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Title: There Is But Fire |
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Part 2 |
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Faber allows her to explain this much, taking in her disheveled appearance and tossing more than one curious glance at Sark. "Why didn't you call me sooner?" he asks, a valid question indeed. "Your flight landed two hours ago." Sydney knows her answer, but it's not one she's about to give. She's taken in Faber's cool appearance and disinterest and known immediately that it was he who sent someone to follow her. What she's still trying to figure out is why. What does he suspect? She blinks, takes in a breath. "Evan was the first person I could think of," she tells him, and it's not an altogether dishonest answer. She takes care to speak of him by his first name, "I knew he was in town and that he might be close enough to help." Another breath in, as she glances at her latest, unpredictable ally. Faber turns to Sark, as if waiting for further explanation. It's as though he's waiting for his suspicion to come to rest on one of them, but it isn't working. Sark gives a simple shrug and answers briefly. "It's as she says. I don't know who was following her, but they were making a very thorough pursuit. If I hadn't been able to intervene, I'm not sure Karen would have made it." Just then Sark glances back at Sydney, and all she wants to do is close the short distance that separates them. But instead she merely nods, confirming what he has just told their employer, and they both turn back towards Faber. He stares back at both of them coldly, accusingly. He pushes back from his desk and stands, walking around his desk to face them more closely. "A few weeks ago, my security team began noticing some minor breaches in our system, particularly the American locations," he tells them. "Nothing major, at least not yet. For a while, they assumed it was a simple matter of increasing communications firewalls, preventing hackers, this sort of thing." He scratches at his chin, folds his arms. "And then, about a week ago they noticed similar activity, only this time it wasn't just in the American sites, there were problems with our European network as well." Sydney's stomach turns to ice as she listens. There's no doubt now, he suspects her as a source of the security leak. And with good reason. The timeline he's describing matches perfectly with the anticipated surveillance plan the CIA was intending to initiate. Clearly, Faber's network is much harder to breach than they suspected. "So naturally, I have to assume that someone has broken into my system. At first," Faber continues, "I didn't want to suspect either of you. You've been more committed to your positions than anyone else who's ever worked for me. Nonetheless, for the past week I've taken it upon myself to request surveillance of both of your communications. After all, you two are the ones who have the most intimate knowledge of my operations. I had hoped my suspicions would be proved wrong, but unfortunately that wasn't the case." He turns to look directly at Sydney. "Two hours ago, as you were returning from Prague, the security team picked up an unidentified cell phone signal, directed to you." She looks back at Faber in surprise, remembering the missed call she received as the flight landed. At the time she hadn't been able to answer the phone, and she had not planned to respond until after she returned to Berlin. As it was, she wouldn't have responded directly to an unknown caller, anyhow - it was most likely that the caller was her father, or someone else from the CIA, and part of her mission protocol was to dial in to her handler exactly five hours after receiving such a call. "I never received that call," she says honestly, trying to inflect her voice with as much honest uncertainty as possible. "I haven't made any phone calls since--" "I don't care if you answered your phone this morning or not, Karen sweetheart, but someone rang you and whoever it was used an untraceable signal!" Faber's right in front of her, his hands gesturing as he speaks. He's angry, now under the assumption that he's been betrayed. "I know what an untraceable signal means, it means secrecy, and in my business employees don't keep secrets from me," he tells her, his voice quieter and harder than before. Sydney lets the words tumble out of her mouth before she can truly think them through. "I know I can be a little stubborn," she tells Faber, "but I am not disloyal." The words are the truth, it's just that the target of her loyalty isn't anyone here in this room. "I wouldn't devote a year and a half to you just to screw it up like that," she says with a shake of her head. Her chin rises a little farther. "And, to be honest, I thought you trusted me more than this." "Karen, right now I'm not very willing to trust anyone who's secretly taking private calls with God-knows-who--" "You're right," Sark interrupts suddenly, drawing both Faber's and Sydney's attention. "That phone call was meant to be private. The call was from me," he tells Faber. Faber looks in disbelief from Sark to Sydney and back to Sark again. Sydney closes her eyes briefly, as if disappointed that Sark has said too much. In truth, she's relieved at his interjection - and, as she begins to follow his logic, surprised that she didn't think of it herself. She knows well enough that Sark didn't phone her two hours ago, but it's a story that she's very willing to go along with right now if it means she'll be able to walk out of Faber's office. "You're the one who's been phoning her? On secured lines?" Faber asks, in slight disbelief. Still, Sydney can tell the difference in his demeanor almost right away. She knows this is something they can make him believe. What she doesn't know is why Sark would interject so easily for her. Sark nods. "I often take such precautions when making...personal calls," he adds, which is all that he needs to do to achieve the desired effect. Faber's eyebrows lift in surprise. "A personal call, you say?" He glances again between the two of them. "Am I to understand that the two of you..." His sentence trails off, but the implication hangs in the air just as clearly as if he had made it explicit. Sydney runs a shaky hand through her hair and does her best to flush in embarrassment, as if an affair has just been discovered. It's not an entirely difficult act for her to pull off - all she needs to do is think back to a short while ago, when she and Sark tangled themselves inexplicably around each other. She lets both hands come to rest in her pockets. Sark lets his own words answer for her. "I don't think either of us wanted it to come out this way, but nevertheless...yes. We had hoped to keep the relationship private," he tells Faber. "I'm sure you know how... precarious personal attachment can be in our line of work." He takes a step forward, placing himself just in between Faber and Sydney. Faber looks back at the two of them slowly, nodding as he takes in 'Karen's' pink cheeks and 'Evan's' protective stance. "Certainly, I realize that," he says, stepping back and leaning against his desk. He folds his arms again, a gradual smirk moving across his face. "I have to say, I'm a little surprised," he tells them, catching Sydney's eye a little longer than before. "It's obvious that you both work well together, but I hadn't thought that you would actually..." He pauses, letting his glance drift for a moment. "Well, then. This all appears to have been a misunderstanding," he finishes, more