Go Home
Go To Fanfiction
Go To Alias

Alea Iacta Est

By Alison

D/C: I don't own anything except the plot. Everything else belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, Bad Robot, and all the people who are luckier than me.

~*~*~

Chapter One

She knew that she hated him. Actually, she hated everyone at that particular moment in time. Her father, for lying to her countless times; Vaughn, for pretending to be interested in her; Will, for getting involved in all of this; and Arvin Sloane, for too many reasons that she couldn't name right then.

But she mostly hated him. Him telling her that she would be killing Sloane only to have deceived her yet again. Him catching her off-guard so many times. Him having the opportunity to kill her so many times, and yet letting her live just so she could hate him more.

"I believe we were destined to work together, Agent Bristow." He had practically told her his plan, and yet she didn't believe him. She had learned from Noah that deceit often comes with trusting people, and she chose not to trust anyone after that.

All these thoughts came rushing at her on a Sunday afternoon. She was on another mission to get more information about some Rambaldi artifacts. It was just Sloane's busy work for her; she knew that he didn't trust many people right now, what with the death of his wife and the suspicion that she might still be alive. Sydney didn't believe she was alive, no matter how many times Jack had told her that Sloane had found the grave empty. It was impossible. She couldn't just…Or could she?

She refused to preoccupy her thoughts with silly ones like that. She had taken an early flight into the middle of Ireland and was enjoying the scenery, or what she could make of it from her hotel window. It was rule number one at all the intelligence agencies: Make yourself seen as little as possible.

She had always loved Ireland. It seemed so peaceful compared to the usual smog and dust that came with living in Los Angeles. She found herself breathing easier with only being in the country for a little over an hour. She watched the normal people leading their normal lives…It was like the train station. Yes, that was it. Ireland was her safe haven, just like the train station.

Why they would ever call a little cage like the one the CIA has a safehouse, she figured she would never know. She never felt truly safe in there. Sure, at first when she had a little infatuation with Vaughn, she had felt…no, not safe. More glad. Glad to see him every day. But soon after she had found out that her mom had killed his dad…The love she had thought she felt for him quickly turned into pity and she had never felt that way about him again.

She knew he loved her, that was for certain. She saw it in his eyes every time he looked at her and how much he was willing to risk for her. She had sometimes used it to her advantage whenever she needed a partner for a mission. She didn't feel sorry or guilty at all. It was what spies did, to get the information they needed no matter what the cost.

She sighed as she looked at her watch. It was time to wash her hair if she wanted to get to dinner on time. She had chosen blonde hair this time, as she found it gave off the effect that she was a bit dimmer than the average person. She needed all the information she could get, and she found that people were more likely to give it to a blonde than a brunette or redhead. Of course, she thought as she took out the hair cap that was holding up her hair as the hair dye was setting in, it might be that men prefer blondes over brunettes.

Either way, in three-quarters of an hour, she was washed up, dressed, and ready to go. She took one last look in the mirror before she set off, and decided that if she ever wanted to dye her hair outside of work, she probably wouldn't consider going blonde, although she didn't look half-bad.

She exited her room, clutching a black bag against her almost-too-revealing red dress, and took the stairs down to the hotel restaurant. She despised the food down there, as their specialty was seafood and she hated seafood, but it seemed to be the meal of choice of the man she was going to be spying on. She had seen him there earlier at lunch, and she had gotten intel that he had reservations there for dinner.

She sat down at a table and tried to catch his eye. It wasn't easy as the man was clearly involved in a conversation with another woman. Sydney hated these kinds of missions. She hated using herself and her body as a way to get information. Everyone had always told her that it was useful in missions, and she hated that she had to flaunt herself just to get SD-6 information.

The woman he was talking to was also blonde, Sydney noticed. She was wearing a little black dress and seemed to be shoving her upper torso a little too much in his face. Not that he wasn't enjoying it. He was smiling a lot more than was usual for a man of his stature and his eyes darted frequently from hers to take a glance at other parts of her body.

After getting her drink that she had ordered so long ago, the woman at the other table suddenly slapped the man and walked off. He looked after her as if he were about to shout to her, but Sydney took this chance.

"Hello," she said, swooping down into the still slightly warm chair previously occupied by the now long gone woman. Sydney was using her Southern accent, something that she found to be particularly enticing for the general male population. "I couldn't help noticing your girl left you. Some people are so mean."

The man gave her a blatant look-over and Sydney compressed the sudden need to slap him. "She wasn't my girl," said the man. "My girl would never treat me like that. She would treat me right."

Sydney looked deep into his eyes and adjusted her arms a little so her breasts came into his full view. "I've never treated a man wrong," she said, using a deeper voice.

She saw him lick his lips subconsciously as he gazed at her. "I'm sure you haven't," he said, trying to regain his composure, but doing a bad job at it.

She leaned even closer to him so that their noses were almost touching. "I think you have what I need," she said huskily, watching with disgust as he almost started drooling. "Let's say we go up to your room and forget about that other silly girl." She took her hand and clasped it tightly around his upper thigh. She immediately felt the muscle tighten up.

"Anything for an American lady," he said, getting up and taking her arm. "I hope I make you feel welcome here," he whispered in her ear. She had to restrain herself from shuddering as she felt condensation on her ear. She wiped it off, disguising it as if she were throwing back her hair.

"I'm sure you will," she said, praying that she would get up to the room soon.

Her wish came true as he led her into his hotel room. Yes, he got a surprise, but it wasn't sex. Instead, it was Sydney's arm giving him a full blow across the back of the head. Sydney shuddered as she kicked him fiercely to see if he was indeed unconscious.

She knew she had to work fast. She quickly found his computer and downloaded the data she needed, making a second disk in the process with fake data to give to SD-6.

Luckily, she didn't encounter anybody else for the time being, so she decided to go downstairs and have a decent meal, preferably without seafood. She knew she had at least a couple hours before the man woke up. She went downstairs, quickly shoving the two disks in her bra before reaching the restaurant. Smiling sweetly, she asked the waiter for a table, preferably away from all the smokers. The waiter looked confused, as if he had seen her just a little earlier leaving the restaurant with another man, but he shrugged and let her in.

