Title by Fall Out Boy, quote from The Road to El Dorado.
XIV. Calm Before the Storm
"I'm not sure I trust you."
"Well… I'm not really asking you to trust me, am I?"
Sydney looked up when Sark entered the room, and was glad that she'd resisted the urge to sit in 'his' chair. Sleeping in his bed was quite enough furniture-poaching for the time being. Besides, she would have felt obligated to get out of the chair, and then Sark would have felt obligated to tell her she could stay there, and it would culminate in a veritable quagmire of awkwardness. Or Sark would just draw a gun and tell her to get the fuck off his chair. Such was the charmingingly unpredictable nature of the contract killer.
She was understandably surprised when he sat on the couch with her instead.
He didn't say a word. In fact, he was reaching for the book he'd left on the table several days ago when Sydney was overcome by a bout of honesty that she was almost certain to later regret. "Sark." He looked at her, but she fixed her gaze on her knee, running a fingernail along the ridges in the denim. "I think there's something I should tell you."
"Go on." His tone prompted her to glance up simply because it was so devoid of feeling, but it wasn't as if his face was more informative.
"I . . . saw the video. Of your father."
"What video?" he asked, a sudden terseness underlying his words.
Despite having introduced the topic, Sydney had no idea what was going on. What other video could she be referring to? "The DVD in your living room," she clarified, scrutinizing his face even more carefully in case he gave anything away. "The surveillance of Lazarey; I think it's a few years old."
"Ah." Sark's face was utterly closed off. She couldn't tell if he was furious, relieved, or ambivalent. "I imagine I forgot to relocate the disc when we arrived. A careless move on my part, but as I'm sure you noticed, the surveillance contains no valuable intelligence. What interests me, however—" and here he twisted his upper body to face her "—is that you felt the need to inform me."
Well, fine. If he was going to be haughty, she could throw it right back at him. Stern CIA agent Sydney was easily summoned, slipped on like a comfortable old coat. "I didn't want you to think that I intended to invade your privacy," she retorted. "I found it while you were gone. I was looking for something to do while I was locked up in this empty house."
"I didn't realize that captivity was usually such a lenient and entertaining experience for you." The hint of a sneer on Sark's face was undoubtedly real, but she got the feeling he was trying to steer the conversation into different territory. Namely, an argument. That alone was enough to capture her interest.
"Why do you have that footage, then? If it 'contains no valuable intelligence.'"
Her ability to interpret his tiny, subtle expressions was improving; she could tell that he wanted to smile at least a little at her dead-on imitation of his accent.
Once that brief twitch of amusement faded, however, he simply regarded her pensively. "I confirmed several years ago that Andrian Lazarey was, in fact, my father," he eventually replied. "Obtaining those videos was simply demonstrative of a certain degree of curiosity—understandable, I believe, under the circumstances. As your mother was even more deeply elusive, I don't doubt it's a sentiment you can readily comprehend."
"I guess so," she conceded, attempting to remain guarded while feeling something disturbingly like empathy.
Sark gazed at one of the bookshelves in the same way that another person might bite their lip or fidget absently with their hands. If nothing else, the man was a study in minimalism. When he looked back at Sydney, his focus was once again intact. "I met him once. Lazarey. About three years ago, after receiving the surveillance, I traveled to Moscow."
She wanted to ask him to repeat himself, but knew she'd heard correctly the first time. So she said nothing, waiting for him to elaborate.
"It's ironic, really," he mused. "My previous visit to Moscow had been a rendezvous with K-Directorate on behalf of your mother. Unbeknownst to me at the time, my father's workplace was only a few blocks away. It was within my means to locate him years earlier, I'm sure, and I'm afraid my failure to do so was not a result of difficulty in obtaining relevant intelligence, but my own halfheartedness. I always found myself . . . somewhat reluctant to rediscover my father."
Dear god. Sark was actually confiding in her. She was afraid to move an inch, but she wanted to run away with her hands over her ears, to block out this fragile moment that threatened everything she knew to be true about him. And yet, she was dying to hear more.
