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Title: Duality This was written for lafemmedarla as a part of the Alias slashficathon
(kindly organized by jennyo). She asked for Jack/Sark darkfic...so consider
yourself warned! |
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The sky was dark, the Mediterranean tempestuous, and a quiet rage brewed on all fronts. Jack leaned back in the chair, striking a tenuous balance; his foot was propped against the balcony rail, his arms folded against his chest. He eyed the small bible that lay on the table beside him amid the clutter of playing cards and a near-empty bottle of scotch. The bible had been an unsolicited gift from a missionary, who believed that the word of God could be bound in plastic. Jack picked it up and thumbed through the small print. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. The void and the darkness had drawn his eye. Genesis was where it all began; this was where his mission would end. Still, in the dark of the night, teetering precipitously, he stole a glance over his shoulder, then reached for the satchel that sat on the other chair. He removed a rectangular black box, the sort that might house a pair of glasses, but handled it with the care of an antique dealer. He opened it carefully, relieved at its contents: one vial, labeled ‘Bristow.’ It had been missing for a full week. At least he could deliver on one of the promises he had made to his daughter seven days earlier. Leaving the box on the table, Jack reached for the Colt .45 that had kept him company for the last few hours. Still grasping the vial, he stood up. He threw it high into the air, took aim, and unloaded three rounds. The glass shattered, then fell silently into the water below. The cheap mattress creaked in response to his lover’s shifting weight and for the second time that night, the gun felt heavy in his hand. Irina’s words preyed upon his mind: “Everything alive has its two sides.” “Am I in your crosshairs as well?” A voice thick with betrayal echoed against the sliding glass doors. Jack turned around, aware that the gun had a will of its own—it destroyed men, it didn’t spare them. And while part of him wanted to put it in the holster, something wouldn’t let him. Offering a near-apologetic nod, Jack steadied the weapon with his other hand. “You always were.” * * * Jack watched his daughter pace the living room, an untouched glass of wine in her hand. Every time he thought she might bring it to her lips, she made a hasty turn and lowered it again. In the time that he had known her – not just as an absentee father, but also as a friend – she had endured more than her fair share of twists and turns. While sending Sark’s ad hoc laboratory up in flames had given her momentary relief, reality had clicked in by the time she turned the deadbolt on her apartment door. “This isn’t over,” she mumbled in defeat. “I’m sure he pocketed a vial, tucked one away for safe keeping.” Jack remained silent, letting her work through her tense reaction. She crossed the room, arms folded tight, and then spun on her heels. She gave him a searing glance filled with pain. “If I were him, that’s what I would have done.” While the same thought had crossed Jack’s mind twelve hours earlier when Kendall had told him what happened in Patagonia, he had kept it to himself. Sydney’s well-being took precedence over any imminent disaster. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We can’t deal in ‘what ifs.’ Let me look into this.” He grabbed his briefcase and walked over to the door. “Do your best to put this out of your mind. I’ll handle Sark myself.” * * * Children scurried across the lawn, running circles around the oaks that dotted the park. Jack sat on a bench, clutching a small volume. The pages were discolored and worn, although not by him. He liked to think that he perused the entire book, that he enjoyed Neruda’s poetry, but that was never the case. He only read one poem, the one whose verses Laura had scrawled on a slip of paper and left abandoned, pinned to the pillow that lay next to his all those years ago. I love you, and I do not love you, as if I held My love has two lives, in order to love you: Wordlessly, Irina appeared on the bench. He was full of wonder – wonder at how she had come to be his most trusted ally and how he had missed the opportunity to watch her cross the park. She pulled a paper bag from her purse. He cocked his head. “That for me?” “Careful, Jack,” she replied. She shook her head dismissively. Retrieving a piece of bread from the bag, she tossed it on the ground. The pigeons rushed over to her feet. “If the NSC realizes that we’re in contact, they’ll throw you back in prison.” He didn’t hear her; a memory of Laura had supplanted all other thoughts. “You’re too young to be a grandmother,” he teased. “Tell that to Sark,” Irina replied, rolling her eyes. “That is why we’re here.” “So he does--” “Unconfirmed,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “I don’t have the relationship with him that I once did.” Jack gave her an inquiring glance. There were few men in her coterie that she hadn’t charmed with a quick fuck. Irina chuckled dismissively. “I never mix business with pleasure.” “Except when you do,” he said, his eyes narrowing. She shrugged brusquely. “I’m not his type.” “Too Mrs. Robinson?” “Not enough Oscar Wilde,” she replied, tossing another piece of bread on the ground. The corners of