Sydney ended up at the bar ten minutes later, knowing that she shouldn't because it would mess up her concentration for getting home the next day when SD-6 picked her up. But, for the time being, she didn't give a shit and refused to let any conscience tell her that she was wrong.

Then she saw him. Yes, he always did show up at the worst times and managed to fuck them up each time. She quickly turned her head upon seeing his pale face, but he was too quick for her and spotted her before her face was completely concealed from him.

She felt him sit next to her at the bar and order "One of whatever she's having." She didn't even have to look to know it was him. Usually when men sat by her at bars they would crowd her and apparently not know the meaning of personal space. But no, this man, he kept a good distance from her and she privately thanked him for it.

She caught a glimpse of his blonde hair dyed poorly black in her peripheral vision. She scoffed at the sudden mental image of this man trying to dye his hair. Or would he get his own beautiful woman to do it for him? Not that she cared. He can have all the beautiful women he wants. All she wanted was Danny back.

He got his drink and raised it to her. "To life's vagaries," he said, nodding his head to her.

Sydney finally turned to him and raised her glass. "To life's vagaries," she repeated. They both took a long drink. There was silence for a few moments as they both reacted to the harshness of the drink against their mouths.

"It's all right, nobody's listening, if that's what you're worried about," said the man next to her after getting over the initial taste of the strong drink.

"That's not it," she said fiercely, taking another swig of her drink, having recovered from it sooner than him. After a pause, she asked, "What are you doing here, Sark?"

Sark twisted his half-full glass with his finger. "Hello to you too, Miss Bristow."

"Agent. Agent Bristow."

"Agent Bristow."

"I asked you a question."

"And I promise you, I intend to answer it." He paused as he took another drink and ordered a new glass.

"Sloane doesn't know you're here, does he?"

Sark sighed and gave the bartender a weak smile as he brought him another drink. He took a long drink and Sydney marveled at exactly how much of alcohol he could take in one sitting without passing out. "No. No, he doesn't."

Sydney swallowed a particularly large amount of her drink before asking, "How the hell do you expect to get Sloane's trust if you walk out like this?"

"I happen to be a very trustworthy person, Agent Bristow," said Sark. "Sloane can't fire me, or execute me, or whatever he does to deserters. Unlike most of the people in your department, I actually hold more purpose than just going and retrieving a bit of data in the middle of Ireland."

Sydney slammed down her glass and miraculously didn't break it as she glared at Sark. "Listen to me," she snarled in a voice so low that Sark had to lean forward to understand her. "You may have convinced everyone else in the agency that you're a changed man, even Arvin Sloane, but you can never, never convince me. Understand?"

Sark glanced at her and put on an odd little half-smile. "Of course, Sydney," he said, and Sydney could've sworn she saw a twinkle of humor in his eye.

She quickly pulled out quite a large amount of money and slammed it on the bar table next to her only half-finished drink before walking rather drunkenly back to her room.

Sark checked over the money that she had left and noticed that she had given the bartender a one hundred dollar tip. He quickly picked up the extra change that she had mistakenly given him and started to walk off after her, leaving the right amount of money for his own beverages.

He caught up to her soon enough. She was leaning against the wall, hands on her knees, coughing. He could tell she stumbled there in a drunken stupor.

"Agent Bristow," he said, going up to her. "It's all right to drink, but don't get drunk and expect that everything will turn out all right in the morning."

"Sark," she said, looking up at him. He could still see the hate in her eyes. "I…." She cut off and started coughing violently.

"Come on," said Sark, putting her arm around his shoulders and half-dragging her to her room. He tried to ignore the sound of her coughing and the moisture on his shoulder when she started coughing up blood.

After many strenuous minutes of lugging a drunk girl around, Sark finally arrived at Sydney's room. "I need a key," he whispered to her.

"What?" she asked, looking up at him like she had never seen anyone like him before in her life.

"A key. To the room."

"Oh," she said, suddenly starting to giggle. "Did I invite you to my room?"

Sark sighed. "Sydney, you're drunk. I need a key to your room so you can go in and get some rest."

Sydney stopped giggling as fast as she had started. "Sleep. Sleep sounds good. I need…." She collapsed on his shoulder.

Sark stood there in the hallway, not knowing quite what to do with this drunk girl who had just fainted on his shoulder and being locked out of her room. He gently set her down on the ground and searched her purse, feeling a bit guilty while he was doing it. He finally found a key marked 119 and thanked her silently for not being one of those girls that shoves their keys in their bra.

He took the key and opened the door to the room. It was pretty average. Sark could tell right away that Sloane obviously didn't care too much about the welfare of his agents. He himself had gotten the grand suite, but it was out of his own pocket. Well, it was worth it, anyway.

He picked up Sydney again and heaved her into the room and onto her bed. After covering her with blankets, he went into the mini-kitchen in her room. It was little with only a little refrigerator and microwave. He didn't even want to go into the exquisite kitchen that had been granted to him for a little more out of his wallet every night.

He searched through the kitchen before finding some chicken noodle soup. It didn't look too old and Sark was quick to prepare it along with a glass of water for the bedridden. He smiled as the scent filled the air. It was something about chicken noodle soup that made him think about the past and the holidays. No matter how hectic his parent's lives were, they always managed to have a very happy Christmas.

And look where it's gotten you, he thought, suddenly slamming the pot of soup on the stove. Look at where you are, Sark. In some shit hotel in the middle of Ireland, taking care of the woman who's supposed to be your sworn enemy. Bitch.

Sark shook his head to try to get himself under control. He put the soup and water on a tray with a plastic spoon and brought it in the bedroom.

Sydney was sitting up, holding her head as if she could feel the hangover already. "Just wait until tomorrow, that's when it really hurts," he said, setting down the soup on the table next to her.

"Thanks," she said, gratefully taking the soup and swallowing it quickly. Sark watched her as she devoured all of the hot soup. It had become part of his ritual; he rather enjoyed watching people, studying them, trying to look past the first appearance and into their soul. He supposed it was from all his spy training, but he felt it alive whenever he put it into practice.