"So what happened? When you met?"
It was his usual smirk, the idiosyncratic movement of his lips, but something about it was wrong. Something about it made her want to hold him in her arms and tell him that everything would be okay. She just couldn't figure out why. After all, it was just his usual smirk.
"Nothing in particular. We spoke only for a moment, on the street." The smirk widened, belied by the twitch in his jaw. "He had business to attend to."
Sydney knew her disbelief was clearly written across her face. "After all those years?"
"Well, it certainly could have been worse. He could have shot me."
"That was just to—" She quickly gave up trying to concoct an excuse for her mother, and returned to the matter at hand. "I can't believe he just—"
Sark held up a hand, effectively silencing her. "I should mention," he added, "that I never told Lazarey who I was."
"Why not?"
He looked her in the eye as he spoke, and she found herself wishing that he wouldn't. "A rather childish fancy, I admit. I suppose that despite the passage of time, I rather foolishly entertained the notion that my father might recognize me on sight. Such was clearly not the case."
For a while, she didn't know what to say, but eventually Sydney gave up on speaking. Instead, she leaned forward, reaching out until her hand reached the side of his face. She trailed her fingers slowly down his temple and jaw, and Sark's eyes fluttered shut; otherwise he remained motionless. With a certain sense of inevitability, she knew she would move closer soon to kiss him, and she did nothing to prevent it.
Then Sark reached up with surprising lightness and removed her hand.
"Sydney," he said, and his voice was jarringly formal.
Oh shit, was all she could think. Here it comes.
The sinking sensation in Sydney's gut was similar to the feeling she used to get when her father said things like Sydney, there's something we need to discuss. A very unpleasant feeling, and one she'd never been eager to re-experience.
Not that she thought Sark was about to express anything like paternal disappointment. Far from it. No, this was The Talk. The one she'd been dead set on having earlier this morning, but now she was experiencing an unexpectedly strong reluctance to go anywhere near it. But it had to be done, and soon, or she would basically be telling him that she wouldn't mind sleeping with him again. And she didn't want that, did she?
Did she?
"Yes, Sark," she replied. She turned more fully on her cushion to face him, spine straight and face—hopefully—inscrutable.
He hesitated, and Sydney decided to bite the bullet and get the whole thing over with.
"Look, if this is about last night—I think we can both agree that it was a mistake. I mean, considering our whole . . . situation—and everything else, really—no offense, but you're the last person I should be sleeping with right now. It's inconsistent, I know, because I realize I'm the one who kind of . . . got things started last night, and I apologize for not being more clear. But I think we can both agree that it shouldn't happen again."
Sark made his thoughtful face, lips pressed together and widened eyes off to the side. Then his gaze flicked back to her. "No." His verdict was delivered in a quiet, amiable tone, but without an ounce of equivocation.
"What—" Sydney spluttered, completely unprepared for dissent. "What do you mean, 'no'?"
"I thought my meaning was rather obvious," he replied mildly.
"So you think we should just—keep having sex?" In her bewildered state, all euphemisms abandoned her.
"Yes," he confirmed. Sark's blue eyes stared guilelessly into hers. "Sydney, I am . . ." He paused, giving her the impression that he was considering his next words very carefully. "It's obvious to me that there exists an attraction between us, as much as you might deny it."
"I'm not denying it." That, at least, was solid ground. God knows she'd had enough time to agonize over it.
He didn't blink, barely even twitched, but somehow she thought he seemed surprised. "Ah."
"I'm just saying that we don't have to act on it."
The look he gave her was bemusement at its finest. "In my opinion, Sydney, the effort that would be expended in avoiding further encounters would be far greater than the complications which might arise from . . . giving into temptation, as it were."
She narrowed her eyes and attempted to process this. Was Sark actually admitting that he wanted to sleep with her that badly? Doubtful. Unless he just really wanted sex in general, and she was the only readily available female. But was he so deluded that he couldn't see what a huge mess everything would become? Or could he possibly be counting on her to form an emotional attachment that would somehow play into his ultimate goals?