calm now. "Clearly," Sark answers. Faber nods back, before walking around his desk to sit down once more. The room is quiet for a moment. It is Sydney who steps forward next, breaking the silence. "I can assure you that any...personal relationship will not influence the quality of our work here," she tells Faber. She can't bring herself to look at Sark right now, and the words sound foreign in her ears, as if someone else is saying them entirely. She can't believe she's come to this. "We wouldn't want to compromise that." Faber looks down, something resembling a smile on his face when he looks up at her again. "Karen, I can assure you that if the quality of your work declines, you'll be sure to hear about it from me." She nods slowly, her posture lifting slightly. Still, the message is clear. Just in case either of them was thinking about trying to subvert his operation, he'd find out about it. "Thank you," she says to Faber. After a glance at Sark, she tells them both, "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to go home and get some rest right now." She pushes away a loose strand of hair, and requires little effort to look tired and worn out. "Of course. Take a couple of days," Faber answers, and pauses before adding, "I'm sure there will be plenty for you to take care of when you come back." Sydney manages a brief smile, and is grateful. "I'm sure there will be." She turns to leave, and Sark follows right behind her. After a few steps Faber interrupts them. "I'm going to assume, then, that you won't need to rely on so many secured calls. I promise you I won't make things any more difficult for you provided the quality of your work is maintained," he tells them, his expression even, almost honest. Sark pauses next to her, and she knows she cannot remain silent at this. "Certainly. We understand." She hears her own answer and feels herself even managing a brief smile, before turning away again with Sark quick on her heels. Her eyes suddenly blink quickly, and the trembling she willed herself to avoid earlier starts to return. She's gotten to the elevator when he catches up with her completely, and they ride in tense silence down to the main level. This isn't happening, this can't be happening. Sydney tries to tell herself she didn't just put her safety in Sark's hands for the second time in two hours. She wants to tell herself she hasn't just given up all hope of maintaining a deep cover post in Faber's office, not when he'll be monitoring her calls and is already primed and ready to suspect her of something. She wishes she could tell herself that the CIA knew what they were doing when they put their surveillance plan into action prematurely. Her breath leaves her in a ragged sigh and she swallows, steadying herself for as long as it takes before she can leave. She feels like she'll suffocate if she doesn't get outside soon. His presence beside her isn't something she can ignore, but she can't bring herself to look at him. Her head is spinning, her thoughts trying hopelessly to organize themselves. Between the phone call, the chase, the kiss, and now Sark's rescue in front of Faber, she doesn't know what she should think or what she should do first. The elevator door opens and all she can do is stride forward, suddenly anxious to leave this building and drive away, to be anywhere but here. They're outside in front of the main steps before either one of them says anything, by which time Sydney already has her hand out to flag down a taxi. Fleetingly, it occurs to her that she'll have to find a way to get her car back from where she left it. But she'll make time for that later. "I can offer you a lift--" "Don't." She cuts him off, a little too abruptly and she knows it. She sees a cab a block away, waves her arm a bit more to draw the driver's attention. Traffic is picking up now, at the beginning of the day. "I appreciate what you've just done, I do, believe me, I just..." Her voice trails off as she notices the cab draw nearer. "I think we have more to talk about," he tells her, now standing as close to her as he was barely a minute ago in Faber's office. "And I think you know that," he adds. She meets his gaze for a moment, genuinely sympathetic towards him as she registers the mixture of concern and disappointment in his eyes. One thing Faber has just proved to her is that his surveillance is top of the line, and if the man in front of her was engaged in anything else covert, then he wouldn't be standing here with her right now. Sark could actually be who he seems, she thinks. The thought rattles her, and she's still trying to find a way to answer him when the taxi pulls up. Finally, she breaks his gaze, searching in her bag for her sunglasses. "I know," she admits to him then. "I know. But not now." She slips the dark glasses over her eyes, and moves towards the taxi's passenger door. Sark's with her at every pace, and he puts out a hand to grasp at her arm as she reaches for the handle. His grip is surprisingly gentle, but firm enough to make her pause in her actions. "Wait," he asks her, his tone reflecting the same strength and patience as his hands. She doesn't look up when she answers. "Not now, please. Just...Just give me some time." As she opens the door she slips away from his touch and into the taxi, leaving Sark to watch after her.
For the rest of the day she feels paralyzed, in a way she hasn't felt since that day with Faber after her first visit to Moscow. She's more terrified than she came close to letting on to either Sark or Faber, but still has to find a way to meet her father. Her beeper and cell phone will already need to be replaced, and she can't use them to contact him. But time is running out, and she needs to phone in, according to protocol. After two hours in her apartment, she emerges in a fresh change of clothing and walks a few blocks to buy a packet of cigarettes and a newspaper. Continuing on her way, she lights a cigarette and finishes it by the time she reaches the Prenzlauer Berg café she usually visits on Sundays. She doesn't rush, doesn't look around, simply does her best to go about her day. An hour passes and she's finished the paper cover to cover, and consumed three cups of coffee and an almond pastry. It's the caffeine she needs more than anything else, and she hopes the display of normalcy appeases whoever might be watching. She makes the trip back to her apartment even more leisurely than before, and resists the temptation to pull another cigarette from her purse. Instead she clutches the handbag under her arm and remains alert, breathing only a faint sigh of relief when she returns to her building. Once inside, she makes her way to the rear of the building and takes the stairs to the basement. There she finds a supply room and pulls a blonde wig and a black sweater from her bag. The sweater replaces the red one she wore before now, and the blonde wig falls in curls around her already pale cheeks. She trades her skirt for a pair of jeans and the look is complete, along with a pair of sunglasses. So disguised, she exits the building from the rear and walks through the small parking area and down a street in an opposite direction from the way she came. Five minutes later, after a circuit through several side streets and a few large buildings, she reaches a sheltered pay phone. With shaking hands she picks up the receiver, places the jamming transmitter inside the mouthpiece, and dials the number she memorized long ago. After entering two more series of passcodes, she finally hears his voice on the other end. "Dad?" "Sydney?"
