[Just Prompts] Ten First Times
May. 20th, 2008 02:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elementof_riskIt was smoother than he expected it to be, but heavier as well. For a few long moments he just cradled it in his hands, running his fingers lightly over the metal surface, tracing the lines and curves and grooves. She watched, eyes giving nothing away, but with a slight smile on her lips when he glanced up at her.
"You'll need to brace yourself," she said in that accent that called to mind a mostly forgotten face that came with gentle touches that attempted to soothe away bruises and hurts, but not too obviously.
He bit his lower lip and looked up at her, unsure of exactly what to do. Nerves and excitement both mingled, making him feel just a bit sick as he raised it and pointed it at the target and tried to lock his legs into place.
"Not like that," she murmured, but there was more amusement than censure in her voice as she moved to stand behind him. Her hands curled around his, adjusting his grip, and she gently shifted his body into position. Correcting his aim, just a bit, she placed herself at his back, one hand in the center, pressed against his spine. "Now."
Swallowing, he tried not to close his eyes as he pulled the trigger, feeling the force of it push him back into her, no matter how hard he tried to stay where he was. Her arm slid around him as he lowered the gun and stared at the target. He'd hit it, at least, if nowhere near the center, and he felt a little glow of pride as she ran her fingers lightly through his hair. "Good," she whispered, and he smiled. "Now do it again."
* * *
His heartbeat seemed to catch the pace of the wheels, feeling more like something was churning and rolling, rippling through him than any steady beating rhythm. Shifting gears, he pressed the accelerator further down and felt the thrill of energy climb up his leg. It wasn't like driving around town, or even on the estate, around and around in circles, faster and faster, even in Irina's nicest car. For the first time, he understood what people said when they claimed an engine purred. He could feel the vibration of it creeping into him with a near sexual heat, his body tightening in response before he forced it to relax.
The first curve came faster than he had expected it, and he crossed the line taking it, shifting gears again. The second he was more prepared for, accelerating again halfway around the bend. Then they were steady, and he felt himself starting to smile, whipping around them. There were only a few other cars, but he slipped around each of them without slowing. It felt exactly how it had always looked like it must feel, only heightened. Every sense was enhanced, focused. His fingers caressed the gearshift lightly, resting against it with the barest pressure before tightening around it and moving it into position. His breath was uneven for a few minutes until he settled into the rhythm, allowing himself to relax into it and trust his reflexes and the car itself.
He almost wished he would meet a truck coming the other way and have to slide out of its way just in time, but his luck wasn't going quite that well. There was always next time.
* * *
His heart was pounding, certain he was going to get caught at any moment, as he moved through the dark alley in Dublin. The building in front of him was just as dark, with no lights flickering in the windows, and he swallowed back the lump in his throat where fear seemed to have lodged itself. He tried to reassure himself that even if he got caught, Irina would bail him out and come up with some story that would let him scamper back to Galway unscathed, but at the same time, she'd also look at him with disappointment flickering in her eyes and he wasn't sure he could handle that after everything she'd done for him.
Biting his lower lip, he moved slowly to the back of the building, glancing around to see if anyone was anywhere in sight. All he could see were the bushes and the wall that ran along the side of the house. He swallowed, then tossed the grapple hook up. It took two tries and was louder than he would have liked, but he got it to catch on the roof. With a deep breath and a steadying thought that he could do this, he closed his hands around the rope and started to climb. All of the windows on the first floor had sensors on them, but not expecting much upper story work in this part of town, the second floor windows weren't even locked. Julian scoffed a bit at the ease of it, as he pushed one in and dropped onto the carpeted floor of the study and slipped on his night vision goggles. The safe was on the far wall behind a Picasso that he stopped to examine for just a moment.
He kept up the chewing on his lower lip as he carefully cracked the safe, doing it just like Irina had showed him, had made him practice. His heart stopped at every creak of the old house, but no one came in. Easing the safe door open, he reached in, rifling quickly through the contents until he found the one he was looking for. It was old, rolled in a protective tube. He pulled it out carefully, and scanned it, nodding when he saw Rambaldi's mark in the corner. Slipping the document in a tube he had brought, he tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, then replaced the original tube in the safe and closed it, relocking it and putting the painting back in place. His steps were quick back to the window, and he let himself back down the rope much more easily than he'd come up. Getting the hook off the roof proved to be challenging and he knew he wasted too much time with it, but Irina said leave no trace of his presence, and a hook and rope would be a clear giveaway. It finally came free, tumbling down and almost hitting him before he jumped out of the way. With a muffled curse, he scooped it up and stuffed it back in his back pack, before melting back into the shadows and hurrying back to the hotel where Irina was waiting to report his success.
