnap children, for God's sake- Neil Caplan's boy and Dixon's kids! You tortured my best friend, almost had him killed, and had my other best friend murdered! Don't you get it? Every time I see you, I want to rip your heart out. And I hate that, because it makes me like you- some sort of monster!"
Sydney came to the end of her tirade, breathing heavily. Her flashing brown eyes glared into his cold blue eyes and for one moment, she thought she saw a flash of hurt there. But it was quickly gone, if she hadn't just imagined it, and was replaced by cold fury. "I do what my superiors tell me, Agent Bristow," he said, his voice like ice. "As do you, or do I need to point out your years as Julia Thorne?"
"That was work for the CIA!" Sydney retorted. "What I did was to bring the Covenant- a group of traitors you worked for- to justice!"
"Shut up," Sark demanded, grabbing her wrist painfully. "Don't you dare give me that justice bullshit. You went undercover as Julia because you were angry that Michael Vaughn had lost faith in you, just like the little boy he is. You wanted revenge. Which is exactly what you wanted when you first became a double agent for the CIA- revenge for Danny's death!"
"And what's wrong with that?" cried Sydney before she could stop herself, thrown off guard after realizing Sark had checked her personal history.
"Absolutely nothing, love," Sark whispered hoarsely. "At least, not in my books. I think I was wrong about you, Agent Bristow. I think I understand you perfectly."
"You don't know me at all," Sydney protested, a slight quake in her voice.
Sark dropped her wrist, but did not back away. "Maybe not," he shrugged, the smirk back in place. They were so close, Sydney could feel his warm breath against her face when he spoke. She wanted to back away, but found herself mesmerized by his blue eyes. "But at least I've proved I'm human." He tapped her nose lightly, and then turned to the elderly lady who had watched their entire spectacle in perfect silence. "Mrs. Beresford, please take Ms. Thorne's measurements and then provide her with a full wardrobe."
He headed to the door, but then paused at level with Mrs. Beresford. "Oh, yes, I suppose Ms. Thorne will require a new set of bedding. When you're through, I'll speak with you about how her meals are to be delivered." And then he was gone, leaving Sydney with a million thoughts whirling through her head.
She stood in mute silence as Mrs. Beresford took her measurements and then answered her few simple questions about wardrobe preferences. "I should have your things ready for you by Sunday morning," Mrs. Beresford promised in her swift, no-nonsense voice.
"Thank you," Sydney said softly, not even expressing surprise at the swiftness the woman planned to do her shopping in.
Mrs. Beresford turned to leave, but then hesitated. "I know Julian would hate me for saying this, but it must be said. You affect him like no one I have ever seen, unless it was his poor father. I raised Julian until he left for boarding school. He has suffered many regrets. Now, I don't know if you are Julia Thorne or this Agent Bristow he calls you here. And I do not know your business or why he keeps you here, but he is a good employer…and even if he does not show it, he feels things very deeply. That is all."
Then she was gone, just as quickly as her employer. Sydney hastily sat down in an overstuffed chair, lest she fall down, and put a hand to her head. She remained there for most of the evening. She was vaguely aware of the servants who delivered dinner and new bedding, but she didn't pay any attention to them. She did not end up using the new bed sheets, falling asleep in the chair when her thoughts had all worked out.
She concluded that although Sark's past actions were excusable, he had been raised first by a very hard wet nurse in place of an absent father, and then Irina Derevko. It would be a shock if he wasn't confused or misguided. For most of his life, he had carried out her mother's orders- simply wishing to please the one woman who had shown him any kind of motherly affection. Sydney vowed to keep her temper around him and to be civil- to even cease any attempt at escape. Unless, of course, the opportune moment presented itself.
2 days later…
Sark grimaced as he realized he had read the same line at least twice in the Sunday London Times without taking any of it in. Disgusted, he tossed the paper down and tried to focus on his breakfast, which was steadily growing cold. It was this dining room that was doing it to him. It should have been a beautiful room. The walls were dark panelled wood. The central piece of furniture was the massive dining table he was sitting at- long enough to seat at least twenty people. One wall held a display case which boasted the impressive silverware collection of the Lazaery family- all inlaid with the Lazaery crest. It made Sark want to retch.
