Façade

A Dark Turn

I Was Made to Love You
Joined
Dec 5, 2003
Location
London
Title: Façade
Author: Dita
Ship: The Good ship Lollipop. No, just kidding.  Sark and Sydney.
Situation: Post Telling; Takes place after Sydney’s inspirational little phone conference with Vaughn in ep 17. Obviously, in an alternate universe (doesn’t that sound so scary and sci fi??).
Commentary: Wow. This has been sitting on my desktop for ages and I finally decided to post it. I had to do some major updates because, since writing it (and finishing it), SD-6 was still around.  Also, it’s long and it does have lots of Syd v. Sark action… Just be patient while the story develops. Also, feedback and honest critiques are very much appreciated. Flames, however, are not.
Plot summary: The brutal murder of a diplomat’s beloved daughter may be much more than it appears when it’s discovered that she had high-ranking connections with…the Covenant. Sydney is dispatched post-haste to investigate pertinent details, but it’s proving much more difficult and slippery an investigation than she thought. Complicating matters further is the mysterious presence of Sark, whose connections she must unravel before she can ever hope to find the truth.

Chapter One: The Painted Doll

~ Every note I sing is blue
And every note is more than I can handle. ~


2:30 A.M.; Washington D.C.

She had everything she had ever wanted.

Lydia Antoinette d’Rosseau, the third child and only daughter of a French diplomat in Washington, had never worked for anything in her life…nor had she ever the inclination to try. Dark-haired and doe eyed and graced with a face that many a potential suitor said was more awe-inspiring than any religious conversion, she was the epitome of desire and carelessness in a mink coat and five-hundred dollar Prada shoes.

Right now, those Prada shoes were heading east in the dead night toward the apartment of her one and only, acknowledged lover: a married man who rented a hotel room at the Plaza D’Italia every Tuesday and Thursday. She never minded the married part, nor the fact that she knew next to nothing about her paramour. The sex was exceptional and Lydia got to have a secret, something she loved most about the married lover part. Secrets were like dark chocolate during PMS and a good f**k; they were something you could hold to your heart and smirk out at everyone else because you knew something that they never would trapped in their dull, senseless lives. She lived secrets like other people lived for their families or the adrenaline rush or their jobs; she reveled in her power.

She smiled to herself on the thought of it, even as the clickty-clack of her heels echoed throughout the dead street. Power. Prestige. Sex. Scandal. How absolutely f***ing delicious. Those were also just some of the reasons she had eschewed her limo tonight: the chance at a walk alone to the hotel was doing wonders for the clearing of her mind as one could rarely hold a coherent thought down in a limo, according to Lydia.

This was from a girl who could rarely hold a coherent thought down period, but most people were willing to run along with such a lovely girl’s obviously whacked train of thought. Even if the lovely girl was also obviously a bit on the lunatic side. Spending four months in a mental hospital at the age of eighteen had done little to correct Lydia’s one weakness: a complete and utter lack of remorse. Her little animal torturing stint had ended abruptly, but Lydia’s lack of concern and willingness to kill for match-set advantage made her all that much more dangerous. Really, she was just torturing bigger and smarter animals now.

So, her death should have come has no surprise to anyone. Considering the number of enemies she’d acquired in her short twenty-five years of back-stabbing living, Lydia should have considered herself lucky to have lived as long as she did.

But when that hand reached out to grab Lydia’s long hair, when the knife came up and slit a perfect smile in her throat, she couldn’t absolutely believe…

She stood still for a minute, her body poised straight as if pulled up by some invisible wire. But then, her eyes rolled back, showing only the whites, and… She fell. Her head hit the ground, cracking against the concrete, and her mink coat slipped from her shoulders to join the dark pool of blood gathering in the sidewalk cracks.

Game Over.

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No one realized she was missing for a week.


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CIA, a week and a half later.

“Her name was Lydia d’Rosseau, daughter of Francois d’Rosseau, a key player in the on-going relations between France and the United States.”

A picture of a smiling dark-haired and blue-eyed woman flashed across the screen, obviously taken in happier days. Dixon’s reassuring monotone resonated throughout the briefing room and the only thing that Sydney could think as she stared into Lydia’s oversized glittering blue eyes was: young. Too young and too close to Sydney’s own age for comfort.

“…And we don’t know why. As you all know, this sort of thing would not come under the prevue of CIA, but for one thing.”

Lydia’s picture gave way to another, this one featuring Lydia talking to an older man in a crisp black suit. He looked very European with overtones of metro-sexulaity that included his fake, orange tan and perfectly coiffed graying hair. The self-righteous, smug sneer on his mouth turned a handsome face into something almost ugly.

“Henri de Tourville. He’s a prominent illegal arms dealer and known liaison for the Covenant.”

Another slide showed Henri giving Lydia what appeared to be some kind of folder, probably rife with all sorts of dubious documents.

“He may or may not have been Lydia d’Rosseau’s handler.” Dixon paused for theatrical effect and Sydney stole a glance in her father’s direction, who was staring at her pensively, lips drawn together in a tight line. She switched her look over to Vaughn, sitting near Lauren towards the front of the table. His hand was resting lightly on his wife’s and he was staring at Dixon as if his life depended on it. He was in no way looking in her direction, general or otherwise.

Ah, just like old times.

“Although we knew about and were investigating Lydia’s involvement before her death, her murder changes things dramatically. In fact, we suspect that her murder may have been arranged by the Covenant itself.”

Sydney frowned. Odd. “I don’t understand. Why would the Covenant kill one of its own agents? Wouldn’t that be defeating the purpose?”

Dixon frowned. “Well, we don’t know. The fact is, the fact why it’s so important to find out why and who killed Lydia d’Rosseau are not only her close connections to the Covenant, but...”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sydney saw Lauren whisper something in Vaughn’s ear. She caught his patented look of surprise, and then he turned to meet her eyes. She was almost sick of the familiar hurt and shock she saw within them.

“To you, Sydney.”

A slide of Lydia flashed across the screen, Lydia talking and putting her arm around a woman at her side. The woman, Sydney realized, had her face. Her hair might have been blonde in the slide, but the picture was sharp as a scalpel and Sydney could clearly make out every feature of her own face perfectly.

She was smiling at Lydia. She looked amused.

“So I have a connection to Lydia that is…”

“Unknown,” Dixon finished. “At least for now. But it’s one that could bear serious weight on up-coming events. I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if you were to investigate your relationship- private or professional- with Lydia d’Rosseau.”

Sydney continued to stare at the screen, at her own face in a situation she had no recollection of ever being in.

“Her apartment would probably be the best place to start. You can get the ops and details from Marshall.” Dixon nodded shortly, but there was understanding in his eyes. “That’s it, then.”

She nodded and tried for a smile. It didn’t quite work out. She wondered how long it would be this way; even when someone told her the details of her missing two years, there was always something she missed, always. Her hands slightly shaking, she tried to rearrange the papers in the folder in front of her, though she no longer had any idea what they contained or pertained to…

“Sydney…” Vaughn was standing in front of her. His face was in his normal mode of anxious worry, though Sydney assured herself she needn’t be concerned any of it was for her. Vaughn, of course, was in the game of self-preservation. She ran a lagging third these days...at best.