* * *
The September morning air was cool with a hint of the autumn that was slowly creeping around the corner, though he knew by midday it would be hot again with the Indian summer that was lingering over England. For now, though, the air was damp with a slight mist to it that did nothing to obscure the view, but seemed to cling to him nonetheless. He shifted, adjusting his grip on the high-powered sniper rifle, peering through the scope at the embassy door at 31 Prince's Gate. Something itched at the back of his neck, a crawling sensation under his skin that was more uncomfortable than anything, and he found himself frowning. Her eyes were steady on him from where she lay beside him as he reached back to try and brush the feeling away.
"If you want me to do it..." The soft accent of her words seemed more pronounced here, something exotic above the stirrings of commerce and business that crowded the London streets below.
"It's not that," he said, voice crisp, a bit defensive. "I can do it."
He was aching to, truth be told, feeling the fluttering in his stomach coalescing into a hard knot of excitement that rose through him and settled in his throat, making his whole chest seem to vibrate with it, heartbeat pounding to compensate for the constriction. He squinted through the sight again, finger slipping over the trigger. A minute more, maybe two, and the door opened. The first man came out talking into a walkie talkie, the second emerged carrying a gun, and as they had been told he would be, the ambassador was the third out the door. Sark drew a shaky breath into his lungs, holding it, not daring to let his aim falter even for the exhale as he squeezed the trigger. He didn't even hear the shot, so focused on he was the view from the sight, the recoil of the man's head, the spray of blood, and then he fell, and Irina was tugging him up, away, toward the stairs that were their exit route. He broke the gun down, putting it away as they moved, until it was tucked in a backpack he slung over their shoulder as they stepped outside.
Irina stopped at the station, reaching to straighten his tie, brush down his jacket before she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Well done. Now hurry before you miss your train. You don't want to be late for class."
Sark moved down the steps and caught the Underground to the train station, lost in thought. There was a flush of triumph on his face, but the same uncomfortable feeling lingered, tight inside of him. It wasn't until he was settled on the train watching the countryside flash by that he was able to find the source of the discomfort and pinpoint what was wrong.
It hadn't been enough.
* * *
She was beautiful, and perhaps ten years his senior, a year, maybe two, from thirty and insisting she was still twenty-five. It amused her to attend the holiday gala with the charming young man she had met, supposedly by accident, in a bookstore in New York where he was diligently reading to prepare for his next semester's classes until distracted by her presence. It had been far too easy, he thought, smiling down at her as they danced, letting her fuss and make much over him. Irina's instructions had been specific, but he was also pleased to not find the task onerous. The thought of what was to come, though, kept getting in the way of his focus on the present, which he knew was a weakness he would need to work on. Every detail mattered, and it wouldn't appear to be distracted, even if he could pass off the glaze in his eyes as a hungry desire for her, against him, under him, letting him please her as he did himself as well.
Her lips curved in a smirk as they left, when she pulled him up to her bedroom in a flat on Park Avenue, murmuring the alias he had given her in a heated moan as his hands slid her clothes off before carrying her to the bed. He made it slow, taking his time, savoring each pulse of life, of desire, that fluttered out of her, even as his own eagerness almost got the better of him. Finally, she came, crying that fake name, and his fingers closed around her throat, cutting it off. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she smiled a bit, perhaps thinking it a new game, until they tightened, and she caught sight of his eyes. Excitement pounded through his veins as he pulled out of her, straddled her, and added his second hand, using his weight behind the grip to crush her larynx. His eyes glittered with a dark light, his breath came unevenly, and he caught his lower lip between his teeth to hold back the moan as she struggled underneath him and then finally went still, brown eyes staring up at him blankly, an expression of shocked betrayal seeming etched on her face.
Panting he pulled back, just watching her for a long moment before moving to her bathroom, tossing the condom in the toilet and flushing before slowly washing his hands, catching his gaze in the mirror, as he slowly smiled.
* * *
"How many are in there?" he asked into the comm, mostly from academic curiosity as he glanced at the building.
"Does it matter?" Irina's voice crackled back at him. "You need to get the database and the encryption keys, and Kaestner and his organization need to be eliminated. Two birds, one stone. It's all about efficiency, Julian. Today's the last day Kaestner is going to be in his Berlin office before he and the database both disappear."
"I realize that," Sark said with a bit of a snap. "I was just curious."
"Do the job, Julian."
He did, moving swiftly in under his cover as a potential investor. His two escorts did not make it to the fifth floor alive, and he moved on up to the seventh.
"The cameras are off," Irina said.
"Copy," Julian murmured, stepping off the elevator and moving swiftly to the computer room. Three technicians in there fell, and then he went about accessing the database and keys, transferring them both onto the hard drive he carried and to Irina. "I have it. Do you?"
"It's all here," she confirmed. "Set the timer and get out of there."
The device was small for the destruction it could render, and he took just a moment to marvel at that before setting the timer for three minutes, which should get him out. He ran into a guard coming down the hall and shot him on instinct before making it to the stairs and sprinting down them toward the ground level. He burst out into the alley behind the building, and ran, working to get out of range, and to the van Irina had waiting around the corner. As he opened the door of the vehicle, he heard the explosion, and spun, watching as the fifteen story building seemed to fling it's windows and walls outward before collapsing in. He heard the cries of people hit by the debris, eyes widening before Irina grabbed his arm and pulled him roughly inside.