her mouth crept up, an ironic smile burgeoning. “Or so I’m told.” Jack watched as her eyes shifted to the book in his hands. Before he could tuck it away, she grabbed it and began scanning the pages. “I didn’t think you suffered from nostalgia,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “I meant those words as a comfort, you know. There were times—” “I know.” His response had been flattened by years of practice, but he had imagined the exchange many times in his head, the subtle acknowledgement that her marriage to him wasn’t merely a mission. “The KGB told me that you’d be a tough seduction and they were right,” she said, nodding. “A good, solid lie is at least half true. We’ve both told our fair share.” A melancholy laugh escaped his lips. “I was never as good at it as you were. Your lies were poetic.” “Jack,” she said. Her expression softened. He liked to think her capable of experiencing guilt, but he knew better than to attribute human emotion to her. Ignoring the pained look in her eyes—for he recognized it as the semblance and nothing more—he pressed ahead with his agenda. “I need to find Sark. Arrange a meeting,” he said. “You know how to find me.” She didn’t argue with him as he stood up to leave, but as soon as he stepped away, he felt a tug at his arm. “Sark is not vested in the second coming of Rambaldi. If he kept a vial, his motives are personal.” Jack nodded, his eyes lingering on the book. She held it out. “Everything alive has its two sides.” * * * Jack slid the key into the lock and gave it a quick turn. Bending down, he raised the garage door of the storage locker, then hit the light and closed the door. The room was lined with ten filing cabinets and two safes, all filled with various kinds of valuables. In addition, Jack had a laptop, a television set and VCR, along with a pared down liquor selection stashed in the back of a file drawer. He went straight for the cabinet containing his files from two and a half years earlier and pulled out a folder labeled, ‘surveillance.’ When Sark had joined SD-6, Jack had hired his own team to watch their new ally. The arrangement had only lasted six short weeks until the takedown of SD-6, but it provided Jack with unfettered access to Sark’s previous habits and proclivities. The folder contained several kinds of intelligence: photographs, transcripts of phone conversations, and a series of memos, each corresponding to a videotape and summarizing its contents. While logic told Jack to start at the end—the moment when Sark was most likely to have his guard down—he needed to be thorough. Reconstructing those weeks in chronological, painstaking detail would be the only way for him to understand his prey. Jack pulled down a box from a high shelf and removed the lid. He selected the first tape, walked over to the VCR and slid it in. If the key to breaking Sark was anywhere, it was in these tapes. He watched tape after tape. He combed the transcripts and scrutinized the photos. Sark’s poker face was flawless until the op in Kashmir. Jack remembered that mission well—the first time in almost twenty-five years that he’d had a conversation with Irina that wasn’t pure hostility. It was the first time that he’d remembered the past without anger. While the CIA had wrested the cores away from SD-6, Sloane had not taken the failure of Sark’s intelligence lightly. Jack detected fear in Sark’s eyes as two men strapped him into a chair and shoved a glass ball into his mouth. Despite the atmosphere of anxiety and mistrust, the tape ended with Sark’s release from the interrogation. Jack stopped the tape and ejected it. Under such circumstances, Sark could not possibly maintain his composure twenty-four hours a day. No matter how good a liar he was or how expert a spy, the temptation to rebel would take hold and manifest itself. Sensing that he was getting closer to the truth, Jack inserted the next tape. While the tracking sorted itself out, he opened the bottom file drawer and pulled out a bottle of Booker’s, along with a highball glass. “Show me how to take you down, you bastard,” Jack muttered as he slowly poured the bourbon. The next tape began after Sydney and Sark had attempted to steal the Echelon access terminal that Cuvée had kept in Paris. Sark had been traveling independently in order to maintain his cover, leaving him a free night to explore Paris. His adventures led him to an element of the Parisian nightlife that the guidebooks had missed. La Nuit Trash was an event held by the Association Sportive Motocycliste de France, a leather-based sado-masochism group. Jack drew a long sip of his bourbon; he could exploit this detail. Jack had never been to one of their events, but he had gone undercover for six months with Motorsportclub Amsterdam. He was fresh out of the academy back then. While he was new to espionage, he was well acquainted with the world of bondage. After college and before joining the CIA, Jack had spent a year in Holland. He mastered Dutch, learned to smoke a cigarette, and acquired a taste for hard liquor. His time in Holland taught him that sex was a fact and that pleasure could be derived in ways he had never imagined. His supervisor had made the agency’s position clear—they had recruited Jack because of his extracurricular actives, not despite them. Then he had politely reminded Jack that they had never had this conversation. While working for the CIA, Jack had never made it as far as the