“Vaughn.”

Why can’t you just leave me the hell alone? Do I have a sign on my face that says ‘martyr’? ‘Will suffer paradoxical whims for food?’

“I-I’m sorry.” They were both uneasily conscious of a frail, pretty Lauren, pert today in a navy pantsuit, standing not five feet away from them, capable of hearing every word. “About…everything.”

The words hung between them like something secret and ugly and unclean. It was as if Vaughn was washing all the blood from his hands in one easy step. No more Sydney, she could imagine him thinking. Mustn’t go that way anymore.

“I have to go,” she said, at last. She didn’t look at him or at Lauren as she left, passing through the glass doors of the debriefing room into the outer offices of the CIA. She half-thought she wanted him to call her back…but, no. Hushed, embarrassed silence reigned supreme.

Well, f*** him then.

“Hey, Sydney. Hello. Hi there. Umm. Good morning.”

“Hi, Marshall.” She walked to her desk to get her coffee cup, a big porcelain one with cows on it that Francie, the real Francie, had gotten her for her birthday a few years back. “Is there something…?”

“Oh. Oh! Yes. Ummm, Dixon and the mission- your thing with Little-Miss-Got-Her-Throat-Cut-In-A-Dark-Alley? You know, that has to be a really rare death. I mean, it’s the stuff that mystery movies and books are based on, but how many people do you know that can actually lay claim to that kind of thing? I realize it’s morbid-“

“Marshall.” She tried for a smile. “The mission?”

“Yes, yeah. I’m sorry, Syd.” He smiled too, but his smile was innocent, like a little boy’s. “Well. Lydia has an apartment in D.C. Washington D.C. that is. Of course, there aren’t many D.C.’s around the world, but… Not the point,” he said, when he saw the red flush on Sydney’s cheeks. “There’s the address. And, yeah. The address. I’ve got a field kit ready for you in my office-camera and plastic glove ready, I might add-and intell’s sent down a list of people who were reported to be ‘very’ close to Lydia d’Rosseau. You know, like in a “Soprano” kind of way.”

She took the list and scanned it. No big suprises, she supposed. Simon Walker, Allison Dorien, Irina Derevko, Arvin Sloane (back in the SD-6 days), and…Julian Lazarey.

Sark.

Simply fanf***ingtastic.

“Thanks, Marshall.”

“Yeah, well, you know. Just doing the ‘ol job, if you know what I… Okay, I’m gone.”

Sydney replaced the list and address info on her desk and looked up to see Jack, standing tall and straight and obviously uncomfortable next to her desk.

“Dad.” Not even room for a breath around here.

“Sydney.” She regretted the flash of pain, of protectiveness that flashed through his eyes and wished she had something-anything- that could make it better. “I just wanted to say…be careful. Lydia d’Rosseau, well, I’ve heard of her in some circles. She wasn’t the sort of girl to play nice or think rationally.”

“All the more reason to investigate.”

“Yes, but, Sydney, I-”

She caught him in a hug. It was so sudden, so spontaneous, it even caught her off guard. But she needed it, she needed to feel someone right now. Her heart was on a tenuous line; a break down in the middle of the CIA was a minute away.

“You worry too much,” she said and squeezed her eyes tight to keep from crying (too much, now, and too long she had been crying). “It’ll all be fine. You’ll see.”

Oh, the lies you tell, Sydney. Don’t you realize by now it’ll never be fine anymore? Never be quite the same?

Deep down, she hated herself for being weak. She was disgusted and yet, another part of her, a sweeter and more naïve part, just she wished she could believe her own promise, this once.

Even if that, too, was just another lie.


~ Cut beneath the surface screen
Of what we say and what we seem,
Is there a truth to be seen?

She keeps crying out your name
But her screams, they sound the same
Oh, how fickle fate can be. ~



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*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


Chapter Two: A Red Afternoon

~ Lost a friend I found
Down some blood red river
Never did find my way home
In time to forget her. ~


“She’s dead.”

“Who?”

“Who? Please, Mr. Sark, your modesty puts even me to shame. Lydia. Found dead in the mouth of an alleyway last Wednesday. Covenant hit.” The voice in his phone, that of a Henri de Tourville, sounded smug and self-satisfied, like a fat cat who had dined on mice galore. “And I must say good job, old boy. I heard it was particularly brutal, vous savez ce que veux dire je?”*

“No, I do not know what you mean and I have no recollection of killing anyone in the last week, if that’s what you’re somehow implying.” But I do want to kill you, Sark thought, dispassionately. “I was not aware or connected with Lydia’s death, and I suggest you look down other avenues of possibility to find your killer. Your congratulations are wasted on me.”

He snapped the cell phone shut and felt vaguely empty.

So, Lydia was dead.

It hardly came as a surprise. The way she’d conducted herself, her indiscretion, her flamboyant decadence… The only thing, Sark mused, that had saved Lydia for this long had been her father, who had protected his wayward offspring with an iron fist and a hired fleet of assassins, most of them on the French government’s bankroll. It seemed that that, in itself, had even come to an end.

He couldn’t say he was sorry… Except that he was. Lydia was, had been, a lot of things: cruel, careless, callous, lazy, reckless. But she was also passionate and, when she put her mind to it, disarmingly charming. He remembered, with sudden clarity, a summer night he’d spent with Lydia on a mission in Venice three years ago. There had been one moment, when she’d turned to look at him over her shoulder, mouth solemn and eyes laughing…

On the motorbike, she asks him what his first name is. Her eyes are so very blue-just like his own- in the moonlight and her mouth is perfect, inches away from his own.

He’d wondered then what she’d been like as little girl, no pretenses and armour to fend off the world.

Hardly the thing to be wondering now, though, he supposed. With Lydia dead and it being the Covenant, that could only mean one of two things: Lydia had betrayed the Convenant or she had become a serious liability. Right now, Sark was opting for the latter given Lydia’s self-indulgent mode of deport. But…then who?

He wondered why he hadn’t been informed and decided, reluctantly if truth be told, to put in a phone call to his associate. Presumably, the one with the answers.

“Hello?” Three rings and the voice that picks up is accented and sweet- pretty but vapid.

“It’s Sark. Are you in a secure location?”

“No. Actually, I’m just in the middle of something. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. Mom.” She paused. “Yes, mother, everything’s fine.” Serious emphasis on the word ‘fine.’

Did she just call me mom? Before he could make some sort of cleverly biting barb in return, she hung up. Sark decided, rather liberally, to be amused at Lauren Reed for calling him ‘mom.’ What was life if you couldn’t take a joke, however unintentional?

True to form, though, less than five minutes later, his cell rang with Lauren’s number flashing in bold red across the screen. Dutifully, he picked up. At the fifth ring. Just to piss her off.

“Lauren. So good of you to return my call.”

“Cut the bullsh**, Sark. What’s the matter?”

“What, no whispered terms of endearment, love? No?” He could well imagine the ‘I’m-so-pissed-at-you’ expression her face must be making; it almost warmed his heart. “Well, no matter. I have a more pressing issue, if you will, concerning one of our fellow associates. Perhaps you know her. Lydia d’Rosseau?”

A long pause. “What about her?”

