5. Dance, Idiot, Dance
---
He spoke slowly, toneless, voice filled with rust. His head was pounding and his tongue felt too big in his mouth. "This is the worst road trip since King Louis and Marie Antionette fled to Austria."
The obscure history lesson fell on deaf ears. Sydney was seated shotgun beside Lennox, leaning over anxiously to grill the agent without mercy.
"Who sent you? Why? How did you find us?"
"Relax," Lennox commanded, navigating absently through the dense New York traffic. "You disappeared for two days, Syd. Aside from being the CIA's top field agent, you have a habit of getting kidnapped. They sent me out to make sure you were fine. Which you weren't."
Sark listened closely from the backseat of the sleek '02 Maserati coupe. He was strewn across the leather seat, limbs numb and body aching. The sedative had regressed only enough to leave him near-paralyzed and spectacularly belligerent.
He resumed complaining : "I don't care if you're CIA. You don't come to the rescue with anesthetic."
Sydney audaciously rolled her eyes. "Sark is morally opposed to tranquilizers."
Lennox smiled humorlessly. "Assassin - I assume he would be."
"Reformed," they chorused.
Shaking his head, Lennox cut through the packed, brutal lanes, horns blearing and lights flashing and hell, thought Sark, he'd never asked to be rescued.
"I tracked you to New York pretty easily. A friendly front desk clerk remembered you," Lennox explained, and shot a bemused smirk Sydney's way. She blushed vibrantly, and laughed.
Sark truly despised inside jokes.
"Sark's suite was destroyed and there was a dead body in the kitchen. No sign of either of you. I could practically hear your father having a heart attack through the phone," Lennox noted. "I ran a check of the dead assassin through the database and found his group. Just some mercenaries, making a buck from amateur murders. I found one prowling Long Island and shadowed him until he led me to you two."
"Amazing. You can follow standard field tactics," Sark muttered.
Sydney turned in her seat to glare. "Hilarious, Julian. You here all week?"
"I have questions, Syd," Lennox said.
She shrugged. "I thought you were retired from the field, Jim."
"I am. I'm a scout now – no guns, no aliases. I listen and I report. These days it's just tracking devices and tranqs."
He parked the Maserati in a reserved spot on the curb in front of a massive high-rise building, twenty levels of granite and glass and money. "There's a safehouse upstairs," he supplied. "I'd get you out of the city but they're monitoring the roads, and we can't go on foot with Mr. Badass here in his condition."
"And whose fault is that, you puerile bastard?" Sark replied, the insult stunted by the low, lethargic delivery.
"I thought the Long Island safehouse was on Lynbrook," Sydney wondered.
Lennox fixed her with a strange look. "It was, three years ago."
There was a brief, scalding flash of pain in her eyes, and she smiled. "Ah. I was… away, for a few years. Evil shadow organization with a yen for brainwashing. The Lynbrook house was compromised?"
"By termites, yes."
"I love the safehouse in Amarillo. I had to hide out from a drug czar who was selling antipyrine-laced heroin – he sent this whole army of goons out looking for me. I was there for almost a week. The furniture, the architecture, the view… it was heaven."
"I don't usually take time to admire safehouses," Lennox admitted. "Ever see the one in Brunswick?"
"Sydney?" Sark asked calmly. "Not to interrupt your scintillating chat, but would you mind puncturing my eardrums with a screwdriver? I'd do it myself, but I'm fucking paralyzed. Thank you."
Taking the hint, Lennox switched off the engine of the Maserati. Sydney went about the dangerous task of moving a half-unconscious Julian Sark.
Lennox led the way, opening and holding doors for the encumbered Sydney, half-carrying Sark as he stumbled clumsily with his arm thrown heavily across her shoulders. They made it to the elevator without the former assassin collapsing in a cacophony of deadened limbs and free profanity.
The CIA-bought apartment was on the top floor. In the elevator they were joined by a white-haired woman holding flowers and dressed in shades of sea foam green.