"Go," she ordered the driver, then looked at him, eyes searching, taking in the exhilarated look in his eyes. "Well done," she murmured, reaching out to take the hard drive from his vet pocked, then running her fingers through his hair. With a slight smile, she added, "Normally, at this time of day, there are close to two hundred people in the building." Her eyes searched his, catching the slight shock that flittered over his expression. "Does that bother you, Julian."
He shifted on to the seat, looking back out the window at the dust that clouded the air, before glancing at her with a bit of a smirk. "Not in the least."
* * *
"I need him to talk," Irina murmured, brushing her fingers through Julian's hair.
He glanced over at the Chinese man in the corner with his glasses and his eager smile, then back at Irina.
"He's back up. I want you to do it, Julian. To learn..." Another caress, and Sark bit his lower lip, glancing at the doorway through which he knew their prisoner--a low-ranking member of FTL--was strapped down.
"What do you need to know?" he asked, straightening and watching her.
"The defenses of their main offices. Cole has the intel on SD-6, but if we're going to take down FTL at the same time, we need to know what we are up against as well as the location of their Rambaldi pieces."
Sark nodded, and bit his lower lip, then met her eyes again. "All right."
He did have to steel himself just a bit as he moved into the room and met the man's frightened eyes. That fright eased a bit as he took in Sark's youth, the pretty good looks that led people to think he had to be a choir boy far too often. He tried to straighten, with bravado that faded a bit as Sark backhanded him, hard.
"You're going to tell me everything you know about the inside of FTL headquarters," he said softly in the man's language, studying him.
The man spit blood at him, which made him narrow his eyes in displeasure. He moved to the tray, looking over the various implements they had their. He'd had clinical instruction in how each was used, but he'd never practiced on a living person before, and he hesitated as to which to choose. The man seemed to take that as weakness and laughed a little. Sark smiled at him, then reached overhead to flip the bright light on, shining it down into the man's face with a blinding intensity. He saw his eyes close, head jerking to the side, but the light was exceptionally focused. It let Sark move in silence, without being seen as he finally settled on first, truth serum, injecting it into the man's arm. "This is sodium pentothal," he told him in a conversational tone. "It should make this go a bit more easily, at least for me."
It wasn't nearly enough pain, though, and if the man was trained, then he could still lie, Sark knew. It was one of the first skills Irina had taught him, better than nearly any drug to counteract it. "But just in case you think there are no consequences for a lie..."
He picked up the electric baton, amusement flickering in his eyes for a moment before he flipped it on and applied it to the man's abdomen. His body jerked, eyes opening, then closing again with another cry as the light hit them.
"Where are the Rambaldi artifacts held?"
He had to hand it to the man, he held out for nearly an hour. It gave Sark time to test out several of the toys, cycling through them, never letting the blinded man know what was coming next. In the end, he had all the information they needed and more, and he felt a rush of pride as he relayed the intel to Irina.
She smiled, that warm approval in her eyes and nodded. "Pick your team, and coordinate with Cole to time the attacks simultaneously. You have operational control."
* * *
He'd had women before, both in his bed and in his life. There had been several who even got classed as "girlfriend" at university, who were by his side frequently. He flirted, he charmed, he let his tactile nature flow, fingers drifting over skin, lips sliding slowly along the lines of their bodies, learning the way they worked. He found he liked the warm weight of someone curled up against him, the moments when intimacy seemed possible, when sweet words were whispered, and there was something softer in his life.
But lacing through it all was one sure fact. It was a lie. Most of the things out of his mouth were lies. Lies about his parents. Lies about his background. Lies about what he did on school breaks. Lies about his dreams, his goals, his ambitions. Lies, even, about his name. Every time he felt himself want to reach out with the truth, at least wanting to say three words, feeling something swelling inside him, the lies choked it back. It couldn't be real when there was no trust, couldn't be true emotion, true feeling, true relationship.
He always ended things after three or four months, moving on to someone else and earning himself a reputation he ignored because of it. It became something he was resigned to, struggling to not improperly fixate on Irina, distracting himself with the fleeting illusion of passion dressed up as love.
Until her.
Allison Doren was different than any woman near his own age he'd met. She had Irina's coldness about her, and an enviable focus on the mission at hand. His own remote detachment had long settled into his personality, but she seemed well able to match him, and raise him with it, which took his breath away. When she finally yielded to his touches and murmured words, he felt he'd won an enviable victory. There were months, then, of passion without lies, where they discussed missions in bed, planning the details before making love again. Irina watched with a fond indulgence and finally a hole in his life seemed filled.