"What are you doing here, Sark?" she asked him, repeating her earlier question. Sark's gaze immediately switched form her to his feet.

"I wanted to go on a nice vacation," he said, hoping she wouldn't notice his hands interlacing.

She did. "What a load of B.S. that is," she said.

"I made you soup, Agent Bristow, I wouldn't be the one in the position to criticize right now." Sark wished she wouldn't hold him in such an uncomfortable gaze like the one she was giving him right at the moment as he found it hard to concentrate.

"You just agreed to cooperate with us. No smart agent would go and run off the first chance they got." Sydney set down her now-empty bowl of soup and leaned back, staring at Sark, expecting an answer, and expecting it to be good.

"Well, then, I guess I'm not a very smart agent," said Sark, getting up and wiping the sweat from his hands off on his pants. Damn her. Why he had to go and rescue her, he didn't know. "You need rest," he continued, going over to her and attempting to get her into a lying position.

"I know what I need, and it's not rest, it's answers," Sydney said, swatting his hands away as they approached her shoulders.

Sark pulled his hands away, but wouldn't give up. "I'm all for compromising, Agent Bristow. You sleep for three hours and I'll tell you why I'm here. Don't tell me you don't feel the need to sleep at all."

Sydney held her temples again, as if he had just brought to notice another wave of pain. "All right," she agreed. "Wake me in three hours."

"I will," Sark promised as he watched her curl into a little ball.

She fell asleep almost immediately, Sark noticed. He hated to think of what happened whenever she got drunk at a bar and not have anyone to carry her off to her home at that moment. He took a deep breath as he gathered up her empty dishes and quietly washed them in the other room.

He spent most of the three hours looking at her. He marveled at how much she had to go through before she would finally accept the calmness and serenity of a good night's sleep. And yet, even in sleep, he could tell that she never stopped worrying about one thing or another. He could see it in the way she held herself, how she was still tense. He wondered what she was worrying about now. If it was about him and how he escaped SD-6, even if it was only for a few days.

He scoffed, wondering how he could ever think that anybody would worry about him, least of all Sydney. No, no one's ever taken any concern about him ever since…his mother. No, not even her. Not even his own mother cared about him.

He decided to join his drunken coworker in sleep and settled down for yet another dreamless sleep.

~*~*~

He woke up at six o'clock the next morning, like clockwork. He had woken up at this time as long as he could remember, even though he could sleep in a little longer in the mornings. He hated it.

He looked over at Sydney, who was still fast asleep. He realized he was supposed to have woken her up nearly five hours ago, but she didn't seem to object at the extra rest.

Sark supposed he should wake her then, praying that she would forget about the question she had imposed on him at least twice last night. Or was it three times? Sark rubbed his head, wondering why he couldn't remember, as he usually had quite a good memory.

Blaming his slight memory loss on his consumption of alcohol, Sark leaned over to Sydney and shook her gently to wake her up. When she didn't budge, Sark sat heavily back in his chair and sighed. This was going to be awhile.

Disregarding his own throbbing headache, he shook her harder, and again got no response. "Please, Sydney," he whispered. "Come on. Wake up."

Finally, after countless minutes of attempting to wake her up, Sydney opened her eyes. "About time," Sark muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Sydney asked, lifting up her head and groaning with the pain of her decision to drink last night.

"Nothing," said Sark. "What time is your departure?"

"Seven o'clock," she said, clutching her hair in an effort to relieve some of her pain. "Why?"

"You should get ready, it's already six." Sark helped her out of bed into the chair that he previously occupied.

She sat up and looked at him, squinting. "What happened last night? Why…why are you here?"

Sark straightened. "Nothing happened." He took a pill out of his pocket. "Here, take this."

Sydney glanced at it, but, not being stupid, she didn't take it. "Why the hell should I take anything from you?"

"It'll wake you up," he said. "It's a bit of a painkiller that will make the hangover a lot better." She still hesitated to take it. "Trust me, it's perfectly safe."

"Trust you?" she snarled. "Why the bloody hell should I trust you? I don't even know why you're here!"

Sark chuckled. "You said 'bloody hell.' I can see my influence on you is paying off."

Sydney snatched the pill out of his hand and set it down on the table next to her, not showing any intent to take it. "Get out of here," she said, voice a bit softer. "If SD-6 doesn't know you're here, they won't want to find you here. Just…just get back as soon as you can."

Sark glanced at her one last time before leaving. "Be safe, Sydney," he said to her.

"I don't need you to tell me to be safe," she said, getting some of the old anger back in her.

Sark left before she could throw anything else at him, whether it be insults, pills, or other tangible objects. He smiled as he walked back to his room, realizing that she no longer corrected him on the proper use of her name.

At seven fifteen, he went back to her room. It wasn't that he didn't trust that she wouldn't be safe, but he couldn't get the feeling of apprehension out of his mind.

Just as he wanted to think, she was gone. Safe, he assumed. He checked to see if she had left anything behind that might be of use and silently thanked the poor service of the cleaning staff at this particular hotel and how they always put off cleaning until the last minute.

The only thing he found of any use to him was an empty pill wrapper on her nightstand, and he took it, smiling.

~*~*~

"Mr. Sark," said Sloane the next day as the former walked into the latter's office. "Welcome back. I trust everything went well?"

"Fine, just as planned," said Sark. "Agent Bristow showed no sign of being a double-agent or going against this agency."

Sloane frowned, as if he had wanted to hear something else. "You're sure everything was in order?"

"Yes, sir."

"And she had no idea that you were there?"

Sark swallowed. Lying had come easy to him, ever since he was five years old and had broken his mother's antique jewelry box. "No idea at all, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Sark," said Sloane. Sark turned to walk out of the room and onto other various things before Sloane stopped him. "I still can't help feeling that she's the mole."

Sark licked his lips subconsciously before turning back to Sloane. "That's perfectly normal in an agency as big as this, sir. You have to worry about your agents. If you don't, who will?"

