For what it's worth, I'm always appreciative of response, feedback, critique, etc. in the form of reviews. Many thanks to Rach2503 and Sailor Star8, the only people who done so. You guys made me a happy writer! :)
Title by the Monkees, quote by Coldplay.
V. Early Morning Blues and Greens
When the tears come streaming down your face… when you lose something
you can't replace… when you love someone, but it goes to waste… could it be worse?
Lights will guide you home and ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you.
Though most people found it disconcerting, Sydney had gotten used to waking up in a strange place years ago. That discomfort was something she had put behind her, like the effects of jet lag and the kick of an assault rifle. However, opening her eyes to find Sark studying her thoughtfully from less than two feet away . . . where he lay in the same bed . . . was really more than a career in the CIA had prepared her for.
Her first reaction was to shut her eyes. Then it occurred to her that if the 'I can't see you, so you can't see me' logic didn't work for toddlers, she probably wouldn't have much more success. Her next tactic was to go on the offensive. "What?" she asked as belligerently as she could manage first thing in the morning.
"You really are an extraordinarily beautiful woman, Sydney."
Oh.
Well . . .
That wasn't what she'd been expecting.
Sark, somewhat to his own chagrin, meant every word. He'd woken up about twenty-five minutes earlier, and the traffic outside had prevented him from rolling over and going back to sleep, despite his best efforts. Without precisely meaning to, he'd found himself watching the CIA agent next to him. Asleep, she didn't look stern or businesslike or stubborn or passionate or any of the other words he typically associated with Sydney Bristow.
She looked . . . peaceful. Remarkably so.
And gorgeous, of course, but she would have to disguise herself as a seventy-year-old woman to avoid that. Her face was a fascinating study in contrasts, when examined at one's leisure, he discovered. Sharp lines of her cheekbones, jaw, and nose, set against the arch of her eyebrows and the curve of those full lips.
When Sydney said 'what?', his response came naturally. It was, after all, the truth. Besides, his morning lethargy made him atypically mellow.
Sydney, however, was unaware of all of this, and as she looked into his impenetrable blue eyes she was certain that she was being mocked. "Shove it, Sark," she growled, swinging her legs out from under the covers and stalking into the bathroom
"When can we get out of here?" she asked as soon as she emerged, arms crossed over her chest. Sark was still in the bed, looking reluctant to move.
Rather than answer, he countered with another question. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine," she said in a curt tone that brooked no opposition.
"How nice for you." He sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. "An honest answer, please, Miss Bristow."
She opened her mouth, closed it, and pressed her lips together in frustration. "I just want to get out of this damn hotel."
"I couldn't agree more," he replied, standing up and stretching his arms. "To that end, I suggest we relocate to my safehouse in Galway."
"We," Sydney repeated in a flat, deadly tone.
"Yes. Unless, of course, you feel that you no longer require assistance."
"I feel that I no longer require yours."
"Really." His smirk was utterly humorless.
She sighed, tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and tried to sound a little more placating. "I'm grateful for what you've done, Sark. I am. Even though I'm sure your only motive was to put me in the position of owing you a favor, I appreciate your help. But I think I've got it from here."
His lips thinned, but he nodded. "So what's the plan? Waltz back to the agency and say . . . what, exactly?"
Sydney was ready with an answer to that—and the second she opened her mouth, the answer vanished. What was she going to say? Well, obviously she'd tell them that the Alliance had taken . . . no. Not the Alliance, the . . . the . . . shit. She knew the name. She knew it. The Alliance was gone; she'd help bring it down just a few months . . . a few years ago. With Vaughn. Yes.
"Where are those pages?" she asked as haughtily as possible. "I'll take them with me."
"And here I thought you didn't need my help anymore. You can't even think of your story, can you?"
"I know what happened!"
"Then tell me," Sark challenged her. Watching her, he felt almost guilty—he knew she couldn't do it—but he had a point to prove. Besides, he hadn't the slightest intention of putting Sydney on a plane to Los Angeles before she managed to get her head on straight. Actually, he had no intention of putting her on a plane at all, certainly not alone—not if his nascent plan unfolded as he hoped it would.
Sydney glared at him, but he could see the panic behind the anger. "I know," she repeated stubbornly. "I just . . . I just can't . . ." Her fists clenched.
Then, unfortunately, she started to hyperventilate, which was not part of his plan.
Fresh out of paper bags and good ideas, he opted for Plan C: grabbing her shoulders tightly. "Sydney! Sydney, look at me! Breathe!" Her eyes moved in the direction of his voice, but they were as hopelessly glazed as they had been the very first night. Her face conveyed the same expression of pure agony that had alarmed him then, and it was having the same effect now.
"Dad," she whimpered—which caught Sark's attention, because it wasn't 'Vaughn,' and that made it something of a novelty.
"Sydney, listen to me!"
It was as if he weren't there at all. Her mouth wavered, and then she let out a muffled wail, covering her face with her hands. At that point, Sark gave in to the inevitability of doing what he'd known would become necessary as soon as her breakdown began. There wasn't enough for a full dose, but he knew it would be enough to keep her unconscious—and, by corollary, breathing—for the time he needed.
"I'm sorry, Sydney," he murmured, brushing strands of long brown hair away from her face. "It seems you no longer have a choice in the matter."