“She was brutally murdered last week. Henri de Tourville, the arms dealer, called to congratulate me on a job well done.” He let the silence ring in his ears, deafening and damning. “It wasn’t *my* job, love,” he said, faintly underling the word ‘my’ with his tone.

“I didn’t think it would concern you.” Her voice was flippant, but troubled. She was an amateur at hiding her emotions and even Sark could divine that she was trying to guess at what his underlying motives were.

Someday, he thought, I’m going to kill you.

But for now, he just settled for a condescending, bastard-like tone he knew was guarenteed to get a rise. “I don’t like it, Lauren, when you don’t inform me of such things. It makes me look foolish and you as well, I might add. Should I even bother to ask if you did a follow-up mission? Or is that *also* no longer my concern?”

“Sydney Bristow’s been sent on a mission to try and find out what connection she and Lydia had toward one another. Apparently, Sydney was quite close with Lydia sometime during the infamous missing two years. She’s leaving for Washington D.C. tomorrow.”

“This is the first I’m hearing of this, Lauren.”

“I was going to call you.” Her voice had taken on a petulant tone. “I can’t get away right now with my father’s death. Vaughn and I are working on things.”

“F***ing him again, are you? Well, I don’t blame you. Killing-father-and-pretending-to-be-grieving sex is right up there with make-up sex. My blessing, love.”

“It was what you wanted. You suggested it.”

“I never said I particularly cared, either. But, Lauren love, I want to get one thing straight between us. From now on, you don’t keep secrets; everything you even so much as *think* is to be reported to me. Is that understood?”

“Completely.” She hung up before he could venture anything else and he almost threw the cell phone against the wall in rare and vicious temper snit.

Your days are so f***ing numbered, love.

But he stopped to focus. Sydney Bristow the infalliable was going to be in D.C. to “figure things out.” He nearly laughed out loud. He had no idea of her connection to Lydia and, if it was a serious one, Lydia had failed to mention it to him.

But if it was serious enough for Sydney, then it was serious enough for Sark.

It would be interesting, at least, to cross paths with her again.

Even if he did end up killing her.

If we should meet again in some darkened room
I hope to my soul it could be soon.



*Translation: Do you know what I mean?

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The lyrics from Chapter One are: Tori Amos, "Blue Room" and Beth Orton, "She Cries Your Name." From Chapter Two: Beth Orton, "Blood Red River" and "Darkened Room", respectively.

Hope you enjoyed!!!! :)
 

amy lynn

The Polish Pirate
Joined
Mar 23, 2004
Oh wow! This is great! I love the start of this so far.

“F***ing him again, are you? Well, I don’t blame you. Killing-my-father-and-pretending-to-be-grieving sex is right up there with make-up sex. My blessing, love.”
:laughbounce: Such a great line. That's snarky Sark at his best!!

Someday, he thought, I’m going to kill you.
I wish he would on the show! I really do! (y) (y)

This is a wonderful start, I love your writing style...and the lyrics you used were wonderful!!

Could I get a PM when you update, please? :flowers:
 

hotpot

The Bubbly
Joined
Oct 29, 2003
She had everything she had ever wanted.

Lydia Antoinette d’Rosseau, the third child and only daughter of a French diplomat in Washington, had never worked for anything in her life…nor had she ever the inclination to try. Dark-haired and doe eyed and graced with a face that many a potential suitor said was more awe-inspiring than any religious conversion, she was the epitome of desire and carelessness in a mink coat and five-hundred dollar Prada shoes.
This could quite possibly be the best opening of a fic I have ever read! It had nothing to do with any character that I knew of, but it was damn intriguing to find out how she was connected to someone! Sounds like one hardcore girl! :LOL:

“Sydney…” Vaughn was standing in front of her. His face was in his normal mode of anxious worry, though Sydney assured herself she needn’t be concerned any of it was for her. Vaughn, of course, was in the game of self-preservation. She ran a lagging third these days...at best.

“Vaughn.”

Why can’t you just leave me the hell alone? Do I have a sign on my face that says ‘martyr’? ‘Will suffer paradoxical whims for food?’

“I-I’m sorry.” They were both uneasily conscious of a frail, pretty Lauren, pert today in a navy pantsuit, standing not five feet away from them, capable of hearing every word. “About…everything.”

The words hung between them like something secret and ugly and unclean. It was as if Vaughn was washing all the blood from his hands in one simple, pathetically easy step. No more Sydney, she could imagine him thinking. Mustn’t go that way anymore.

“I have to go,” she said, at last. She didn’t look at him or at Lauren as she left, passing through the glass doors of the debriefing room into the outer offices of the CIA. She half-thought she wanted him to call her back…but, no. Hushed, embarrassed silence reigned supreme.

Well, f*** him then.
This is how I truly wish Syd would have acted towards Vaughn and all his self righteous BS this season. She is so much stronger than how they have made her this season - this part reflects on how Sydney should have acted towards him! f*** Vaughn indeed! (y) (y)

“No, I do not know what you mean and I have no recollection of killing anyone in the last week, if that’s what you’re somehow implying.” But I do want to kill you, Sark thought, dispassionately.
Such a Sark thing to say - I literally laughed outloud at this!

Someday, he thought, I’m going to kill you.
Your days are so f***ing numbered, love.
Oh man - :laughbounce: Too frickin' funny!!! I loved that whole conversation between them and I detest Lark! It's nice to know what Sark really thinks of her and yes, I hope he kills her too!!

This looks like it is going to be one kick ass fic!! I hope you update soon Dita and can I have a PM when you do? :D
 
Joined
Sep 29, 2003
Location
Texas
very good, i am loving it the way you worked in lauren as if this were like next weeks epi (although we all know that that's not )
anyways i would love a pm if you continue!
 

jacs29

Cadet
Joined
Dec 16, 2002
Location
NY
“I didn’t think it would concern you.” Her voice was flippiant, but troubled. She was an amateur at hiding her emotions and even Sark could divine that she was trying to guess at what his underlying motives were.

Someday, he thought, I’m going to kill you.
We can only hope :LOL: wonderful fic so far, i'm glad to have found it! Please PM me when you update.. thanks!
 

A Dark Turn

I Was Made to Love You
Joined
Dec 5, 2003
Location
London
Thanks to: Amy Lynn, hotpot, Joyie, fivestoesonefoot, Madalena, Rach, jacs29, jennyalias877, and sarkchickwannabe. I only gave you a PM if you specifically asked for one, so if you want to get added/taken off the list, lemme know. BTW, the reviews were very much appreciated... :D
Notes: I forgot to mention this before… English is not my first language (it’s German); I learned it when I moved to America five years ago, so if you see something (a weird word combination, perhaps?) and you think ‘what is her deal?’ you’ll know why. So…be patient with me. I try.



Chapter Three: The First Taste

<span style='font-size:8pt;line-height:100%'>~ My heart is black and my body is blue. ~ </span>

It was raining when Sydney arrived in Washington D.C., which, to Sydney, made everything absolutely *perfect*. Luckily, she hadn’t brought along an umbrella or a raincoat and this meant having to slog through ankle deep puddles of slush to Lydia’s posh, uptown flat. The cabbie had dropped her off at the curb but she’d realized, belatedly (read: as the cab was speeding away), that, actually, Lydia lived a whole block down.