International Mr. Leather competition; however, his reputation as a harsh disciplinarian had grown into something of a legend. By the time he had finally been extracted, he had had his choice of young men begging for his special brand of punishment. Sark’s security detail had observed some limits. He hadn’t expected them to follow Sark into the club simply to document his leisure-time activities. The tape stopped, then picked up six and a half hours later, when Sark left looking like he had when he’d arrived. Jack didn’t know whether Sark was a top or a bottom. All external indications would suggest that he was the former, desiring power and control. Still Jack had a nagging suspicion that deep down Sark was the latter. His need to please whomever he served had slave written all over it. Jack’s cell phone vibrated gently against his waist. He glanced at its screen: “I.” He answered his phone. “I was able to confirm that Sark is in possession of a vial.” Her voice was husky and raw. “When does he hand it over?” “Two days from now, in Nice,” Irina said. “He’ll arrive the night before. A mutual acquaintance has arranged for an invitation for you both to Les Caves Lechapelais. He’s going in blind. He’s arrogant enough to believe that Gunter Krebs would invite him to spend an evening with him.” A beat passed. “I always liked Gunter.” Jack laughed quietly. “So did I.” * * * Jack arrived at Aéroport Nice Côte d’Azur an hour before Sark was scheduled to come through. Equipped with a briefcase and a bondage kit, Jack moved confidently through the airport, interacting with the requisite number of customs officials and airport missionaries to seem like an average tourist. “Jésus est votre sauveur. L'accueillir dans votre coeur,” the priest said earnestly as he handed Jack a new Gideon’s bible. Seeing the fervent devotion in the man’s eyes, Jack nodded and accepted the gift. He slid it into the side pocket of his briefcase, where it joined a pack of cigarettes, a digital camera, and a deck of playing cards. His EU passport identified him as Gunter Krebs, a blond German cardiologist with piercing blue eyes. Jack had even brought along his spectacles to complete the look. Jack found himself slipping easily into character, relishing the return to a well-loved alias. Gunter had always been one of his favorites because of the added challenge of pretending to lead a double life. By day, Gunter was a stolid doctor; by night, however, he was the now legendary Master of Motorsportclub Amsterdam. He had come to believe that his nature was dual, consisting of two largely irreconcilable parts. Playing the good doctor meant a brief return to a double life, something that he had missed since the demise of SD-6. However much as Jack relished his former alias, tonight would be about Sydney’s future, not his past. * * * Jack stepped out of his Z4 roadster and pressed the key into the valet’s hand. He couldn’t help but stare at the picturesque villa. This club was unlike any that he had ever been to before. He was accustomed to dark warehouses and stark lines, bars made of unyielding metal and ropes that chafed the skin. Obviously, bondage and discipline had evolved into an art form in Nice. Jack entered the club early, just shy of midnight. While the accommodations were lavish, the lights remained low. He surveyed the lounge; the room was just beginning to fill up. He drew in a deep breath, letting the aroma of hash and cigarette smoke tease his nose. The club manager greeted him immediately. “Herr Krebs,” the short, muscular man said. “We at Les Caves Lechapelais are honored by your visit.” Jack resisted the urge to smirk, controlling his reaction carefully. He nodded, giving no indication of how flattered he was that a character of his own creation had made such an enduring impression. The manager led him to a private room. “There is a monitor with live feed to the lounge as well as a surgical tray per your request,” the man said as he fidgeted with his pen. Aware that he had an image to protect, Jack responded with a stern glare and a raised eyebrow. “Ring my room when the boy arrives.” Leaving the manager in the hall, Jack retreated into the room and began unpacking his equipment: lubricant, rope, duct tape, plastic wrap, cotton balls, and a pair of dull scissors. He smiled as he placed each item on the tray that Irina had requested. Even after all these years, she knew him better than anyone did. Jack remembered the first time he had demanded that she submit to him. She had resisted his impulse to tie her down, but over time, she grew to enjoy it as much as he did. Their shared predilection for bondage bound them to each other, or so he thought. It was only years later that he understood it was a lie. She was so good an actress that it didn’t even occur to him until much later that she was a top masquerading as a bottom. The phone startled Jack with its ring. He picked up the receiver. “No, send him to the lounge. I need a few minutes,” he said as he found the remote. Jack turned on the monitor and turned down the lights. As Jack watched Sark wander into the lounge, he couldn’t help but think back to his own experience. The physical similarities were obvious enough – in character, Jack had looked much like the man he intended to dupe—but there had been a time when he was young, craving experience of any kind. When Jack first explored the world of S&M, he had nothing to go on but the assurances