Title: In Destruction, Beauty Spoilers: General through late Season 1. This takes place somewhere in the void between the events of "1.18-Snowman" and "1.19-The Solution." Back in those days when we knew very little about Sark, Irina wasn't in the game yet, and the SVR was barely a glimmer in the fandom's eye. Summary: Written for the Sarkney Ficathon. My assignment was for Nic-chan,
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Part 4 |
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But would it even be worth it? he wondered. If Sydney had wanted to stay with him, she would have. He shouldn't have to persuade her. As it was, he was still absorbing his surprise that she had let him spend the day with her, and the even more unexpected pleasure that she seemed to enjoy it. He'd known about Sydney for a couple of months, ever since Irina had started planning the break-in at SD-6. Cole had drawn the lucky straw, there, not Sark. It was only when he had glanced at the personnel records for SD-6, and noticed Sydney's name, that he made the connection. Her daughter. Of course. Later, he'd wondered to himself whether Irina had deliberately asked Khasinau to choose a time when Sydney wasn't officially on duty, to have Cole and his men infiltrate SD-6. When the operation later failed - largely as a result of Sydney's actions - Sark wasn't in the room to hear Irina's words to Khasinau, but he could make a reasonable guess. She couldn't have been very pleased. And yet, afterwards, a satisfied kind of stillness had come over her. It surprised and unnerved him at the same time. Perhaps on some level, maternal pride outweighed any professional duty or personal quests. He wondered, now, if she had sent him to Tokyo as a test - a test of his merits as well as Sydney's. What might her reaction have been if Sark had returned to Khasinau empty-handed? Would she have reprimanded him first, or left that until after she had finished praising her daughter's skills? If he had fought Sydney, and lost, it was possible that Sydney would now be on the receiving end of a job offer from the very person she had thought dead long ago. He had been more than pleased to be given a second encounter with Sydney. Admittedly, he hadn't expected such a capable opposition from her when they fought, and later her wit had proven equally agile. She intrigued him more than he could say, more than any young woman had in a very long time. Sydney was strong, intelligent, well-trained, that much was clear to him. But there was something else about her that he couldn't quite figure out. At first he'd thought it was simply that she reminded him of Irina - and she did, in some ways - but that wasn't quite it either. She'd revealed something else to him, piece by piece. In that brief moment when he'd thrown her to the wall, in the corridor of the Tanaka lab; When she'd pulled away her hair from her neck, so that he could return her jade collar to its rightful place; At Omiya, the expression on her face just as she turned to look away from the blue pond and unexpectedly at him. Vulnerability, but also resilience. Never had he been so visibly confronted by the two qualities he had never thought possible to exist in the same person. She tried to mask the depth of her emotion - hid it behind wigs and kicks and obstinate sarcasm - but it was there. He could also tell that it was ultimately what gave her strength. Sark stood now in his sparse living room, in the apartment he had rented for the rest of the month. So I lied about that, he admitted. True, he'd led Sydney to believe his time in the city was short, but after years of telling worse lies than that, he thought one more wouldn't hurt so much in the long run. He'd also believed quite honestly that she would accept his invitation. He walked resolutely towards a small cupboard and pulled out a glass and bottle that held a dark amber liquid. The edge of the bottle clinked noisily against the rim of the glass as he poured, filling the glass half way. There were few options left. He sat down, taking a grateful sip before resting the glass on the arm of the sofa as he leaned back. I couldn't have misread her, he thought. Not this much. He'd been so deliberate today, not to act towards her in any way that was too forward or too presumptuous. She had been the one to make the first move, if he could call it that. Her hand had touched his first, her shoulder had leaned against him. By the time they stood on the train platform together, he'd thought for certain he'd been right, that he hadn't been out of his mind to pursue her. And if he was being perfectly honest with himself, he had to admit that if Irina ever found out his true intentions towards her daughter, he wouldn't be able to defend himself quickly enough to walk away unharmed. He was taking a risk, even by thinking the things about Sydney that he was, let alone by spending time with her. He sipped again at his drink, starting to lose himself in his thoughts once more. Just as he was setting his glass down on the small living room table, Sark paused as he heard a knock at the door. He swallowed, hoping and hesitating at the same time. Somehow he made it to the door without breaking to a run and crossing the room in only two steps. Carefully, he closed the distance and rested his hand on the doorknob, turning it and pulling open the door. Thank God. It was her. Her bag was slung across the same shoulder as it had been on the train. Her hair fell around her neck and shoulders in coppery, wind-blown waves, and her cheeks were still pink from walking around in the sun. To him, she was beautiful. "Sydney..." he greeted. She blinked, nodding as she answered. "Hi." "Come in," he offered, and stepped aside to let her in. She brushed past him wordlessly, glancing around the small apartment. She picked up the strap of her bag and let it fall to the floor near the sofa. The room was silent, except for their movements. He noticed her gaze linger briefly on the bottle at the side of the room, before she turned back to him. Unsure where to begin, now, he took the only opportunity he could think of. "Would you like