shadowlass
Cadet
Title: Eyes Without a Face
Rating: 18+ (sexual situations, violence)
Summary: After Sydney’s disappearance and Sark’s imprisonment at the end of S2, Sark desperately tries to recall their “relationship” from his cell—the only thing keeping him sane in his glass cage.
Timeline: Obviously, AU in S3. This story supposes that Sark and Sydney were previously involved in S2, before Sydney disappeared.
Disclaimer: Don’t own these characters and never have; they are the exclusive property of J.J. and Bad Robot.
Author commentary: I thought I'd post this somewhere, because...why not? And while I've written stuff for other fandoms, I've never written anything for Alias. You don't have to be gentle, though. Critques, criticisms, and feedback are always, always appreciated.
Prologue: Sympathy for the Devil
For in the sleep of death what dreams may come…?
She had nervous hands. A pretty, expressive face, but nervous and twitchy hands that were continually in motion—much like the woman herself. Maybe not a woman, though. Not in so many words.
He studied her in the sweet, whispering light of dusk—his Scottish nanny, he remembered, had always called it ‘the gloaming’—and thought that, no, she was still a girl really. In thoughts and feelings and ideas, she was so pitifully naïve; she was an exposed neck in a world full of cutthroats and the best part was that she didn’t realize it. Her unrelenting innocence in a world full of destruction and evil was refreshing to him, though he wasn't sure he would be able to admit that to anyone.
Sydney Bristow. Beautiful, unsophisticated, terribly young.
She caught him looking at her, even though he had been positive he was being smooth in his observation of her. She swept her hair out of her face probably just so she could move her hands again. A slight blush tinted the top of her rounded cheekbones before her eyes slid away from him again, an anxious set curling around her mouth. It was unnatural for her face, that look. She had a face that deserved laughter and smiles and lazy Sunday mornings.
“Stop it.” Her voice was soft, almost disembodied from her, but there was no real bite to the words.
“Why? Am I making you nervous?” His smile in return was quick, a flashing and winking diamond held up to the light.
He’d dragged out the words until they were a parody of themselves, just to see what she would say. He thought he already knew, was anticipating a slicing, ripping sartorial comeback that would signify their usual exchange—the eternal battle. He light, she dark.
But that was… No, not right. That was wrong. It was the other way around, wasn’t it? She light, he dark.
He was just about to make a comment about it when she opened her mouth—rosebud pink and sweet—and her eyes fixed themselves on him, a dark, drenched brown in the shadowy light.
“No, you were right.” Her hand made vague, fluttering motions towards him. And it was then that he noticed the blood that spilled over the cream white of her skin, like a scarlet brand upon otherwise untainted flesh.
“It’s dark where they keep me.” She leaned in, close enough for him to see every inch of her face as pure as day. Her mouth brushed his, once. “Can’t you see?”
“I don’t…”
She grabbed his hand. It was glacier cold, even the blood against his hand was old and long dried. The longing came over him for it to still be wet and sticky, so he could do something to stop the bleeding, though he was too late. He was always too late, it seemed. Through his desperation, he could hear the tremulous heartbeat beneath her fragile chest; even though she was bleeding (had bleed), holding her was vaguely erotic—all those old feelings coming back to the surface.
“Can’t you see?” Her voice was a pleading whisper and she gripped his hand tighter. The skin around her eyes was gone, leaving darkened, empty sockets; blood seeped out of the corners of her mouth.
The world outside degenerated into absolute darkness. The hand that held his was skeletal, fleshless fingers.
“Sark?”
The train car vanished. He saw her face, staring up at him from the middle of pitch-black water with her hair swirling all around her pale, corpse still body; her falling back against a wall, blood all over her and a gun still in her hand; him watching her walk down a white hallway, but her face was different and her hair was lighter, harshly unnatural.
When she turned to look at him, her eyes were dead and blank and huge, dominating her angular face. Her voice, when she spoke, was a husky, slow murmur that sent little chills of unease down his spine.
“You think this is the end.”
The wide expanse of desert opened up before him, suddenly. It was a desolate sea of sand and wind and harsh sun that stretched out as far as the eye could see. In the distance, she stood whole and wildly familiar, though different. There was something in the way she stood, the slight droop of shoulders and tilt of head…
Her face was hidden in shadow, even though there were no trees or clouds to give shade.
He felt, rather than heard, her voice this time.
But you’ve only just begun.
When he woke, writhing and gasping for breath in the dark, he wasn’t alone. The moment he opened his eyes he could feel the watchful guards staring at him through the glass; they were the judges, constantly looking, weighing and, ultimately, finding him wanting.
“Sydney.” Still, the whisper tore from his throat. It was a ragged plea, a supplication to any god who might be listening and the same name that’d been screaming inside his head ever since they’d told him that she was dead.
Dead. Swallowed by the earth as if she had never, ever been.
“Sydney."
The guards would hear that, of course. Their ears and eyes were everywhere when it concerned him, so jealous of his time and anxious for his attempted escape were they. But desperation kept watch over him like a raven on his shoulder in the dark, marking time.
He didn’t care who heard. After all, she was gone.