Which, in itself, was another kind of irony altogether.

Not, of course, that she actually expected to find much of anything at Lydia’s place; if it was a Covenant hit, then she was sure they had covered their tracks well and extricated anything damning or incriminating from the apartment before it could be seen by unsuspecting eyes. Truth be told, she wasn’t even sure why she was here or if she really cared that some girl named Lydia had pissed off the Covenant and gotten offed in the process.

Well… Of course, she did. She was Sydney Bristow. And Sydney Bristow *always* cared. About everything.

She watched the cars pass her by on the street and kept walking. Her fingers trailed the length of her wet, uncovered arm and she realized the scariest thing of all was that she didn’t want to care about Lydia. Or about Vaughn or her missing two years.

Her newest fantasy: she didn’t want to care about anything at all.

She walked the rest of the way to the apartment in a shivering sort of haze and was nearly turned away by the smirking doorman until she produced some sob story and tears about her dead cousin and, oh, couldn’t he *please* let her up? She brushed at him with her body and feigned a kiss and found her drip drying self in an elevator half-way up to Lydia’s apartment.

It was one of those really cool, vintage elevator/apartment type deals, where the elevator opened up right into the apartment. No need for a front door, but Sydney was on the debate whether or not a known terrorist should put her all of her faith into her easily swayed doorman. Of course, maybe that’s why Lydia was what she was: dead.

The apartment, though, was lovely; Sydney could easily see why Lydia had chosen the rise-up flat over the others in the city. The windows directly across from her were floor to ceiling panes that possessed a damn, lovely view of a quaint, little park. The furniture was dark and deco and screamed “wealthy eccentric”; the clashing patterns of bold reds and slashing cerulean made her eyes want to water.

Well, different strokes for different folks. Literally.

She didn’t really know where to begin, so she randomly started in the living room. There were lots of magazines-mostly of the fashion variety-and lots of unopened mail on the Louis XVI styled coffee table, some of it going back over a year. She settled down on the sofa to read and quickly realized most of it was unimportant (Ms. D’Rosseau! You’ve been Pre-Approved for our new Platinum Visa! Call Today to Activate!). There was a letter from an ex-schoolmate in Nice, chatting inanely about how Lydia needed to settle down with a good, solid French boy, and one from her father about an upcoming visit and possible lunch at the Plaza D’Italia. To read them, one would think Lydia had been the perfect society child, a bit wild, but nothing a good shopping spree and a trophy husband wouldn’t cure.

Sydney wandered over to the kitchen (nothing), the bathroom (nothing), the guest bed and bath (nothing and nothing), and finally, over to Lydia’s bedroom.

It was swank, Sydney supposed that was what you would call it, and the main piece of furniture was a red canopy bed with lots of lace flowing down around it from the ceiling for, what she supposed was, atmospheric effect. Nice, if you were the type to appreciate it.

She busied herself with the closet, filled with designer clothes, and tried not to feel freakishly morbid for going through a dead girl’s things. There was a Rive Gauche skirt, a Dior pantsuit in villain black, a sky blue D & G halter…

And, in the very back of the closet, an impressive array of weaponry that would have made any self-respecting assassin proud.

She checked out the nightstand beside the bed. There was an anthology book about the history of cinema and a trick bottom to the drawer that Sydney discovered when she accidentally rapped it with her knuckles. It fell partly through and she wrenched the remaining out to reveal a small space.

There was a phone number, hastily scrawled in red, on a scrap of paper. The initial ‘S’ above the number was underlined boldly and twice.

‘S’? Sydney tried to think of who Lydia had known, who possibly, that had an initial with the letter S… Simon, maybe? Or…

“Agent Bristow. Lovely to see you again.”

The mechanical click signaled the cocking of a gun and out of the corner of her eye, she saw it leveled with her temple.

Sark.

She’d have recognized that snarky, clipped British accent anywhere.

“I wish I could say the same… Sark.” She bit off his name like it was something distasteful. But her mind was racing. She had a gun in her purse…in the living room. The weapons in Lydia’s closet across the room seemed equally far away. Stupid, idiotic, carless, not to be fully prepared.

“As do I, Sydney.” She hated the amusement in his voice, the smirkiness of it that suggested he was laughing at her on the inside-found her f***ing hilarious, in fact. “Really, it pains me that, through all the time we’ve known each other, you’ve yet to warm to me. I wonder, why do you think that is?”

“Because, whenever we meet, it invariably ends up with you trying to kill me.” She kept staring straight ahead, her eyes trained hard on the mauve wall. “I wonder, why do you think *that* is, Sark?”

She turned to look at him, then, and something inside her whispered, mistake. He was close, standing practically on top of her with the gun all but rammed into the side of her head.

His eyes are too blue, she thought, quite off the cuff. Even bluer when he’s threatening physical violence.

“Maybe it’s because you annoy me,” he said, cat eyes narrowing slightly.

“Maybe it’s because I’m better than you.”

Her remark hit home and she watched his jaw clench at the last like he was trying very, very hard not to fire all ten rounds into her skull. “Maybe I should remind you, Sydney, which one of us is holding the gun.” He moved it slightly, probably for emphasis, and fired a round into the wall. It missed her head by less than centimeter. She didn’t think it was a mistake, on his part.

“What do you want?”

“It’s funny you should ask that, love, because-”

She, kneeling on the carpet, slammed into him from underneath. It was a gusty move considering, when she did it, the gun went off in exactly the place where her head had been point one seconds ago. She dug her nails into his pant leg and felt the business end of the gun smack into the back of her skull. Her vision wavered and blackened for a second as he grabbed her by her hair and yanked her viciously up to a standing position.

“I didn’t come here with the intention of using violence, Sydney.” His hand was still fisted in her hair, pulling her head back and exposing the long, clean line of her throat.

“You had a gun shoved in my face. That seems pretty violent to me.”

“For show, I assure you.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

His face had that slightly pissed off expression she’d so often associated with their joint venture to kill Sloane a few years prior and his hands were in a death grip on her hair. “I don’t expect you to believe me, and, surprisingly, it makes no difference to me whether you do or don’t.”

She kicked him, quite perfectly, right between the legs. He let out a ragged, half-surprised breath and doubled over in a weakness that allowed her to wrench the gun out of his hand.

Wasting no time, she hit him with it-hard-underneath the chin, enough to have him sprawling to the floor. “Don’t move,” she said, aiming the gun at his head. “Don’t even f***ing breathe.”

He laughed, a short, bitter stunt of sound. It so surprised her that she nearly stumbled back. “Shut up,” she whispered, and had the faint urge to shoot him then and there. “For the last gorram time: what are you doing here?”

“The same thing you are, I expect.” His voice had a semi-breathless quality that made her want to giggle like a junior high girl. “Poor Lydia.”

“You killed her.”

He, with a slight wince, propped himself up on his elbows and managed to regain sitting position. His face was thoughtful for a moment and then,

“No.” The corners of his mouth relaxed into a pensiveness she’d never seen in Sark and there was something in his eyes…but she couldn’t quite catch it and it was gone so quickly, she chalked it up to a knee in the balls on his part and an over-stressed imagination on hers.

“Then why are you here?”

“Would you believe me if I told you it’s because I couldn’t live another day without seeing you again?”