Even the long window giving an impressive view of the grounds couldn't cheer him up- particularly as the view this morning was foggy, damp and perfectly depressing. He hated England and he hated this house- his father's house. He didn't understand why he didn't just leave. His contacts had all responded and agreed on an initial meeting. He could be in Innsbruck now, getting everything ready. His staff was certainly capable of ensuring Sydney did not leave her room or, more importantly, the premises. He sighed, and put down his fork, having now come face to face with the real issue.
For some bizarre, twisted reason, he couldn't get Sydney off of his mind or, more specifically, their last heated exchange. And he knew rationally that if he wished to discuss it with her, it was a mere case of walking up a flight of stairs, yet he had been avoiding her like the plague. He knew why he was avoiding her, of course- yes, he was the perfect self-analyst. She made him lose control, made him say things he had never meant to say. That was a very dangerous thing for anyone in this business, but especially for someone with many weaknesses to hide. Weaknesses that if Agent Sydney Bristow sniffed out, she would use in the field.
Sark was distracted from his thoughts by the arrival of Lawrence Morgan. The old butler, one of three staff left over from his childhood, was carrying six enormous shopping bags. "Mrs. Beresford has completed Ms. Thorne's shopping and requests you take her things to her personally. And I would be most appreciative if you would fetch Ms. Thorne's bowl while you are upstairs. I despise that staircase."
Sark rose and took the bags from Lawrence. "You must be getting old, Lawrence."
"No, sir," Lawrence protested stoutly. "Merely lazy."
"Oh, good," Sark chuckled. "Wait- bowl? Did Ms. Thorne not have an omelette?"
"No, sir," Lawrence answered. "Nancy took it to her, but she asked if she might have Fruit Loops instead."
"Fruit Loops?" repeated Sark, staring at Lawrence incredulously.
"Yes, sir," Lawrence confirmed, not cracking a smile. "Ms. Thorne is a remarkable woman."
"That is most definitely putting it lightly," Sark said under his breath as he made his way to Sydney's rooms.
He paused outside, then let out an exasperated breath and rapped shortly on the door. "Come in!" sang out Sydney's voice. Steeling himself and vowing to give nothing away, he let himself in.
Sydney was dressed in the ridiculous nightgown from Tuscany. Her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders, she was eating soggy-looking Fruit Loops from a silver bowl and watching what looked suspiciously like Loony Toons. He paused for a moment, taking the scene in amusedly. This was not the woman he had watched with open admiration as she kicked the ass of anyone who stood in her way. He almost hated to intrude into her peace. "Good morning, Sydney," he finally greeted civilly.
Watching closely, he noticed her sharp intake of breath, but was otherwise shocked by her calmness. He was perfectly floored, however, when she turned to face him with a smile that was genuine and warm. He had always known Sydney was beautiful, but it wasn't until that moment that Sark felt the flooding warmth of the knowledge that a beautiful woman, just recently awake and natural, was smiling in happiness to see him. All his lovers would have given him a sly smile mirroring his own, nothing this sweet or…innocent. "Morning," she greeted, setting down the bowl. "I was beginning to wonder if you hadn't forgotten me."
"After our last exchange, I thought that would please you." He couldn't help himself.
Sydney blushed. He could interpret this blush perfectly. She was too proud to apologize, but she did regret at least some of what she had said. Sydney was now clearly looking for something to say, and her eyes landed on the soggy remains of her breakfast. "Fruit Loops?" she offered, picking up the bowl.
"No thanks," Sark smiled. "Could I sit down?"
"Oh, yeah, sure," nodded Sydney, sliding over to make room for him. He placed the bags between them on the couch.
"For you," he gestured.
"Seriously?" Sydney asked, surprised. She timidly began to pull things out of the bags. Watching her as she became clearly pleased, Sark couldn't help but smile. He had had a hand in Mrs. Beresford's selection, and it was obvious he had made the right decisions. She piled out everything neatly- two pairs of jeans, two pairs of tan cargo pants, 2 pairs of sweatpants, an assortment of coloured shirts and sweaters, a flowery skirt, a black jogging suit and two pairs of pyjamas- a decidedly sexy nightgown he was secretly dying to see her in and then a comfortable flannel set he could see she adored. Mrs. Beresford had also picked up a few feminine products and several books to help Sydney pass the time.