They meet three hours later, at a different spot from any of the others before. She'd felt a need to get as far away from her apartment as was reasonable. So, she'd chosen the more private - if expensive - option of taking a taxi to drive her out past Biesdorf and Waldruh to the eastern outskirts of the city, stopping at a small Gaststube near the forest edge at Friedrichshagen. She pays the driver and tips him well enough to please him but also forget her after a few hours. Still hunched underneath her wig and a long coat over her jeans, she finds her father inside waiting for her. He's relieved to see her, and she's glad to see him. Still, any emotion between them has to be put on hold for the moment. They don't meet yet; instead she buys some crisps and cigarettes from the young man behind the counter and asks politely about the weather and the best sights around the edge of the lake. When she leaves she's walking in the direction of the forest. She's found the nearest hiking trail by the time her father catches up with her, and they're far enough inside the trees to relax and embrace one another. Every time she's met him she's been relieved, but never has her relief carried such an edge of tension as it does now. She wraps her arms around him and presses her head to his shoulder, and swallows back her anguish when she feels his arms enclose her right back. They part a minute later, as Sydney blinks back the emotion that threatens to well up, and Jack's hand gives her a reassuring squeeze. Jack knows why they're here, and so does she. He knows what almost happened to her today. And so he exhales a long breath, choosing his words carefully as he hands her a package. "Sydney, I'm sure you know this by now, but please - you need to exercise extreme caution, even more than before. We're issuing you new bugkillers for your apartment, they're a new two-way design that Marshall came up with. You can listen in as well as prevent signals. I also think it would be wise for you to review the security in your car-" "Dad, tell me what's going on," she tells him abruptly, taking the package from him. "Faber intercepted your call to me last night, he already suspects me of something. What do you know?" Another sigh. "From what we can tell, Faber's becoming extremely strict with his personnel lately. Have you noticed anything unusual in the Berlin office?" She shakes her head as she considers this, confused. "He changed assistants a month ago, but that wasn't a surprise since the previous one couldn't keep up with the computer records." She thinks some more. "I suppose he has been more selective with his assignments. For the past three weeks he's only sent out me or Sark on his behalf, no one else." He nods slowly. "As we thought. We've begun to suspect Faber's trust in both of you, that he might--" "Wait a minute," she interrupts. "You mean you've known something all along?" She's incredulous, and becoming furious at the implication that she might have been endangered needlessly. "You suspected something then? When the CIA tried to breach his communications?" His expression is hard, professional, but he has to recover himself a little as he registers her disappointment. She doesn't need any other answer from him, but he gives her one anyhow. "It was part of the reason we wanted to act so quickly," he tells her, his voice calm. "Part of the reason?" she clarifies needlessly. He doesn't answer her directly and she already knows the answer anyhow. She feels something start to unhinge inside of her, as if she's stepped off of too great a height and she can't tell if there's anything there for her to hang on to. When she exhales her breath is visible in clouds in the cool air, and there is silence around them. She steadies herself. "Dad, I've been here for nearly a year and a half, please tell me the CIA is going to be able to do something soon." Her tone is impatient, and understandably so. She hasn't seen Faber weaken in the slightest - at least as far as she can tell - and there is a limit to how much professional courtesy she can sustain towards him and the assignments he gives her. "Sydney, Sark's involvement has changed things in a way we couldn't have predicted, and Faber's network has grown-" "I thought that was something my job was supposed to help prevent," she interrupts in frustration. "It is, and it will, but if we move too quickly and too soon and miscalculate the move, then the risk could be too great." His tone is firm, professional, but measured enough to betray his caution. He wants her to escape from this life, that much is clear, but he also wants her to be able to walk away from it on her own terms. Or at least, that's what he used to think. He would never have wanted her to walk into a situation he knew she couldn't walk out of. Slowly, she shakes her head again. "Sark won't harm me," she said. "This morning, when I was in trouble, he could have reported something to Faber first, but he didn’t." Her voice is calm, convinced. "Not to you he didn't," her father clarified, "Or in front of you and Faber. But there's nothing to prove that's where it ended. He might have talked more with Faber afterwards, or even long before now. For all we know, he's the one who gave Faber the idea in the first place that there might be a mole in his operation." She turns away from Jack then, she can't seem to look at him and process all of this at the same time. Her head's shaking again before the words are out of her mouth. "No, I don't believe that. He wouldn't have done that, I would have noticed something..." Jack closes the few steps between them. "Sydney...If you're wrong, the costs could be irreversible," he reasons with her. Her gaze catches his again. She swallows as she meets his expression, and her hardened tone of voice seems almost distant to her as she responds. "Dad, you haven't been the one working in that office for the last year and a half. It's been me, not you. I've handled myself with Faber and I can certainly handle Sark, and I've been doing all of it just fine so far." "Sydney..." "No, wait." She's angry now. "I've followed every instruction, accepted every protocol and assignment no matter how trivial I thought it was or how little difference I thought it made. I gave up everything I had back home to be here, and now I find out it all comes down to a...a CIA miscalculation?" She shakes her head, her arms gesturing at her sides. "I can't accept that. I won't." "Sydney..." he starts, his hands still at his sides, "I don't need to remind you that you chose this assignment," he says with impossible patience. "No," she responds simply. "You don't." Jack exhales, swallows. She wonders if this meeting is going as he anticipated it would. "Will you consider an extraction?" he asks her, and she realizes then that, truthfully, she'd never even thought about it. "You could leave immediately, come with me now. You'd be back in L.A. by..." "You want me to abandon my assignment? Just like that?" "We may not have properly assessed the risk of this assignment," he reasons quickly, "I'll admit that, but while I would like there to be some success here, I'm also reluctant to jeopardize your safety any further." "No," is her answer again. "I won't leave. I can still do something, I won't let everything I've done go to waste." "Sydney," he starts again, harder and firmer than before, "I know this isn't an ideal situation, but we're left with very few options for the time being. Even if you were to stay here under Faber's employment, it could take weeks, months even, for us to formulate a comprehensive plan..." She brings a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply. His words reach her and she understands them and yet she doesn't hear them, not really. There's only one thing he can say to her now and she knows what it is, underneath all the protocol and patience and agonizing lengths of time... Now, more than ever, she realizes that if they are going to make a strike against Faber, it will have to be all or nothing. Any small moves will be noticed by him too quickly, and if the CIA isn't ready to move by now, she will have to continue to wait. They've been moving too confidently, always assuming that even small steps will always be steps forward. If she returns with her father now, within days she'll probably be sitting in a new apartment near the beach somewhere. She can guess what the CIA will do, and pictures herself spending her days 'recuperating' at a desk job and her nights doing who knows what. And with whom? She has no answer to that question. Her father's still talking, trying to explain things to her and perhaps even trying to apologize for what's happened. She turns back to face him in interruption. "Dad, I'm not leaving. I know there are probably a million reasons why I should, but I just can't. I've made it through so far and I can still make it. I'm not ready to leave yet." When she looks back at him now, suddenly he seems so much smaller. The arms that have held her so strongly so many times are now still, and his stern brow has become weakened by so many years in the same profession. The time has not yet come for her to retreat. He must have known this, guessed it at least - otherwise he would have asked her right away if she wanted to take the extraction. Sydney shakes her head again slowly, repeating her last words. "I'm not ready to leave yet." Only hours ago she was driving at breakneck speed through streets she's walked many times with her own two feet. She was terrified, afraid for what might happen and who she could trust, and yet now...it dawns on her how quickly that same fear has left her. As much as she feels resentment for her situation, or frustration over what could have or should have happened...she knows that she can find a way to move forward from this on her own terms. They remain on the silent path, facing each other for a long moment. Jack's gaze falls, as he finally accepts what she's told him. Slowly, he reaches one hand into his jacket pocket, retrieving a second, smaller envelope. He holds it out to her, waiting. She takes it from him, looking down at it in her hands. "There is a key there, and two sets of cards there. Memorize them. One holds the number and address for a safe deposit box, which we will use to transfer information. The other is a series of locations and their corresponding ID numbers. The next time you are to meet an Agent, your contact will specify which one." Sydney looks up at him quickly. He hasn't indicated whether that Agent will be him. His instructions are brief, emotionless, and the change in his approach from just a few moments ago is jarring. She blinks, and nods. "Thank you." When he answers her, his voice has lost the edge of determination it held before, and she aches inside to hear it. "Please, Sydney...Be careful." She responds kindly, as best she can. He nods back resolutely, and after a pause he turns away down the path back towards the town. Her gaze follows him until she can no longer see him.