“No.”

“Well, that was definite.”

“You’re a pathological liar and a raging sociopath. Anything in regards to you and the word ‘no’ is going to be definite.”

He stared at her for several seconds in complete silence, his face utterly still and those lovely eyes-blue, blue, blue-drilling directly into hers. She thought maybe he was going to pull another gun on her, a knife even, when, “She was an interesting girl, wasn’t she? Our Lydia.” He placed an emphasis on ‘our’ that Sydney wasn’t entirely comfortable with but went on before she could press further. “I don’t suppose you’d remember her, of course, but apparently you were once in a position to say so.”

He drew his eyes across her face and the way he did it made her feel almost naked, like he was stripping away emotions and reasons and looking into her, deep down inside all the dark and secret parts of herself.

“But then again,” he continued, “memory is a funny thing.”

She had a nagging feeling he was saying much less than he knew, and decided to openly pursue it, not that she had any hope that Sark would go for in for the whole clarifying thing. “I want to know, and I want to know now, what you know about Lydia and me. Because I *think* you know something, Sark.”

She felt slightly unsteady and moved closer to him, gun still trained. She knew she was out of her element here; this was a place for people like Sark. The enigmatic and dark and mysterious had always repelled Sydney.

“I did know Lydia, if that’s what you’re none-too-subtly getting at. But she never mentioned you or anything at all that transpired between the two of you.” He smiled, disarmingly. “Of course, from what I knew of her, she was a girl who liked to play things ‘close to the vest’ if you will. I can only imagine how and why you became involved with someone like her.”

“And by that you mean…?”

“She’s a terrorist, Sydney. A psychotic. The ‘doesn’t-play-well-with-others’ type.” He shifted slightly, as she bent down to him, moving himself up a little more. “And we all know what an upstanding and perfect American citizen you are.”

He was trying to bait her. She recognized it even as she rose to it; she couldn’t help it-Sark brought out the very worst in her.

“Don’t you ever get tired of being a complete, morally defunct a**hole all the time?”

She realized then how close they were to each other-as they’d been engaged in witty banter-isms Sydney had been moving closer to him. Now, crouched on the floor, her face was inches from his and if someone had stumbled across them right then, barring the gun, they might have drawn more intimate conclusions.

“Don’t you ever get tired of being a puritanical neurotic with no sense of fun?”

“You’re a criminal, Sark,” Sydney began, her eyes locked with his, “you deserve quality time in a prison cell with a six-foot-five inmate named Rico, just waiting to make you his bride.”

“I think we’ve all heard this speech before, Sydney. And, honestly, it’s a bit tired coming from you, little miss lost-two-years-and-now-kills-everyone-in-sight.”

Sydney slapped him, her hand was already across his face before she could stop herself. “That’s not true,” she whispered. “I’m not like you. I don’t kill people for fun or ambition.”

He stared back at her, his face completely expressionless. “Whatever you need, darling, to help you sleep at night.”

“You, f***ing bastard-”

He kissed her, then. Suddenly. And, after the briefest of hesitations, she kissed him back. It was instinctive, something that hadn’t even entered her mind until she was actually doing it-on the floor, gun still in hand. He fell back and she with him, on the soft Persian carpet, her mouth finding its way to his and his neck and back again.

It wasn’t sweet and isn’t wasn’t gentle; it was desperation underlaid with violence, all tongues and biting-he bit her lower lip so hard she tasted blood and she moaned; she loved it, wanted it, needed it, would have cheerfully died before stopping.

His hands were on her bare skin, trailing the lean length of her spine. They were cold, his hands, against her hot flesh and the contrast felt like one, long titillating shiver, sending licks of ice across her skin. He went to work on her neck, and she could have screamed- hell, maybe she did. Desire, she thought, even as he pulled her shirt over her head, blood red and vicious and cold.

She had a moment to think: oh, yes as his hand cupped her breast through the black lace of her bra. And then, Too much fabric between us and she guided his other hand back to the clasp of the bra. One careless flick of the fingers and it was on the floor like yesterday’s news.

His hands closed over her breasts and he struggled them both back up to an upright position so that his mouth could move downward to tease, brush, suckle, play. His tongue circled, back and forth, in slow, agonizing strokes so that the pleasure was one long, sustained beat. Her moans echoed through the empty apartment and her whole body buckled and arched back; she was sure she had never felt this good, never felt this alive.

Not even with Vaughn?

Her mind was slow in catching up to the fact her body had already accepted. She was making it with, almost f***ing really, Sark. Evil, bad villain Sark. The one who’d killed Francie and tortured Will and had once, one time in France, electroshocked her within an inch of her life.

Oh, no. And, seconds later:

You have got to be f***ing kidding me.

“Christ, what the hell are you doing?” She pulled away almost as soon as the thought sunk in, her hands recoiling and already reaching for her bra. “Get …the hell… Get away, Sark. Now.”

No, she wasn’t a hypocrite. She’d only moaned throughout most of the orgasmic encounter; blaming it all on Sark wasn’t totally accurate, even if he was the one to start it. But now was not the time for such careful logic, not when she was so desperately trying to clasp her bra shut.

“Need some help with that?” She looked up to see him watching her frustrated, frazzled attempts at getting the clasp to snap; his face was so blithely amused she wanted to slap him. Again.

“No. I… I can do it.” She was mortified when she felt all the color rush to her cheeks in a blush and even more so when she heard his delighted laugh.

“Truly, Sydney, it wouldn’t be a problem. I’m something of an expert with that particular brand, if you will.”

“I think you’ve done enough, Sark.”

His face relaxed into his characteristic, arrogant smirk. “I never pegged you for a moaner, Sydney, but I’ve got to say it’s quite erotic. Very unexpectedly sexy.”

He got up, in one smooth motion, and was behind her before she could object or, more true to form, run the hell away. But behind her, she could feel his fingers trailing her back, then, with easy movements that did suggest he was indeed skilled, snapped the clasp back into place.

“There.” A slight pause. “Perfect.”

She reached over for her shirt and rolled away from him, her eyes steering clear of anything Sark. God, she really needed to start having sex with normal people.

Okay, then. Focus, Syd. *Please* don’t let him know how rattled you are.

“Y-you never really answered my question. About why you’re here.”

He stared at her. Then, he grabbed the gun from off the floor. And lazily aimed it in her direction.

“You know, I think you’re right?” he said. The corners of his mouth turned ever so slightly up. “Good luck with all of that, by the way.”

She watched him walk away and continued to sit on the floor long after she heard the elevator rise and descend, carrying Sark with it.

Shirtless, still panting, and with no more clues to her involvement with Lydia d’Rosseau than before her ‘let’s get it on’ session with Sark, Sydney realized she had never, in all her life, felt more confused.

Or more alone.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In a true bit of good timing and coincidence, Sark’s cell phone rang the second he hit the cement of the sidewalk. Recognizing the number, and almost wishing he hadn’t, he picked up.

“What?”

“Sydney. How much does she know?”

Since calling Lauren, Sark had been making inquires about his ex-lover’s death and her relationship to a Sydney Bristow. What he’d found had gotten him into a very sticky and not-so-easily-extractable situation with someone…less than tractable. Now, he was more or less stuck with the job of cleaning up and hoping to hell down low Sydney stayed in the dark on this particular matter.