a drink?" he asked, gently, to which she nodded. "Yes, I think I would." He poured for her, from the same bottle and into a glass that matched his own. She clutched the glass in both hands, and moved towards the sofa. Sark followed, joining her on the cushions that were just enough for two people. "I got as far as my hotel," she told him, "but I couldn't get out of the taxi. I asked the driver to turn around and take me here - I think he thought I was a little strange, but he didn't complain about the fare," she added wryly. She sighed, taking a first sip from her glass. "What made you decide to come?" he asked her. She swallowed, looking back at him, and then down at her lap. "I had all these reasons in my head that told me not to come," she said. "But I wasn't interested in any of them. Not any more," she shook her head. "I'm tired of being afraid," she admitted, "and I'm tired of doing only the things I'm supposed to do, and not asking questions." "Do I make you afraid?" he asked then, confusion flashing across his expression. Slowly, she shook her head again. "No. You don't," she said. "That's partly what made me decide to come here." Just then, her lips began to curve into the beginnings of a smile. Sydney set her glass down in front of her. "I know that I should be afraid of you," she admitted. "Believe me, I know." She paused then, as she spoke, as if deciding what to say next. Sark waited with rapt attention, almost numb in anticipation of what she might say next. She's not afraid of me. But does she trust me? "I killed a man," she told him. He looked somewhat startled at this, but not because he was surprised that this was something she had done. "You told me so before," he said, remembering their exchange on the train platform. She was already nodding. "I know, I told you I've killed people, but this was different," she explained. "It was someone I cared about, someone...I thought I knew who he was. I was wrong." He shifted slightly in his seat, facing her. "Are you here because you want to forget about him?" he asked, trying to understand what she was getting at. She shook her head again. "No. That's why I came on this mission in the first place, but not with you." She exhaled slowly. "With him?with this man, I almost made the decision to spend my life with him. I trusted him, I cared about him. And he betrayed me, turned out to be someone I would end up fighting against. He wasn't who I thought he was." Sark considered this. "Am I who you thought I was?" Once more, her head shook in answer. "No." She looked back into his eyes as she spoke, and he forgot his thoughts for a moment. "But that's all right," she admitted. He started to ask her what she meant, but before the words could leave his mouth, they were stopped by the pressure of her lips on his. The kiss was gentle at first, and became more insistent as he pressed back with his own desire. Damn. He'd spent the last forty-eight hours wondering what her lips must taste like, and now the only answer he could find was the same taste of the Scotch that they had both shared. He deepened the kiss, pursuing her lips and tongue with his own, and was becoming vaguely aware of her hands resting on him. Her touch moved down his chest and along the slope of his torso, stopping just at the side of his waist. He let his own fingers plunge into the brown waves of her hair, grasping and clutching as he tried to hold her as close to him as possible. Their lips parted as they both finally became breathless. He touched a hand to her cheek, still marveling at the softness of the touch. He was holding a contradiction. "I've been wanting to do that, all day," she told him, her voice heavy. He cocked his head a little as he answered, matching her smile with his. "As have I." Sydney lifted her eyebrows, registering the satisfaction in his expression. She stroked her hands back along his chest, more slowly this time, and more aware of her actions. "Then kiss me again."
Later, she would remember that they didn't stay on the sofa for very long. She remembered the sensation of his lips on hers, and then his lips on her neck, and shoulder, as she shifted her body and straddled him then and there. She remembered the thin trail of sweat starting to form along his hairline and the back of his neck, as she grasped her fingers through his hair. She couldn't remember any of their words, not until later. There was only a blur of hands and skin and the heated ache between her thighs that deepened each time he touched her. She couldn't remember where her sweater landed after he pulled it free, or how many steps they managed towards the bedroom's sliding doors before she opened the buckle of his belt. He lifted her to him, fitting her body to his and wrapping his arms around her as if keeping her from falling. Sark must have turned on a lamp in the corner of the room, at some point. There was enough light that she could see him, and yet enough darkness that the shadows still curled around him, and the lithe muscle in his body. He laid her back, returning his lips once more to her mouth before reaching for her remaining articles of clothing. Her jeans slid down and off of her legs, and he couldn't put his hands back on her fast enough. Trailing his fingers along the lightly tanned skin, his touch landed in the moist, heated wake of his lips. Her skin was rough in parts, bruised or scarred in others, bearing the marks of their profession. His lips brushed a white line at the side of her knee, and he looked up towards her face. "Last year, in Prague," she told him. "My repelling cable slipped and I knocked into a windowpane." He nodded. "I'm sure the window damage was worse," he said, a playful attitude surfacing. She smiled back, enjoying the attention. The light gleamed on his face, and his touch sent currents through her body. She closed her eyes. He let one hand travel along each leg, now, and his lips moved farther along the inside of each thigh, until he could feel her tremble, slightly. Suddenly her hands reached for him, once again, perhaps out of a need to even the score. Sydney pulled him down beside her, extending shaking