Sloane nodded, although he still had a shadow of doubt hanging over his face and it didn't seem to have any intent of leaving for awhile.

"Thank you, Mr. Sark."

~*~*~

Chapter Two

"Sark was there?!"

If Sydney had a camera at that precise moment, she would've loved to save the image of Vaughn's expression at her mission on film.

"What the hell was Sark doing there?"

"I don't know," said Sydney, dangling her legs a couple of inches above the floor. "He said he was on vacation."

"What a load of bull," muttered Vaughn. "Look, I don't think I have to tell you what I think about him…"

"I know," said Sydney quickly. "You've mentioned it before."

"I just don't think that what he's doing is vacation crap," said Vaughn. "Watch your back, Sydney."

"That makes two of us that will be," she said, putting on her sweetest smile. She worked hard not to react at the smile that came over his face as he quickly looked down at the floor, embarrassed. "By the way," she said, leaning towards him a little, "I need some help."

"Sure, what?" Vaughn asked rather quickly.

"For my next mission I need to dress up for a formal dance thing," she said. "The jewelry that SD-6 gave me is fake, but it's obvious. I think if I'm actually going to get this information, I need to at least convince the guard that I have money. Do you think maybe the CIA can get me some real jewelry? I'd give it back after the mission, of course," she added.

"Yeah, of course," said Vaughn, making himself a note on his pad of paper.

"Thanks," said Sydney. "And if you can, get diamonds. They'll match my dress."

"Diamonds…" said Vaughn as he wrote it down. "I'm sure you'll look really pretty," he said, smiling, and Sydney wondered how nobody in the CIA could see the red that just crept up on his cheeks.

"Thank you," said Sydney, jumping off the desk and walking out of the safehouse.

She loved diamonds. Always had, probably always will. But it wasn't for the beauty of them; no, if she wanted beauty, she would have to choose rubies. It was to hide another little gadget that she was bringing, and diamonds helped out with it the best.

She pulled the gadget out of her pocket, an item no wider than a pen cap. It was a voice recognition system, and the most minute one ever created for that matter. For the past three days, Sydney had worn it whenever she was around Sark. She didn't want to run into him again.

She sighed and put the tiny device back in her pocket. She was going on another mission the next morning and needed her rest. She headed home, all the while realizing that very soon she would be on a plane again. She hated planes. It seemed kind of odd for a spy to be prone to get airsick, but she had filled her body with so many drugs to quell the churning of her stomach during turbulence that it was a wonder that she wasn't dead from an overdose yet.

But pills or no pills, she still hated planes. Always had, probably always would.

~*~*~

Sark clutched the armrests to his seat early the next morning. He was flying to Australia to follow Sydney around on her next mission. Arvin Sloane's words kept on echoing in his head: Make sure she doesn't see you. No contact whatsoever. He had already broken his trust and was only part of the agency for a short while.

He kicked himself internally for forgetting to take his pills to help with airsickness that morning. He prayed that he wouldn't make a scene in front of this bunch of people. He was seated next to very stressed-out woman whom he didn't want to talk to for fear of getting yelled at, and an overweight man who was taking up more than his fair share of the armrest, not to mention Sark's own seat.

Sark hated flying.

The plane didn't land fast enough. He quickly got off and with what dignity of a spy he had left, he walked to the nearest bathroom and threw up.

Damn airplanes. He would've much preferred to drive to the harbor and then take a boat to Australia, but that would've taken much too long. The whole point of spying on someone is to follow them everywhere, and to do that, he needed to get there before her. He hoped that she wouldn't get drunk again, as he might have to carry her off. He didn't have to go in how incredibly unprofessional it was of her to do that, drinking on the job. Everyone knows that, or should know that.

Although with Sydney, there was some kind of exception, like she was so good that she could get drunk and still kick the fuck out of anyone who looks at her the wrong way. Sark admired, yes, admired, that about her. But he didn't know whatever that particular sleazy bartender had put in her drink and decided, as he quickly took a drink of water, that he shouldn't judge her unless he knew the circumstances.

He walked out of the bathroom, feeling only a little better. He wanted nothing more than to just get this mission over with and wished Sloane would stop having her followed and accept Sark's reports that she wasn't a double agent. It would make everyone's life, most of all Sark's, a lot easier.

He knew the truth, of course. He knew she was working against SD-6 with the CIA. He had done some personal spying of his own on her and had seen her meet a certain man on many an occasion. When Sark had looked him up, it revealed to him that she was indeed the mole that Sloane had been losing so much sleep over.

It meant little to him whether or not she was loyal to SD-6. To have him talk about loyalty…It would be highly hypocritical of him to say anything about loyalty to a certain agency. No, Sark had never been faithful to anything, and not just in the spy world. He had never been married, never respected his parents, never followed any particular religion. He rather liked the way he led his life and didn't care in the slightest that he never depended on anyone or anything for his successes and failures. It had kept him alive this long, and he knew it would hold him through for the rest of his life.

He walked to his hotel that he would be staying at, enjoying the brisk air. It helped to clear his thoughts of the upcoming operation and also helped to allay his still slightly rumbling stomach. He liked this weather considerably; he was able to feel a little chill underneath his sweater, jeans, and light jacket. He took the advantage whenever he could of wearing the comfortable pants, as he obviously couldn't wear them to Credit Dauphine.

He entered the hotel quickly, not looking around and making his way to his hotel room as soon as possible. He couldn't risk the possibility of her seeing him again; she was a smart spy, she would know something was going on. Perhaps she would even report him to Sloane. No, Sark reasoned, she wouldn't do that. She may hate both of them to the very core of their existence, but she wasn't a tattletale. Sark was thankful for that, as it made his job so much easier.

He prepared for dinner, changing his hair from the almost white color it was on his flight to a light sienna. He always hated dying his hair; he had never been exceptionally talented in that area. He dressed up in his tuxedo and checked himself in the mirror before he set out. He nodded, approving of his image, and wishing he didn't have to dye his hair, as he didn't like how he looked in this hair color, although, in truth, it wasn't that bad.

Sark hated formal dinners. Everyone was too uptight and serious. Not to mention the fact that he detested caviar.