The new package of cigarettes she's bought rests unopened on the edge of the sofa where she sits. She picks it up, letting the smooth plastic wrapper slide up and down between her fingers. Since meeting with her father she's been at loose ends, unable to find where her next move lies or what next step she's supposed to take. In the last few hours she's paced back and forth between the rooms of her small, second-floor apartment, poured herself a drink, tried to concentrate on something, anything. She stood under the shower until the hot water ran cold, and even then it took her a full minute to shut it off and step out to get dressed. In her head she's mapped out the last eighteen months of her life nearly a dozen times. As the scenes play out in her mind, it's not the early ones that rattle her the most - the first few months with Faber hold an almost nostalgic appeal to her now, as she looks back on their relative simplicity and organized caution. Even when Sark first appeared, it was a surprise but one that she could handle. Instead, it's all come down to the last few weeks, the moments that have handed her the boundaries to her isolation and the grey, hastily drawn map of her future. Countless times, she's asked herself how she could have underestimated this situation. She should have known better. Her father should have known better, and her superiors at the CIA most certainly should have. She's angry at them, and at her father for allowing her to face a situation he suspected was unpredictable. She takes her time alone to decide something for herself, to reconcile the fact that if she stays, it might be for much longer than she imagined. Sitting on her sofa she can look out from the window of her comfortable fourth-floor apartment, and watch the city's night life take shape. The lights become brighter and the shadows become longer, and even the darkened and faded limestone buildings she knows surround her will look that much more elegant, in the evening play of light and darkness. Her fingers slide down the package of cigarettes, letting it slip and fall only for her to catch it again and repeat the gesture. She hasn't asked the city to show her its scars, and she's done her part to conceal her own. But it's hard to keep them invisible forever. In another life, in another time, she could have lost herself in the loud music of a nightclub as easily as the sound of a friend's laughter. She might have done twenty laps at the track and two rounds with the punching bag. There would have been someone with waiting arms or a rational explanation, and she would have known that at least when she woke up the next day it would hold a sense of purpose. She tilts back her head to lean farther into the sofa, lowering a hand across her eyes as if the small gesture will shield her from something. The more she thinks about the events of the last 24 hours, the more she feels herself remembering that short time at dawn, in the alley. When she closes her eyes, she remembers his lips on hers, his hands on her body, and how it felt to simply kiss him back and think of nothing else. Inexplicably, he's given her an opportunity, opened a door for her that she never truly saw before. She doesn't know the reasons, but there is plenty of time to find out. Sydney opens her eyes again, sitting up straight. She's finished trying to decide anything.
"I would but find what's there to find, "It was the mask engaged your mind, ~v2, 'The Mask' * * * * * By the time she knocks on his door that evening, in her mind she's been through another spirited round with her father and another two or three with herself. With Sark...she's not sure yet. And with Faber, that's another situation entirely. She's weighed everything from accepting an early extraction to falsifying her death to simply not showing up for work the next time, and yet none of these options hold nearly as much interest for her as the one that involves going to see Sark. She needs to see him, to know what he knows. And why the hell not? she tells herself. Faber's supposed to think we're having an affair. Let him think that if he wants. It's these thoughts that accompany her as she stands in front of Sark's door. Only two knocks are necessary before she hears faint shuffling from inside the apartment, and the sound of footsteps moving towards the door. A silent few seconds pass as he stops to open the door, and then he's standing in front of her in the entrance. "Hello," he greets her, adding a barely necessary, "Come in," after a moment's pause. "Thank you," she answers. Wordlessly, he stands aside and lets her in, closing the door silently behind her. It's a stylishly furnished apartment, open and surprisingly elegant in its simplicity. A few steps inside and she looks out into an expansive living room that blends into a dining area and then again into a kitchen, this part divided from the rest by a low wall. The fireplace is dark, and briefly she wonders if he ever uses it. There are no extraordinary splashes of colour, no distinctive patterns or cluttered corners. A hallway leads off towards the right and she can see a faint beam of light resting in an open door several paces down. An office perhaps, or a bedroom. She turns back to Sark, who speaks again. "So you did come, after all." "You didn't believe me?" "I had my doubts." Sydney wonders how strong those doubts were, but nods slowly at this statement, accepting it. They're both still standing several feet apart, between the foyer and the living room of his apartment, and the faint sound of jazz music fills the space. Her expression falters along with her grip, and she lets her handbag slip to the floor next to her. They're well beyond formalities now. They could easily begin with a laundry list of how each has influenced the life of the other, tallying up the score of whose past has been more unfortunate, whose hurts have been deeper or more painful or more justified. But that would change nothing between them, and if she chooses to revisit the past she's not going to start by telling him things he already knows. She turns towards him again, lifting her gaze and steeling herself to ask what she's been wanting to ask since that day months ago when she walked into Faber's office and Sark greeted her with a kiss on her hand. "Why?" Her voice betrays her impatience, determination. Her fingers are shaking a little, and she can feel nervous energy beginning to radiate within her. For months she's played along and she refuses to do that any more. Not now, not after all that's happened; not after twice putting her life in the hands of the man in front of her. "Why here? Why Faber?" she clarifies this time, challenging his thoughtful silence. A deep sigh escapes him at her question, as though he has anticipated this all along. His shoulders rise and fall along with his breath, and his hands still rest in his pockets. "Profit," he answers calmly. "Privilege. Power. They're the only reasons I've ever needed, and Faber was available and wanted someone to work with him. I saw the chance and I took it." Sydney holds her eyes on him, shaking her head slightly. "I don't believe you." "Why not?" he challenges back. "Because I know you," she scoffs. "Or…At least I think I used to," she adds in added reaction. "And I know why you've done the things you've done before. You must have more of a reason than that," she counters, taking a step forward. She watches as her words register with Sark, and he lifts his hands from his pockets as he stiffens. He looks disappointed, almost angry as he matches her step and closes more of the distance between them. She knows she's pushing him and she's doing it on purpose. Trust is not something she gives away easily and she needs to see where his limits are. "Is it so hard to believe that I would search out Faber as a professional ally? Think about it, Sydney, I know you're smarter than this." She's taken aback at his sudden use of her name, a name that is foreign to her in this city - let alone the accusation. "All my life," he continues, "I have been trained to do just what I am doing now. In case you haven't noticed it yourself, the Rambaldi business