Uninvited, part 3
- S3, pre-"Prelude"
* * *
She entered her apartment warily. Something had felt wrong from the instant she'd opened the door and now the noises coming from the kitchen confirmed her worst suspicions. She drew her gun and crept slowly through the living room. Her finger twitched on the trigger but she didn't fire. A sardonic drawl rose from behind the open refrigerator door.
"For future reference, Agent Bristow, milk should not -under any circumstances- rattle."
"Damn it, Sark!" she spluttered in outrage. "What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?"
"Being extremely appalled by your housekeeping skills." The blond assassin straightened from his perusal of the fridge and shook the carton of milk in question. It made an unpleasant squelching sound that she had to agree was decidedly unnatural for something that should have been a liquid. "And while I believe that cheese is best when properly aged," he continued, frowning critically at a fuzzy, green block in his other hand. "This is clearly not properly aged."
"I'm going to ask you one more time before I shoot you," she said. "What are you doing here?" To her utter exasperation, Sark merely gave her gun a dismissive glance before dropping the milk carton and cheese into her trash bin and turning back to the refrigerator.
"I was in the neighborhood," he said as he rummaged through the depths. "Why do you have no proper food?"
She stared at him in frustration, infuriated by his invasion of her apartment and his refusal to be intimidated by the gun she still aimed at him. How dare he act as if he had all the right in the world to be there?
"This is not some cheap Romanian hotel that you can just barge into, Sark. This is my home."
"I'm not here to fight with you," he said without bothering to glance up. "And you aren't going to shoot me. I think we can manage quite civilly if we try, Sydney. Was this a tomato?" He didn't wait for an answer before sending it after the milk and cheese.
"Look, you scavenger rat, I don't know what you think you're doing, but this is unacceptable. You can't just wander in and out of here as if we weren't on opposite sides. You've done things- I've- You can't just stand there acting like you aren't responsible for at least half of what's wrong with my life these days. We are not going to do this. Not again."
"How long has this been in there?" He held up a cardboard pizza box and looked at her expectantly. He hadn't listened to a word she'd said. She glared at him. He blinked back at her patiently. Clearly he wasn't going to talk until he was damn good and ready and there was no point in driving herself crazy trying to pry it out of him. She sighed in resignation and gave up. It looked like they were going to do this again after all.
And why not? She had gone to him in Paris not three hours after he'd sold her out to embassy security. Why shouldn't he come to her just a few weeks after she'd handed him over to people who were likely to kill him? She shied away from that thought - and tried to ignore the queasy sensation that the recollection brought. She still couldn't shake the feeling that the CIA hadn't been playing fair that day. The good guys weren't supposed to bargain with people's lives like that, were they?
"How long?" Sark asked again, amusement in his voice at her wool-gathering.
"A day or two," she shrugged. "I don't know."
"What are the orange things on it?"
"Mango." She put her gun away.
Sark studied the pizza appraisingly for a moment before setting it on the counter. "Can you heat it in the microwave?"
"I am not cooking for you," she said, but he was already ignoring her again. He reemerged with a bottle of beer in each hand and gave her a condescending look.
"I wasn't asking you to cook it. It was simply culinary curiosity. I'm not familiar with the art of leftovers. Will it get soggy or hard if it's microwaved?"
"Depends on how long you leave it in. You're supposed to eat leftover pizza cold, though." Sark wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"After three months in CIA custody, I would have killed for a steak and a nice Merlot," he said. "After two years of institutional food, I would have done it for a Coney Island hot dog and a warm soda had there been opportunity. My tastes may have degenerated significantly over the past couple of years, but I am not eating that cold."
Sydney sat down on a barstool and propped her elbows on the bar. She watched him roam the kitchen randomly opening cabinet doors and drawers.
"What do you want, Marty?" she asked wearily.
"A bottle-opener."
"Next to the stove." She rolled her eyes at his grin of accomplishment when he found it. Sark opened both bottles of beer and set one before her. He took a swig of the other himself and squinted at the microwave. "Is a minute long enough?"
"Leave it in that long and you might as well try eating the box. And you can't just toss a slice in there on the glass. It'll make a mess. At least put it on a paper towel." Both of them glanced at the empty cardboard roll in the holder by the sink. "I think I'm out of paper towels," she was forced to admit.
"Leftovers are much too complicated," Sark decided, tipping the pizza into the trash bin along with the rest of the questionable former contents of her refrigerator. "I wasn't that hungry anyway."
Sydney frowned at him. She could tell by the angular planes of his face that he'd become entirely too accustomed to not eating. He'd seemed thin the first time she'd seen him again, sitting in her mother's old cell, and the weeks since he'd regained his freedom seemed to have made little difference. He stared back at her with tired blue eyes and she was reminded of the night he'd looked up from a hotel room floor wearing a very similar expression. She'd gone searching for cough syrup at midnight because of it. She shook her head abruptly. If she didn't stop thinking like that, she was going to end up cooking for him after all.
"Crackers," she said. "Top shelf, next to the stove. There shouldn't be anything wrong with them."
He retrieved the box and studied it somberly before deciding it met his approval. He carried the crackers into her living room and dropped unceremoniously onto her sofa. Still shaking her head at the insanity, Sydney followed him with her own bottle and the one he'd left on the counter.
"What are you doing? There's a pack already open," she said as he began unwrapping another sleeve of crackers.
"They're stale."
"You didn't even try…" She sighed and surrendered the argument at his knowing smirk and took the handful of saltines that he offered. She really needed to go grocery shopping. Crackers and beer. With a charming terrorist. Should the psychotherapy come before or after the shopping?
She watched in baffled wonder as Sark kick off his shoes. Any lingering suspicion that this might be a professional visit was dispelled when he propped his feet on her coffee table. Like his unwelcome appearance in Bucharest, like her unscheduled visit in Paris, this impromptu invasion had nothing to do with state secrets. For as long as these encounters lasted, they weren't the official representatives of anyone. She wasn't Agent Bristow of the CIA; he wasn't Mr. Sark of… whatever shady organization-of-the-day had enlisted him. She paused at that thought, snorted lightly, and shook her head at his quizzical expression.
"You are completely ruining your cool spy reputation," she told him. "According to your Agency profile, you ought to be off somewhere exotic being aloof and mysterious, impeccably dressed and drinking something horridly expensive. Instead, you're slouching on my sofa in a pair of khakis, drinking cheap beer with your feet on my furniture."
He frowned at his half-empty bottle thoughtfully and then glanced over at her. "So at least I'm still being aloof and mysterious?"
"Try aggravating and incomprehensible. And you're getting cracker crumbs everywhere." She reached across to brush at the specks that dusted the front of his shirt. She stopped when she realized what she was doing, but he was already smirking. "Fine, wear the crackers," she groused.
"Do you ever feel like we've stepped into an alternate universe where the whole world has gone mad and you and I are the only sane people here?" he asked, flicking halfheartedly at the rest of the crumbs.