“Nothing. The apartment’s been cleaned. She won’t find anything, I guarantee it.”

“You’re sure?”

He thought of the way he’d left her, vulnerable and ashamed and red-faced on the floor, her arms drawn around her chest like a little girl.

“Absolutely.”

“Good. See that it stays that way.”

He disconnected the phone, then, and felt…oddly dissatisfied. In his pocket was the one scrap of paper he’d carelessly managed to miss: the one with his number and initial he’d slipped away from Sydney during their pantomime of sex. The kiss had been evasion at its finest; he thought for damn sure she would have tried to shoot him for the indiscretion and they would have had their per-usual fight,- him leaving in a rain of bullets and she chasing after him until they lost each other in the city.

At least, that’s the way it should have gone.

He could feel the rain on his face and hear the endless thrush of traffic next to him and thought about the other girl waiting for him back at the safe house; all of it paled next to the memory of Sydney Bristow, back arched and mouth slightly parted, moaning in complete pleasure.


<span style='font-size:8pt;line-height:100%'>~ Oh, it's evil, babe, the way you let your grace enrapture me
When well you know, I'd be insane - to ever let that dirty game recapture me. ~
</span>


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*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The lyrics used are My Favourite Game by The Cardigans and Shadowboxer by Fiona Apple (whose song The First Taste is also where the title of the chapter comes from). And...that's it. Hope you all enjoyed!!!
 

hotpot

The Bubbly
Joined
Oct 29, 2003
:D Eeeeeeeee! I was so excited I beat the PM for, like the first time ever on a story and I have never been more happy to have done so! I was just thinking the other day...when is Dita going to update her awesome fic? :D And you did!! Yay!

It was raining when Sydney arrived in Washington D.C., which, to Sydney, made everything absolutely *perfect*.
The very first line - I really like how you emphasize with the **. Really helps get a grasp on Sydney's sarcastic side coming through. It was good on Sark in the last chapter too (y)

“Don’t you ever get tired of being a puritanical neurotic with no sense of fun?”
I could quote that whole damn exchange between them - it was so awesome. This was my favorite line by Sark though. 'Puritanical' LMAO :LOL:

Loved their make out session and Sark's little comment about Syd being a moaner. LOL - too funny.

And finally - lovin that visual of Sark walking through the rain on the streets. *sigh* :shamefullyembarrased:

Oh Dita, this is so good. I literally was alternately gasping with surprise, clapiing with excitement - the whole bit! Please write more soon! Thank you for the PM as well ^_^
 

amy lynn

The Polish Pirate
Joined
Mar 23, 2004
Yay! I was sitting at my computer trying to study for my history quiz and up pops a PM for facade! Oh how I love to procrastinate! ;)

You wrote the whole exchange between Sydney and Sark wonderfully. I was laughing out loud through all of it. If I wasn't at my apartment and alone, people would probably have been looking at me like I was crazy!

And then, them going at it in the middle of the floor! :shamefullyembarrased: It was hot hot hot. And I agree with Suzi, the comment he made about her being a moaner was great!

So Lydia is his ex-lover, and he's trying to keep Sydney in the dark about something... :ponder: I wonder what it is...

He could feel the rain on his face and hear the endless thrush of traffic next to him and thought about the other girl waiting for him back at the safe house; all of it paled next to the memory of Sydney Bristow, back arched and mouth slightly parted, moaning in complete pleasure.
Fantastic ending! It made me want more!!

Great chapter! Thanks for the PM, and I can't wait to hear what happens next!! (y) (y)
 

sarkfan

Sark's Girl
Joined
Mar 22, 2004
Location
Australia
That was great,the banter between them was awesome and the kiss..WOW.You left me wanting more.

Thanks for the pm,
~Rach~
 

Jassy

Cadet
Joined
Apr 27, 2004
Wow. :o That's really great, Dita! It was very hot and they had some good banter between them. Can I have a PM, please?
 

Quiet Disaster

I heart Chris Carrabba
Joined
May 4, 2003
Location
CT
“Maybe it’s because you annoy me,” he said, cat eyes narrowing slightly.

“Maybe it’s because I’m better than you.”
“Then why are you here?”

“Would you believe me if I told you it’s because I couldn’t live another day without seeing you again?”

“No.”

“Well, that was definite.”
Banter. Love it! (y)

“Truly, Sydney, it wouldn’t be a problem. I’m something of an expert with that particular brand, if you will.”
:ROFLMAO: Them going at it on the floor was just... HOT!

It was raining when Sydney arrived in Washington D.C., which, to Sydney, made everything absolutely *perfect*.
He could feel the rain on his face and hear the endless thrush of traffic next to him and thought about the other girl waiting for him back at the safe house; all of it paled next to the memory of Sydney Bristow, back arched and mouth slightly parted, moaning in complete pleasure.
I love how you opened it up with Sydney and rain, then ended it with Sark and rain. And after that ending... I want moooore!! :D

Fantastic update! (y) (y) Anxiously awaiting the next one!
 

A Dark Turn

I Was Made to Love You
Joined
Dec 5, 2003
Location
London
Huge thanks to: Suzi, Amy Lynn, Rach, Jassy, Elijahfan, Usa moon, Joyie, and Sarkchickwannabe. Your comments make my day. :shamefullyembarrased: Lots of chocolate and a David Anders for each of you.
Notes: No smut, as much as I wanted to. Sorry. This is a “must” chapter, as in the plot demands it :)hmm: and we all know how *that* can be). I promise, though, the next chapter kicks into high-gear and there’s plenty of Sarkney-ness to go ‘round. That said, on with Chapter Four.

Chapter Four: Devil in a Red Dress

~ Something’s gotten ahold of my heart,
keeping my soul and my senses apart.
Something’s gotten into my life
Cutting it’s way
Through my dreams like a knife. ~



There was blood everywhere.

On her hands, on her face; huge clumps of it clung to the cheap red wig she was wearing.

And she was screaming.

She was strapped down on a table in the dead-center of the room and…it hurt; the pain was exquisite. She couldn’t ever remember it hurting this much, like everything was on fire and set to burn.

“I don’t know,” her own voice was low and deep, echoing in the lonely, little room. “I don’t-”

“Of course, you do.” The voice above her was slick, foreign, and feminine. “The Key, darling. Tell me what you know about the key. Then we can stop.”

A laugh then, slow and long and sweet. “Then you can go. Would you like that? You can go home. Just tell me, dear, tell me about the key.”

She couldn’t remember ever feeling so f***ing terrified. They would kill her, she knew. They would bury her body in a place no one knew about, ever.

“I d-don’t know.”

Pain, then, excruciating electric shocks wound their way up her body. In her mind they screamed: tell her. End this. Just tell her.

“I’m going to ask again.” The voice turned from pleasant to briskly annoyed, or the annoyed tone most people got when the mail was late or they broke a nail. “The Key. Where is it?”

She couldn’t make herself speak; couldn’t do it even if she tried.

“Again: the Key?”

More pain and more pain- she felt her body begin to convulse. She felt blood down her neck and tears down her face. She wanted to scream everything she knew about the key out loud and in song form, if possible.