He adjusted his tie that was almost choking him before entering the banquet hall. A swift look around the room told him that she wasn't there yet. He joined a couple chatting over by the punch bowl, all the while being on the lookout for her.

His attention was rapidly diverted by the couple he was talking to, who began interrogating him with questions about some sort of arthritis medicine and how it was supposedly safe for humans because of animal testing. After Sark gave his position on it ("I do hope that technology will soon bring us other more effective ways to test medicines"), he scanned the room again.

And there she was, at the bar again. Sark flinched slightly as he remembered his last encounter with her drunk. She turned on the chair, and he had to swallow hard. She was beautiful; no, she was always beautiful, but this time she was stunning. She had kept her hair the same color, he had noticed, and she was a wearing a long blue dress that sparkled in the light even more so than her glass of champagne she was carrying.

He had to force himself to go back to the conversation and giving out certain opinions at the correct times, all the while thinking of nothing but her. He unconsciously shook his head to try to get all the thoughts of her out; but no, they had other plans, and they swam around in his mind until they intoxicated him so much that he had to excuse himself to go to the bathroom.

He rushed over to the sinks as fast as he could and splashed the freezing water on his face. He wiped off the excess liquid with a maroon towel he had found located next to the sink and looked at himself in the mirror again. He was acting crazy. On all the other missions he had been on, he managed to keep his emotions in check and not go off in a flip whenever he had seen a pretty girl. In fact, he managed not to have any emotions on any mission, and yet, here he was, attempting but failing to wipe away all memories of her.

He needed to see her again, possibly up close. Then, of course, the number one rule of being a spy rushed back at him: Make yourself seen as little as possible. Even Sloane told him that before every assignment, and Sark had little doubt in his mind (which was still filled with thoughts of her) that every agent knew that, especially when you're spying on someone who has full knowledge of all the tricks in the business.

But he had to see her. He couldn't explain it, but a sudden rush of needing to be near her overcame him and he needed to fulfill that desire as soon as he could.

He walked out of the bathroom with as much dignity as was possible in his position. He spotted her fairly quickly in the crowd. She was talking with a man that Sark recognized as the man that Sloane simply called Jones. He studied her from a distance, waiting until she had accomplished her part of the mission, which was to get a copy of his card to his hotel room. She would later use it to break in, Sark remembered, but for now, she would just have to wait.

The man smiled as he left her, and she almost left before Sark caught up to her. "You look beautiful tonight, miss," he said, making her whirl around. She had a smile on her face, expecting a lonely innocent individual.

Her smile quickly disappeared and turned into an expression mixed with anger, puzzlement, and a little bit of relief mixed in. "Thank you," she forced out of her mouth. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to."

She turned to go up the stairs again, silently cursing at herself for forgetting the voice recognition gadget at her house. He gently touched her arm. "Sydney," he said, hoping she wouldn't admonish him for using only her first name. She didn't. "Please, Sydney, just one dance?" he asked, extending his arm to her.

She glared at him. "Why do you keep following me?" she hissed at him. All relief was gone from her face, he noticed. He had also observed that her eyes were brown, a beautiful color that contemplated her hair perfectly.

"One dance," he repeated. She didn't know why at the time, but she hesitantly accepted his arm and let him lead her out to the dance floor. Her black high-heeled shoes made a faint clicking sound as they danced to a slow waltz. It was rather pretty, Sark noted, and if he had spent as much time studying classical music as he had three years ago, he could tell you who composed it. But for now, he was content just to be dancing with her.

"Why are you here, Sark?" Sydney asked softly. All the anger had left her face, and Sark welcomed the change.

"Why are you still here, Sydney?" he asked her in reply. And it's one-two-three one-two-three…

"What do you mean?" One-two-three…

"I mean at SD-6," he said, twirling her around. "I know you and your father's secret. Why are you still at SD-6 if you could just work for the CIA? I mean, let's look at it logically," he said hastily as her expression showed shock and worry. "Your life wouldn't forever be in danger if you just left SD-6, it would be so much easier."

One-two-three…"You don't just leave SD-6," Sydney said, sighing. "Believe me, I've tried. You can't just…go up to Arvin Sloane and say 'Hey, by the way, I'm quitting your agency, but I promise I won't tell anyone about it.'" She tightened her grip on him.

There was silence for a moment, which Sark soon broke with his own comments. "I've noticed something about you just now," he said, a grin creeping up on his face.

"And what's that?" Sydney asked, eyes narrowing a little, wanting to hear what his analysis was on her.

"You trust me," Sark said. "First, you didn't mind that I called you Sydney. Then you didn't accuse me and think that I was going to turn you in to Arvin Sloane."

Sydney had nothing to say to this, and they stared into each others eyes for the remainder of the song. At the last note, they both quickly put their hands down to their sides, as if it was a very awkward high school dance. At last, Sydney took his arm and whispered in his ear, "Let's go find somewhere to talk."

He found himself in her hotel room in fifteen minutes, tie and jacket abandoned, comfortably sitting on the flimsy couch drinking cheap champagne, nothing like what was being given out downstairs. They were laughing at something or other.

Sydney looked at him after she had told a particularly funny story. She realized that it was the first time she had ever seen him laugh. In fact, he seemed almost…human. But it couldn't be. This was Sark. Sark, not Danny. Not Vaughn. Sark.

"What's your first name?" she asked him suddenly.

He looked back at her, the trace of a smile still on his lips. He took another drink of champagne before answering. "Daniel," he said. "Daniel Sark."

Sydney's heart plummeted into her stomach. Danny…"How come you've never told me that before?"

"You never asked." He poured each of them another drink.

They had spent the next three hours just talking, sometimes about life, sometimes about nothing in particular, but just enjoying each other's company, which both of them had to admit was strange. At the conclusion of their evening, Sark got up and was about to leave; he was right at the door when Sydney decided to ask him.

"Why don't you ever let anyone get close to you?"

She had almost regretted asking as he leaned his head on the door, back to her. She was about to apologize when he turned back around and faced her, all the laughter from the past night vanished.