She blinked at the non sequitur, then had to smile sardonically. "Governor Schwarzenegger? Sloane the humanitarian? 'American Idol 6'? I think the world's gone mad every single day. I usually don't include you on my short list of the sane though. Some days even I don't make the cut," she added ruefully.
"I imagine that you find the Boy Scout's marriage a bit disconcerting as well." She frowned at the comment but was surprised by the lack of sarcasm in his voice. "He was never a good match for you anyway."
For a moment he sounded so unsettlingly like her father that she had to laugh despite the swift jolt of pain that his words caused. Sark's suddenly perplexed expression only fueled her amusement.
"I assume you're over Agent Vaughn then?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm managing. It's not as if there's anything I can do about it anyway."
"Then maybe you're not as resourceful as I'd always assumed," he said with mock-severity. "With a little imagination, I'm certain that you could find a way to resolve Ms. Reed's inconvenient presence. Surely you have the contacts."
"Well, I do know a guy who's been out of circulation for a while. He could probably use some target practice." She tried to match his teasing tone, but her words came out sounding more cynical.
"Actually, I don't believe he's available for that assignment."
"Don't tell me he suddenly grew a conscience."
"No, but he doesn't have any particular interest in liberating Michael Vaughn."
Sydney eventually realized that she was gaping at him and looked away from his oddly solemn gaze.
"Marshall's getting married," she blurted in the awkward pause. "You remember Marshall, don't you?" She cringed inwardly at her own babbling, but Sark's peculiar disclosure had flustered her.
"Flinkman," he nodded and smiled faintly. "Remarkable. I reiterate my assertion that the rest of the world has gone mad."
"Be nice," she scolded him, back on more familiar footing once again. "I think it's adorable. And he's going to be a father soon."
"Now there's a truly terrifying thought."
"You really are incorrigible."
"Wherever did you get the idea that I wasn't?"
She rolled her eyes at his grin, but she had to wonder nonetheless. She was a CIA officer; he was an unrepentant criminal. She was obligated to oppose him - not feed him or provide him shelter. She wasn't supposed to look after him when he was sick or rely on him when she needed accommodations of her own. She wasn't supposed to be amused by his wit or to enjoy their verbal sparring. Seeing him on a "social" basis was almost certainly an act of treason. So why was she okay with his company tonight? Why had she felt no guilt at their previous off-the-record encounters? Why had she slept so contentedly with his heart beating beneath her cheek?
"You and I aren't so different," he said as if reading her mind. "Especially now."
"At least you remember the past two years." She hoped that her flippant reply would disguise her troubled thoughts.
"Six hundred and eighty-three days of relentless tedium. I'd almost be willing to trade you."
"Big gaping holes and really lousy nightmares. I'd almost be willing to take you up on that." She didn't realize until she saw his curious look that she had unconsciously pressed her hand over the scar in her side. She briefly considered shrugging off his unspoken question. She tugged out her shirttail instead and watched his face carefully. There was only the subtlest deepening of his frown. She flinched as he reached toward her, but his fingertips hovered just over the scar without touching it.
"I don't believe I want to swap after all," he said lightly, leaning back again. She was unaccountably relieved that he didn't ask if she remembered how it had happened. "The CIA seems to have had a much better healthcare plan for its inmates. Although I expect you're experiencing that for yourself now, aren't you? How many psychiatrists have they made you visit thus far? Have you enjoyed the group therapy?"
She made a face at him as she tucked her shirt back in. "You're really not as funny as you think you are."
"It's not my fault if you don't have a proper sense of humor."
"I don't think there's anything about you that's proper," she retorted.
"Now you're just being petty."
"And you're the one who thinks we're alike."
"Similar, not identical," he replied archly and took another drink before continuing. "I believe that we have rather similar goals these days. We both want to make the Covenant pay for what they've taken from us." Sydney tensed at his words and wondered how much of the truth he knew. "I probably ought to thank you, though," he continued in a conversational tone. "If I hadn't come into my inheritance, the Covenant would have had no reason to extract me. It seems that regardless of what it cost, I owe you for my freedom, Sydney… Or should I say that I owe Julia?"
At some level, she had known that he had to be aware of her involvement, but she had tried to avoid thinking about it. It had been hard enough to admit to herself that she had murdered a man. To acknowledge that Lazarey had been Sark's father…
"You know, of course, that I don't blame you for my father's death. Either you or Julia. Even if you'd done it willingly, it's not as though I would have taken it personally. I didn't know him." For a moment, his disaffected mask slipped, however, and she realized that he wasn't as indifferent as he wanted her to believe. Her throat tightened with guilt and remorse.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. He snorted softly.
"There's no point in apologizing for something that isn't your fault. You don't even remember doing it. And in a way, perhaps, now we're even."
"Francie," she said hoarsely.
"I am no more to blame for your friend's death than you are for my father's," he said. "Perhaps less. I neither ordered it nor implemented it."
She stared at him. "I'm supposed to forgive you for Francie's death because you're forgiving me for killing your father?"
"It's not about forgiveness; it's about responsibility." His voice was level, but Sydney could hear the strain in it. "It's as senseless for you to blame me for something I didn't do as it is for me to blame you for something you had no control over. The losses are regrettable, but the culpability lies elsewhere."
She found that -against all logic- she wanted to believe him. Of all the deaths she was certain that he had caused, she didn't want him to be responsible for this one. She was disturbed to realize that his perverse rationalization almost seemed to make sense. Despite the fact that she knew he had to have been involved at some point, she was prepared, if not to absolve him of Francie's murder, at least to relinquish the need for retribution on the grounds that he hadn't planned it or pulled the trigger himself. Was it any more bizarre than his excusing her murder of his father because she couldn't remember doing it? She understood his reasoning. What did that say about her?
"It won't bring back Lazarey or return your lost years," Sark said, his words cutting through her thoughts. "But I do believe that taking down the Covenant and retrieving my money would provide us both with a certain sense of satisfaction. After that, perhaps disabusing this mad world of its 'Sloane the humanitarian' delusion might be in order."
"You're going to make your 'we'd work well together' pitch again, aren't you?"
"Nothing nearly so overt," he said. "The Medusa project was successfully concluded without any formal arrangement between us. There's no need to make things complicated." She stared at him in shock.
"You son of a bitch! You did recognize me!"
"Sydney, dear, that was a hideous excuse for a disguise."
"You wanted us to blow up Medusa."
"I would have been satisfied with something a bit less dramatic, but your solution was adequate given the circumstances."
"Son of a bitch," she muttered again as she slumped back against the couch to let his revelations soak in. Regardless of his motives, Sark had deliberately leaked information to the CIA - and on more than one occasion, she suddenly suspected as she mentally reviewed other recent missions. Just when she thought her life couldn't get any more complicated, trust Sark to throw yet another twist into it.