of older men that he would come to crave domination. Jack’s first master had been his last. Alejandro was Nicaraguan, older than Jack by a good twenty years. They had started out as master and slave. Jack was young, eager to please and fit in, but he simply wasn’t cut out to be a slave. He didn’t love to serve and Alejandro had understood this from the first moment he had penetrated Jack. Some discomfort was typical, but he sensed immediately that Jack was destined to be his boy for only a short while. He knew, but never acknowledged, that Jack was there to learn how to dominate others. However, there were times when Jack missed his master’s stiff cock probing his ass. “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Sark’s voice echoed through the cheap speakers. “I’m here for Herr Krebs.” Jack enjoyed the bartender’s look of recognition, even if the picture was grainy and intermittent. The bartender smiled at Sark. “Your nipples will be so sore that in the morning even the lightest brush of a t-shirt against them will give you a hard on.” Sark responded to the bartender with a look of arousal that made Jack wish Sark were already bent over in front of him. A club manager retrieved Sark from the lounge and Jack readied himself for his arrival. Jack stood in the corner, intently watching him. Sark left the brightly lit hallway for the darkness of the room. He placed his suitcase and a small satchel near the door. Knowing he was functionally blind, Jack came up behind him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Herr Krebs. The honor is most certainly mine.” “Take off your clothes. Put your hands behind your neck. Spread your legs. Do not look at me,” Jack barked, keeping his voice low. He hated nothing more than a slave who didn’t know his place. Sark obeyed, unbuttoning his shirt so deliberately that Jack had to watch every gesture. The oxford fell to the floor, revealing a tight undershirt that did little to hide Sark’s well-defined biceps. Per Jack’s instructions, he never looked back at his master. Jack blindfolded Sark with an Ace bandage, knotting it tight so that Jack’s identity would remain a secret. Jack then thrust his knee between Sark’s legs and forced them further apart. Peering over Sark’s shoulder, he couldn’t help but notice Sark’s lean thighs and prominent erection. Jack was pleased to know that he still inspired such ardent interest. Jack stood up and trailed his fingers slowly up the young man’s flesh. Jack’s cock was swelling with desire, but his mission tonight was not to satisfy himself, but to deal with Sark. Jack had learned long ago that the nipples could be a source of great pleasure. In the beginning, he had felt mostly pain, but his body had learned to find erotic stimulation in its discomfort. It took only a few twists to bring Jack to his knees, and he suspected that he could do the same with Sark. Jack took that plastic wrap and began slowly swathe Sark in its sticky web. He let the legs remain far enough apart to allow him entry later. He taped cotton balls to Sark’s nipples and then proceeded to bind his arms to his torso. When Jack had finished, he had a blond mummy in front of him. Jack reached for the scissors and cut holes, exposing Sark’s nipples, his cock, and his ass. Embracing the young man, Jack sought out his nipples. He rolled the stiff flesh between his fingertips while pressing his cock against Sark’s back. He continued his efforts, twisting Sark’s tender nipples back and forth until he groaned loudly. Jack pinched them sharply, eliciting a deeper moan. “Please, stop,” Sark begged him, but his plea only goaded Jack to pinch and twist even harder. Jack wasn’t nearly done with him. While Jack knew that now was the time to search Sark’s jacket and suitcase and to find the vial, he couldn’t tear himself away from his slave. His own feelings had taken him by storm. It’s not that he gave a damn about Sark, but he felt a strange obligation to inflict pain on him, to punish him for what he had done to Sydney. Like stealing back the vial for her, fucking Sark this way was a selfless act. The young adversary needed to be put in his place and Gunter was just the man for the job. He pushed Sark down onto the bed. Taking the scissors again, Jack sliced the plastic that bound Sark’s legs and spread them apart. Kneeling between Sark’s legs, Jack squeezed some lubricant into his hand and rubbed them vigorously to heat it. He circled Sark’s tender ring, massaging the muscles around it to stimulate and relax them, knowing that it would be easier on himself this way. He added more lubricant to his fingers and abruptly slid two of them inside, working the lube into Sark, who moaned in response. “On your knees,” Jack commanded, dragging the boy’s hips into position. Sark began to moan without provocation; Jack hated that. Turning his attention to his own cock, Jack slathered it generously so that it was slick and smooth. He teased Sark for a minute or so, pressing his tip against Sark’s ass and rubbing until the boy began to beg for it. “I can take anything but the teasing,” Sark said, his breathing rising to a pant. Jack leaned him over further and smiled as the boy’s cheeks spread wide. “You will take whatever I wish to give you, slave.” Jack entered him slowly, an inch at a time, moving in and out to let Sark savor the burn of the muscles as they stretched to accommodate Jack’s prodigious girth. Once he had penetrated him