She could guess what had happened to him. After all, it had happened to her on so many occasions: Noah, Sloane, her mother and father…"Someone's hurt you before," she said slowly.

He nodded, swallowing. He hadn't said her name for over five years, and yet, every time it resurfaced, all those feelings and emotions that had been bottled up inside burst through his heart like an electrical shock. "Her name was Margaret," he said, sitting back down, not being able to stand. "Everyone called her that. Everyone but me. I was the only one who was allowed to call her Maggie." He leaned back and took a deep breath. "She…she lied to me. She told me that she had loved me…so much…" He buried his face in his hands and Sydney tentatively went over and sat next to him. "She killed my parents," he finished, voice muffled from murmuring in his hands. "I hate her."

Sydney put a hand on his back, and he sank into her lap reluctantly. He had never accepted comfort from anyone before, not since…her. But he felt so safe and protected…she couldn't hurt him now, not anymore, not that he was with Sydney in this particular moment in time.

He sat up and looked into Sydney's eyes, who stared right back at him. Without even stopping to think or talk about it, they both leaned forward and shared in a passionate kiss.

Sark let himself enjoy the softness of her skin against his for only a few cherished moments, then quickly pulled away and stood up, leaving Sydney on the sofa, looking dazed and confused.

"We can't do this, Sydney," he said, getting his jacket and tie and preparing to leave. "You and I both know we can never do this."

Sydney got up and beat him to the doorway. She was the only thing between Sark and the logical journey, the journey he knew he should take. She then asked the question that would seal both of their fates:

"Are you in love with me, Daniel Sark?"

Tell her, tell her, you need to tell her, she's not Maggie, she won't turn out anything like her, you need this so much, it's been too long…

"No," he said, ignoring all the signals his heart was trying to send to him. He looked down at his now somewhat scuffed shoes. Don't lie, you need her, you need her so badly…

"You're not a very good liar, Agent Sark," Sydney said before leaning in and giving him another kiss, more deep and passionate than it had ever been with Maggie, more intense, more…real.

Of course, he thought before being dragged to the bed in her room, Sydney was right about his ability to lie. His mother had found out he broke her jewelry box, and he had not been able to lie ever since.

His mind had left him long ago, but at this second, a Latin phrase recalled in his memory: Alea Iacta Est.

The point of no return.

And he had never been happier.

~*~*~

Chapter Three

They had vowed to keep it a secret between them; too many people would tear them apart. Will, for starters; Sydney had regretted him finding out about all of this, for her telling him all about her job, for everything, fuck it all.

And Sloane. Mr. Arvin Sloane would certainly suspect Sydney was the mole and Sark was just trying to cover her because he loved her.

He loved her. He loved her. He had swore that he would never say those words again after Maggie, and yet, here he was, a mere six years later, professing his love for the enemy. The so-called enemy, he corrected himself. She was no longer the enemy, she was now the ally in his quest.

And she trusted him. In this world, nobody trusted anybody. The fact that she put enough faith in him and she believed that he wouldn't tell Sloane the secret that would most predictably get her killed. He, of course, wouldn't inform Sloane about her wavering loyalties; but he felt an overwhelming amount of devotion from her at the trust she had with him and her secrets.

And yet, there were so many people that didn't approve. So many people that if Sydney and Sark had tried to explain to them all of this to them, they would only see two enemies together. They would never see, Sark thought, fury penetrating the words of his thoughts. He hated all of them, and he would run away with her, from all of this, if not for the fact that the people they would be running from were so powerful, so damn powerful.

And that was when he had no doubt in his mind that he was in love with this girl and that he would never love anyone like her again.

And he tried to forget the fact that he had said that same thing six years ago.

~*~*~

They had succeeded in keeping it in the dark for a long time, perhaps longer than any spy had kept it a secret. Sark hated it, he hated it so much, but he always agreed when Sydney would whisper in his ear after every meeting, "It's the only way, Daniel. It's the only way."

But if only there was some other way…

And, as all stories do, this story has to have an ending.

The beginning of the end was at an impromptu Christmas party inside Credit Dauphine. There was a bar set up and, as usual, Sark and Sydney headed there first. They had rather enjoyed drinking from their two encounters, and it gave them the opportunity to talk with only the hired bartender listening, who didn't get the differences between them and would think that they were simply two co-workers having a relationship, which he certainly wouldn't condemn.

Sloane noticed the two over there, and he stuck an empty glass with a spoon. Everyone turned away from their merry conversations and listened to their allegedly benevolent leader. He said, in a clear voice, cleverly hiding the fact that he had had a lot to drink, "Mr. Sark."

Sark looked up from his conversation with Sydney fearfully. If he had found out…and said it in front of everyone, even Jack…

Sloane raised his previously drained glass to him. "A toast from our newest alliance, please."

Sark timidly stood up amidst scattered applause, as not everyone had the same kind of belief in him as Sydney. Sark thought for a moment, then raised his glass and simply said, "To life's vagaries."

"To life's vagaries," said the crowd, and took a sip of their various beloved beverages. They went back to their conversations as Sark sat down. Sydney smiled at him, remembering their alarming meet in Ireland and how he had said the same thing to her. There he went again, she thought, telling her his plan and her not seeing it.

Sloane saw this whole exchange and felt suspicious. Of course, he reasoned, it might just be a getting to know each other meeting. They hadn't been talking lately…

…in front of him, he realized. They couldn't…they wouldn't…not here, not in the broad daylight…

He wouldn't…

She wouldn't…

It would be impossible…almost impossible…

"Hey, a bunch of us are making bets on how many people will go in Marshall's chair," said a relatively new employee. Sloane snapped out of his thoughts to look at him. When he looked back at the bar, Sark and Sydney were talking with two other people.

Sloane shook his head; he couldn't be thinking straight, what with his wife on his mind all the time, it seemed. He couldn't go jumping to accusations that…that serious without first gathering the evidence, reexamining it over, and drawing conclusions from the…

And there he went again, letting his professional mind get in the way of a possible personal affair. He had let it happen once with Emily, and he wouldn't have it happen again.