She was beginning to fear that she couldn't tell the good guys from the bad guys anymore. She was lying to her friends, keeping things from them - not to protect them as she had done before her disappearance, but to protect herself. Dixon and Vaughn had new obligations and responsibilities -both personally and professionally- that might preclude their ability to help her. She knew she could rely on her father unconditionally, but she was beginning to worry about the methods he was willing to use in the name of shielding her. She wasn't sure how long either of them would be able to continue justifying his actions.
The one person that she should be most afraid of was assisting her, albeit for reasons of his own, and was the one person she felt completely safe with. She watched him idly peeling the label off his now-empty beer bottle and wondered if she would feel as protected in his arms now as she had that night in Paris. She suspected that she probably would. It disturbed her that the admission didn't disturb her more than it did.
"We're still not on the same side," she said at last.
"Not by any means," he agreed. "But the enemy of my enemy…"
"We're not friends."
"Allies."
"Not exactly."
Sark snorted. "Rivals with a common adversary. Must you be so difficult about everything?"
"I'm still one of the good guys," she said, wondering which of them she was trying to convince. "We have rules about this sort of thing." At least she hoped they did. She helped herself to a few more crackers as they lapsed into silence. They both watched the evening shadows lengthen across the room.
"Don't you have anything stronger?" he asked eventually. "Cristall? Glenfiddich?"
"I thought you said your tastes had degenerated," she said, shaking her head at his hopeful look. "You're still too damned expensive. All I have is Cuervo."
He sighed. "That will have to do."
"Cabinet," she pointed. "In the back." She wasn't going to play hostess after he'd already made himself so at home. If he wanted it, he could go get it. He tilted his head as if trying to decide whether it was worth the effort. "Glasses are on the second shelf," she added when he finally got up. He found the bottle easily enough but his attention seemed distracted by something else in the cabinet. She had to smile at the CD case when he held it up questioningly.
"Marshall," she explained. "He compiled a mix of songs I missed while I was…gone."
"While you were Julia," he corrected absently. He had flipped the case over and was studying the list Marshall had penned there. She could see no recognition in his eyes and realized that the songs were undoubtedly even more unfamiliar to him than they were to her. At least she'd presumably had the opportunity to hear them before - even if she couldn't remember. He'd spent his own missing years in solitary confinement. For the barest moment, she felt a surge of pity for him.
Though there was no comparison between what they'd each gone through, she couldn't help thinking as she watched him stare blankly at the case that he probably felt as out-of-place in this changed world as she did. It occurred to her that this might be part of the reason that he had come here tonight. They had both reentered a world that had gone on without them. She wondered if he had found certain aspects of his life as unrecognizable as she had, if he was grasping at this -their odd relationship- as the one thing which essentially hadn't changed.
It was almost funny, she thought. She had killed his father. That should have changed everything. And yet it didn't. Sark seemed to have accepted it almost more easily than she had. Not even her alter-ego seemed to faze him in the slightest. Actually, he probably would have liked Julia.
"Possibly," he said. Sydney was appalled to realize that she'd spoken the last thought aloud. He gave her a wry, tired smile. "But while I can appreciate a de Hory, that doesn't make it a Matisse."
"I prefer to be thought of as a Renoir," she replied in the same tone, hoping he wouldn't notice how his odd compliment flustered her. "The disc is already in the player," she added. "I've never managed to listen to it all the way through." He nodded absently again as he turned it on. "Glasses," she reminded him, and he was thoughtful enough to bring back two. Sark poured them each a shot as a bright pop tune played. The sappy sweet lyrics were so utterly inappropriate for the situation that Sydney had to shake her head at the absurdity. Sark was on his second shot before the song was finished.
"Suddenly I'm not so certain that I missed all that much," he said when a virtually unintelligible singer began to wail in the next piece.
"The really sad thing is that I can't figure out if these are the songs Marshall thought were important over the past two years or if they're the ones he thought I'd like."
"Either alternative is decidedly depressing." He poured himself yet another drink and Sydney held out her glass as well. Since getting drunk with Sark struck her as a fairly suicidal way to kill an evening, she didn't drink it immediately. Instead she watched him as he leaned his head back on the sofa. He stared up at her ceiling, his face utterly expressionless.
"What are you running away from?" she asked. She was startled by her own question and wondered how much she had already been affected by the alcohol. She nodded at his empty glass. "That's your third shot in ten minutes. At that pace, I'm going to be peeling you off the floor in an hour or so. You want to explain why?"
"No." It was a simple, flat denial, but it revealed more than perhaps he had intended. He wasn't denying that he was trying to avoid something; he just didn't want to discuss it.
"I don't suppose you've talked to my mother lately," she said, trying another tack. Sark shook his head.
"I suspect you've spoken with her more recently than I have. Our paths seem to have diverged." His tone was more unguarded than she would have expected.
"You thought she'd get you out."
"Two years was ample opportunity." He must have realized how bitter he sounded because suddenly he smirked at her to cover it. "I got bored. The interrogations did break up the monotony for a time, but even those became a little dull after the first few months, and they finally stopped asking about you." He poured himself another drink. "Your father had a rather persistent belief that I knew more than I did." He didn't expound on that and she realized that she didn't want him to. She was well aware of what her father was capable of on her behalf.
It occurred to her that Sark hadn't fared too well at the hands of her family in general. Although she doubted that she would ever entirely understand his relationship with her mother, he clearly hadn't expected Irina's abandonment. Her dad had apparently used him as a target for his own pain and anger. And she herself had killed his father. Of all the places in the world that he could be getting plastered tonight, logically, her apartment was the last place he ought to want to be. She was a little disconcerted when his expression suddenly shifted. He frowned pensively as he studied her face.
"That's a rather interesting fashion statement," he said. Sydney looked down defensively at her clothes, but to her annoyance, he only chuckled. She was startled when his fingers brushed her cheek, his thumb sliding across the corner of her mouth. "Crumbs, Sydney. Although I suppose I should allow you to wear them."
"Thanks," she said, raising a hand self-consciously to brush at her mouth herself. She knew that her original gesture had been impulsive and unthinking. She didn't doubt Sark's had been entirely premeditated and she couldn't decide whether or not to be uneasy about that. His touch had been terribly gentle.
"I can't take it any more," he declared suddenly. Sydney stared at him. "The music," he grinned. "It really is abysmal. Please tell me you have a remote for that player. I don't want to walk all the way back over there just to turn it off."
Sydney fumbled through the stack of old newspapers on the coffee table, aggravated with herself for letting him rattle her once again. She knew that he was doing it deliberately. He enjoyed throwing her off-balance. As she aimed the remote at the CD player, she had to admit that she agreed with his assessment, though. She remembered why she had never made it all the way through the disc. They sat in silence for several minutes. Though she knew that she probably shouldn't, Sydney eventually poured them each another shot just for something to do.