isn't quite what it used to be and the Covenant isn't exactly a name one can put on a resume these days." His words fall freely, too forcefully and spitefully to be contrived. Sydney swallows, impressed and curious. She's never seen this kind of energy from him before - at least not recently. "So," he adds, "If you're looking for some larger purpose or agenda, I'm afraid you'll be searching a little longer than you expected. I'm here for myself, no one else." A ragged sigh escapes her lips as she accepts this. She runs a hand through her hair and tries to will away the tension she feels in her shoulders. "I thought that..." she starts to say, letting the sentence trail away unfinished. Her gaze shifts, and she feels a slight warmth start to fade across her cheek. "You thought what?" he asks, his voice hard, taking another step towards her. "You thought I was still after Rambaldi somehow?" She blinks, long and hard in a gesture that admits the truth of his question. "Or that I was still Covenant?" Another step towards her, and she can almost feel his breath on her as he poses the next question, his voice suddenly calmer, more patient than when he started. "Did you think I was still working with your mother?" he asks, and this time his hand reaches out to her, resting underneath her chin and lifting her face to meet his gaze. Not until just then did she realize how desperately she needed to ask that question, and now that he's asked it for her she almost regrets it. Because now, he will have to answer it, and she will have to come to terms with whatever response he gives her. The hesitation is his, now, and he looks back at her silently, too long for her comfort. She meets his gaze, blinking once, twice, and swallows. And then he shakes his head, answering her first without words. "Not any more. Not since before the Covenant took you." His words are difficult to her for her to hear, and yet spoken so calmly that she can't believe she's hearing them from him, of all people. He shouldn't be speaking so kindly to her, she doesn't want something else to try to make sense of. She can't make sense of most of this as it is, because she knows she will fail if she tries. She turns brusquely, shifting away from his touch and resting one hand against the wall. "Sydney," he continues, his expression serious, "if this is the reason you came here tonight, I'm afraid this may be a very short visit indeed." With that, he starts to walk past her, towards the door as if to see her out. "Wait," she says suddenly, reaching out her own hand to stop him. She can't let this end like this. She grips his arm gently, making him pause in his steps to stand next to her. Steadying herself, she swallows before she speaks again. "Ask me," she tells him simply, making him turn to look at her. "I know you must want to, so ask me," Sydney repeats. His expression still reveals an air of defensive frustration, but she can see the curiosity that lies beneath. He knows what she's offering. "Are you still CIA?" The question hangs in the air, and she straightens as she lifts her hand away. Suddenly she's hesitant, as if she hadn't actually been prepared to answer. She contemplates her response for a moment. "What happens if I tell you that I'm not?" she asks, returning his question with another. Sark presses his lips together as he considers this, turning back towards her. "Then I'll be surprised. Curious, as well," he tells her. She wasn't expecting this response from him, and she's sure her expression betrays that fact. "And if I tell you that I am?" she asks this time. His look changes almost imperceptibly, frustration softening ever so slightly into something akin to comfort. "Then I'll be relieved," he says. Sydney doesn't understand this answer. "Why?" "Because it would mean you weren't so different from the woman I remember." The words are cautiously delicate on his lips. His response is a startling mirror of what she sees now that she's been looking for in him. She's surprised, again - something she's getting used to by now - and for a moment her mouth pauses slightly agape as she searches for her response. Finally, she shakes her head, letting her gaze fall to the floor. He looks back at her, still wondering. "You haven't answered me," he says, although his tone is not forceful or defensive or even very energetic. It's a simple statement, inviting her towards the inevitable step of honesty. Honesty. Even now, she never thought that would be something she'd work to create with him. Her gaze meets his and she shakes her head again. "It wouldn't matter, either way. Anything I could do for the CIA now has been compromised," she answers, and her shoulders fall slightly. Despite everything he's just told her, this is the only answer she finds herself prepared to give, for her own part. She's not sure if it's purely in the interest of self-preservation or lack of trust, or because, for the moment, the last thing she wants to contemplate is how she arrived here at this time and place. He regards her quietly, his brow furrowed slightly as he seems to accept this. "And besides, the truth is, I'm not sure how much of that woman is left in me," she tells him openly. "Right now, all I am is Karen Sorensen," she adds, marking the end of this line of questioning. But at this, Sark takes another step towards her. "I don't believe that for a second," he says, shaking his head. "That can't possibly be all that you are. Or," he adds, "the only reason you're here." There is silence between them, mediated only by their breathing and the smooth sounds of the music that somehow now seems very distant. As he turns his head at that moment, the light falls along his face in just the right way, illuminating his cheek and the faded, crescent-shaped scar below his eye. Sydney can't help herself, then, just as she felt herself pulling towards him hours earlier in the moment when it looked like he might turn away. She lifts her hand slowly towards his face, reaching for the faint yet indelible trace of what seems like a past life to her - she can only begin to imagine what it means to him. Her thumb alights along that curved line, tracing its softness. His eyes close briefly, as he stills and allows her to satisfy this curiosity. A feeling she can only think to describe as regret washes over her, and then is replaced by something else as she feels a familiar sense of anger. She doesn't want to revisit the past again. She doesn't think she needs to, either. He stops the movement of her hand with his own, grasping it and curving his fingers around hers. The interruption breaks her away from her thoughts, and as she looks back into his eyes then she realizes it is with no expectation. Their hands come to rest below his shoulder. She can feel his heart beating. "Thank you for saying what you said," she tells him gently, before he can say anything else to her just yet. Gratitude always seems to come as an afterthought to her. "To Faber. If you hadn't..." she pauses, shakes her head a little. "If you hadn't, I probably wouldn't be standing here right now." His eyebrows lift slightly, as he nods. Perhaps he's been waiting to hear her acknowledge this. Some day she will ask more - ask why he chose to do this for her in the first place. But tonight will not be that moment. And just now, she's not even sure that she needs to ask. "I did assume there must be more to the story," he responds. "As far as I can tell, my own position with Faber is as secure as ever, and to be honest," he adds with a nod, "I rather thought you could use the help." "You could say that," she admits. Her hand turns in his, allowing their fingers to interlace with each other. She shakes her head. "But I don't want to share stories any more. Not tonight." At this, she watches his lips curve gradually into a smile, an almost feral expression. Her words require no further interpretation. She asks herself then what she's waiting for, what else is there that's left to be said. The distance between them has closed almost as much as it possibly can, and she's just starting to notice the warmth of his breath against her cheek when he closes the gap completely.