A door opened and shut and then, a second voice spoke up, also feminine and strongly accented, but in a lispy, sex kittenish way. French, Sydney guessed.

“Any progress?”

“No.” The first voice took on a bemused tone. “I was waiting for you.”

“Well, then.” The French voice got closer until it sounded like it was right next to her and she could feel hands lightly brushing her arm. “Perhaps I can supply a bit of motivation in tandem to your excellent shock therapy. Personally, I’ve found the knife to be quite effective in this area. There’s nothing like watching your own evisceration to induce open dialogue.”

The radiantly beautiful face of Lydia d’Rosseau swam in front of Sydney’s eyes, the corners of her blood-scarlet mouth curved up in smug laughter and flat, reptilian eyes coldly dispassionate. Sydney could see the thin straps of a red evening gown peaking over Lydia’s shoulders; they looked like fresh wounds in the half-light.

Then, a thought she didn’t recognize flashed across her mind: I was an idiot to think I could trust her.

“Now, Julia, I really want you to know how terribly sorry I am that our little partnership had to come to such an abrupt end.” Lydia was suddenly brandishing a knife, large and wickedly curved. Perfect, Sydney imagined, for cutting recalcitrant throats.

She placed a shadow kiss on Sydney’s temple, almost like a last rite. Her chest felt tight; her bones felt as if they were about to break. “And, of course, I’m sorry that I’m going to have to kill you. Really, f***ing painfully.”

Lydia drove the knife home and Sydney heard herself scream.

“Now, let’s talk about the Key, shall we?”


Sydney woke up hot and tangled in sheets. There were tears on her cheeks and her mouth was cotton dry; her heart was beating a thousand miles a minute, so hard she feared it would break her chest open.

What the hell was that?

Lingering images of the dream flashed back to her: electric shocks; Lydia’s lisping accent; the key; her own blood sliding down her neck.

Wincing in memory, she pursed her lips together and immediately felt pain. f***. Her bottom lip ached from the afternoon’s ill-advised escapade; she could barely move her mouth without bleeding.

Somehow, she thought it oddly telling and appropriate.

Belatedly, she sat up in the bed and pushed her bedraggled hair out of her eyes. She was still breathing hard and could feel little ghostly licks of pain running through her body, like the throbbing of Poe’s telltale heart.

She called upon the image of Danny, then, as she always did when she felt alone and frightened and over-whelmed. She remembered the day he’d surprised her at school and proposed; she remembered covering her face with her hands and thinking: I will never again be this happy.

She remembered finding him in the bathtub- the closed eyes, the slack mouth. Four years ago, almost. Four long, hard, bruising years.

Sometimes, she felt it might as well have been four lifetimes ago.

She hauled herself out of the stiff, hotel bed and picked up a discarded bathrobe from the floor, slipping it on over her paper-thin camisole. She didn’t have to turn on the light; she knew her way in the dark, fingers feeling the hard wood of the bed board, to the jewelry box in her suitcase.

Danny’s engagement ring.

She’d taken it off once but sometimes, in the dark days of the past few months, she would put it on and crawl back in bed, fisting her hand over her chest so she could feel it against her heart.

But when she slipped the ring on she thought not of Danny but, almost reflexively, of the first time she’d ever seen Sark.

He had been negotiating for a Rambaldi artifact and she had been suspended on the outside, looking in. She’d moved, had kicked some debris loose accidentally, and he had shot at her. She remembered, perfectly, how he’d come within a hairsbreadth of killing her then and there.

And then, this afternoon. In the dark, she blushed and put a hand over her eyes; humiliation was not a strong enough word to cover how ashamed she was of herself. Now, every time she and he invariably held a gun to each other’s heads, he smirking and she furious, she would think of that.

On the upside, it would make killing him so much easier.

Her cell phone broke the silence, cheerfully trilling beside the bed. She wondered who could be calling her at a Motel Six at three oh-five in the morning; she picked it up anyway, not recognizing the number on the screen.

“Hello?”

No answer.

“Hello?”

A click on the other line, but it wasn’t a hang-up. Rather, it sounded like someone had pressed the button on an old tape player.

“I can’t anymore, Julia. I think they suspect something.” A lispy, French accent came through on the other side of the line. “With the disaster in Venice, it’s too dangerous right now. Let things cool a bit, then we’ll see.”

“I need to know what progress they’re making, Lydia. We have to know how close they are to the Key.” Her own voice, curiously determined sounding.

“No, I can’t. They’ve sent someone to follow me. They f***ing suspect, Jules.”

“Is there any way-”

“You don’t understand,” the French voice cut her off; “My time in the Covenant is limited, at best.” A pause on the line, pregnant with tension. “They know.”

The line disconnected.

She was spy enough to hit the star key button on her Nextel to record the conversation but not quite spy enough to stop her hands from shaking.

Her and Lydia, having a conversation about “The Key.” What Key? And the Lydia from the conversation was at incredible odds from the one in her dream: one viciously cold and the other tired, dogged, semi-normal. Either she was a hell of an actress and Sydney had gotten magnificently played or something was wrong with one of them. Or, maybe more likely, both.

Whatever the case, someone obviously wanted her to remember. To remember, what, though, exactly? And, then, who?

Now, let’s talk about the Key, shall we?

The Key was obviously related to (what else?) Rambaldi. It certainly sounded familiar, like she should know this by now, and yet, surprise, she didn’t. There was also that scrap of paper to think about, the one Sark had stolen when she’d been…distracted.

She stared off into the dark with the cell phone in one hand and Danny’s ring on the other, one second pensive and brooding and the next…

Sydney threw on the lamp light and began packing; she may not know anything…

But she was going to find out, she promised herself, throwing off her camisole for a coat and trading pajama bottoms for jeans.

Everything.

The suitcase snapped shut.

And anything.

The triumvate from hell: Sark, Milo Rambaldi and Lydia had better f***ing hope they were dead.

Or she was going to make them wish they were.

Just call it a Bristow promise.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“You’ll follow her. You’ll watch her. You’ll know her. You’ll see if she prefers silk nightgowns or lace or nothing at all and what brand of dental floss she uses on her teeth. Are we clear, Julian, darling?”

Ah, excellent. I’m to become a glorified babysitter for the spy world’s version of Girl, Interrupted.

“Crystal.” It sounded sulky, even to him. And yet…did he care?

“You think what I’m giving you is beneath you, a job for a lackey.” Katya Derevko’s face caught the harsh light of the safe house’s living room lamp, making her appear hardened beyond her years. Few people suspected she was a part of the almighty Covenant, but looking at her now, bitter and menacing, Sark couldn't see why not.

“Yes.”

“And perhaps it is.” Well, no hesitation there, Sark noted with a raised brow. At least somebody thinks highly of my abilities. “But there’s no one Irina trusts so implicitly as you, Sark, to get the job done. Even I’m impressed with your absolute devotion to all things Rambaldi.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, if Irina could be here to give you these instructions herself she would.” Her serene face gave no indications of the underlying emotions; Sark wondered if Irina knew about her sister’s fascination with Jack Bristow, but decided she must, and let it go.

“Yes, I know.”

She stared at him like she wanted to devour the whole of him in her wide, brown eyes. “Sydney must not remember. The C.I.A. will not know about the Key.”