"The CIA found the records at the Cayman bank," she said to fill the void. "I told you, you don't look like a Martin." He lifted one shoulder noncommittally.
"That name's a bit of a mouthful though, isn't it?" he said. She watched his profile as he stared at his drink and wondered at his disinterest. Did he find having an unfamiliar name ascribed to him as unsettling as she did?
"So you don't mind if I just keep calling you Marty?"
"As if my objections have ever deterred you."
"It could be worse," she went on. It briefly crossed her mind that three shots of tequila chasing a beer, on top of nothing but crackers since lunch probably wasn't such a great idea. "Sark," she said. He raised an eyebrow questioningly and she grinned. "Sark of the Covenant."
He looked at her blankly for a moment. Then his mouth tightened. His scowl lasted precisely four seconds before dissolving into a burst of unexpected laughter. He leaned forward and screwed the cap back onto the Cuervo.
"Clearly we've both had enough of that," he said. "It's a pity you don't have anything more substantial than saltines to absorb the alcohol. You still have a bit there..." He reached toward her again but she batted his hand away.
"You shouldn't have thrown away the pizza," she countered, wiping at her mouth again and hating his grin.
"It wouldn't be good to eat something like that so soon before we went to bed anyway."
Her eyes narrowed as he gave her a winsome smile. "You are not staying here, Marty."
"It's much too late to find a hotel now."
"The Agency always has a nice warm cell available for you."
"I spent two years sleeping on a metal slab courtesy of the CIA. It is neither nice nor warm. Surely you can offer me something more appealing."
"I'd have to be a lot drunker than I am to sleep with you."
"As I recall, you were quite sober on previous occasions."
"That was just sleeping, not…" She stopped abruptly and stared at him in dismay.
"My dear Sydney," he said with a smirk that just dared her to shoot him. "Did you think I was propositioning you?"
"Bastard," she muttered.
"Just so we're clear," he continued mercilessly. "It's not a question of whether or not you would. It's merely a matter of sobriety?"
"I hate you."
"Doesn't have anything to do with it." He leaned toward her and the sofa suddenly seemed much too small. "You can hate me all you like, but you know we're connected. You know I understand you better than anyone - because you let me. You show me more than you show anybody else. More than your friends, more than your colleagues. And you know me better than anyone in return."
"You're kidding, right? I barely know you at all." She realized that she wasn't even going to argue that he didn't know her. She had never bothered to put up any front for him. She had never pulled her punches, never been anything other than herself. She didn't doubt that knew her. "I don't know your birth date or how old you were the first time you killed someone. I don't know where you live or if you like dogs or old movies or ice cream or anything. I don't…"
"Don't confuse trivia with knowledge," he interrupted. "You know who I am, what I'm capable of." He seemed to expect some sort of response and she nodded hesitantly. "You can make the distinction between when you can trust me and when we're at odds."
"I suppose so."
"You understand my sense of humor."
"Unfortunately."
"Do you think that I turn up on just anyone's doorstep when I'm ill?" he asked, leaning closer.
She felt the beginnings of a smile despite his peculiar intensity. "I should hope not," she replied, pressing a hand against his shoulder to keep some distance between them. "You do snore when you're sick."
"And how many people do you suppose know precisely how much it irritates me to be called 'Marty' and still get away with it?" He leaned harder against her hand, forcing her to push against his chest with her other hand. "You know me, Sydney."
"Maybe," she admitted. "Maybe I do." She looked into his eyes and saw the challenge there. She understood, as clearly as she knew anything else, what he wanted at that moment, and she noted with a distinct lack of surprise that it wasn't exactly unthinkable. It was, after all, part of the game they'd been playing from the first time they'd met. Each encounter, each bantering exchange had brought them closer to this point. Though part of her mind knew that this course was recklessly unwise, she slowly relaxed her arms.
He tasted of salt and tequila. His government-issue crew cut, still not grown out, was softer beneath her fingers than she had imagined it would be. His hands were warm as they slipped beneath her blouse and the buttons on his Oxford were easily undone. She felt his amusement at her frustration when she encountered the t-shirt beneath it.
"Your wardrobe sucks," she murmured against his neck.
"So does your couch. I'll remedy one if you resolve the other."
"Deal," she agreed. "Get off me. The bedroom's that way."
By the time they reached it, problematic attire was no longer an issue for either of them. His fingers brushed lightly over the wide scar on her side, but she sensed neither pity nor aversion from him. Her own hands traced ribs that shouldn't have been so conspicuous, but it didn't matter as his mouth moved against hers.
"Sydney," he said softly, running his hands down her sides. "One small request." He pressed his forehead against hers and she tried unsuccessfully to focus on his clear blue eyes. "Martin, not Marty."
She closed her eyes and buried her face in the curve of his neck, shaking with quiet laughter. He distracted her by raking short fingernails down the length of her spine. She lifted her head then and he smothered her last giggle with a kiss. After that, although she might try to remember his name, there were more compelling things vying for her attention.
* * * *
Unlike the last time she'd woken in his arms, the warmth of bare skin was not limited to the hand resting on his chest. She knew that he wasn't asleep by the way his thumb was tracing circles in the small of her back.
"You're still here," she said without opening her eyes.
"It's your day off," he mumbled, his voice still gravelly with sleep. "I can't see straight yet anyway. Don't do that," he added as she rolled up on one elbow to look down at him. "Don't move."
Sark with a hangover, she marveled. Her own head wasn't completely clear, but she hadn't drunk nearly what he had the previous night.
"Just out of curiosity, Marty, did you at least bring your own toothbrush this time?"
He replied by running a hand through her hair and pulling her back down to kiss her thoroughly. "Not that sharing would make any difference at this point," he said. "But yes. I have a duffel in your bathroom."
"You are an evil, manipulative bastard," she informed him after a moment's thought. He merely grinned, eyes still closed.
"That's not exactly a revelation, Syd."
"And I still hate you."
"I'm perfectly aware of that. Now lie back down and be still."
"Are you always this cranky in the morning?" she asked as she nestled against his shoulder once again.
"Ask me again tomorrow."
"You are not staying here all day."
"Shhh." He brushed her hair out of his face then left his fingers tangled there. "We'll argue about it tomorrow."
"I don't have any food."
"Damn," he muttered. "We'll just have to send out for something. Eventually."
Sydney sighed and gave up trying to get rid of him, content with failure. She languidly began drawing an abstract pattern on his chest, connecting the lines of old scars and new scratches, knowing that she was responsible for at least some of the former and all of the latter.
"You know," she said after a few minutes. "For us to be even again, you're going to have to tell me where you live."
"When I settle somewhere, you'll be the first to know."
* * *
* * *
* * *
author note:
"Sark of the Covenant" is not my brilliant idea. I swiped it (with permission) from Mnemosyne. It really was too funny not to use. Thanks again.