"Thank you," Sydney grinned, unabashedly. "Oh, jeans- I've been dying to wear a pair of jeans. I'm going to get changed right away!" She grabbed a pair of jeans and selected a simple red, full-length shirt, then dashed into the bathroom.
Sark waited patiently, flicking through the channels. He stopped on a 24-hour news network and broke into a grin. There was a picture of Sydney Bristow on the screen and the reporter was explaining that she had been missing since leaving a club in Venice with "two unidentified men who are assumed to be hostile." Sark could almost laugh. Not even a full week and the CIA had already turned to the public. Of course, they hadn't mentioned that one of the 'unidentified' men was an escape convict, but what could you expect from the US government?
The bedroom door opened and Sydney emerged. For the first time since they had met, Sark saw her freshly showered and with make up and clothes of her own choosing. She offered him another one of those grins and he almost felt sorry for Michael Vaughn. He hastily turned off the television. Suddenly it wasn't funny anymore.
He realized he was staring and averted his gaze. "Good to see you looking civilized again, Sydney," he said lightly.
"I'd look even more civilized if my hair weren't peroxide blonde," she sighed, coming to sit down again.
"It'll fade," Sark shrugged. "I still maintain blondes have more fun."
"Yes, well, you're slightly biased, aren't you?" She looked pointedly at his own blonde hair.
"Perhaps a little," he admitted.
Sydney leant back into the couch. "Well, organizing my new things should give me something to do," she said contently. "Yesterday was absolutely awful! I was actually glad to see you."
"Ah, that explains the grin," he commented. "I was slightly frightened for a moment."
"You remind me of Simon Walker," Sydney said unexpectedly, and in Sark's opinion, randomly.
"I didn't know you remembered Simon, save by what other people told you," Sark confessed.
Sydney shrugged. "I remember some things," she explained. "Enough to feel guilty."
"Guilty?" frowned Sark. He was eager for more of her confidences, so he tried to choose his words carefully. "Guilty for a grade A Covenant thief? That doesn't sound like you." He mentally winced. So much for encouraging conversation.
Sydney, however, smiled. "Guilty for using a man who wasn't necessarily all bad. I think he truly cared for me…or Julia. And he died just after realizing that I had betrayed him."
"I knew him better than you," Sark said, trying to think of something to ease her worries. "He was like me, we worked well together. If he hadn't died, he probably would have had you assassinated…or killed you himself." Sark chose to leave out the fact that Simon had vouched for Julia when his team had doubted her and that one night after speccing out a mission and drinking too much wine, Simon had mentioned 'maybe one day giving it up, settling down…if I could ever get Julia out of the game.' Sark was beginning to realize that Sydney affected the life of most men she met. She was the type of girl who was easy to fall in love with and put thoughts of 'settling down' into the mind of the worst rouge.
"Thanks, Sark," Sydney drawled. "That's really comforting."
"It is also the truth, which is more important," Sark said, then stopped. This scene was completely wrong. He was leaning into Sydney and he realized his hand was occasionally reaching out as though he wanted to stroke her leg, had even touched it lightly at that last comment. Even worse, he seemed to be wearing the most genuine smile he had worn since…since before he could remember. He immediately darted back, wiping the smile off his face. He stood up quickly, causing Sydney to look up, worried. "I have to be going," he said briskly. "I have business to attend to."
"Oh," Sydney actually looked slightly disappointed, but Sark chalked that up to her lack of company. "Any chance of seeing you again?"
Sark opened his mouth to say 'no,' but it came out as "Perhaps, it will depend on how long my business takes." Sydney nodded understandingly. He paused, then continued more slowly. "My business partner should not know you are here…he does not believe in keeping CIA agents alive and the Julia Thorne ruse would not work with him."
She nodded again. "I'll be quiet like a good little CIA agent," she promised with a half-grin.
Sark closed the door on her heading to the bedroom with an armful of clothes to organize to her heart's content. He walked down the hallway, grimacing. Oh yes, it was very easy to get attached to Sydney Anne Bristow. He realized with a groan that when he had said 'perhaps' he had meant 'yes' and that he was already contemplating a dinner menu for that night. This was not going to plan at all.