He picked up his glass of wine from the coffee table and took a sip, cautiously. “You’re positive she didn’t divulge this information to anyone else at the C.I.A.? Not even her liaison?”

Katya moved toward him slowly, almost seductively. “The only people privy to the existence of the Key other than Sydney were Lydia and Lazarey.” She waited a beat, staring directly into his eyes. “Your former lover and your father.”

The unspoken words hung between them: And we all know what happened to them.

Sark considered this, angling his head and his mouth quirking down in that unusual reverse smirk. “And then she voluntarily erased her memory. Probably not one of her better moves, I should think.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” She *was* close to him, this time he knew he wasn’t imagining the slow, sensual rhythm of her movements. “But she took the location of the Key with her. Naughty Sydney. And we can’t let her remember because all she’ll do is…”

“Scamper off to daddy and her precious C.I.A.”

“Such a smart boy.” She put a hand on his face, to cup his jaw.

Oh, bloody hell.

“You were careless today, Sark. You left an incriminating piece of your connection to Lydia in the apartment and you showed up while Sydney was there- furthermore, you engaged her when you could have just walked away. No doubt, you’ve made it impossible for her to back down now.”

“No doubt,” he said, face carefully blank. Actually, he wanted to crawl out of his skin in disgust at the way her hand was stroking his jaw.

Take one for the team, old boy.

She slapped him. It was completely unexpected and, not to mention, the second time that day he’d gotten viciously b****-slapped by a pissed off female in mid-semi seduction. He was sure he’d have a royal sunset of bruise by tomorrow.

“You ever do that again, Julian,” she whispered, her mouth moving up, close to his ear, “and I’ll load the gun myself and shoot you in the head.”

She planted a small, chaste kiss on the side of his neck. “Understand?”

“Perfectly.” If she wasn’t so right, if he hadn’t have f***ed everything up in a momentary weakness, he’d have shot her himself ten times over by now- the Irina connection be damned. “Never again.”

She stepped away from him and expertly removed the wineglass from his fingers, taking a sip of her own and turning her back on him to confront the lamp light.

“Watch her, Sark. Distract her. Make her forget all about Lydia and the Key.”

“I trust we almost know its location.”

“We’re getting closer,” she said, softly. “It can’t be long now and without the key, The Passenger is useless.”

She half-turned to look at him. “Before anything else, we must find the Key.”



*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


So, inevitably, he was sitting in his Mercedes, outside a piece of sh*t Motel Six, idly watching the second floor and cursing the day Irina Derevko had ever laid eyes on Jack Bristow. A world without Sydney was one he would have happily prescribed to at that moment.

But, of course, he wasn’t in It’s A Wonderful Life Without Sydney Bristow; he was in a crappy, D.C. parking lot getting no sleep and still trying to recover from the after effects of having Katya Derevko hit on him.

Nightmares, he thought, would follow him all the rest of his days on that score. No escaping that bit of business. But no, the really disturbing part of it was that during that whole exchange, he had wanted the woman with her hands on him not to be Katya, hardened and cold, but Sydney. He knew he would have responded- more than responded- if it had been Sydney with her hand on his face, with her mouth on his neck.

You are sick and sad, mate, and in desperate need of a good, mind-blowing shag.

He leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes…and he almost missed her. In his defense, even he didn’t think the inestimable Bristow girl had it in her to hightail it away from a seedy motel at three-ish in the morning, but when he looked back up there she was looking, even at this distance, perfect and unruffled as she shoved a small carry-on like suitcase in the back of rental red Honda Civic.

His interest was piqued; he was fascinated. And there was so little to be fascinated with in this world anymore.

He watched her start the car up, then peal out of the parking lot with all the grace and caution of drag racer.

Sark did the same, following her lead and thought, despite his innate dislike of her and the time crunch of the Key, he would at least enjoy being fascinated by the bizarre-ness that was Sydney Bristow; almost as much, he suspected, as completely and totally destroying the girl herself.


~ And I can't feel much hope for anything at all;
No, baby, I won't be there to catch you when you fall. ~



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All right then, credits. The lyrics used are from Swan Dive by Mary Prankster and Blackbird on the Wire by The Beautiful South, respectively. That’s it, the next chapter should be up real soon since, in a burst of insomniac creativity, I’m almost finished with it; until then, enjoy!!
 

amy lynn

The Polish Pirate
Joined
Mar 23, 2004
Insomnia sure is beautiful! That, along with procrasitnation, is usually where all my writing comes from! :LOL: Eating my chocolate and having fun with my DA! ;)
Thanks so much!

And now on to my review - there was so much in this chapter that I adored.

The torture flashback was so well-written. I seriously could almost feel her pain. And the fact that she was thinking of Lydia betraying her - it adds a nice layer to the story.

And then, she goes to the engagement ring - how poignant, beautiful, sad - it was an incredibly well written passage!

The triumvate from hell: Sark, Milo Rambaldi and Lydia had better f***ing hope they were dead.

Or she was going to make them wish they were.

Just call it a Bristow promise
Ooooh! How I love it when Sydney gets like this!

I wont bother quoting the whole exchange between Sark and Katya - I loved all of it. I personally adore the character of Katya - and I love what you have done with her! This was fantastically written.


So, inevitably, he was sitting in his Mercedes, outside a piece of sh*t Motel Six, idly watching the second floor and cursing the day Irina Derevko had ever laid eyes on Jack Bristow. A world without Sydney was one he would have happily prescribed to at that moment.

But, of course, he wasn’t in It’s A Wonderful Life Without Sydney Bristow; he was in a crappy, D.C. parking lot getting no sleep and still trying to recover from the after effects of having Katya Derevko hit on him.

You are sick and sad, mate, and in desperate need of a good, mind-blowing shag.

His interest was piqued; he was fascinated. And there was so little to be fascinated with in this world anymore.

He watched her start the car up, then peal out of the parking lot with all the grace and caution of drag racer.

Sark did the same, following her lead and thought, despite his innate dislike of her and the time crunch of the Key, he would at least enjoy being fascinated by the bizarre-ness that was Sydney Bristow; almost as much, he suspected, as completely and totally destroying the girl herself
These were my absolute favorite parts of the last section. He's intrigued by her...of course ;)

And this key...hmmm seems very very important :ponder:

Awesome update! Thanks for the PM and I look forward to what comes next!!
 

Jassy

Cadet
Joined
Apr 27, 2004
Wow, you did a really good job, Dita, again. I loved the character of Katya and the whole sexual overtone thing with Sark, kind of creepy but neat.

“Such a smart boy.” She put a hand on his face, to cup his jaw.

Oh, bloody hell.
:o :shamefullyembarrased: :blink: It adds an interesting depth to the story. Now, I'm looking forward to more. Great Job!!!!

Thanks for the pm!
 

sarkfan

Sark's Girl
Joined
Mar 22, 2004
Location
Australia
Lovely update.Katya hit on him,poor Sark.I love how you wrote her character,she's intimitating and a little creepy.

I absolutely loved the torture flashback part,I could imagine the pain that she was going through,you wrote it so well.

I can't wait to find out more about this key thing and for more Sarkney. Thanks a bunch for the pm.

~Rach~
 
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