- S3, pre-"Prelude"
* * *
She entered her apartment warily. Something had felt wrong from the instant she'd opened the door and now the noises coming from the kitchen confirmed her worst suspicions. She drew her gun and crept slowly through the living room. Her finger twitched on the trigger but she didn't fire. A sardonic drawl rose from behind the open refrigerator door.
"For future reference, Agent Bristow, milk should not -under any circumstances- rattle."
"Damn it, Sark!" she spluttered in outrage. "What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?"
"Being extremely appalled by your housekeeping skills." The blond assassin straightened from his perusal of the fridge and shook the carton of milk in question. It made an unpleasant squelching sound that she had to agree was decidedly unnatural for something that should have been a liquid. "And while I believe that cheese is best when properly aged," he continued, frowning critically at a fuzzy, green block in his other hand. "This is clearly not properly aged."
"I'm going to ask you one more time before I shoot you," she said. "What are you doing here?" To her utter exasperation, Sark merely gave her gun a dismissive glance before dropping the milk carton and cheese into her trash bin and turning back to the refrigerator.
"I was in the neighborhood," he said as he rummaged through the depths. "Why do you have no proper food?"
She stared at him in frustration, infuriated by his invasion of her apartment and his refusal to be intimidated by the gun she still aimed at him. How dare he act as if he had all the right in the world to be there?
"This is not some cheap Romanian hotel that you can just barge into, Sark. This is my home."
"I'm not here to fight with you," he said without bothering to glance up. "And you aren't going to shoot me. I think we can manage quite civilly if we try, Sydney. Was this a tomato?" He didn't wait for an answer before sending it after the milk and cheese.
"Look, you scavenger rat, I don't know what you think you're doing, but this is unacceptable. You can't just wander in and out of here as if we weren't on opposite sides. You've done things- I've- You can't just stand there acting like you aren't responsible for at least half of what's wrong with my life these days. We are not going to do this. Not again."
"How long has this been in there?" He held up a cardboard pizza box and looked at her expectantly. He hadn't listened to a word she'd said. She glared at him. He blinked back at her patiently. Clearly he wasn't going to talk until he was damn good and ready and there was no point in driving herself crazy trying to pry it out of him. She sighed in resignation and gave up. It looked like they were going to do this again after all.
And why not? She had gone to him in Paris not three hours after he'd sold her out to embassy security. Why shouldn't he come to her just a few weeks after she'd handed him over to people who were likely to kill him? She shied away from that thought - and tried to ignore the queasy sensation that the recollection brought. She still couldn't shake the feeling that the CIA hadn't been playing fair that day. The good guys weren't supposed to bargain with people's lives like that, were they?
"How long?" Sark asked again, amusement in his voice at her wool-gathering.
"A day or two," she shrugged. "I don't know."
"What are the orange things on it?"
"Mango." She put her gun away.
Sark studied the pizza appraisingly for a moment before setting it on the counter. "Can you heat it in the microwave?"
"I am not cooking for you," she said, but he was already ignoring her again. He reemerged with a bottle of beer in each hand and gave her a condescending look.
"I wasn't asking you to cook it. It was simply culinary curiosity. I'm not familiar with the art of leftovers. Will it get soggy or hard if it's microwaved?"
"Depends on how long you leave it in. You're supposed to eat leftover pizza cold, though." Sark wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"After three months in CIA custody, I would have killed for a steak and a nice Merlot," he said. "After two years of institutional food, I would have done it for a Coney Island hot dog and a warm soda had there been opportunity. My tastes may have degenerated significantly over the past couple of years, but I am not eating that cold."
Sydney sat down on a barstool and propped her elbows on the bar. She watched him roam the kitchen randomly opening cabinet doors and drawers.
"What do you want, Marty?" she asked wearily.
"A bottle-opener."
"Next to the stove." She rolled her eyes at his grin of accomplishment when he found it. Sark opened both bottles of beer and set one before her. He took a swig of the other himself and squinted at the microwave. "Is a minute long enough?"
"Leave it in that long and you might as well try eating the box. And you can't just toss a slice in there on the glass. It'll make a mess. At least put it on a paper towel." Both of them glanced at the empty cardboard roll in the holder by the sink. "I think I'm out of paper towels," she was forced to admit.
"Leftovers are much too complicated," Sark decided, tipping the pizza into the trash bin along with the rest of the questionable former contents of her refrigerator. "I wasn't that hungry anyway."
Sydney frowned at him. She could tell by the angular planes of his face that he'd become entirely too accustomed to not eating. He'd seemed thin the first time she'd seen him again, sitting in her mother's old cell, and the weeks since he'd regained his freedom seemed to have made little difference. He stared back at her with tired blue eyes and she was reminded of the night he'd looked up from a hotel room floor wearing a very similar expression. She'd gone searching for cough syrup at midnight because of it. She shook her head abruptly. If she didn't stop thinking like that, she was going to end up cooking for him after all.
"Crackers," she said. "Top shelf, next to the stove. There shouldn't be anything wrong with them."
He retrieved the box and studied it somberly before deciding it met his approval. He carried the crackers into her living room and dropped unceremoniously onto her sofa. Still shaking her head at the insanity, Sydney followed him with her own bottle and the one he'd left on the counter.
"What are you doing? There's a pack already open," she said as he began unwrapping another sleeve of crackers.
"They're stale."
"You didn't even try…" She sighed and surrendered the argument at his knowing smirk and took the handful of saltines that he offered. She really needed to go grocery shopping. Crackers and beer. With a charming terrorist. Should the psychotherapy come before or after the shopping?
She watched in baffled wonder as Sark kick off his shoes. Any lingering suspicion that this might be a professional visit was dispelled when he propped his feet on her coffee table. Like his unwelcome appearance in Bucharest, like her unscheduled visit in Paris, this impromptu invasion had nothing to do with state secrets. For as long as these encounters lasted, they weren't the official representatives of anyone. She wasn't Agent Bristow of the CIA; he wasn't Mr. Sark of… whatever shady organization-of-the-day had enlisted him. She paused at that thought, snorted lightly, and shook her head at his quizzical expression.
"You are completely ruining your cool spy reputation," she told him. "According to your Agency profile, you ought to be off somewhere exotic being aloof and mysterious, impeccably dressed and drinking something horridly expensive. Instead, you're slouching on my sofa in a pair of khakis, drinking cheap beer with your feet on my furniture."
He frowned at his half-empty bottle thoughtfully and then glanced over at her. "So at least I'm still being aloof and mysterious?"
"Try aggravating and incomprehensible. And you're getting cracker crumbs everywhere." She reached across to brush at the specks that dusted the front of his shirt. She stopped when she realized what she was doing, but he was already smirking. "Fine, wear the crackers," she groused.
"Do you ever feel like we've stepped into an alternate universe where the whole world has gone mad and you and I are the only sane people here?" he asked, flicking halfheartedly at the rest of the crumbs.