When she volunteered to be the second double, he was proud of her, and when they discovered they couldn't reverse the process, he told her he didn't matter, and he meant it. She was still Allison, no matter if she wore Francie's face. She was still who he wanted by his side as they carried out their new employer's objectives, partners again, as they should always have been. He swore he'd never love anyone else, despite watching her as she watched Tippin, and feeling something cold settling in his heart, their two years apart having driven a wedge there that he couldn't quite find a way around. And then she was gone, and there was only a hole again as he felt resentment toward the Covenant rise, dissatisfaction taking over his life, and he resigned himself to living with that, sure that no one would come along to fill him as she had, ever again.
* * *
His head hit the table, hard.
"See, when I have a gun, I don't just pull the trigger."
He could taste the blood in the back of his throat, but he nodded, his mind already racing. "Thank you."
His face collided with the table again and he felt involuntary tears hit his eyes. "Where's Sloane?"
Sloane knew he was here, but if they were looking for him, then it hadn't been Sloane who told them where to find him. He felt a pain in his gut nearly as brutal as the one in his nose, and the taste of blood mixed with that of bile for a moment as he put the pieces together. Only one other person knew where he would be. The person who had given him the assignment, sent him here, set up the meeting, even. There wasn't time, not now, to fully process the feeling that slid through him, or give in to the part of him that wanted to ask Why? but he felt Vaughn's hand tight at the back of his neck, knew he was about to get smashed into the table again, and knew that there was no way in hell he was going to go through that for Sloane. For her, before, he would have, but not now, not with the rage seething so close to the surface as he knew there was no one coming to extract him from this.
He nodded, looking up. "Not a problem; my loyalties are flexible."
* * *
"Last time we were together, our roles were reversed. Funny how things happen."
He saw Michael rolling up his sleeves out of the corner of his eye, and spared him a defiant glance. "I'm afraid the irony is lost on me."
Vaughn sighed and leaned on the table. "You like the electric batons and the injections. I'm not into accessories."
Sark watched him for a moment, then gave a slight shrug. "I'm more than willing to cooperate, Mr. Vaughn. I will tell you everything you want." He glanced down at the table, already formulating what to tell him in order to give Lauren time to get away. "But I will need something in return."
Vaughn shook his head. "No deals."
He'd half expected that, given their last encounter. "Well then, it seems we're at an impasse. But I assure you, it won't take Lauren long to solve Rambaldi's equation."
Vaughn stood up with a sigh. "Better get started, then." He moved to stand next to Sark. "Where is Lauren Reed?"
Sark held his silence. In a flash, his head hit the table, hard, in a now very familiar move. They danced this dance nearly-regularly, he thought, and really, it was about to the point that he should just expect to end up with a bloody nose when they met. This was harder though, and he felt the pain spike up all the way into his brain. Vaughn pushed on the damaged cartilage and he felt the blood spurt, coughing.
"I think I broke it."
Sark breathed through his mouth, through his pain. "Clearly," he snapped.
"Ready to talk?" Vaughn asked.
Sark tried to catch his breath, closing his eyes a bit as he kept tasting the blood, pain throbbing through his face. "Yes." He said, and Michael nodded, pacing behind him, then perching on the table next to him. "When I first learned of your wife's true allegiance, I almost felt pity for you. How embarrassing it must have been to learn that the woman you shared your bed with was only using you as an unfortunate means to an end." He looked up, the smirk in his eyes if not on his face.
"I wouldn't do this if I was you." Vaughn said, with a warning in his voice, but Sark couldn't seem to help himself.
"But then, she wasn't sharing your bed lately, was she? She was in mine... or in my car... or an elevator, or a garage." His eyes taunted Vaughn as the man stood, reaching for his keys and unlocking one of Sark's wrists. That couldn't be good, but he couldn't shut up. "There was this one time -- this is my favorite -- we were engaged in an alley," Vaughn grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind him. It hurt like hell, but Sark found himself almost laughing as he glanced back at Michael. "And she called you to tell you she loved you. That woman was deliciously filthy."
Michael's hand closed on his shoulder, pressing has he pulled Sark's arm back and pain shot through him that he wanted to cry out from, but didn't. "Feel that? Feels like a knife slicing through you, doesn't it? Now where is she?" He pulled back, hard and Sark felt something snap, breathing harder, trying to block it out. "I'm not going to kill you. That would be too easy. But I'll leave you so disfigured that when you walk down the street, people will pity you. Lauren is going to pay for the damage she's done to the people I care about, not for having had an affair with you. I don't give a rat's ass who she's sleeping with." He pressed down, and Sark couldn't help the soft whimper that escaped. "So, for the last time, where is she?"
More pressure, and the pain was almost blinding as he tried to arch away from it, to get away, but there was no escape, and no matter how much he tried to hold on to the resolve to spite this man above all others, he wasn't prepared for this, his flexible loyalty always sparing him this intense sort of a pain. Even as Vaughn went forward, breaking more than just his nose, Sark knew, in the end, he would tell him what he wanted to know. He just hoped he could hold out long enough that Lauren would have the sense to know he'd tell, and get her ass out of there to somewhere safe.