fingers back underneath his shirt. He kissed her, again, as though he had still been waiting too long to do so. But she was not deterred, and gathered the fabric in her hands, pulling it up until he had no choice but to break the kiss and let her remove the cotton barrier. She continued, reaching then for the zipper of his pants, and pulled them away just as swiftly. Sydney pressed her hands back along his skin, and she noticed that he flinched slightly as she reached his knee. Looking down, she saw a dark purple bruise had already formed there, almost in the same place as the scar he had noticed on her own body. She smiled again, wryly, and knew how he had gotten it. He saw her reaction. "I had a run in with someone the other night. Something about a computer chip, I think," he said, his smile broadening. "What a coincidence," she answered her voice low and husky. "The same thing happened to me." She leaned over him, pushing down the strap of her camisole to reveal the mark he had left on her shoulder. Sark brought his hands to her waist, pressing insistently as she settled her knees beside his. He could smell the remnants of her perfume, mixing now with the scent of her body, and the heat that was rising between them. He pressed his lips gently to the spot on her shoulder, only an inch below her collarbone. "I'll be more careful, next time," he whispered, without any further explanation than that. She framed his face in her hands, trembling again slightly as his mouth traveled lower, across the curve of her breast and down. He turned. suddenly, rolling her underneath him again. He kissed her over and over, plundering her mouth as he had moments earlier on the sofa. His hands left her waist as he removed the final few garments left between them, and kissed her once more, softly. There was nothing between them but paths of light, shadow, and bare desire. She gasped a little as he thrust into her, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Remembering how easily they had held each other on the dance floor the night before, she realized again, now, what little effort their bodies had needed to become attuned to the other. They moved together, slowly at first, lips still bent towards blissful, measured caresses. Sydney felt her hips rising to meet his pursuit, and he drove harder into her each time, both of them becoming more insistent with each breath. She knew his response was equal to hers, and before long she felt herself tightening around him, and a scream in her throat. He stiffened above her, gasping her name and thinking of nothing and no one else but the woman in his arms. A moment later when he bent to press his lips to hers, he tasted the salty sheen of sweat on her cheek, and then wondered if it was more than simple exertion. He opened his eyes again, bringing a hand to her chin, and saw her eyes gleaming in the dim light. His breath caught in his throat, and he just then he couldn't find any words for her. She closed her eyes once more, letting him bestow a kiss across each one, and had none for him either. Sark lay beside Sydney and left his arms at her waist, burying himself in her. She rested a hand on top of his, matching the curve of her body to his.
He awoke with a start, several hours later. It took a brief moment for him to remember, and then he turned, suddenly worried that she might have left in the night. But there she still was, brown hair tossed across the pillow, cheeks still pink as they had been the day before. Daylight was only beginning to creep in through the windows, and he could start to hear the noises of the streets below, as the city began its day. He leaned back against one elbow, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, and wondered if he would ever see her again, after today. Or if I have the right to want to. Any promises they might have made to each other had remained unspoken, and he was the last person in the world who could promise her anything more than what had just happened. It startled him that even that much might not be enough.
Sydney rose an hour later, offered him a smile before stepping into the shower. For the first time in more than a week, she felt rested. Not just strong, but content. She wasn't sure why, at first. Certainly, there was the physical attraction that had developed between them, almost effortlessly. She was also taken by surprise at the similarities that seemed to exist in him. There seemed to be no end to his persistence or strength, and his thoughts and conversation were filled with stories and questions. He revealed little, but what he did reveal was clear, direct. Honest? Of that, she still couldn't be sure. It was probably the only thing that was keeping her from staying with him. Her body was one thing. Trust, was entirely another. She had worked in this profession long enough to know that one was not necessarily attached to the other, but nonetheless...He had found an edge between the two, unsettling her, making her reach out for him. As she took a long look at herself in the mirror, she knew she would be able to put Noah behind her. She might be able to walk into SD-6 when she got back, and it would be a little easier to smile back at Sloane, and talk casually with Dixon. She might even feel a little bit normal, again. She didn't know what she would do when she returned to Los Angeles, or what she would tell her father when he asked her how she had spent her time. She couldn't be sure how much she would tell Francie when she questioned her about the secretive smile on her face or the glow on her skin. Sydney combed her hair and wrapped herself in Sark's robe, nodding back at her reflection in the mirror. I'll be fine. When she stepped out of the bathroom, he was ready, waiting for her with a cup of coffee and a rumpled head of hair. She took the cup he held out to her, and drank. The taste was strong, but warm, and she relished the familiar bitterness. "Are you still planning to leave this afternoon?" he asked her. "I could," she said. "But I could also stay another day," she added a moment later. He smiled.
FIN |
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