Title by Lordi, quote by Dostoevsky.
VIII. It Snows in Hell
As a general rule, people, even the wicked, are
much more naïve and simple-hearted than we suppose.
And we ourselves are, too.
"I'm afraid I'll have to respectfully decline."
Sydney exhaled in a gust, more relieved than she would have liked to admit.
"At least, I cannot accept the full extent of your offer."
And there it was again, a tense knot running straight from her chest to her trigger finger. Shit. That stupid, traitorous, manipulative . . .
"I'm not interested in becoming anyone's operative at the moment. I realize I have held certain alliances in the past—none of which were ultimately profitable for me. Quite frankly, I've had enough. I plan to return to doing what I know best. I trust that won't be a problem." Before Cole could say anything—most likely that it was, in fact, a problem—he kept speaking. "Now, if the Covenant would like to hire me in that capacity, I would be more than happy to oblige."
"I don't think you really get what I'm saying here, Julian." Cole's half-manic cheer was fading, replaced by a sheen of menace.
"Really," said Sark. "It might interest you to know that I'm still willing to part with a portion of the money, if necessary. Consider it . . . an insurance investment."
In the long silence that followed, Sydney assumed that Cole was considering the veracity of Sark's words. He would be a fool not to accept it. Being paid millions of dollars to avoid an extended working relationship with Sark was sort of like being given chocolate fudge ice cream in exchange for not throwing yourself into a snake pit. No matter how nice the bastard could be when he tried, or how appealingly messy his hair used to be when bits were always sticking up.
"We'll be in touch," Cole finally told him, and his stool scooted across the floor again as he stood. "And also—just, man to man, you know—might want to be more careful bringin' the ladies to your little fortress here. Never know when one might spill the beans. Hey, have a nice day!"
"Cole."
"Yeah?"
"Recall for a moment that I'm not a child, and kindly remove the bugs you planted on the counter, the clock and the door."
"Sure thing, buddy," Cole replied without missing a beat, but Sydney could hear the frustration in his voice and it secretly delighted her.
She didn't even consider loosening her death grip on the gun until she heard the front door shut and lock. "It's safe," Sark called out about a minute later.
Said the spider to the fly, Sydney thought, but still slid back the deadbolt and emerged.
When she looked at Sark, who was leaning against the counter next to the sink, looking rather haggard, something very strange happened. She found herself possessed of the sudden urge to kiss him. Sydney could even picture herself doing it—she would walk over, put her hands on his waist, and . . .
This was insane. Like that time she'd decided to kiss Will. Maybe it hadn't been the tequila at all—maybe it was something about kitchens. That was where Will and Francie had first kissed too, wasn't it? And where she and Vaughn had been when they'd decided to . . . reheat. It wasn't a theory entirely without merit, she decided. The only bad thing was that available data only argued for the aphrodesiacal magic of her old kitchen, but the phenomenon could be widespread.
And if nothing else, Sydney realized with a feeling of genuine accomplishment, she had perfectly recalled every single one of those incidents.
"You do realize you're still holding the gun."
As if her brief mental foray into the realms of the bizarre and ridiculous had never occurred, Sydney was back to normal. "It seemed like a reasonable precaution," she replied, but went back down the stairs to put it back, wondering if it might not be wiser to keep it and hide it under her pillow.
While she was gone, Sark shook his head quickly and stood up straight, determined to compose himself. It had taken Cole's visit for him to realize how much he had allowed his normal demeanor to slip around her, and with that had come the realization that—to be honest—he didn't particularly care. But he had no intention of really dropping his guard. All else aside, she was still Sydney Bristow, and she was not a woman to be underestimated.
Her first words to him after she closed the door to the wine cellar were predictable. "Why didn't you take the job?"
"As I said," he told her, spreading his hands in a calculated gesture of openness, "I'm not interested in becoming anyone's lackey for the moment."
"And you're willing to pay eight hundred million dollars to avoid that."
"I offered only a part of that money to Cole," he corrected. "Also, Sydney, you may have noticed that I'm not exactly destitute, with or without the entirety my inheritance. If the Covenant requires a substantial payoff to be kept out of my affairs, then so be it."
She crossed her arms across her chest and studied him through narrowed eyes. "There's got to be some other reason."
"Several, actually," he confirmed, just to drive her crazy. From the way she squared her shoulders, Sark knew she was accepting the challenge.
"I'm sure one of the reasons has to do with why you're helping me," Sydney guessed, watching him intently for confirmation. "Whether it's that you want me to owe you a favor or . . . whatever else you've got planned."
He nodded. That one was easy. He was, however, entirely confident that his distaste for his father's money would not occur to her; he wasn't stupid enough to refuse such a substantial inheritance, but it didn't exactly break his heart to part with a portion of the gold intended to buy his affection. Nor was Sydney likely to deduce the unshakeable sense of discomfort he felt at the idea of working for the organization that had attempted to brainwash her.
Yes, he had had people tortured—including that friend of hers, Will Tippin (though, in Sark's opinion, it was the reporter's own damn fault for claiming to know about the Circumference in the first place). But there was something . . . almost clean-cut about torture, he thought. You need information and you need it now, so you hire the right people and you get it done. And that's the end of it. Cruelty, certainly, but cruelty of necessity. He knew many people who would agree—Jack Bristow among them.