[ooc: Dialogue in last two scenes from Alias epsiodes "The Telling" and "Resurrection" respectively.]
"You'll need to brace yourself," she said in that accent that called to mind a mostly forgotten face that came with gentle touches that attempted to soothe away bruises and hurts, but not too obviously.
He bit his lower lip and looked up at her, unsure of exactly what to do. Nerves and excitement both mingled, making him feel just a bit sick as he raised it and pointed it at the target and tried to lock his legs into place.
"Not like that," she murmured, but there was more amusement than censure in her voice as she moved to stand behind him. Her hands curled around his, adjusting his grip, and she gently shifted his body into position. Correcting his aim, just a bit, she placed herself at his back, one hand in the center, pressed against his spine. "Now."
Swallowing, he tried not to close his eyes as he pulled the trigger, feeling the force of it push him back into her, no matter how hard he tried to stay where he was. Her arm slid around him as he lowered the gun and stared at the target. He'd hit it, at least, if nowhere near the center, and he felt a little glow of pride as she ran her fingers lightly through his hair. "Good," she whispered, and he smiled. "Now do it again."
* * *
His heartbeat seemed to catch the pace of the wheels, feeling more like something was churning and rolling, rippling through him than any steady beating rhythm. Shifting gears, he pressed the accelerator further down and felt the thrill of energy climb up his leg. It wasn't like driving around town, or even on the estate, around and around in circles, faster and faster, even in Irina's nicest car. For the first time, he understood what people said when they claimed an engine purred. He could feel the vibration of it creeping into him with a near sexual heat, his body tightening in response before he forced it to relax.
The first curve came faster than he had expected it, and he crossed the line taking it, shifting gears again. The second he was more prepared for, accelerating again halfway around the bend. Then they were steady, and he felt himself starting to smile, whipping around them. There were only a few other cars, but he slipped around each of them without slowing. It felt exactly how it had always looked like it must feel, only heightened. Every sense was enhanced, focused. His fingers caressed the gearshift lightly, resting against it with the barest pressure before tightening around it and moving it into position. His breath was uneven for a few minutes until he settled into the rhythm, allowing himself to relax into it and trust his reflexes and the car itself.
He almost wished he would meet a truck coming the other way and have to slide out of its way just in time, but his luck wasn't going quite that well. There was always next time.
* * *
His heart was pounding, certain he was going to get caught at any moment, as he moved through the dark alley in Dublin. The building in front of him was just as dark, with no lights flickering in the windows, and he swallowed back the lump in his throat where fear seemed to have lodged itself. He tried to reassure himself that even if he got caught, Irina would bail him out and come up with some story that would let him scamper back to Galway unscathed, but at the same time, she'd also look at him with disappointment flickering in her eyes and he wasn't sure he could handle that after everything she'd done for him.
Biting his lower lip, he moved slowly to the back of the building, glancing around to see if anyone was anywhere in sight. All he could see were the bushes and the wall that ran along the side of the house. He swallowed, then tossed the grapple hook up. It took two tries and was louder than he would have liked, but he got it to catch on the roof. With a deep breath and a steadying thought that he could do this, he closed his hands around the rope and started to climb. All of the windows on the first floor had sensors on them, but not expecting much upper story work in this part of town, the second floor windows weren't even locked. Julian scoffed a bit at the ease of it, as he pushed one in and dropped onto the carpeted floor of the study and slipped on his night vision goggles. The safe was on the far wall behind a Picasso that he stopped to examine for just a moment.
He kept up the chewing on his lower lip as he carefully cracked the safe, doing it just like Irina had showed him, had made him practice. His heart stopped at every creak of the old house, but no one came in. Easing the safe door open, he reached in, rifling quickly through the contents until he found the one he was looking for. It was old, rolled in a protective tube. He pulled it out carefully, and scanned it, nodding when he saw Rambaldi's mark in the corner. Slipping the document in a tube he had brought, he tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, then replaced the original tube in the safe and closed it, relocking it and putting the painting back in place. His steps were quick back to the window, and he let himself back down the rope much more easily than he'd come up. Getting the hook off the roof proved to be challenging and he knew he wasted too much time with it, but Irina said leave no trace of his presence, and a hook and rope would be a clear giveaway. It finally came free, tumbling down and almost hitting him before he jumped out of the way. With a muffled curse, he scooped it up and stuffed it back in his back pack, before melting back into the shadows and hurrying back to the hotel where Irina was waiting to report his success.
* * *
The September morning air was cool with a hint of the autumn that was slowly creeping around the corner, though he knew by midday it would be hot again with the Indian summer that was lingering over England. For now, though, the air was damp with a slight mist to it that did nothing to obscure the view, but seemed to cling to him nonetheless. He shifted, adjusting his grip on the high-powered sniper rifle, peering through the scope at the embassy door at 31 Prince's Gate. Something itched at the back of his neck, a crawling sensation under his skin that was more uncomfortable than anything, and he found himself frowning. Her eyes were steady on him from where she lay beside him as he reached back to try and brush the feeling away.