She blinked at the non sequitur, then had to smile sardonically. "Governor Schwarzenegger? Sloane the humanitarian? 'American Idol 6'? I think the world's gone mad every single day. I usually don't include you on my short list of the sane though. Some days even I don't make the cut," she added ruefully.
"I imagine that you find the Boy Scout's marriage a bit disconcerting as well." She frowned at the comment but was surprised by the lack of sarcasm in his voice. "He was never a good match for you anyway."
For a moment he sounded so unsettlingly like her father that she had to laugh despite the swift jolt of pain that his words caused. Sark's suddenly perplexed expression only fueled her amusement.
"I assume you're over Agent Vaughn then?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm managing. It's not as if there's anything I can do about it anyway."
"Then maybe you're not as resourceful as I'd always assumed," he said with mock-severity. "With a little imagination, I'm certain that you could find a way to resolve Ms. Reed's inconvenient presence. Surely you have the contacts."
"Well, I do know a guy who's been out of circulation for a while. He could probably use some target practice." She tried to match his teasing tone, but her words came out sounding more cynical.
"Actually, I don't believe he's available for that assignment."
"Don't tell me he suddenly grew a conscience."
"No, but he doesn't have any particular interest in liberating Michael Vaughn."
Sydney eventually realized that she was gaping at him and looked away from his oddly solemn gaze.
"Marshall's getting married," she blurted in the awkward pause. "You remember Marshall, don't you?" She cringed inwardly at her own babbling, but Sark's peculiar disclosure had flustered her.
"Flinkman," he nodded and smiled faintly. "Remarkable. I reiterate my assertion that the rest of the world has gone mad."
"Be nice," she scolded him, back on more familiar footing once again. "I think it's adorable. And he's going to be a father soon."
"Now there's a truly terrifying thought."
"You really are incorrigible."
"Wherever did you get the idea that I wasn't?"
She rolled her eyes at his grin, but she had to wonder nonetheless. She was a CIA officer; he was an unrepentant criminal. She was obligated to oppose him - not feed him or provide him shelter. She wasn't supposed to look after him when he was sick or rely on him when she needed accommodations of her own. She wasn't supposed to be amused by his wit or to enjoy their verbal sparring. Seeing him on a "social" basis was almost certainly an act of treason. So why was she okay with his company tonight? Why had she felt no guilt at their previous off-the-record encounters? Why had she slept so contentedly with his heart beating beneath her cheek?
"You and I aren't so different," he said as if reading her mind. "Especially now."
"At least you remember the past two years." She hoped that her flippant reply would disguise her troubled thoughts.
"Six hundred and eighty-three days of relentless tedium. I'd almost be willing to trade you."
"Big gaping holes and really lousy nightmares. I'd almost be willing to take you up on that." She didn't realize until she saw his curious look that she had unconsciously pressed her hand over the scar in her side. She briefly considered shrugging off his unspoken question. She tugged out her shirttail instead and watched his face carefully. There was only the subtlest deepening of his frown. She flinched as he reached toward her, but his fingertips hovered just over the scar without touching it.
"I don't believe I want to swap after all," he said lightly, leaning back again. She was unaccountably relieved that he didn't ask if she remembered how it had happened. "The CIA seems to have had a much better healthcare plan for its inmates. Although I expect you're experiencing that for yourself now, aren't you? How many psychiatrists have they made you visit thus far? Have you enjoyed the group therapy?"
She made a face at him as she tucked her shirt back in. "You're really not as funny as you think you are."
"It's not my fault if you don't have a proper sense of humor."
"I don't think there's anything about you that's proper," she retorted.
"Now you're just being petty."
"And you're the one who thinks we're alike."
"Similar, not identical," he replied archly and took another drink before continuing. "I believe that we have rather similar goals these days. We both want to make the Covenant pay for what they've taken from us." Sydney tensed at his words and wondered how much of the truth he knew. "I probably ought to thank you, though," he continued in a conversational tone. "If I hadn't come into my inheritance, the Covenant would have had no reason to extract me. It seems that regardless of what it cost, I owe you for my freedom, Sydney… Or should I say that I owe Julia?"
At some level, she had known that he had to be aware of her involvement, but she had tried to avoid thinking about it. It had been hard enough to admit to herself that she had murdered a man. To acknowledge that Lazarey had been Sark's father…
"You know, of course, that I don't blame you for my father's death. Either you or Julia. Even if you'd done it willingly, it's not as though I would have taken it personally. I didn't know him." For a moment, his disaffected mask slipped, however, and she realized that he wasn't as indifferent as he wanted her to believe. Her throat tightened with guilt and remorse.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. He snorted softly.
"There's no point in apologizing for something that isn't your fault. You don't even remember doing it. And in a way, perhaps, now we're even."
"Francie," she said hoarsely.
"I am no more to blame for your friend's death than you are for my father's," he said. "Perhaps less. I neither ordered it nor implemented it."
She stared at him. "I'm supposed to forgive you for Francie's death because you're forgiving me for killing your father?"
"It's not about forgiveness; it's about responsibility." His voice was level, but Sydney could hear the strain in it. "It's as senseless for you to blame me for something I didn't do as it is for me to blame you for something you had no control over. The losses are regrettable, but the culpability lies elsewhere."
She found that -against all logic- she wanted to believe him. Of all the deaths she was certain that he had caused, she didn't want him to be responsible for this one. She was disturbed to realize that his perverse rationalization almost seemed to make sense. Despite the fact that she knew he had to have been involved at some point, she was prepared, if not to absolve him of Francie's murder, at least to relinquish the need for retribution on the grounds that he hadn't planned it or pulled the trigger himself. Was it any more bizarre than his excusing her murder of his father because she couldn't remember doing it? She understood his reasoning. What did that say about her?
"It won't bring back Lazarey or return your lost years," Sark said, his words cutting through her thoughts. "But I do believe that taking down the Covenant and retrieving my money would provide us both with a certain sense of satisfaction. After that, perhaps disabusing this mad world of its 'Sloane the humanitarian' delusion might be in order."
"You're going to make your 'we'd work well together' pitch again, aren't you?"
"Nothing nearly so overt," he said. "The Medusa project was successfully concluded without any formal arrangement between us. There's no need to make things complicated." She stared at him in shock.
"You son of a bitch! You did recognize me!"
"Sydney, dear, that was a hideous excuse for a disguise."
"You wanted us to blow up Medusa."
"I would have been satisfied with something a bit less dramatic, but your solution was adequate given the circumstances."
"Son of a bitch," she muttered again as she slumped back against the couch to let his revelations soak in. Regardless of his motives, Sark had deliberately leaked information to the CIA - and on more than one occasion, she suddenly suspected as she mentally reviewed other recent missions. Just when she thought her life couldn't get any more complicated, trust Sark to throw yet another twist into it.