He kisses her deeply, unhesitatingly, as if picking up the pieces of what they left behind in that alley only hours ago. Both of his hands reach for hers, intertwining their fingers and pressing her back firmly against the wall, and for a moment it's as if they really are right back there. It's as if the anxiety and anger and fear never had the chance to defeat her, because suddenly the only thing she can think or care about is how much longer she can wait before she feels his touch on her skin. The kiss is plunging, probing, and makes her want to fight back with equal pressure and leave all restraint behind. She untangles her hands from his and brings them to the side of his face, trying to hold him as close as she can, wanting him to be the one who has to counter her. His own hands don't seem to mind their momentary freedom, and they move quickly behind her and wrap around her body. She feels his hands roving, stroking along her spine and she has to fight the urge to twist in his arms, hasten his actions. The fabric of her coat and shirt already pose too much of a barrier, but she can't voice this, can't even think how she can take her lips away from his to tell him anything with words. His hands snake underneath the coat, running along the curve of her back, and she feels a shiver follow in their wake. Her fingers run through his hair, curling and grasping behind his neck as she presses her body hard against his. A response echoes from him, a brief moan almost like a growl, starting low and deep in his throat, and his hands tighten around her waist. When their lips finally part, they can't help but gasp a little for air, and Sydney wonders if it's not a little bit out of surprise and not just lack of oxygen. But she's beyond caring about what should or shouldn't happen. Her fingers trail back along his jaw and she brushes her thumbs along his now bruised lips, as her gaze follows the same path. The sound of their breathing resonates in her ear, and despite her impatience she finds herself pausing, wanting to take in every detail and commit this to memory. Even this brief action is interrupted, though, as his hands skim her sides and towards her shoulders. His fingers slide underneath her coat, forcing her to lower her arms for him to let the wool slip off her shoulders and fall in a pool at her feet. She returns her hands to him, pressing her palms flat against his chest as she gazes back. He kisses her once more on the lips, and then wastes no time allowing his caresses to travel lower. His lips trail along her jaw and down her neck, returning her to that morning as she feels her knees start to go weak. He encounters the wide collar of her sweater, pushes it away to expose her shoulder. Involuntarily, she feels herself start to arch against him as his lips meet the tender skin below her collarbone, traveling lower and lower until it's impossible to go further. She hears a sound escape her throat, something akin to his moan of impatience. Sydney lifts her hands wordlessly, breaking the contact between them again. He pulls away the sweater in one fluid motion, discarding it carelessly. She nearly shivers again at the sudden exposure of air on her skin, but quickly forgets the sensation as Sark's lips crash down on hers once more. Her fingers blindly begin to fumble with the buttons on his shirt. She's pushing him now as she works, moving both of them farther into the apartment towards the expansive living room. He steps back with her and they're traveling in a kind of unpolished tango as Sydney finally slips her hands underneath the folds of his shirt and over the muscle and skin beneath. The dark fabric falls away and adds to their trail of evidence on the floor. They reach the sofa and she's pushing him back onto it before their lips part once again. Outside it is dark and cold, and the wind howls against the windows as though in warning. But here inside they can't seem to move fast enough, revealing themselves to each other a piece at a time as the clothes are discarded. She straddles him easily, resting just above him as his mouth returns to her skin, exploring territory that is becoming more familiar by the second. Even as she feels herself beginning to arch against him, her hands move across his torso, attempting to explore in return. Finally her fingers touch the smooth metal of his belt buckle and she opens it as swiftly as she can, before pulling away the slim leather altogether. Sark responds, an unintelligible sound against her skin that resonates inside her as he encounters his next obstacle. He takes the curve of her breast in his mouth, kneading, searching, moving as far as he can before reaching the fabric of her bra. His fingers are just as fast as hers, skimming along her spine and releasing the clasp before she has a chance to register the sensation. Her hands lift from his torso briefly as he removes the piece of lace, and then returns to his task. His lips close over one nipple as his hands knead at her hips, and her lips start to quiver as his tongue moves, swirls, savouring her. She presses against him, insistent and careless at the same time, and feels his own readiness as the heat gathers between them. She feels her legs nearly give out altogether. Her control is fading fast; she can feel it leaving every part of her with every second that passes. And so she returns one hand to his waist, searching, finding the zipper and pulling it open. She raises herself just enough to release him, but does not remove her fingers from their target, encircling him instead and stroking his length. She feels his hands start to clench tighter at her waist and knows he's nearly done for, his patience dissolving along with her control, and then she hears the growl returning. "Sydney..." He's obstinate, nearly pleading for her. It's too much all of a sudden, so much all at once, and as if there is no other way to proceed, she bends to claim his lips with hers, stopping his words. She kisses him fiercely, almost too hard as she presses her mouth back on his, biting and tasting and silencing him for reasons she can't explain. She's past caring about gentleness or caution. Those aren't words she wants to use with him, not now, perhaps not ever. He's pushing her back now, and for a split second she's falling and clinging to him all at once. But he's too quick for her, and his arms catch her and hold her to him before she has the chance to hit the floor. Her hands grasp at his neck, holding on to him like there is no other choice. She buries her forehead against his shoulder and inhales, breathing in the scent of him. It's something she can't quite place - sweat and rain and cologne and wine and coffee and something else she can't describe. She wonders if she'll ever be able to. She can't even describe what she's feeling, what he's doing to her and how it makes her burn inside. He lowers her the rest of the way and she feels the thick carpet beneath her back. Her body rests against it willingly, as her knees rise to enclose his hips. Immediately her hands find his waist again, pull the rest of his clothing down and away until she can reach no further and he has to do the rest for her. She runs her hands along the muscled length