"If you want me to do it..." The soft accent of her words seemed more pronounced here, something exotic above the stirrings of commerce and business that crowded the London streets below.
"It's not that," he said, voice crisp, a bit defensive. "I can do it."
He was aching to, truth be told, feeling the fluttering in his stomach coalescing into a hard knot of excitement that rose through him and settled in his throat, making his whole chest seem to vibrate with it, heartbeat pounding to compensate for the constriction. He squinted through the sight again, finger slipping over the trigger. A minute more, maybe two, and the door opened. The first man came out talking into a walkie talkie, the second emerged carrying a gun, and as they had been told he would be, the ambassador was the third out the door. Sark drew a shaky breath into his lungs, holding it, not daring to let his aim falter even for the exhale as he squeezed the trigger. He didn't even hear the shot, so focused on he was the view from the sight, the recoil of the man's head, the spray of blood, and then he fell, and Irina was tugging him up, away, toward the stairs that were their exit route. He broke the gun down, putting it away as they moved, until it was tucked in a backpack he slung over their shoulder as they stepped outside.
Irina stopped at the station, reaching to straighten his tie, brush down his jacket before she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Well done. Now hurry before you miss your train. You don't want to be late for class."
Sark moved down the steps and caught the Underground to the train station, lost in thought. There was a flush of triumph on his face, but the same uncomfortable feeling lingered, tight inside of him. It wasn't until he was settled on the train watching the countryside flash by that he was able to find the source of the discomfort and pinpoint what was wrong.
It hadn't been enough.
* * *
She was beautiful, and perhaps ten years his senior, a year, maybe two, from thirty and insisting she was still twenty-five. It amused her to attend the holiday gala with the charming young man she had met, supposedly by accident, in a bookstore in New York where he was diligently reading to prepare for his next semester's classes until distracted by her presence. It had been far too easy, he thought, smiling down at her as they danced, letting her fuss and make much over him. Irina's instructions had been specific, but he was also pleased to not find the task onerous. The thought of what was to come, though, kept getting in the way of his focus on the present, which he knew was a weakness he would need to work on. Every detail mattered, and it wouldn't appear to be distracted, even if he could pass off the glaze in his eyes as a hungry desire for her, against him, under him, letting him please her as he did himself as well.
Her lips curved in a smirk as they left, when she pulled him up to her bedroom in a flat on Park Avenue, murmuring the alias he had given her in a heated moan as his hands slid her clothes off before carrying her to the bed. He made it slow, taking his time, savoring each pulse of life, of desire, that fluttered out of her, even as his own eagerness almost got the better of him. Finally, she came, crying that fake name, and his fingers closed around her throat, cutting it off. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she smiled a bit, perhaps thinking it a new game, until they tightened, and she caught sight of his eyes. Excitement pounded through his veins as he pulled out of her, straddled her, and added his second hand, using his weight behind the grip to crush her larynx. His eyes glittered with a dark light, his breath came unevenly, and he caught his lower lip between his teeth to hold back the moan as she struggled underneath him and then finally went still, brown eyes staring up at him blankly, an expression of shocked betrayal seeming etched on her face.
Panting he pulled back, just watching her for a long moment before moving to her bathroom, tossing the condom in the toilet and flushing before slowly washing his hands, catching his gaze in the mirror, as he slowly smiled.
* * *
"How many are in there?" he asked into the comm, mostly from academic curiosity as he glanced at the building.
"Does it matter?" Irina's voice crackled back at him. "You need to get the database and the encryption keys, and Kaestner and his organization need to be eliminated. Two birds, one stone. It's all about efficiency, Julian. Today's the last day Kaestner is going to be in his Berlin office before he and the database both disappear."
"I realize that," Sark said with a bit of a snap. "I was just curious."
"Do the job, Julian."
He did, moving swiftly in under his cover as a potential investor. His two escorts did not make it to the fifth floor alive, and he moved on up to the seventh.
"The cameras are off," Irina said.
"Copy," Julian murmured, stepping off the elevator and moving swiftly to the computer room. Three technicians in there fell, and then he went about accessing the database and keys, transferring them both onto the hard drive he carried and to Irina. "I have it. Do you?"
"It's all here," she confirmed. "Set the timer and get out of there."
The device was small for the destruction it could render, and he took just a moment to marvel at that before setting the timer for three minutes, which should get him out. He ran into a guard coming down the hall and shot him on instinct before making it to the stairs and sprinting down them toward the ground level. He burst out into the alley behind the building, and ran, working to get out of range, and to the van Irina had waiting around the corner. As he opened the door of the vehicle, he heard the explosion, and spun, watching as the fifteen story building seemed to fling it's windows and walls outward before collapsing in. He heard the cries of people hit by the debris, eyes widening before Irina grabbed his arm and pulled him roughly inside.