fully, Jack abruptly increased the pace of his thrusts, taking pleasure in the tight, nearly anonymous ass in front of him. A few minutes into the assault, when Sark’s muscles started spasming uncontrollably, he sent Jack over the edge. The predator let out a cry as he fell forward, exhausted, onto his prey Jack had missed the feel of a plastic-wrapped body against his own. “There’s nothing wrong with liking the feel of something up your ass,” he sneered against Sark’s cheek, making no attempt to disguise his voice. He felt the muscles in Sark’s back seize up as he withdrew from him and pulled away. “There is something wrong with stealing my daughter’s eggs and selling them to the highest bidder, though.” “You’re Gunter Krebs?” Sark was speechless. “If you were a better spy, you would have known that,” Jack replied sternly. He put on his pants and zipped them in a rush. He walked over to Sark’s suitcase and popped the latches. As he sorted through clothing and toiletries, he could hear Sark futilely pulling at the plastic wrap. “The only way you’re going anywhere is if I cut you loose. That’s not going to happen until I find the vial.” “You son of a bitch,” Sark said angrily. “You lured me here to get back your daughter’s precious eggs? Doing her dirty work again, are you?” Jack grabbed his gun from the nightstand and pistol-whipped Sark. “I’m protecting her,” he spat at the unconscious boy. Finding nothing in the luggage, Jack turned his attention to Sark’s satchel beside the suitcase. Snatching it up, Jack then also grabbed his own briefcase and the bottle of bourbon that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He took them both out onto the balcony. A dark night was a welcome relief from claustrophobic room. Something about watching Sark, bound and submissive, reminded Jack how uncomfortable he felt in confined spaces. The air was humid this close to the water, but the breeze ran through his blond mane. He reached into the side pocket of his briefcase and dug out its contents: a deck of cards, a bible bound in plastic, and a digital camera. Jack left the balcony to search for a glass. He found two shot glasses on the nightstand and set them both on the table outside. Filled each to the brim, he then took a swig from the bottle. A deck of cards in hand, Jack shuffled them deftly and dealt a hand of solitaire. He needed to think strategically and experience had taught him that cards were the best way to do that. Jack’s senses sharpened and he finished the hand within minutes. The cards lay on the table in four lines, separated by suit. Looking at the line of spades, he was reminded again of Alejandro. Jack had once accompanied the older man on a weekend jaunt to London. Times were fast and loose; they had both taken other partners at the club. Jack had been dominant for the first time and his mentor could sense the change. They ended the night together in a park. Alejandro had been playing solitaire by the light of the street lamp. As he finished the game, Jack had ribbed him about its simplicity. “Exercising your frail mind, old man?” Alejandro had chuckled. “It’s about comfort, not about complexity. You see this,” he said, pointing to the line of spades. “Each of these cards brings me a measure of solace. The ace reminds me that there is but one God; the deuce, that the bible is divided into the Old and New Testaments; the three—” “Of the holy trinity. Last I checked, you didn’t believe in God.” “Some days I do,” Alejandro replied, shrugging off Jack’s skepticism. “Someday you might as well.” Jack pushed aside the cards and reached for the small bible that lay on the table. He thumbed through it vacantly, eyes drawn by a word here or there, but in truth Alejandro had been wrong both about the cards and the word of God. The only words on Jack’s tongue were those of a poet. You must know that I do not love and that I love you, Two sides, he thought as he snatched the satchel and found what he had come for. He took his pistol, threw the vial up into the air, and fired like he was killing the devil himself. One shot would have done the job, but he had a reputation to uphold. The men downstairs would wonder just how far Gunter’s play had gone and Jack preferred to extend the mystique if only by a few hours. Two bullets remained in the revolver. “Am I in your crosshairs as well?” The betrayal in Sark’s voice startled Jack and he wondered for a moment—he hadn’t intended to kill him, but Sydney might be better off if Sark were dead. Jack walked over to the bed and removed Sark’s blindfold. He felt no pity as he rolled the younger man over. The plastic had certainly begun to chafe his skin by now, but Jack had one last blow to deal. Offering a near-apologetic nod, Jack steadied the weapon with his other hand. “You always were,” he replied before placing the gun back in his holster. “Another go?” Sark asked. Jack picked up the digital camera from the tray beside the bed. “For Sydney’s protection,” he said, peering through the viewfinder. He pressed the button and smiled as Sark’s eyes winced at the flash. “Well, since you've cost me quite the pretty penny this evening and are going to blackmail me to boot, I believe it only fair that Gunter spare me a little more of his precious time and energy,” Sark said. He arched an eyebrow enticingly. Jack mused the offer and then smiled. Everything alive has its two sides
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