of his thigh and the curve of his buttocks until she's back at his hips again. He kisses her again, more gently this time, and when his lips part from hers she reacts badly to the sudden disconnection, reaching after him and cradling his head in her hands. There's almost nothing left between them but a few pockets of air, and enough light that she can see the sinewy lines and occasional, marked scars along his torso and neck. When his gaze meets hers again she nearly loses herself in it; his eyes are so blue and so ferocious she nearly forgets they have a colour at all. No more words pass between them then, at least none she will have any memory of, later. Her body is as a map to him now, his mouth following its topography and his hands exploring what he cannot see except in his mind's eye. He opens the clasp at her waist, pulls away the fabric that still clings to her legs, and lets his lips follow in its wake. His fingers run along her hips and down her thighs and she trembles just slightly as she feels his breath warm on tender, shadowed skin. She reaches for him, runs fingers through his hair, doesn't want to wait any more... His hands are fast, tearing away her slacks completely and then the remaining scrap of lace of her panties, and before she can indicate anything else he's there, bending between her legs. Her eyes flutter closed when he lowers his mouth to her silky centre. It's impossible, how precisely he works, how quickly his tongue finds her and then she's moving against him...can't decide if it's too much or far too little and soon it won't matter. She can't wait much longer, she's losing herself on the edge between longing and utter ecstasy, nearly writhing beneath him until he grasps her hips and holds her in place and she can't deny him any thing any more. She couldn't form words now if she wanted to, and the moan she hears leaves her as if on the crest of a wave, and white pinpricks burst behind her eyelids as she stiffens against him. His breath follows in warm clouds against her thigh, and he trails kisses there, and back along her hip, brushing the gossamer flesh of her belly until he's retracing his earlier path with agonizing leisure. Sydney reaches for him then, pulling his mouth to hers, unable to wait. He's been savouring her, tasting every part of her she'll let him, until she can't last any more. She plunders his mouth with hers, as her hands travel lower and guide him to her centre. She gasps into his throat as he finally sheathes himself, suddenly filling her and then moving against her, slowly and then rhythmically, finding her edge and traveling it as far as he can. Her hands clutch at him, rake along his back until they reach his shoulders again, as her arms curve against him and hold his body to hers. Her grasp weakens finally, her hands fall back behind her as he catches her hands in his, anchoring her until she feels something start to break inside. As her lips part from his she feels her lungs taking in air, as if it was something she'd forgotten. Just then she feels like she can't remember anything before this night, all else has faded and in her mind's eye there is only him, and her, and the heat that is now slick between them. She's moved beyond thought, beyond desire, into need and abandon... She wants to feel only his skin next to hers, to feel herself sliding against him... She wants to envelop him as he will her... She wants to feel something different, anything other than the dark cloud that streaks across her vision of the future, or the grey chaos of her past... She wants to forget, wants him to consume her until she breaks into pieces underneath him... She wants to tear apart in his arms so he can tell her what he sees... Her hips rise to meet his every thrust; his breath releases in shallow waves on her shoulder until he's panting along with her. And then he shifts ever so slightly above her and she's gasping again, feeling the scream starting deep in her throat, until it breaks from her and she doesn't know what she screams... She arches against his body as he covers her mouth with his once more… He's taking all of her with him while giving every piece of himself, as she tightens around him and his release sends her over the edge completely.
Silence greets her when she wakes a short while later. Outside, the darkness still lingers. As her eyes open in the now dim light, she becomes aware of his arm around her waist, and his breath on her shoulder. She doesn't feel cold, and notices that he has pulled a blanket across both of them. He's awake too, she realizes as she turns onto her back. He leans on one elbow, looking down at her and meeting her gaze. One of her hands links with his, clasped against her waist. The other lifts towards his face, touching his cheek carefully and tracing the faint roughness there as if verifying this new reality that stares back at her. There's a brief glint in his eye as the light reflects back at her. Her breath exhales from her in a long, sensuous sigh, and she can't help but smile up a little at him. He leans over her, bends to press his lips hers. It's slow and gentle now, his lips brushing hers just lightly at first as he breathes her in, enough to make her stretch up towards his kiss and pursue another. He responds, covering her lips with a series of deliberate caresses until one last kiss that lingers and deepens, taking her breath away and making her sit up after him and press her hands against his body. She leans against him, suddenly expectant and hesitant at the same time. Words have still not returned to her - nor him apparently, as the only sound between them is that of their breathing, their touches. She won't be leaving any time soon; she knows now that the thought had hardly entered her mind since she first knocked on his door. And just as she's contemplating this she feels one of his arms wrap underneath her knees, as the other strengthens its place below her shoulders, and she feels herself being lifted. He settles her in his arms as she looks back at him briefly, before she closes her eyes again and folds her arms around his neck. He lifts her, carries her wordlessly to his bed. The smooth sheets beneath her are suddenly cool, jarring. He stretches out beside her and she immediately turns to him, fingertips finding the curve of his neck and shoulders and chest. She extends one leg over him, her hands moving across his torso, keeping her body just within his reach. And then as she leans over him fully her breasts press up against his chest, eliciting a low, insistent murmur that she silences with her lips. He reaches for her, grasping along her skin, hands splayed across her hips, her stomach, her arms, her breasts. She lets him find her, read her with his fingers, and suspends herself above him to let his mouth do the same. This time it is she who lowers her body along the length of his, offering and taking and sensing everything all at once, until the moment when she arches above him. And she looks down at him afterwards and can't convince herself that his eyes glimmer for anyone else but her. And then they lie next to one another, nothing left to give but this nearness, their bodies curved into each other as if in refuge.