"Go," she ordered the driver, then looked at him, eyes searching, taking in the exhilarated look in his eyes. "Well done," she murmured, reaching out to take the hard drive from his vet pocked, then running her fingers through his hair. With a slight smile, she added, "Normally, at this time of day, there are close to two hundred people in the building." Her eyes searched his, catching the slight shock that flittered over his expression. "Does that bother you, Julian."
He shifted on to the seat, looking back out the window at the dust that clouded the air, before glancing at her with a bit of a smirk. "Not in the least."
* * *
"I need him to talk," Irina murmured, brushing her fingers through Julian's hair.
He glanced over at the Chinese man in the corner with his glasses and his eager smile, then back at Irina.
"He's back up. I want you to do it, Julian. To learn..." Another caress, and Sark bit his lower lip, glancing at the doorway through which he knew their prisoner--a low-ranking member of FTL--was strapped down.
"What do you need to know?" he asked, straightening and watching her.
"The defenses of their main offices. Cole has the intel on SD-6, but if we're going to take down FTL at the same time, we need to know what we are up against as well as the location of their Rambaldi pieces."
Sark nodded, and bit his lower lip, then met her eyes again. "All right."
He did have to steel himself just a bit as he moved into the room and met the man's frightened eyes. That fright eased a bit as he took in Sark's youth, the pretty good looks that led people to think he had to be a choir boy far too often. He tried to straighten, with bravado that faded a bit as Sark backhanded him, hard.
"You're going to tell me everything you know about the inside of FTL headquarters," he said softly in the man's language, studying him.
The man spit blood at him, which made him narrow his eyes in displeasure. He moved to the tray, looking over the various implements they had their. He'd had clinical instruction in how each was used, but he'd never practiced on a living person before, and he hesitated as to which to choose. The man seemed to take that as weakness and laughed a little. Sark smiled at him, then reached overhead to flip the bright light on, shining it down into the man's face with a blinding intensity. He saw his eyes close, head jerking to the side, but the light was exceptionally focused. It let Sark move in silence, without being seen as he finally settled on first, truth serum, injecting it into the man's arm. "This is sodium pentothal," he told him in a conversational tone. "It should make this go a bit more easily, at least for me."
It wasn't nearly enough pain, though, and if the man was trained, then he could still lie, Sark knew. It was one of the first skills Irina had taught him, better than nearly any drug to counteract it. "But just in case you think there are no consequences for a lie..."
He picked up the electric baton, amusement flickering in his eyes for a moment before he flipped it on and applied it to the man's abdomen. His body jerked, eyes opening, then closing again with another cry as the light hit them.
"Where are the Rambaldi artifacts held?"
He had to hand it to the man, he held out for nearly an hour. It gave Sark time to test out several of the toys, cycling through them, never letting the blinded man know what was coming next. In the end, he had all the information they needed and more, and he felt a rush of pride as he relayed the intel to Irina.
She smiled, that warm approval in her eyes and nodded. "Pick your team, and coordinate with Cole to time the attacks simultaneously. You have operational control."
* * *
He'd had women before, both in his bed and in his life. There had been several who even got classed as "girlfriend" at university, who were by his side frequently. He flirted, he charmed, he let his tactile nature flow, fingers drifting over skin, lips sliding slowly along the lines of their bodies, learning the way they worked. He found he liked the warm weight of someone curled up against him, the moments when intimacy seemed possible, when sweet words were whispered, and there was something softer in his life.
But lacing through it all was one sure fact. It was a lie. Most of the things out of his mouth were lies. Lies about his parents. Lies about his background. Lies about what he did on school breaks. Lies about his dreams, his goals, his ambitions. Lies, even, about his name. Every time he felt himself want to reach out with the truth, at least wanting to say three words, feeling something swelling inside him, the lies choked it back. It couldn't be real when there was no trust, couldn't be true emotion, true feeling, true relationship.
He always ended things after three or four months, moving on to someone else and earning himself a reputation he ignored because of it. It became something he was resigned to, struggling to not improperly fixate on Irina, distracting himself with the fleeting illusion of passion dressed up as love.
Until her.
Allison Doren was different than any woman near his own age he'd met. She had Irina's coldness about her, and an enviable focus on the mission at hand. His own remote detachment had long settled into his personality, but she seemed well able to match him, and raise him with it, which took his breath away. When she finally yielded to his touches and murmured words, he felt he'd won an enviable victory. There were months, then, of passion without lies, where they discussed missions in bed, planning the details before making love again. Irina watched with a fond indulgence and finally a hole in his life seemed filled.
When she volunteered to be the second double, he was proud of her, and when they discovered they couldn't reverse the process, he told her he didn't matter, and he meant it. She was still Allison, no matter if she wore Francie's face. She was still who he wanted by his side as they carried out their new employer's objectives, partners again, as they should always have been. He swore he'd never love anyone else, despite watching her as she watched Tippin, and feeling something cold settling in his heart, their two years apart having driven a wedge there that he couldn't quite find a way around. And then she was gone, and there was only a hole again as he felt resentment toward the Covenant rise, dissatisfaction taking over his life, and he resigned himself to living with that, sure that no one would come along to fill him as she had, ever again.
