Disclaimer: See Prologue.
A/N: Agent Pheonix: this story is strictly Sarkney-centric (oOo… sibilance :-P). The only way another character appears in this story is if they're mentioned by Sark or Syd. Also, remember that these little conversations aren't in chronological order except for the first conversation and the last that is yet to come. Thanks to everyone for reviewing, I look forward to those reviews as much as you look forward to this story, which, I hope, is a lot. Enjoy! P.S. The following chapter is rated for language. I never speak this way, but I can't say the same for Mr. Sark.
"So you're back, are you?"
"Clearly."
"This is the seventh time you've showed up. To which of my numerous crimes should I attribute such an impressive show of devotion?"
"I'm not here for the CIA, Sark."
"What then? Are you here for your own bloody amusement?"
"No."
"That's it? I get nothing else from you? But of course... you're the great Sydney Bristow, the ultra spy, the keeper of secrets, the Chosen One—god, how I hate that man."
"Who?"
"Rambaldi."
She smirked. "Tell me about it."
"Then again, without him, I would be several million dollars poorer."
"In blood money."
"Money is money."
She didn't respond.
He gave her a sideways glance. "Today's my birthday."
"How can you tell?"
"I counted. Haircuts help me keep track." He sneered. "Do you think the guards will surprise me with a present on the way to the showers, Agent Bristow?"
"I've never seen you bitter before, Sark. Cynical, yes. Sarcastic, arrogant, deceitful. But never bitter."
"Been in here too long. Too bloody long. You know, I've forgotten what chocolate tastes like."
"Didn't know you like chocolate."
"I don't really. But how bloody long does it take to forget chocolate?" He shook his head. "I hate this place. More than any other place I've ever had the misfortune of visiting. Even that bloody glacier in the middle of bloody nowhere is better than this hellhole—and that's after you drove the ice-pick through my leg."
"I'm sorry, Julian."
"Stop saying that! Of all things, I don't need your fucking pity!"
"Sark, you'll get through this--"
"Just shut up, Sydney. Bloody hell! Leave me alone for one fucking minute!"
The sound of his harsh breathing filled the room. After a few heated moments...
"Velvet."
"What?"
"It taste like velvet. Smooth and rich. Depending on what type, it can be sweet and sharp. Tangy, salty. It coats your entire mouth in warmth. It draws a blissful moan from your lips. I like dark chocolate the best. It's bittersweet. Like reality. Like life... That's what chocolate tastes like."
A pause. A smile. "Thank you, Sydney."
Softly, "Happy birthday, Julian."