Flanked by Lennox and Sydney, Sark swayed dangerously on his feet, reawakening muscles spasming at random, and dropped his head onto her shoulder. Sydney smiled in nervous politeness at the tiny old lady beside them.
"Oh, my," the woman exclaimed. "You're young man doesn't look too well, does he? Is he ill, poor thing?"
Sark spoke without lifting his head, in a flat, humorless voice, before Sydney could make any other reply : "I've just come from a 38-hour run on red Methamphetamine and am currently on my way upstairs to sleep it off before I snort a few grams of heroin and engage in a three-way with my girlfriend and this guy here whose name I can't remember. Love your hat, by the way, very 20's retro."
Sydney elbowed him, but it was too late. The fragile elderly lady stared uncomprehending at Sark, at a loss for words. She ushered out of the elevator at the next stop.
"Or," said Sydney to the silence of the elevator, "you could have just said 'Something I ate'."
---
He was in the habit of taking things for granted -
Granted, there wasn't much for him to take.
And the only thing constant was the constant reminder he'd never change.
- Hot Hot Heat, You Owe Me an IOU
"It is true that events lasting only a moment may achieve more than a courtship lasting a year."
- Alexandre Dumas, La Dame aux Camelias
---
She told Lennox to find some aspirin. She escorted Sark into the bedroom.
The apartment was a sprawling, silent loft – modern, beautiful, and impersonal. Tasteful leather furniture and photographs of strangers on the wall, all the pieces were placed with care, yet no one would ever make the mistake of thinking anyone actually lived there. This apartment held ghosts, memories of blood and fright, and it was exactly like every safehouse Sydney had ever been in.
"I hate these places," Sark announced viciously, a mind-reader drunk on anesthetic.
Without comment Sydney pushed him toward the bed, tugging off his ruined Armani in unhalting efficiency.
He would have been wolfish, smirking, drawling innuendos with his accent heightened just so, but his mind was spinning and he felt like crap. Fate again, adamantly against him; Sydney Bristow was tearing off his clothes and he was too damn tired to exploit it.
She stripped him to his undershirt and boxers. "For the record," he mumbled, "I'm being devilishly suave."
Sydney shoved him onto the bed and arranged the pillows under his head. She closed the drapes and switched off the lights, and he was asleep before she softly kissed him goodnight.
---
"Then you showed up and saved the day."
Lennox watched her carefully, seated beside him on the arm of a low leather couch. This was Sydney Bristow, blood and bone, looking small and dark and out of her depth. Lennox remembered her - in Cayo Concha, at the freight yard in Poland, at the CIA headquarters - three years and a thousand scars ago, and wondered if even she knew the secrets hidden her voice. Intoxicating.
"I understand why Sark would run off with you," Lennox said slowly, leaning casually back. "But why would you run off with Sark?"
Hours had passed and night had fallen. They sat in the open livingroom, illuminated in shades of grey and indigo, moonlight slicing clear through the glass sliding doors of the balcony.
She was irritable, tired – impatience was evident in her voice. "I told you everything, Jim. Sloane put a hit out on both of us."
"You really believe that?"
Sydney didn't answer. She fixed him with an empty gaze and spoke with silence.
Lennox let out a grunt of frustration. "Have you ever considered that it's a trap? Sydney, this is Julian Sark we're talking about. Julian Sark. I'd have to take off my shoes to count how many times he's made the Most Wanted list. I'm not saying Arvin Sloane is exactly Employee of the Year, but Christ, he's Director of A.P.O.. Why would he want you dead?"
"How do you know about A.P.O.?" she asked quietly.
He laughed hollowly. "God, Syd, you trust nobody but him, do you? I was assigned to find you. Don't you think they'd tell me what your job is these days?"