Los AngelesArvin Sloane had a look that Nadia hated. She had spent the past few months getting to know the man she was coming to love despite his dark past. She knew many of his faces- his irritated look, his angry look, his touched look and even his amused one. But the one face she hated above all was the one he wore now. She called it his 'game face', though 'poker face' would have worked as well. It was perfectly unreadable. Yet she had come to realize it meant nothing good in briefings such as these.
The briefing room was emptier than usual at APO without the magnetic personality of her half sister and the sturdy, silent presence of Jack Bristow. Marcus Dixon was sitting hunched in his chair, his dark, handsome face clouded with unseen fears that were not too difficult to guess at. Marshall Flinkman was nervously twitching his hand, causing his pen to roll across the table every five minutes. Eric Weiss, sitting next to Nadia, had begun to anticipate this and would roll the pen back without looking away from the map of India he was studying. Michael Vaughn, however, was by far the worst off of all gathered save when Jack- who was currently following a lead in New York- was around.
Nadia had once thought Vaughn to be in love with her sister. Although she was no longer certain if they were 'in' love, she could certainly appreciate the fact that they loved each other deeply. The man was a wreck without Sydney. He had returned from the disappointment of Austria and proceeded to drink steadily for the remainder of the day and night. Nadia could almost accept this, but the fact that Eric had felt the 'duty' to join him, had not exactly impressed her. As for herself? She hated the lonely house and missed the comforting presence of Sydney. But unlike anyone else at APO, she had faith in Sydney to take care of herself. She had the utmost certainty that Sydney would be rejoining them eventually. After all, she was a Derevko woman and the one thing Nadia had learned about the legacy she had entered was that a Derevko woman needed no man to look after her.
Her father's voice broke her reverie. "I regret to inform you that we seem to have run out of leads," he said, his tone honestly regretful. "Austria was, of course, an enormous disappointment, but just recently Agent Weiss' lead in India and Agent Bristow's contact in New York have turned out be dead ends." Eric made an exasperated noise and shoved the map away from him.
Sloane cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention to him once again. "But I am afraid I have more bad news. Langley has ordered us to cease our efforts. They wish to remind us that APO is an information agency, not a search and rescue organization." Her father's biting tone left no doubt as to what he thought of that little reminder.
"So that's it?" hissed Vaughn. "They just expect us to abandon her again?"
"That is exactly what they expect us to do, Agent Vaughn," Sloane responded. "Though, off the record, Jack is on extended leave until he is deemed emotionally stable to deal with the loss of his daughter. He will no doubt continue his search in this time. I have the utmost faith in him to recover Sydney."
"Permission to assist Agent Bristow?" Vaughn asked hopefully.
"Permission denied," Sloane said coldly. Vaughn threw down his pen and angrily stalked out of the room.
Sloane pressed a button on his intercom. "Security, please gently detain Agent Vaughn and convince him of the intelligence of returning to the debriefing room. Thank you." He offered the silent group a tight smile and the flashed the picture of a hulking Russian man on to the overhead screen.
"Igor Poladski," he said. "Former bodyguard of Irina Derevko. Privy to the running of her operations and now apparently willing to sell what he knows. We believe he may have recently come in contact with this man."
Vaughn was bodily tossed into the room just as Julian Sark's face flashed on to the screen. Sloane looked up at Vaughn with an undisguised smirk. "What a fortunate coincidence, don't you think, Agent Vaughn?"
"Perhaps I'll stick around after all," Vaughn said stiffly, taking his seat.
"Lovely," Sloane drawled.
Nadia couldn't suppress a grin, as usual, impressed by her father's cunning.
LondonFor the third time in a period of fifteen minutes, Sydney changed her mind as to which pair of pants she wanted to wear for the remainder of the day. This indecisiveness did not irritate her as it would have in any other circumstance. She had spent four straight hours reading the novels Mrs. Beresford had supplied her with and was thankful for a new way to pass the time. Every last one of the novels had turned out to be nothing more than drugstore smut paperbacks. Although the foolish stories of romance and sex certainly passed the time, they were not by any means Sydney's first literary choice.