She was beginning to fear that she couldn't tell the good guys from the bad guys anymore. She was lying to her friends, keeping things from them - not to protect them as she had done before her disappearance, but to protect herself. Dixon and Vaughn had new obligations and responsibilities -both personally and professionally- that might preclude their ability to help her. She knew she could rely on her father unconditionally, but she was beginning to worry about the methods he was willing to use in the name of shielding her. She wasn't sure how long either of them would be able to continue justifying his actions.
The one person that she should be most afraid of was assisting her, albeit for reasons of his own, and was the one person she felt completely safe with. She watched him idly peeling the label off his now-empty beer bottle and wondered if she would feel as protected in his arms now as she had that night in Paris. She suspected that she probably would. It disturbed her that the admission didn't disturb her more than it did.
"We're still not on the same side," she said at last.
"Not by any means," he agreed. "But the enemy of my enemy…"
"We're not friends."
"Allies."
"Not exactly."
Sark snorted. "Rivals with a common adversary. Must you be so difficult about everything?"
"I'm still one of the good guys," she said, wondering which of them she was trying to convince. "We have rules about this sort of thing." At least she hoped they did. She helped herself to a few more crackers as they lapsed into silence. They both watched the evening shadows lengthen across the room.
"Don't you have anything stronger?" he asked eventually. "Cristall? Glenfiddich?"
"I thought you said your tastes had degenerated," she said, shaking her head at his hopeful look. "You're still too damned expensive. All I have is Cuervo."
He sighed. "That will have to do."
"Cabinet," she pointed. "In the back." She wasn't going to play hostess after he'd already made himself so at home. If he wanted it, he could go get it. He tilted his head as if trying to decide whether it was worth the effort. "Glasses are on the second shelf," she added when he finally got up. He found the bottle easily enough but his attention seemed distracted by something else in the cabinet. She had to smile at the CD case when he held it up questioningly.
"Marshall," she explained. "He compiled a mix of songs I missed while I was…gone."
"While you were Julia," he corrected absently. He had flipped the case over and was studying the list Marshall had penned there. She could see no recognition in his eyes and realized that the songs were undoubtedly even more unfamiliar to him than they were to her. At least she'd presumably had the opportunity to hear them before - even if she couldn't remember. He'd spent his own missing years in solitary confinement. For the barest moment, she felt a surge of pity for him.
Though there was no comparison between what they'd each gone through, she couldn't help thinking as she watched him stare blankly at the case that he probably felt as out-of-place in this changed world as she did. It occurred to her that this might be part of the reason that he had come here tonight. They had both reentered a world that had gone on without them. She wondered if he had found certain aspects of his life as unrecognizable as she had, if he was grasping at this -their odd relationship- as the one thing which essentially hadn't changed.
It was almost funny, she thought. She had killed his father. That should have changed everything. And yet it didn't. Sark seemed to have accepted it almost more easily than she had. Not even her alter-ego seemed to faze him in the slightest. Actually, he probably would have liked Julia.
"Possibly," he said. Sydney was appalled to realize that she'd spoken the last thought aloud. He gave her a wry, tired smile. "But while I can appreciate a de Hory, that doesn't make it a Matisse."
"I prefer to be thought of as a Renoir," she replied in the same tone, hoping he wouldn't notice how his odd compliment flustered her. "The disc is already in the player," she added. "I've never managed to listen to it all the way through." He nodded absently again as he turned it on. "Glasses," she reminded him, and he was thoughtful enough to bring back two. Sark poured them each a shot as a bright pop tune played. The sappy sweet lyrics were so utterly inappropriate for the situation that Sydney had to shake her head at the absurdity. Sark was on his second shot before the song was finished.
"Suddenly I'm not so certain that I missed all that much," he said when a virtually unintelligible singer began to wail in the next piece.
"The really sad thing is that I can't figure out if these are the songs Marshall thought were important over the past two years or if they're the ones he thought I'd like."
"Either alternative is decidedly depressing." He poured himself yet another drink and Sydney held out her glass as well. Since getting drunk with Sark struck her as a fairly suicidal way to kill an evening, she didn't drink it immediately. Instead she watched him as he leaned his head back on the sofa. He stared up at her ceiling, his face utterly expressionless.
"What are you running away from?" she asked. She was startled by her own question and wondered how much she had already been affected by the alcohol. She nodded at his empty glass. "That's your third shot in ten minutes. At that pace, I'm going to be peeling you off the floor in an hour or so. You want to explain why?"
"No." It was a simple, flat denial, but it revealed more than perhaps he had intended. He wasn't denying that he was trying to avoid something; he just didn't want to discuss it.
"I don't suppose you've talked to my mother lately," she said, trying another tack. Sark shook his head.
"I suspect you've spoken with her more recently than I have. Our paths seem to have diverged." His tone was more unguarded than she would have expected.
"You thought she'd get you out."
"Two years was ample opportunity." He must have realized how bitter he sounded because suddenly he smirked at her to cover it. "I got bored. The interrogations did break up the monotony for a time, but even those became a little dull after the first few months, and they finally stopped asking about you." He poured himself another drink. "Your father had a rather persistent belief that I knew more than I did." He didn't expound on that and she realized that she didn't want him to. She was well aware of what her father was capable of on her behalf.
It occurred to her that Sark hadn't fared too well at the hands of her family in general. Although she doubted that she would ever entirely understand his relationship with her mother, he clearly hadn't expected Irina's abandonment. Her dad had apparently used him as a target for his own pain and anger. And she herself had killed his father. Of all the places in the world that he could be getting plastered tonight, logically, her apartment was the last place he ought to want to be. She was a little disconcerted when his expression suddenly shifted. He frowned pensively as he studied her face.
"That's a rather interesting fashion statement," he said. Sydney looked down defensively at her clothes, but to her annoyance, he only chuckled. She was startled when his fingers brushed her cheek, his thumb sliding across the corner of her mouth. "Crumbs, Sydney. Although I suppose I should allow you to wear them."
"Thanks," she said, raising a hand self-consciously to brush at her mouth herself. She knew that her original gesture had been impulsive and unthinking. She didn't doubt Sark's had been entirely premeditated and she couldn't decide whether or not to be uneasy about that. His touch had been terribly gentle.
"I can't take it any more," he declared suddenly. Sydney stared at him. "The music," he grinned. "It really is abysmal. Please tell me you have a remote for that player. I don't want to walk all the way back over there just to turn it off."
Sydney fumbled through the stack of old newspapers on the coffee table, aggravated with herself for letting him rattle her once again. She knew that he was doing it deliberately. He enjoyed throwing her off-balance. As she aimed the remote at the CD player, she had to admit that she agreed with his assessment, though. She remembered why she had never made it all the way through the disc. They sat in silence for several minutes. Though she knew that she probably shouldn't, Sydney eventually poured them each another shot just for something to do.