* * *
His head hit the table, hard.
"See, when I have a gun, I don't just pull the trigger."
He could taste the blood in the back of his throat, but he nodded, his mind already racing. "Thank you."
His face collided with the table again and he felt involuntary tears hit his eyes. "Where's Sloane?"
Sloane knew he was here, but if they were looking for him, then it hadn't been Sloane who told them where to find him. He felt a pain in his gut nearly as brutal as the one in his nose, and the taste of blood mixed with that of bile for a moment as he put the pieces together. Only one other person knew where he would be. The person who had given him the assignment, sent him here, set up the meeting, even. There wasn't time, not now, to fully process the feeling that slid through him, or give in to the part of him that wanted to ask Why? but he felt Vaughn's hand tight at the back of his neck, knew he was about to get smashed into the table again, and knew that there was no way in hell he was going to go through that for Sloane. For her, before, he would have, but not now, not with the rage seething so close to the surface as he knew there was no one coming to extract him from this.
He nodded, looking up. "Not a problem; my loyalties are flexible."
* * *
"Last time we were together, our roles were reversed. Funny how things happen."
He saw Michael rolling up his sleeves out of the corner of his eye, and spared him a defiant glance. "I'm afraid the irony is lost on me."
Vaughn sighed and leaned on the table. "You like the electric batons and the injections. I'm not into accessories."
Sark watched him for a moment, then gave a slight shrug. "I'm more than willing to cooperate, Mr. Vaughn. I will tell you everything you want." He glanced down at the table, already formulating what to tell him in order to give Lauren time to get away. "But I will need something in return."
Vaughn shook his head. "No deals."
He'd half expected that, given their last encounter. "Well then, it seems we're at an impasse. But I assure you, it won't take Lauren long to solve Rambaldi's equation."
Vaughn stood up with a sigh. "Better get started, then." He moved to stand next to Sark. "Where is Lauren Reed?"
Sark held his silence. In a flash, his head hit the table, hard, in a now very familiar move. They danced this dance nearly-regularly, he thought, and really, it was about to the point that he should just expect to end up with a bloody nose when they met. This was harder though, and he felt the pain spike up all the way into his brain. Vaughn pushed on the damaged cartilage and he felt the blood spurt, coughing.
"I think I broke it."
Sark breathed through his mouth, through his pain. "Clearly," he snapped.
"Ready to talk?" Vaughn asked.
Sark tried to catch his breath, closing his eyes a bit as he kept tasting the blood, pain throbbing through his face. "Yes." He said, and Michael nodded, pacing behind him, then perching on the table next to him. "When I first learned of your wife's true allegiance, I almost felt pity for you. How embarrassing it must have been to learn that the woman you shared your bed with was only using you as an unfortunate means to an end." He looked up, the smirk in his eyes if not on his face.
"I wouldn't do this if I was you." Vaughn said, with a warning in his voice, but Sark couldn't seem to help himself.
"But then, she wasn't sharing your bed lately, was she? She was in mine... or in my car... or an elevator, or a garage." His eyes taunted Vaughn as the man stood, reaching for his keys and unlocking one of Sark's wrists. That couldn't be good, but he couldn't shut up. "There was this one time -- this is my favorite -- we were engaged in an alley," Vaughn grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind him. It hurt like hell, but Sark found himself almost laughing as he glanced back at Michael. "And she called you to tell you she loved you. That woman was deliciously filthy."
Michael's hand closed on his shoulder, pressing has he pulled Sark's arm back and pain shot through him that he wanted to cry out from, but didn't. "Feel that? Feels like a knife slicing through you, doesn't it? Now where is she?" He pulled back, hard and Sark felt something snap, breathing harder, trying to block it out. "I'm not going to kill you. That would be too easy. But I'll leave you so disfigured that when you walk down the street, people will pity you. Lauren is going to pay for the damage she's done to the people I care about, not for having had an affair with you. I don't give a rat's ass who she's sleeping with." He pressed down, and Sark couldn't help the soft whimper that escaped. "So, for the last time, where is she?"
More pressure, and the pain was almost blinding as he tried to arch away from it, to get away, but there was no escape, and no matter how much he tried to hold on to the resolve to spite this man above all others, he wasn't prepared for this, his flexible loyalty always sparing him this intense sort of a pain. Even as Vaughn went forward, breaking more than just his nose, Sark knew, in the end, he would tell him what he wanted to know. He just hoped he could hold out long enough that Lauren would have the sense to know he'd tell, and get her ass out of there to somewhere safe.
[ooc: Dialogue in last two scenes from Alias epsiodes "The Telling" and "Resurrection" respectively.]