But if torture was about breaking a person, bringing them to a point where they will disclose whatever information you want . . . then brainwashing was about shattering them utterly. There was no stopping point, no moment at which one became concerned about irreparable damage—because irreparable damage was the entire goal. There was no mercy. And what the Covenant must have done to Sydney, so resistant to their methods, before she realized it would be best to play along . . .
Well, even a reputed sociopath has to draw the line somewhere.
Rather than admit defeat, Sydney began rummaging through the bread drawer until she had procured two slices of bread.
"What are you doing?" Sark asked, only mildly curious. For the most part, he just wanted to think about something more mundane.
"Making toast," she said, sliding the bread into the toaster, in a tone that implied Obviously. And you call yourself a criminal mastermind. "Since you threw mine in the garbage, and believe it or not, I'm still hungry. Will you get out the butter? And do you have any jam?"
"You know, Sydney . . . at the risk of being overly 'domestic' . . . I could make some actual food," he offered, managing to sound simultaneously cautious and condescending.
"Make it for dinner," she said, and gave him one of her more low-grade defiant looks.
Sark managed to shrug without moving his shoulders, a skill Sydney secretly envied. "Merely a suggestion."
She took the requested jam from his hand without comment, but as she turned back to face the toaster, her shoulders jerked down in a way that suggested the last straw of patience already worn thin. "Isn't this weird to you?" she demanded, rounding on him.
When his eyes flicked down to the jar of strawberry jam in her hand, Sydney made a noise indicative of great exasperation. "Not this," she said, putting the jar on the counter with a thunk. "This!" She gestured in a way that encompassed the entirety of the situation. "Me, standing in your kitchen making toast! And you're offering to make dinner for me? And you washed my clothes, for god's sake—this is just—"
"Sydney."
"What?!"
"I realize that we've been enemies in the past more often than not, so I can understand your being uncomfortable, but right now, we are on the same side. As for the rest . . ." This time when he shrugged, he used his shoulders. "I suppose one doesn't generally picture one's adversaries engaged in the more mundane aspects of everyday life, but it does happen. I make dinner, Sydney, and I clean laundry. To hire someone else to do so would be an unconscionable breach in the security of my operation."
"But it is weird, isn't it? I mean, the two of us just . . . living together, like . . ." like Will and Francie and I used to.
One corner of Sark's mouth curved up. "Yes, I suppose it is."
For him, 'weird' didn't even begin to cover seeing Sydney Bristow in a towel, but it would suffice until he came up with a more comprehensive term. He understood what she was getting at, though. They had argued, fought, outwitted each other, and even—rarely—cooperated, but this . . . living under the same roof, sharing meals and furniture as if they were friends, rather than Julian Sark and Agent Bristow . . . he still hadn't adjusted to that, and he could only assume that Sydney was finding it even more disconcerting.
The toast popped up with an enthusiastic ding! that seemed jarringly loud. As Sydney turned and pried the lid from the jam jar, she spoke. "I don't suppose any of the windows in the house open." Her tone was flawlessly casual, but he wasn't an idiot.
"No, they don't," he replied. "I'm sure by now you've tried the doors—without any success, I dare say."
"Yes." Even from behind, Sark could see the irritated set of her jaw. "And you honestly expect me to believe we're on the same side?"
"In a sense."
"What sense would that be?" Sydney snapped, half-turning her head.
"We both have something to gain from our current cooperation. Surely you can see that."
Of course I can. And don't call me Shirley. It was the kind of dumb joke Will would have made. God, she missed him. What would he say if he knew she was standing less than five feet away from that little British cocky son of a bitch, doing nothing more violent with her knife than spreading jam on toast?
Cursing herself for not thinking of it earlier, she unobtrusively examined the butter knife's serrated edge.
"Sydney, please. I realize there's no love lost between us, but that's no reason to underestimate my intelligence."
After hefting the weight of the knife experimentally in her fingers, too briefly for Sark to react, Sydney whirled around and sent it flying through the air with a practiced flick of her wrist. It hit its target precisely, clanging into the bottom of the sink, but she had the—admittedly juvenile—satisfaction of seeing Sark flinch.
"Are you quite through?" he asked, crossing his arms and cocking his head like a parent waiting for the end of a tantrum.
"Don't bet on it," muttered Sydney. She seized her plate and headed for the door. Sark, of course, followed.
"On the subject of laundry," he began, then waited until Sydney's noncommittal grunt indicated she was at least listening. "I've made a few inquiries through back channels, all anonymous. I must admit it was the most bizarre negotiation I've ever attempted, but . . . it appears I've managed to obtain the bulk of Julia Thorne's clothing. You should have it shortly, if all goes well."
A thousand questions sprang to Sydney's mind, along with a strong desire to laugh at the idea of Sark getting womens' clothing on the black market.
She turned to face him. "You bought . . ."
Then it clicked.
"Wait."
She could feel the chill run up her spine before pooling in her eyes. "I didn't give you that name until this morning. How the hell did you know?"
Predictably, he smirked. "As I said, Sydney. There's no reason to underestimate my intelligence. Enjoy your toast."