She turned to look in the mirror and smile- finally pleased with her choice of tan-coloured pants, a black tank top and a green zippered jacket. She pulled her hair back in a sleek ponytail, and then flopped down on her couch with a heavy sigh. It wasn't as though she had anything to look forward to this evening- unless Sark chose to return. She had seen an Asian man arrive three hours ago. Listening carefully at her door, she had heard Sark address him as 'Ichino.' They had then proceeded to a closed off room, where they had remained closeted ever since.
Sydney found her thoughts drifting back to her captor many times during the afternoon- which might not have been so unusual had those thoughts been angry thoughts of revenge. Instead, she found herself replaying their last conversation, remembering the unusual warmth in his eyes that made him seem gentle, and even eagerly looking forward to the time when he might again pop into her luxurious prison. She desperately told herself that this was simply her loneliness speaking rather than any form of attachment to Sark.
If she was not thinking of him in a manner she could almost call 'fond,' she was desperately trying to figure out why he wanted to detain her in the first place. She had decided Sark must have planned out the entire scenario in Venice- possibly he was allied with Anna. It was clearly a way for him to finally escape CIA custody, but Sydney could not figure how taking her with him benefited him at all. Her unconscious body would have been more a hinder than anything. Sydney had looked at it from many different angles over the course of the afternoon and had finally come to the conclusion that she must know something that was of more importance than she knew- and Sark must need it.
It was by no means a comforting idea, for it most certainly meant a painful interrogation at some point in the distant future. She found herself trying to guess when it would start, and why Sark had made no reference to it as yet- if it was somehow playing into his plans to delay what Sydney now viewed as the inevitable. Despite his recent charm, which she supposed was a way to trap her into trusting him, Sydney would never tell him anything. "Bastard," she muttered. But it was very hard to say it convincingly when her mind kept seeing that genuine smile and feeling the lightest of touches against her leg.
A sudden burst of raised voices from downstairs distracted Sydney from her thoughts. One of the voices was recognizably Sark's and as the other was shouting angrily in Korean, Sydney assumed he was the man she had seen arrive earlier. She made her way to the 'front door' and pressed her ear against the door, trying to pick something up. She was not fluent in Korean, and Sark had dropped his voice again. She picked out the words 'hell' and 'furious', as well as 'foolish', all of which she decided were not at all encouraging. She tried her doorknob in vain, for of course it was locked from the outside. But then something happened that caused her to use drastic measures to get out of the room.
A loud gunshot rang out, followed by the loud moan of a wounded man. Another shot fired, and the moan cut off ominously. A sudden and uncalled for fear for Sark being shot rose in her throat and before she had thought out a plan of action, she had furiously kicked the door open. She burst into the hall, pleased to see Sark had not placed any guards on her door. She lit off down the hall, running as she had seldom ran before. She slipped down the stairs in relative silence, reasoning surprise would be her best defence against her declared enemy.
She burst into a room she supposed was Sark's office and without pausing, leapt up and delivered a forceful kick to the head of a man leaning over the body of another man. The kicked man staggered forward. "Fuck, Sydney!" cursed a very British voice. Sydney suppressed a gasp of relief and halted the punch intended to catch the man around the ear. Sark turned to glare at her angrily, but catching sight of her face, sighed heavily. Sydney said nothing more, just studied him. He was rather pale and still holding a smoking handgun. His blue eyes also looked suspiciously bloodshot. "How did you get out of your room?" he asked blankly.
"I kicked the door open," Sydney answered. "I didn't think about doing that until I thought you might need my help."
"Me? You were coming to help me?" Sark asked incredulously.
Sydney ignored the question, and moved to look at the dead body. He was about seventy. There were two bullet holes- one in his knee and the other in his jugular. "Who was he?" she demanded. "Why did you shoot him?"
Sark came over to stand beside her and brushed her cheek lightly. "Don't ask questions you know I can't answer, love," he cautioned. Sydney shuddered at his touch. "Still can't bear me touching you?" he asked wearily.
"No," Sydney said honestly. "You have blood on your hand."
