Title by Bif Naked, quote by Fall Out Boy.
III. Moment of Weakness
I'm having another episode.
I just need a stronger dose.
Sark had severe misgivings about allowing Sydney to regain consciousness. Last night she had cried until she was literally unable to breathe, and the sedative had been his only option. What if nothing had changed, and whatever madness had come over her was triggered again? He had another syringe in hand, just in case, but he couldn't just medicate her indefinitely.
If all else failed, he would hand her over to the CIA for a hefty price, and they could medicate her indefinitely. He wouldn't put it past them to keep a crazed woman in a coma in the hope of eventually finding a remedy. In fact, somehow it sounded just their style.
He passed the syringe from hand to hand. The prospect of helplessly watching another breakdown had him very definitely on edge.
Sydney's eyelashes fluttered. Without exactly meaning to, Sark moved closer, perched on the edge of the bed. Looking down at Bristow, he experienced a moment of acute self-condemnation. After two years in federal custody, what demented part of his brain had thought it wise to pick a supposedly dead CIA agent off the street? Especially this one.
The somewhat pathetic truth was that when it came down to it, he couldn't say no to the soaking wet, freezing cold woman who had asked for his help. There was almost certainly some kind of deep psychological trigger stemming from a childhood of being abused, then abandoned, shoved into an unsympathetic world at much too young an age—but Sark very rarely felt all that inclined to dwell on psychology. It was the worst of the sciences, taking the things one knew from common sense and combining it with things one never wanted to think about in the first place.
As she slowly drifted out of her forcefully induced sleep, Sydney murmured inaudibly. Then her eyes snapped open with startling abruptness. With one hand poised on the syringe, Sark leaned cautiously into her field of vision. "Are you awake—?" He nearly called her by name, but decided that might not be wise.
When Sydney gave him a look that as good as called him an idiot for asking that question, he suspected for the first time that it might actually turn out all right.
"Sark," she said flatly.
"Yes."
"Your hair is shorter."
And you are the demented woman who had me at my wit's end last night.
"Though I believe my hairstyle is the least of our concerns at the moment, you are correct." He hesitated. "Might I ask how you're still alive?"
She wasn't looking at him. Sydney stared fixedly at the ceiling. She swallowed hard, and for the first time it occurred to Sark that this bout of lucidity was costing her a tremendous amount of effort. "I paid for a procedure," she said in a strained voice, "to erase my memories of the last two years."
"I . . . see." That hadn't answered his question, but he thought it unwise to bring that up for the time being.
"It didn't work," Sydney admitted unnecessarily. Tears were welling up in her eyes. "I should have known . . . it's very experimental. Until I saw you, almost everything was gone. The—" She gasped for a deep breath, and Sark's hand tightened on the syringe. "The familiar face . . . must have acted as a trigger, but . . . now everything's jumbled up, and I can't . . . can't remember . . ."
The words faded from her lips, and she began to shake, the tears beginning to pour down her cheeks.
"Miss Bristow," Sark said loudly, ignoring the twisting feeling in his gut. "Sydney."
"Do it," she choked. "Just—"
He paused with the tip of the needle resting against her skin. "Just what?"
"Promise me . . . that you'll help. Promise!" she repeated, vehement through her gritted teeth, reaching out blindly to grasp his forearm like a vise. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but a few tears had already escaped.
"I promise, Sydney." Good lord, her fingernails were long. He'd be lucky if she didn't draw blood.
He injected her and waited for the drug to take effect. Slowly, her grip on him went slack, and as her face smoothed into an impassive mask of sleep she spoke, so softly he had to lean close to hear.
"Liked your hair better . . . the other way . . ."
He shook his head and set the syringe on the bedside table. Leave it to Agent Bristow.
The sedative had worked its magic once again, but Sark couldn't help noticing his complete lack of any real progress. He had only a vague idea of what was going on, and no means whatsoever of dealing with it. Sydney being unconscious didn't exactly count as a victory, he mused, contemplating the five deep crescents dug into his skin. The sooner he could help fix her and be on his way, the better. As much as he hated to admit it, there was something profoundly disturbing about this version of Sydney so unlike herself.
What in the world had happened to the real Sydney Bristow, the inexplicably sentimental CIA agent with a chip on her shoulder and a real knack for turning men down without an ounce of tact? And what was the world coming to when he actually missed her?