"I'm sorry, Jim," Sydney burst, exhaustion slicing through the stone expression of her eyes. "I know you're trying to help. Of course I've considered Julian is lying. Of course I know his background – damnit, I was practically the only agent trying to stop him until he was arrested! He's killed, tortured or blackmailed practically everyone in my address book. But he's telling me he's changed and I believe him."
He didn't look at her. Lennox reached across the coffee table and picked up a sterling silver letter opener, tediously running his finger along the dull blade. "So you think Arvin Sloane is trying to kill you. What makes you believe Sark isn't lying?"
She closed her eyes, bit her lip, spoke barely above a whisper : "Because I know what it feels like to be terrified of yourself."
He showed no signs of listening. Continuing his obscure fascination, he held the letter opener inches from his face, breath against the silver blade. "What else are you terrified of, Sydney?"
Something was wrong here. It clicked in Sydney's brain, an internal warning, a sudden rush of blood in her veins. She moved to her feet. "Jim, are we safe here?"
Lennox shrugged, finally returning the letter opener to the table. "Not really," he said. "You're just as likely to be found here than in any other place on Long Island. We'll be fine for a while, but I wouldn't suggest holding fort here for more than a day." He smirked. "Who knows, you could be found already. Goes with the trade, sweetheart."
"Call your handler," she instructed. "Tell them you found Agent Bristow, alone. Just… tell them I was on vacation. Will you do that for me, Jim?"
Lennox smiled, squeezing her arm in a sudden show of affection. "Anything for you, Bristow. What are friends for?"
Sydney nodded softly, watching him head for the door – payphones were standard field procedure when contacting headquarters. She stood alone in the darkness as he shut the door behind him.
Silence. She could hear her breath, harsh, loud.
Sydney turned and headed down the narrow hallway into the bedroom. It was pitch-black.
A hand covered her mouth from behind.
She would have screamed. She would have thrashed. She would have thrown the assailant over her shoulder and broken all twelve of his ribs with a single kick. Woulda, coulda, shoulda. She recognized the scent of him instantly.
"Scared of the dark, love?" Sark whispered in her ear.
"It's the monster in the closet that keeps me awake, Julian," she answered against his palm.
She felt him laugh deep in his chest, pressed flush against him with his free arm wrapped tight around her waist. Fully recovered from the tranquilizer dart, Sark was alert, agitated, and looking for a fight.
The variety of the fight was mildly worrisome. "Sharpening your skills or just trying to spook me?" she wondered.
"Boredom, I'm afraid," he said. "Where's Agent Lollipop got to?"
Sydney turned in his grasp, shaking off his hand from her mouth. "Following protocol and updating his handler like the good little government agent I haven't been. I told him we're not going anywhere near Los Angeles anytime soon."
She couldn't see his smirk in the heavy darkness, but felt it like a sixth sense. "Excellent," he remarked. "Then I'd like to have my wicked way with you now, if that's alright?"
Sydney scoffed. "Permission? That's new."
"I'm sick of waiting."
He was out of breath before he even began kissing her.
---
The sudden flash of light was near-blinding. Lennox grimaced, blinking quickly, and walked silently into the immaculately furnished kitchen.
He was listening, idle of his surroundings, to the autocratic voice spitting through the cellphone plastered to his ear.
"I know the objective," he said shortly, and was instantly cut off by the continuing spiel of the speaker.
Distracted, Lennox leaned against the steel countertop, immersed detachedly in the repeated orders being recited vehemently by Sloane.
"I know you want them dead before sunrise," Lennox said tersely through clenched teeth. "I have to wait until I can get them off-guard and apart. I'm no match for Bristow if she's armed and ready. And Sark… hell, who knows how creative he can be if he sees me aiming a gun at him? There's no fucking chance I'm going to test his newfound good will when there's a Beretta in the mix."
Sloane again took control of the conversation, a constant flow of hissing words streaming through the phone's speaker.
"No. She has no idea," Lennox assured. "She never even mentioned Santos."
He paused to listen, glaring motiveless into space.