Sark hastily lowered his hand. "I'm sorry…I bent down to check his pulse. I suppose it got on my hand." He peered at the bloodied hand, and Sydney realized he was quite shaken. She would never have thought murder would still upset Sark. God knows he was practised enough. She gently pried the gun out of his hand and left it lying on his desk. Gripping his unbloodied hand, she took him into the kitchen.
The kitchen was predictably large and spotless. There was an island with several high stools, and Sydney sat Sark down at one of these. She found a washcloth in one of the drawers and dampened it with hot water. Taking a bar of soap, she returned to Sark and gently began to scrub his hand. He watched her work silently. She didn't try to force conversation and even allowed Sark to rest his head on her shoulder. This new, vulnerable Sark was unexpected, but certainly a nice change. "There you go," she smiled, patting his hand. "Good as new."
"His name was Ichino Chow," Sark said suddenly, still staring blankly at his hand "He was my mentor as a child. He taught me marshal arts and how to fire a gun. He was like the father I always wanted. He always had time to listen to me. Whenever I would have a fight with my father…and there were plenty…or when he wouldn't show up when he said he would, I could always go to Master Ichino and just talk. Just say things that needed to be said."
Sydney was burning with questions, not the least of which was 'then, why did you kill him?' She half-suspected in his current state Sark might tell her, but she knew that it would hurt him dreadfully. She placed a finger against his lips. "You don't have to tell me," she said softly. "We don't have to talk about it, or anything."
Sark looked up at her for the first time and their eyes locked. Before Sydney was truly aware of what was happening, he was gently cupping her face and kissing her roughly. She pulled back, floored. Feeling the heated blush on her face, she looked down at the washcloth clutched in her hand. She leapt off the stool and wrung the cloth out in the sink. "You should do something quickly about the body," she said, fumbling for words. "I don't know if you have people who deal with that sort of thing, but it would raise unwanted questions if one of the staff find it."
"The staff know not to ask questions," Sark said, his voice dull and almost defeated. He took a lengthy pause. "Sydney, I'm sorry…I don't know why I did that."
Sydney hung the cloth up to dry and dried her hands on dish towel. "Don't worry about it," she shrugged. "I've already forgotten." Which was not true at all. She was actually in the process of trying to send him a mental plea to kiss her again. And it was killing her.
Sark gave her a tired smile. "Would you have dinner with me, Sydney?" he asked. "Just as friends…err…prisoner and jail master."
Sydney looked at Sark, unknowingly nibbling her bottom lip. "'Kay," she finally nodded in agreement.
He held out his hand and she took it. "What would you like to eat?" he asked, running his thumb up and down her hand. "We'll have to order in."
"I've been dying for pizza," Sydney said honestly.
"Pizza it is," Sark said, reaching for his cell phone.
The odd pair sat together in Sydney's sitting room and ate slice after slice of pizza, both of them putting aside their serious fitness routine for one night. The conversation was light, safe and full of laughter, pointedly kept on books, movies and music. There was no mention of Vaughn or Lauren, the CIA, Irina or the Covenant, and certainly no discussion of Sydney's prisoner status. Around eleven thirty, Sark got up and kissed Sydney good night on the forehead. She fell asleep shortly after, her mind spinning, and unsurprisingly dreamed of Sark.
The next morning, she was up at six and eagerly awaiting the visit from Sark she was sure was coming. She dressed and did her make up twice before deciding which version she liked best. At nine o'clock, a knock on her door set her heart racing and she hurried to let in the visitor she was sure Sark.
Instead she found Nancy, the maid who had taken to delivering all her meals, waiting with breakfast. Sydney posed her a few subtle questions, hoping to get some sort of revelation on Sark. When this was not forthcoming, she finally abandoned all subtlety and went for blunt forwardness. "Do you know what Mr. Sark is doing today?" she asked the maid she before she left the room.
"Mr. Sark left early this morning," Nancy answered. "I believe he is on his way to Innsbruck."
"Innsbruck?" repeated Sydney, disbelieving. "For how long?"
"Oh, he comes and goes. He doesn't like this house very much, I'm afraid. I understand it holds very few pleasant memories," Nancy shrugged. "He is quite fond of the home in Innsbruck, though. At the very least I should say six months."
She left with a wave, never suspecting that she had caused any distress. Sydney slouched down on her couch, feeling strangely abandon and empty.