When she wakes again it is not quite dawn. A haze has gathered outside and the sun has not yet risen to break it. She sits up and sees him lying next to her still fast asleep. This takes her a little by surprise, and she pulls herself slowly from under the covers and out of bed. She sees one of his shirts lying discarded on a chair and wraps herself in it quickly, without thinking, as she makes her way down the hall. In the bathroom she splashes water over her face and contemplates her reflection for a long while. She runs one hand through her hair, bringing some order to the mussed strands and it doesn't occur to her that she might not even need to bother. Her body aches, still carrying the pleasant traces of their exertions, and she exhales slowly, reminding herself of where she is and why and with whom, and tries to tell herself it's what she wants. She pads back down the hall silently, but stops again in the doorframe and leans up against it. Her arms fold across her waist as she looks down at him, dark hair curling in short waves, matted from sweat at the base of his neck. He lies on one side, half on his stomach, arms stretched underneath his pillow, head ducked between strong shoulders that rise and fall slowly with his breath. Sydney watches him sleep, sees the relaxation in his body and can find none of her own. The memories her body carries start to fade from her as she watches him, and all she can do is ask herself why sleep should come so easily to him. He must trust me, she tells herself, but brings a hand across her mouth as she keeps thinking. He trusts me already, or else he doesn't need to. She feels numb, and all of a sudden hopes with everything she can still feel, that the possibly the most unexpectedly passionate night of her life hasn't also just been the most foolish. She remembers her father's words to her, his persistent caution to her against Sark, and a knot starts to curl in the pit of her stomach. And just then she turns her head, looks down the hall and sees her coat, crumpled on the floor where they left it that night. And she remembers two small objects in one pocket, transferred quickly from her father's envelope, and his reminder of their dual function. She wonders just how far his strategy took him when he gave her more than one. After another minute of frozen silence, she makes her choice and slips down the hall, reaches into the pocket of her coat and pulls out a slim, small item that has all the appearances of a tarnished Euro coin. She recalls the moment before she walked into his building last night, when she pressed the tip of her fingernail against a particular tiny panel along one side, activating the device, and then steps back hurriedly towards her coat to return it to the pocket. She glances rapidly around the room before letting her gaze come to rest at the base of a large potted plant in the far corner. Her feet move lightly and briskly across the room before she bends down, noticing a spot where she could fit it perfectly - slid between the pot and a groove in the floor. She holds the coin firmly, genuinely hesitant. And then, just as briskly, she pulls her hand back and continues to clutch it, holding on to it after all. You knew what you were doing when you came here, she tells herself. When she stands again she's almost expecting him to be watching her from the doorway, challenging her intentions and her actions with a single glare. But she's alone, still, with only the morning light slowly fading in through the windows to greet her. The small transmitter will continue to do its job while she's here, but she can't quite bring herself to leave it behind. She returns and he's there just as she left him, his breathing still light and restful. Sydney discards the shirt once more across the chair where she found it, and slips underneath the covers behind him. She closes her eyes as she eases herself against him, and as her hands come to rest she wills her heartbeat to do the same.
On the day she returns to work, Sark greets her with a knowing half-smile, and she returns the gesture as she brushes her fingers against his. This time he's the one watching her as she moves, and this time she doesn't mind at all. It's Faber's glance that she minds even less, surprisingly enough, regardless of the lingering suspicion and frigidity she sees in it. Now, when she walks, her shoulders are thrown back again in confidence and she walks with all the certainty of a prowling lion. She sits in Faber's office with confidence, listening to him describe the latest improvements in export schemes through Hamburg, the most recent upgrades in their network security, the next assignment he has on tap for her. This time he's even sending her and Sark together again, posting them to manage a delivery for him. It's a job just outside of Madrid, and will mean a minimum of two days travel time. Faber tries a wink at her as he finishes, and her expression doesn't change. He's testing her, she knows. Everything has become a test for him now, she sees that more clearly than ever. It's the price she paid for lifting suspicion from her with the aid of Sark and the cover story he provided for her. Which isn't just a cover story any more, she tells herself with some satisfaction. Sydney accepts the documents from him and then turns to leave after a few brief words are exchanged. It doesn't matter that he's not sending her out alone just yet, or that it might take weeks for her to convince him once more of her integrity. Truthfully, she's not sure if she even wants to make the effort to try. She walks out of Faber's office and feels Sark's hand rest gently and briefly at her back as he passes her, and knows there is nothing else she needs to do to convince Faber of anything.
Most days she continues her long hours for Faber, and there are, once again, many days when she works alone. There are days when she doesn't see Sark at all, and it never fails to unsettle her that she notices his absence so acutely. There are times like the Madrid assignment when they're on their own, a job well done and nothing else left afterwards but each other and a spontaneous plan for the night. On those nights her assignments are merely a prelude, moving her through what she has to deliver or who she has to threaten or who they might even have to kill in order to get Faber what he wants... Still, it all simply lays the fleeting groundwork for their encounter, an exercise in speed and agility as their reflexes are heightened as far as they can be. There are times when she draws her gun to cover all angles, and he doesn't doubt her when she tells him she has his back. There are other times when she's caught and can't get out of a situation and he waits for her, covers for her until she can get out. There have been still others when one of them has led and the other has followed, and there has never been any question or doubt. They carry out their tasks in synchrony with each other, and Sydney considers how much of it is them showing off for the other, and how much is genuine skill. And then...how much of it might be something else entirely. For as their time together increases she finds herself aching for him in the hours they are apart, asking herself if this new desire will only further her isolation or forge a new ally for her. And in their moments together, that time is the only thing that matters to her, and what makes the moments in between worth sustaining.
A few weeks have gone by when Sark meets her in Potsdam one day, in Sanssouci Park. When he finds her she's looking out from the palace courtyard, and as she turns at the sound of his footsteps she watches him walk down the tiered steps to meet her half way. The air around them is cold and brisk and snow covers the ground, but the sky above them is blue and clear. As he approaches, she feels herself warming. "I suppose you know this isn't exactly the height of tourist season," he asks her, one eyebrow arched in question. His breath forms heated clouds in the air between them. Sydney nods, hinting at a contented smile. "That's the idea." She turns again to look out over the vast expanse of the park grounds, and feels his presence behind her. The air she breathes in refreshes her, almost as much as the protective embrace he offers. There is no one else around this morning, and indeed the only sound that disturbs their scene is the sound of the wind through bare trees. For a moment, they stand in comfortable silence as he rests his arms around her. He tucks her beneath his chin and then bends to press his lips to her temple. She closes her eyes for a moment, lingering in the sensation as she feels a flush move across her cheeks and neck. Sark bends lower as his lips find the graceful curve of her neck below her jacket collar, and she can't help but smile and lean against him. Even from the first moments of intimacy between them, such simple gestures have been all that they needed to ignite the physical connection that they share. It surprised her at first - and still does, really - but nonetheless has shifted towards a comfort that she cannot help but revel in. But when she turns back to him her expression has changed again, as she revisits the thoughts that have always occupied her in the last few months, and the questions she has chosen not to follow. His hands linger below her shoulders as she wraps her arms around herself, still deciding how to find the words she knows will break through this tentative connection they have found. Her gaze lifts to meet his, and his expression turns to curiosity. A shallow sigh escapes him and he straightens. "What is it?" She blinks back as her gaze falters for a moment, and the words come to her finally, haltingly. "Five years ago..." she starts, "Five years ago, you died," she says, a half-question. He nods after a moment, understanding this appraisal. "Yes." "I need to ask," she reveals, more confidently now. "I need to know how, why...I can't be with you and not know any of this." He takes in a breath, inhaling as he considers where to begin again. There's more than what he told her on that first night; there's much more between them left to be uncovered. His hands rub along her arms as if warming her further, and he nods again. "All right." And they turn down the stairs towards the fountain, before continuing on the path to the west, preparing for the revelations that will come. * * * * * |
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