"Sir?" the employee queried. Sloane turned and glared at him. Couldn't he see it?! Hell, it was right in front of him, and he didn't even give a shit! There, over there! his mind directed the young employee, who was starting to back up at Sloane's frenzied stare. Can't you see it?!

He began to wonder if he was the only one who saw it as his employee backed away back to the gambling amidst Marshall's high-pitched shouts of laughter, and Sloane was too preoccupied to speculate whether it was the aftereffects of too much to drink or if he was just being…Marshall.

Sloane slipped out of the party, not at all in Christmas spirits. His mind was racing around in at least a million different directions, wondering if. If they could possibly be having…relations. If he could…if he could love her. Or, and this one was the tricky one, if she could love him back.

He ran outside, breathing in the fresh air as fast as his lungs would allow. It wouldn't come fast enough to him, and it seemed that even breathing seemed to be a difficult task that required a great deal of concentration and focus.

Breathe in…

Sark and Sydney. Mr. Sark and Miss Bristow.

And exhale…

Sworn enemies. They couldn't possibly…

Breathe in…

And he had smiled at her. Smiled, dammit! he thought, still struggling to keep his breathing and his thoughts straight.

And exhale…

The way he looked at her, it was just like…

Breathe in…

…Emily.

Exhale deeply.

He gasped for air. He would be all right, he knew it that moment. The breathing was coming easier to him. But them…

He quickly pulled out his wallet. There was a secret compartment in the back of the old and faded brown leather. It was a compartment that spies could keep their gadgets or other tools, but Sloane had never bothered to use it for that. He had kept an old picture in there, and he pulled it out.

It was of a little girl, sitting on the knee of her mother, smiling happily, not a care in the world. The mother's husband was standing behind them, also smiling for one of the few times in his life. The woman…the woman was distinctive. Not in looks or attractiveness, although she was beautiful. However, that wasn't the point. She had an expression on her face that clearly stated, "I don't belong here." Sloane wondered why he had never seen it before whenever he had slowly traced the lines of the photograph in the past. But now, now it was almost striking.

He had loved her. Loved her so much. She swore she had loved him, too. Swore to him. Didn't even have an abortion when she was found pregnant, even though her husband was not the father. Of course, she didn't tell Sloane this; he could figure it out for himself. It was definite, the eyes, the chin…He didn't need any DNA test to say the real name of the father. Just let the husband figure it out eventually.

Sloane nearly collapsed with mental exhaustion against the stone wall. He dropped the photograph on the ground, his cold hands no longer able to grip the picture properly. It fluttered down to the ground slowly and landed face-down on the wet pavement. Sloane grabbed it before the snow could smear any of the ink, but not before reading the words that had been carefully written there more than twenty years ago:

To Arvin,

Thought you might want a picture of your daughter. If she knew you, I'm sure Sydney would love you the same that she loves Jack, if not more.

Much love,

Laura

She was his daughter. His daughter, and nobody knew it except for two people, and one of them was considered a criminal. And the other one, he swore to himself, would never tell.

She was his daughter; yes, he knew this quite well. He saw how her and Sark were looking at each other, and he knew now why his suspicions had always come up negative.

Sark loved her; Sark loved Sloane's daughter enough to lie to him and cover up her affiliation with other agencies, and he loved her.

It would be easy to confirm, he thought. All he would have to do was use a truth serum on Sark, and…

…and that would do just fine, he finished.

Sloane punched the wall, not noticing the stinging pain and blood that his hand now brought over the emotional pain he was feeling himself.

~*~*~

"I have to see Sloane today," said Sark to Sydney a couple days later. They were both at Sydney's house, which Sydney had first made sure Will and Francie were cleared out. Sydney could probably make up some story if Francie had found them, but Will…he would just freak out.

"What for?" Sydney asked.

"I don't know," said Sark, putting his arms around her as she made coffee. "He didn't say. Although it can't be too important, I don't have a tracker on me." Sydney sighed and handed him a cup of coffee. "This wouldn't happen to be spiked, would it?"

"No, I wish," said Sydney, smiling. "It's probably nothing, though," she said, turning serious.

Sark smiled, and leaned down and gave her a passionate kiss. She sank in it, allowing him to make her let go of her concerns for a moment. She knew at that moment that she truly was in love. Anything that she had felt for Danny or Vaughn in the past…it was nothing compared to this. This can't be wrong now…

An hour later, Sark was in Sloane's office, dressed in his usual suit and tie. He felt anxious as soon as he entered the room. Something was wrong, and he knew it.

"Ah, Mr. Sark," said Sloane, actually smiling. "Please, follow me."

Sark looked at him apprehensively. "Where are we going?" he asked him warily.

"You'll see," said Sloane. Sark was no fool; being an agent for as long as you could remember made you see past the fake smile, and he saw malevolence in Sloane.

However, he could do nothing about it, seeing that he had no weapons on him and would be pulled out by security section before he could do anything about it even if he did have protection. "All right," he reluctantly agreed.

Sloane pushed a button on his desk, and a hidden door on the side of his room that Sark had never bothered to notice before opened. There was a tall man at the entrance.

And there was no way out for him…

"After you," said Sloane venomously.

He couldn't refuse, as maybe there would be some way out of it. All he could do would be to put on his best face and pretend like he had nothing going on inside his mind.

But he thought of her, and prayed that she would get out quickly enough. He hadn't prayed since he was only four years old. After that, his father had taught him that religion wasn't for spies. It wasn't for the tough. It was for those who needed to get help out of situations because they couldn't get out of them themselves.

In this instant, Sark chose not to learn his father's teachings. It could be the death of her.

He could do nothing, as he said before, but walk the path down to "the pit," as he had called it in his short time there. He was immediately strapped to a chair upon arriving the main room of the pit by a man Sark had never seen before, much less bothered to learn his name.

He was injected with a clear fluid, and he closed his eyes in silent pain as he recognized the substance.

