They lay amongst her clothes on the bed, a pair of jeans near the pillows and a cardigan hanging off the foot of the bed.
I am going crazy, she thought. Absofuckinglutely crazy.
"Sydney, did you know," Sark's eyes were closed where he lay next to her, his shirt unbuttoned and his slacks half off, "That 'fuck' is the only infix in English?"
She did actually know that. "Um, yeah? What has that got to do with… anything?"
"It's just funny," he laughed out loud. "Of all the words that you could stick in the middle of another word, you know?"
"Grow up," she rolled her eyes. Where were her pants? Where were her underwear? Where had she left her goddamn mind?
"Oh, c'mon," he smiled, "I know you're not really this uptight."
She just stared at him, but she could feel a smile beginning to tweak the muscles in her cheeks. Her lips did this funny quivering thing, when she was trying to keep from laughing.
"Oh, oh—" he sat up and peered at her, like he was trying to figure her out, "Is that… a smile I see? Is it possible? Agent Sydney is not immune to laughter?"
She did laugh then, a little. Then a lot. Oh my god, were they having… a moment? She thought this would be a moment-free ordeal.
"Good GOD!" he exclaimed, "That was harder than making you come!"
Oh. Not fair. She turned on him then, tickling him mercilessly. As they play-fought and wrestled amongst the clothes and the wreckage of her marriage bed, she was curiously aware of the weight of her own body; she had observed, it was like you were weightless, until you touched another person. Only then did you notice how heavy a body can be, when it's not carrying itself around under its own volition.
"Sark, stop it!" she shrieked as he tickled her under her arms. "I mean it, AUUUUGH!"
As abruptly as they began, he stopped when she asked. They lay on their sides, looking at each other, still giggling a little.
She raised up on one elbow and leaned over his face. Gently, so gently, she brushed her lips against his and felt the goose bumps between her shoulder blades. For once, she didn't want to be rough, and it was so… hot. Damn, she thought as she felt his tongue slide against hers, this is the most normal kiss I've given anyone in years.
Jack went directly to the office after his meet with Sydney. He needed the Wells file, and pronto. He wanted an end to this game Sark was playing, and fast.
As a senior operative who ran a string of junior operatives, Jack had clearance above and beyond what most of his own agents did. It came in handy, now and then. Now was one of those times.
He went into his office and sat down at the computer. Login ID: bristowjd. Password: L-a-u-r-a.
He didn't know why he hadn't bothered to change his password from Irina's alias, after all these years. It seemed so obvious, but… Jack was perhaps a bit of a masochist.
The analyst database was a labyrinthine system, one it took most new analysts out of college the better part of a year to get a handle on searching. This was partly due to the massive amount of data stored in the warehouse, but also to the ineptitude of the CIA at designing proprietary database software. He often wondered how the CIA managed to stay ahead of most of its targets, when their information store looked like something built on MS Access by a 2nd year IT student.
Jack queried Wells' name. Bingo.
Daniel Asher Wells. Born 1978, Leeds, UK. Educated at Penbroke Boarding and Preparatory School for Boys, County Devonshire. His name was on a list of boys who were subjected, as 6 and 7 year olds, to the agent training that was administered as a part of a government-funded research project. The UK version of Project Christmas. Another name on the list? Julian Alexsandr Sark.
Jack shook off guilt about what his work had lead to—this, indirectly—and kept researching.
Graduated, 1997. Known operative of the Alliance at 18.
So, Mr. Wells had also found himself a place as a lapdog in the same organization as Sloane, Jack noted.
Wells taken into MI6 custody after raid conducted on Cell SD-4; he had been incarcerated briefly following the worldwide fall of the Alliance.
Released from MI-6 custody in 2001. Freelancer. Specializations included wet work, intel acquisition involving torture, languages, chemistry.
Recently, Wells had been spotted in Italy, Hungary, Romania—wait, Romania. Bucharest. That was where Lazarey had lived with Anastasia when Sark had been born.
What was Mr. Wells up to in Bucharest?