"They're in the bedroom," he answered. "What do you mean, did I check? Yeah, they're preoccupied. They're all over eachother."
He shifted on his feet, left to right.
"Yeah, yeah," he grunted. "I'll kill 'em in a minute. Shit, I've been Mr. Sensitivity all day, I'm tired…"
A final curt warning was issued and the line went dead. Lennox pocketed the cellphone and rolled his eyes, incensed.
Suddenly, decisively, he moved across the kitchen and yanked open a drawer. A dull shine reflected off the silverware inside, a long row of forks, spoons, and wide variety of knives.
---
She tasted like… well, he'd say water, but the absurdity would outweigh the poetic. She tasted like fine wine and salvation.
He spared one hand to reach back and fling the door shut. His other was reserved for tangling through Sydney's hair, pulling her closer, fervent, zealous, parting her teeth with his tongue.
Heaven or Hell, given the choice, Sark would declare it Purgatory. Dreams met chaotically with reality, the Sometime Future colliding head-on with the Now, unexpected, undeserved – memories lashed at him even with the sensory overload of Sydney Bristow catching her legs around his waist to be lifted off the ground.
Sark didn't have time (inclination) to think (obsess) as he slid his hand over the ruffled material of that damn cutesy little pheasant skirt Sydney had worn to the baseball game, a day and a dive through Little Neck Bay ago. He carried her readily to the low dresser beside the bedroom door, setting her down lightly as he ran his fingers through her thick dark hair – a tendencing bordering on fetish – and attacked her neck with his mouth. He felt, rather than heard, her sudden easy laughter.
"You missed the bed by a good ten feet," she noted, her voice low, sultry, and hell, thought Sark, he couldn't touch her fast enough.
"That's what I love about you," he answered, his mouth disengaged by the neccessity (the intoxication) of Sydney tugging his shirt off over his head. "Such high expectations."
She had short, blunt fingernails. He let out a demoralizing gasp when she ran them across his chest.
---
Steak knives, paring knives, butter knives. After a brief inspection, Lennox shut the drawer.
He stepped back to make a visual sweep of the kitchen. Calmly he walked over to the sink and swung open the cabinet beneath. A cluster of jugs and bottles greeted him, bleach, liquid soap, Draino. Labels screamed ingredients at him : sodium hypochlorite, ethylene glycol, hydrogen peroxide.
Headlining the labels were cheerful warnings against ingestion.
---
The enterprise to find the bed had again failed. An obscurely willing Sydney was caught between Sark and the hardwood floor.
For all he knew, the world existed solely of flawless pale skin and echoes of Sydney's laughter. A month ago in prison he had envisioned rose petals and candlelight, '89 Cabernet Sauvignon and slow kisses to quench his thirst – nothing like this, mischievous fumbling on the edge of exhaustion. This was not how Julian Sark would make love to his goddess, spirited and playful, not the burning simplicity with which she now saucily bit his shoulder.
This was too slight, too trifling, too effortless, after a lifetime of indistinct hunger. But it was euphoria, exquisite, and Sydney had soft, nimble fingers.
Sark finally mastered the last button of her cotton blouse. "I had a plan, you know," he murmured, tossing the shirt aside. "Before the grand epiphany. A great, masterful plan."
Her tongue was doing artful things to his collar bone. Sark half-forgot what he was saying, neither paying attention to his hazy explanation.
He ran a finger along her spine, speaking haltingly. "I was going to steal billions, topple governments. Plural, Sydney – I was going to crumble the whole fucking world. The only sticking point was how to trick you into being my evil queen."
Sydney insistantly raked her nails along his scalp. "Stop talking so much."
---
Frowning, Lennox fumbled around in the cabinet of chemical bottles. Finally, he struck gold.
He withdrew a flask of Windex and a soft dish sponge.
Carefully, obsessively, he took the 9mm. Silencer pistol from his jacket holster, engaged the safety, and began polishing the loaded bullet chamber.