"Truth serum," he muttered under his breath. "What do you want from me now, Sloane?" More Rambaldi information? Because, as I have stated many times, I don't know anything else." He cursed himself silently for not seeing this coming. He should've taken the necessary precautions. The…the anti-truth serum formula…whatever that was…

His mind was cleared. He would feel no emotion, as was the truth serum's job. All he knew was the truth.

You want the truth? he asked Sloane furiously in his mind. I love her, that's the truth. And you will never get her. Not ever.

"What is your name?" Sloane asked.

Every word was a difficulty. In the back of his mind, Sark knew that he shouldn't, couldn't tell him, and yet there was nothing he could do to help it. Helplessness was the worst feeling in the world, he decided.

"Daniel Terrence Sark," he said, gritting his teeth.

"What is your agency?"

"SD-6." Don't do it, lie, don't tell the truth…you once said it got you nowhere…follow that voice…

"What is your relationship with Sydney Bristow?"

Sark's eyes flew open. No. This was about Sydney. His Sydney. They…they found out. How could they have? They weren't careful enough…

Don't answer, don't answer, his mind repeated over and over. You'll kill her if you do…

"I love her," he said, the words flying out of his mouth, not any by his own accord. "I love her more than you'll ever know, you bastard son-of-a-bitch."

Both Sloane and the interrogator looked unfazed. "What, are you used to being insulted like this, Arvin?" Sark asked, looking quite maniacal. "Does nobody love you? Even your own fucking wife faked her own death to get away from you…"

In one swift movement, Sloane was there, towering above Sark, infuriated. "Shut up!" he yelled. He and the interrogator had agreed that he would stay out of the picture until the final task, but Sark had gone too far. "You shut up about her, or I swear, I'll…"

"Kill me?" Sark began laughing, and a crazed laughter filled the bleak room. "Is Arvin Sloane going to kill me? Who the hell names their kid Arvin, anyway? Did you annoy the fuck out of your parents too, Arvin? Arvin, Arvin, Arvin…"

"What agency does Sydney Bristow belong to?!" Sloane yelled in Sark's ear. He only flinched.

"Oh, I can't tell you that," said Sark, laughing even more. The hairs on the back of Sloane's neck rose. He was…Sark was just…it made Sloane feel like he was in a psychiatric hospital, the laughter, it filled his ears, and…

Sark's mind was being shredded apart. If he didn't answer the question, he felt like he would burst into a million pieces. But that voice in the back of his mind kept on saying, Don't tell, don't tell…please, don't tell…

"Sydney Bristow is working as a double-agent with the CIA against SD-6," he said, then he closed his eyes.

He had decided on something. Helplessness was no longer the worst feeling in the world. No, that position was held by betrayal.

I'm so sorry…

"Very well," said Sloane, moving back and taking out his gun. "You've served your purpose. I'm not even going to kill you by some lethal injection. You are going to die by my own bullet."

Sark started laughing again. "Any last words?" Sloane asked him maliciously.

"Actually, yes," said Sark, getting a hold of his laughter for a moment. "I know she's your daughter."

Sloane looked at him fearfully. "Oh, yes, Irina's told me many times," Sark continued, knowing that Sloane was breaking down. "And I know the reason why you're hesitating to pull the trigger on that gun is because you know that if you shoot me, Sydney will never forgive you." Sloane started shaking, and Sark noticed. "Have your daughter hate you then, and shoot me."

Your finger is on the trigger, just do it, do it…

But he couldn't.

"Shoot me, come on, Arvin!" said Sark with an amazing sense of delight. "Come on, Arvin, Arvin, Arvin with his wife running away from him, and his daughter not even loving him, loving his worst enemy more than she could ever love him, come on, Arvin, shoot the fucking gun! She'll never love you anyway, why not just end my pathetic life? Come on, Arvin, it's my fault she doesn't love you, it's all my…"

The crack of the gun silenced the laughter in the room as it came in contact with the middle of Sark's cheek where a tear was falling. A tear for Sydney. One more shot, and Mr. Daniel Sark was no more.

~*~*~

Jack had told her. He didn't know about them. He pushed it aside as a profit for them both.

"Sark's dead, Sydney."

"What are you talking about?"

She took the day off of work. She blamed it on a headache, only because she doubted Sloane would take heartache as an excuse.

"Exterminated by Sloane. We were right. He was going against us."

I don't want to be right anymore…

She knew the real reason why he died, and it was her fault. It was always her fault. She killed Danny, she almost killed Vaughn, and now she killed her one true love…

"Sydney, are you all right?"

"I'm fine…I'll be fine…"

…and now she was killing herself.

It had all started by just breaking the mirror. She refused to look at herself. He had died because of her.

He had lived because of you, Sydney, the voice in the back of her head said.

And she had took that life away with just one kiss. One kiss, and her being stupid and believing that they would actually make it through.

The shards of glass on the floor looked so…so right. So fucking right. She had just wanted to make a scar, a permanent reminder of what she was. A murderer. She was no better than Arvin Sloane.

But no, she kept on slicing and slicing through the skin, every tear reminding her of something she hated. Death (tear) unfairness (tear) Sloane (tear tear tear).

She was fascinated by the blood. It trickled down her arm in a steady current. It was so beautiful, and seeing it stain the mirror…so beautiful.

"I'm sorry I killed you," she whispered in her own darkness. "I had loved you. You loved me enough to die for me. I'm so sorry."

Rubies, she suddenly thought. Rubies were the same color as blood. She loved rubies. And roses. Sark had given her a rose with thorns a week after they had kissed. She took the piece of the mirror and made a crude writing of his name in her arm. She loved him, and rubies and roses, but mostly him. She had to be with him this minute. She had to, otherwise she would die, she thought ironically.

The room around her started to fade. She knew death was coming, and she smiled. What would people say? Vaughn would probably miss her, she knew. And her dad. And Will and Francie and Dixon and Marshall…

But she didn't give a fuck. No. She wanted Daniel. Not Danny, Daniel. He loved her more then Danny ever could. She needed him near her right now, right this second…

The room was now almost completely white. Sydney's smile grew. It was over. It was all over.

To life's vagaries indeed, Mr. Sark.

FIN

Go Home
Go To Fanfiction
Go To Alias