This was just one of the problems of having sex with Sark. Even if he wasn't playing some kind of game with her, she still kept trying to figure out the rules.
Another problem was the little voice in her head saying 'what the hell—who cares?'
"Fine," she agreed so abruptly that Sark was discernibly startled. Sydney swiftly maneuvered herself to his side of the couch, then swung a knee over him, effectively crawling into his lap. He remained completely motionless, but she could have sworn his pupils dilated visibly.
"Sydney," he began, in a careful voice almost—but not quite—like his own. "What are you doing?"
Rather than answer right away, she leaned in, breathing in the scent of his neck, and pressed a kiss to his jugular.
"Giving in to temptation," she murmured. "Since you're such a big fan of the idea." His pulse was racing beneath her lips. He turned his head, and she obligingly slipped her tongue into his mouth, savoring his quiet groan.
One of his hands reached up and started to weave through her hair, which reminded her of the point she'd been trying to make. She reared back and lifted Sark's chin with her fingers, forcing his glazed eyes to look in her direction. "Tell me this doesn't make things more complicated," she challenged.
At that moment, his face was almost open, devoid of his usual defenses, and she was almost certain that he knew she was right.
"I don't care," he replied thoughtfully, utterly destroying her strategy.
He sat up just enough to kiss her. "I believe you and I are sufficiently skilled as operatives to work around a physical relationship," he breathed against her lips, caressing her cheek with his fingertips. "And after all . . . the arrangement would only be temporary."
It did nothing for her argument to kiss him back, but she did it anyway. After a few moments, however, she sensed that his mind was elsewhere.
"What is it?" she asked, a little irritated. If he was going to argue for this 'arrangement', he could at least pay attention while she was kissing him.
"Nothing." The tiny smile playing about his lips was a clear indication that he was lying. "I just had a rather interesting idea."
"Which you're not going to tell me," Sydney guessed.
"Correct."
He was relentlessly aggravating. Infuriating, even. Controlling, manipulative, and secretive to boot. None of this, however, explained the fact that half an hour later, Sydney was back to reading her book, this time with Sark's head resting in her lap. From time to time, she ran the fingers of her free hand across his closely shorn scalp. She still wished his hair was a little longer, but the current length felt nice. Judging by his contented sighs, the feeling was mutual.
Sark lay on his back, alternating between reading his copy of The Brothers Karamazov and closing his eyes in enjoyment of her absent-minded petting. If Sydney had been of a mind to analyze the situation, she knew it would be fraught with exactly the type of complication she'd been striving to avoid.
But all in all . . . not such a bad way to pass the afternoon. And aside from her trip to the kitchen for sandwiches and a bottle of wine, it passed peacefully and uninterrupted until a little before six, when Sark checked his watch, put his book on the table and stood up. After so many hours, her empty lap felt strange.
"Let me guess," she said, and was delayed by a yawn. "You have business to attend to."
True to form, he smirked, nodded, and exited the room.
Once safely ensonced in the control room, Sark took one of his unused, untraceable cell phones out of its cellophane wrapping. He dialed the secure line he'd been given this morning and waited patiently for an answer.
"Hello." The greeting was, typically, voiced as a question, but the speaker's air of authority made it a statement.
"Mr. Dixon," he said, unperturbed. "It has been a while, hasn't it?"
"Sark." There it was, the flat, venom-laced voice of hatred. It put him back on the solid ground that was, with Sydney, so fleeting.
"I assume you've received my little gift, and are willing to make a deal."
"You son of a bitch," hissed Dixon, which actually startled him. The Marcus Dixon he'd encountered at SD-6 had lacked this ill-concealed fury bubbling just beneath the surface. Sark speculated that it was a direct result of Sloane's vengeful assassination of Diane Dixon, but there was no way to be certain. Also, Dixon was undoubtedly very emotional over the revelation that his former partner was both alive and in the hands of the enemy. The strong bond between he and Bristow was undeniable, and very little seemed to provoke these CIA agents like their inability to help one of their own.