Jack sped-read the file, then clicked on the folder containing scans of surveillance photos.
Wells was youngish, with brown curly hair and a smattering of freckles. Maybe 6'2", a little husky. 170 pounds plus, Jack decided.
Most of the photos showed nothing—nothing interesting to Jack, anyway.
They had put a trace on Wells' cell phone. Jack printed the list of numbers dialed, inbound and outbound.
Of course, this being a cell phone, the incoming calls didn't list the number that the call was coming from, only the time and the duration.
He stashed it in the folder he was compiling for Sark to go through later. Let him pour over the records; Jack had a headache and didn't feel like going blind.
He printed a few more records before shutting down his computer and heading out.
They were still lying on the bed when her cell phone started ringing in the other room.
"Shit," Sydney said, jumping up off the bed. She pulled a man's dress shirt out of the pile on the floor and wrapped it around her as she pattered into the living room where her purse lay.
"This is Bristow," she said in a rush, flipping the phone open.
"Sydney, it's me," Jack's voice crackled with a touch of static. "I've got the intel on Wells."
"Oh, Dad," she felt relief begin to flush over her. "Where are you?"
"I'm at the end of your street, I assumed you went home to get some clothes."
Oh. Shit.
"Uhh, Dad, I can come get the file from you," she said, running into the bedroom and motioning wildly at Sark, who didn't seem to be moving with nearly the kind of rapidity that she wanted him to. "You didn't have to come all this way."
Sark looked at her with an amused smile flickering across his lip, but he did start buttoning up his shirt.
"Nevermind," Jack said, "I'm already here."
Beep.
"Get dressed!" she ordered Sark, who was still half naked on the bed.
"Am I about to meet my death, then?" Sark didn't look worried at all. "Was that Vaughn?"
"No!" she shrieked, even more worried than if it had been Vaughn, "It's my dad, get your pants on."
Doorbell.
She pulled on some sweatpants and ran to the door.
"Hi!" she said, a little too brightly, and smiled a giant smile at Jack.
"Hello," Jack peered around her and she leaned in the direction he was looking. "Is this… a bad time?"
"A what? No, no! Of course not," she stammered. "Come right on in."
She stepped aside then so that Jack could enter the foyer.
She was aware of how she looked. Her cheeks were flushed, even where her cheek was bruised, hair disheveled, she was wearing a man's button-down and a pair of faded blue sweatpants that said UCLA down one leg and Bruins down the other. No shoes. She stank of sex, she was sure of it.
Jack took her in and walked silently into the kitchen. He threw the intel on the kitchen table with a splat.
Just then, there was a dull thump from the bedroom.
"Is… Vaughn home?" Jack asked, already knowing the answer. "I didn't see his car in the garage."
"Yeah," Sydney said.
"'Yeah,' Vaughn is here, or 'Yeah' his car is gone?" Jack glowered at her and she could feel her cheeks turn an even deeper shade of scarlet.
Is Sark here? Jack mouthed. Her silence made him roll his eyes.
"Sark," her father raised his voice, "Why don't you come out here?"
She wanted to throw up, or maybe run away—or maybe both. This was possibly more embarrassing than when the CIA had found the bug in the VCR and everyone in the office saw her and Vaughn fucking each other's brains out.
Sark emerged from the hallway—he wasn't walking, he was strolling. Hands in pockets, shirt untucked, and barefoot. His calmness infuriated her beyond comprehension; how could he be so nonchalant about facing her father, in… their house. She was disgusted with herself for letting him stay and take liberties with her, and at him for presuming he could.
He and Jack stood, staring at each other, for what seemed like an eternity.
"Jack," Sark said at last, tipping his chin defiantly up at her father, "Good to see you again."
"Sark," Jack replied, his voice low, "I wish I could return the sentiment."
They both glanced at Sydney.
"Sweetheart," her father said, "Can you give us a minute?"
"Um…" She wasn't sure they wouldn't kill each other. "Ok?" She slipped on her running shoes and went outside. She shivered in the night air as she sank down in one of the deckchairs on their back patio. She liked these chairs.