"The CIA found the records at the Cayman bank," she said to fill the void. "I told you, you don't look like a Martin." He lifted one shoulder noncommittally.
"That name's a bit of a mouthful though, isn't it?" he said. She watched his profile as he stared at his drink and wondered at his disinterest. Did he find having an unfamiliar name ascribed to him as unsettling as she did?
"So you don't mind if I just keep calling you Marty?"
"As if my objections have ever deterred you."
"It could be worse," she went on. It briefly crossed her mind that three shots of tequila chasing a beer, on top of nothing but crackers since lunch probably wasn't such a great idea. "Sark," she said. He raised an eyebrow questioningly and she grinned. "Sark of the Covenant."
He looked at her blankly for a moment. Then his mouth tightened. His scowl lasted precisely four seconds before dissolving into a burst of unexpected laughter. He leaned forward and screwed the cap back onto the Cuervo.
"Clearly we've both had enough of that," he said. "It's a pity you don't have anything more substantial than saltines to absorb the alcohol. You still have a bit there..." He reached toward her again but she batted his hand away.
"You shouldn't have thrown away the pizza," she countered, wiping at her mouth again and hating his grin.
"It wouldn't be good to eat something like that so soon before we went to bed anyway."
Her eyes narrowed as he gave her a winsome smile. "You are not staying here, Marty."
"It's much too late to find a hotel now."
"The Agency always has a nice warm cell available for you."
"I spent two years sleeping on a metal slab courtesy of the CIA. It is neither nice nor warm. Surely you can offer me something more appealing."
"I'd have to be a lot drunker than I am to sleep with you."
"As I recall, you were quite sober on previous occasions."
"That was just sleeping, not…" She stopped abruptly and stared at him in dismay.
"My dear Sydney," he said with a smirk that just dared her to shoot him. "Did you think I was propositioning you?"
"Bastard," she muttered.
"Just so we're clear," he continued mercilessly. "It's not a question of whether or not you would. It's merely a matter of sobriety?"
"I hate you."
"Doesn't have anything to do with it." He leaned toward her and the sofa suddenly seemed much too small. "You can hate me all you like, but you know we're connected. You know I understand you better than anyone - because you let me. You show me more than you show anybody else. More than your friends, more than your colleagues. And you know me better than anyone in return."
"You're kidding, right? I barely know you at all." She realized that she wasn't even going to argue that he didn't know her. She had never bothered to put up any front for him. She had never pulled her punches, never been anything other than herself. She didn't doubt that knew her. "I don't know your birth date or how old you were the first time you killed someone. I don't know where you live or if you like dogs or old movies or ice cream or anything. I don't…"
"Don't confuse trivia with knowledge," he interrupted. "You know who I am, what I'm capable of." He seemed to expect some sort of response and she nodded hesitantly. "You can make the distinction between when you can trust me and when we're at odds."
"I suppose so."
"You understand my sense of humor."
"Unfortunately."
"Do you think that I turn up on just anyone's doorstep when I'm ill?" he asked, leaning closer.
She felt the beginnings of a smile despite his peculiar intensity. "I should hope not," she replied, pressing a hand against his shoulder to keep some distance between them. "You do snore when you're sick."
"And how many people do you suppose know precisely how much it irritates me to be called 'Marty' and still get away with it?" He leaned harder against her hand, forcing her to push against his chest with her other hand. "You know me, Sydney."
"Maybe," she admitted. "Maybe I do." She looked into his eyes and saw the challenge there. She understood, as clearly as she knew anything else, what he wanted at that moment, and she noted with a distinct lack of surprise that it wasn't exactly unthinkable. It was, after all, part of the game they'd been playing from the first time they'd met. Each encounter, each bantering exchange had brought them closer to this point. Though part of her mind knew that this course was recklessly unwise, she slowly relaxed her arms.
He tasted of salt and tequila. His government-issue crew cut, still not grown out, was softer beneath her fingers than she had imagined it would be. His hands were warm as they slipped beneath her blouse and the buttons on his Oxford were easily undone. She felt his amusement at her frustration when she encountered the t-shirt beneath it.
"Your wardrobe sucks," she murmured against his neck.
"So does your couch. I'll remedy one if you resolve the other."
"Deal," she agreed. "Get off me. The bedroom's that way."
By the time they reached it, problematic attire was no longer an issue for either of them. His fingers brushed lightly over the wide scar on her side, but she sensed neither pity nor aversion from him. Her own hands traced ribs that shouldn't have been so conspicuous, but it didn't matter as his mouth moved against hers.
"Sydney," he said softly, running his hands down her sides. "One small request." He pressed his forehead against hers and she tried unsuccessfully to focus on his clear blue eyes. "Martin, not Marty."
She closed her eyes and buried her face in the curve of his neck, shaking with quiet laughter. He distracted her by raking short fingernails down the length of her spine. She lifted her head then and he smothered her last giggle with a kiss. After that, although she might try to remember his name, there were more compelling things vying for her attention.
* * * *
Unlike the last time she'd woken in his arms, the warmth of bare skin was not limited to the hand resting on his chest. She knew that he wasn't asleep by the way his thumb was tracing circles in the small of her back.
"You're still here," she said without opening her eyes.
"It's your day off," he mumbled, his voice still gravelly with sleep. "I can't see straight yet anyway. Don't do that," he added as she rolled up on one elbow to look down at him. "Don't move."
Sark with a hangover, she marveled. Her own head wasn't completely clear, but she hadn't drunk nearly what he had the previous night.
"Just out of curiosity, Marty, did you at least bring your own toothbrush this time?"
He replied by running a hand through her hair and pulling her back down to kiss her thoroughly. "Not that sharing would make any difference at this point," he said. "But yes. I have a duffel in your bathroom."
"You are an evil, manipulative bastard," she informed him after a moment's thought. He merely grinned, eyes still closed.
"That's not exactly a revelation, Syd."
"And I still hate you."
"I'm perfectly aware of that. Now lie back down and be still."
"Are you always this cranky in the morning?" she asked as she nestled against his shoulder once again.
"Ask me again tomorrow."
"You are not staying here all day."
"Shhh." He brushed her hair out of his face then left his fingers tangled there. "We'll argue about it tomorrow."
"I don't have any food."
"Damn," he muttered. "We'll just have to send out for something. Eventually."
Sydney sighed and gave up trying to get rid of him, content with failure. She languidly began drawing an abstract pattern on his chest, connecting the lines of old scars and new scratches, knowing that she was responsible for at least some of the former and all of the latter.
"You know," she said after a few minutes. "For us to be even again, you're going to have to tell me where you live."
"When I settle somewhere, you'll be the first to know."
* * *
* * *
* * *
author note:
"Sark of the Covenant" is not my brilliant idea. I swiped it (with permission) from Mnemosyne. It really was too funny not to use. Thanks again.