He said nothing, a tactic which had served him well in the past.
"What are your terms, Mr. Sark?" A new, weary voice, even more instantly recognizable.
"Agent Kendall. What a delightful reunion. Are there more introductions to be made, or may we proceed with the negotiations?"
"Go ahead." Kendall might have the bedside manner of an ill-tempered bulldog, but he was all business. It was a trait Sark appreciated in an opponent.
"Very well. For the safe return of Agent Bristow, I will require complete amnesty from your government, as well as a formal apology for my two years' imprisonment. I will expect the CIA to turn a blind eye to all my future operations. Also, you will deposit ten million dollars into one of my bank accounts in Switzerland, and order the immediate assassination of one McKenas Cole."
He almost hadn't included the last demand, but what the hell. Who said extortion couldn't be fun?
Dixon's eruption was predictable and swift. "Are you out of your mind, you—"
"Dixon." Kendall spoke in an undertone, but he was still audible. He imbued the two syllables with enough warning to halt Dixon's tirade.
"All right, Mr. Sark," he continued. "We both know I can't agree to those demands, so why don't you tell me what you're really after and we'll go from there."
He was glad that Kendall was on the line. The DSR agent posing as FBI had been one of his primary interrogators, and Sark had developed a certain respect for Kendall's particularly perceptive brand of no-bullshit transactions. It had certainly been better than some of the less stable CIA agents, who doubtless would have considered breaking his face an appropriately expedient means of extracting information.
"Well met, Agent Kendall," he conceded lightly, settling into the room's only chair. "Let's get down to business, then, shall we?"
It was nearly an hour later when he finally emerged, feeling both drained and grimly victorious. He found Sydney in the second spare bedroom, which she was carefully examining from floor to ceiling. "There you are," she said, making no effort to conceal or explain the fact that she was screwing the vent back onto the wall with her thumbnail. "Any luck? Or are you going to have to dump my body into the English Channel?"
Normally, such flippancy from a prisoner would have irked him. On some level, it still did, but his recent successes had left Sark in a relatively good mood. "It went well," he informed her. "There are still arrangements to be made, but I believe the exchange will take place in approximately two weeks, barring any serious complications."
Sydney nodded. As CIA, she would know how negotiations like these went, and know that the Los Angeles office couldn't just agree to Sark's demands without consulting Langley and getting through all kinds of red tape. "Good," she said, but almost the moment the word was past her lips she appeared lost in thought, her eyes darting all around the room without actually looking at anything. Her mouth opened, almost as if to speak, then spread slightly in a smile that seemed utterly out of place on the Sydney Bristow he knew. A smile that promised excitement, with a side order of grievous bodily harm.
Whatever ideas were filling her head, he resolved to be well armed when she put them into action.
"Two weeks, you said?" she asked without warning.
"Yes."
Her eyes were glowing, practically burning their way into his, and an unspoken worry in Sark's mind dissipated in an instant. Here was Sydney Bristow in her element, as she was meant to be, embodying all the dangerous beauty of a hunting panther. No half-witted neurologist could tamper with that.
Now this, thought Sark, is the woman who stabbed me with an ice pick.
In his mind, this was not alarming, but comforting. And, were he to be completely honest with himself, it was also incredibly alluring.
Sydney approached him deliberately, with the air of a woman who knew her own power, who was ready and willing to use that power to its fullest extent. It reminded him once again that she might be CIA, and she might be loyal, noble and selfless . . . but she was also a Derevko. And blood ties had a way of binding anyone's destiny, let alone the fate of the alleged Chosen One. She stopped only a few inches away from him, and that smile returned with a vengeance.
"What do you say," she suggested, "we make a few stops along the way?"
On the one hand, this could be suicide. A ruse, a trap, an elaborate plot. She could be setting him up for god-knows-what.
Sark reached out and ran his fingers along the line of bare skin between her sweater and jeans. She shivered, but her stare never wavered.
On the other hand . . . it couldn't hurt to hear her out.
"What did you have in mind?"