*~*~*
Rating: 18+ (sexual situations, violence)
Summary: After Sydney’s disappearance and Sark’s imprisonment at the end of S2, Sark desperately tries to recall their “relationship” from his cell—the only thing keeping him sane in his glass cage.
Timeline: Obviously, AU in S3. This story supposes that Sark and Sydney were previously involved in S2, before Sydney disappeared.
Disclaimer: Don’t own these characters and never have; they are the exclusive property of J.J. and Bad Robot.
Author commentary: I thought I'd post this somewhere, because...why not? And while I've written stuff for other fandoms, I've never written anything for Alias. You don't have to be gentle, though. Critques, criticisms, and feedback are always, always appreciated.
Prologue: Sympathy for the Devil
For in the sleep of death what dreams may come…?
She had nervous hands. A pretty, expressive face, but nervous and twitchy hands that were continually in motion—much like the woman herself. Maybe not a woman, though. Not in so many words.
He studied her in the sweet, whispering light of dusk—his Scottish nanny, he remembered, had always called it ‘the gloaming’—and thought that, no, she was still a girl really. In thoughts and feelings and ideas, she was so pitifully naïve; she was an exposed neck in a world full of cutthroats and the best part was that she didn’t realize it. Her unrelenting innocence in a world full of destruction and evil was refreshing to him, though he wasn't sure he would be able to admit that to anyone.
Sydney Bristow. Beautiful, unsophisticated, terribly young.
She caught him looking at her, even though he had been positive he was being smooth in his observation of her. She swept her hair out of her face probably just so she could move her hands again. A slight blush tinted the top of her rounded cheekbones before her eyes slid away from him again, an anxious set curling around her mouth. It was unnatural for her face, that look. She had a face that deserved laughter and smiles and lazy Sunday mornings.
“Stop it.” Her voice was soft, almost disembodied from her, but there was no real bite to the words.
“Why? Am I making you nervous?” His smile in return was quick, a flashing and winking diamond held up to the light.
He’d dragged out the words until they were a parody of themselves, just to see what she would say. He thought he already knew, was anticipating a slicing, ripping sartorial comeback that would signify their usual exchange—the eternal battle. He light, she dark.
But that was… No, not right. That was wrong. It was the other way around, wasn’t it? She light, he dark.
He was just about to make a comment about it when she opened her mouth—rosebud pink and sweet—and her eyes fixed themselves on him, a dark, drenched brown in the shadowy light.
“No, you were right.” Her hand made vague, fluttering motions towards him. And it was then that he noticed the blood that spilled over the cream white of her skin, like a scarlet brand upon otherwise untainted flesh.
“It’s dark where they keep me.” She leaned in, close enough for him to see every inch of her face as pure as day. Her mouth brushed his, once. “Can’t you see?”
“I don’t…”
She grabbed his hand. It was glacier cold, even the blood against his hand was old and long dried. The longing came over him for it to still be wet and sticky, so he could do something to stop the bleeding, though he was too late. He was always too late, it seemed. Through his desperation, he could hear the tremulous heartbeat beneath her fragile chest; even though she was bleeding (had bleed), holding her was vaguely erotic—all those old feelings coming back to the surface.
“Can’t you see?” Her voice was a pleading whisper and she gripped his hand tighter. The skin around her eyes was gone, leaving darkened, empty sockets; blood seeped out of the corners of her mouth.
The world outside degenerated into absolute darkness. The hand that held his was skeletal, fleshless fingers.
“Sark?”
The train car vanished. He saw her face, staring up at him from the middle of pitch-black water with her hair swirling all around her pale, corpse still body; her falling back against a wall, blood all over her and a gun still in her hand; him watching her walk down a white hallway, but her face was different and her hair was lighter, harshly unnatural.
When she turned to look at him, her eyes were dead and blank and huge, dominating her angular face. Her voice, when she spoke, was a husky, slow murmur that sent little chills of unease down his spine.
“You think this is the end.”
The wide expanse of desert opened up before him, suddenly. It was a desolate sea of sand and wind and harsh sun that stretched out as far as the eye could see. In the distance, she stood whole and wildly familiar, though different. There was something in the way she stood, the slight droop of shoulders and tilt of head…
Her face was hidden in shadow, even though there were no trees or clouds to give shade.
He felt, rather than heard, her voice this time.
But you’ve only just begun.
When he woke, writhing and gasping for breath in the dark, he wasn’t alone. The moment he opened his eyes he could feel the watchful guards staring at him through the glass; they were the judges, constantly looking, weighing and, ultimately, finding him wanting.
“Sydney.” Still, the whisper tore from his throat. It was a ragged plea, a supplication to any god who might be listening and the same name that’d been screaming inside his head ever since they’d told him that she was dead.
Dead. Swallowed by the earth as if she had never, ever been.
“Sydney."
The guards would hear that, of course. Their ears and eyes were everywhere when it concerned him, so jealous of his time and anxious for his attempted escape were they. But desperation kept watch over him like a raven on his shoulder in the dark, marking time.
He didn’t care who heard. After all, she was gone.
*~*~*