FINALLY! I did it! I wrote Sarkney! Please keep in mind that this is my first time reading these characters, although that really shouldn't be an excuse, seeing how many Sarkney fics I've read and compiled and reread and how many times I've watched the Sark and Sydney episodes
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What did he want to prove, that they could be different? That they could be more?
Wow.
The dark blond hair was even darker when wet, and his eyes seemed bluer, more electric, more awake as he came at her, instead of that languid smugness he displayed when they were outside, standing across from each other, confronting each other.
*thud*
[S]he breathed in deep the scent of the French soap he had probably brought with him to Cairo because he didn’t trust the soap Egypt had to offer…
SO Sark right there, the elitest snob.
She had noticed that Sark had never really been a tactile person. He preferred the distance of guns to the intimacy of hand to hand combat. He was remote and unreadable, and when he was clearly at a disadvantage, he gave in quickly to maintain that space. He used his stillness as a weapon and his words as a tool.
So it surprised her to find that in sleep, he seemed to favor the closeness.
Honestly, that's how I've always seen Sark--as a guy who craves human touch, because his life is so devoid of it, though most of it's by necessity.
His voice was colder than the cold metal of his gun that dug into her neck. “Let’s talk, Sydney.”
“Get off me,” she snarled, snapping her elbow into his abdomen.
He grunted but sustained the blow, wrapping strong, lean fingers tightly around her wrist, reminding her that he wasn’t weak and that the bones in the wrist were fragile. His legs tightened around her, trapping her and forcing her down under his weight that was familiar in the way it shouldn’t have been.
“No,” Sark said thinly. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’m not suicidal or crazy. Normal people tend to stay away from terrorists.” She thrashed under him.
“You know what I mean.”
“It was just sex,” Sydney hissed at him. “Don’t mistake it for anything else.”
He sounded genuinely surprised. “I haven’t. I know what you want. Do you?”
It was a tossed out question with no forethought or agenda behind it. He was groping for a reaction in her, honed instincts signing to him that there was something unsaid.
“No,” she lied. “I just got tired of it.”
“You never said anything about being unhappy with our arrangement.”
Arrangement. Such a neutral word. Not affair. Not even sex, which spoke of lust, at least.
“I wasn’t unhappy, I was bored.”
His eyes were hard and annoyed. “I see. And you lacked the courtesy to inform me of this fact.”
“I don’t owe you anything.” She shot back.
He didn’t even bother dignifying that with an answer, only stared back down at her patiently, studying her as though he had all the time in the world to try and solve her. The memory came back and she shivered.
He kissed her with a feeling as though he would much rather kill her, and he ended it too soon.
When he spoke again, his voice was dry. “Yes, Agent Bristow, I can tell you’re bored of me.”
The next burst of gunfire sounded too close, and she struggled against him again, meaning to jab her fingers into old pickax wound. She heard Weiss call her.
He let go of her on his own accord, but not before he bent his head low, his lips at her ear, and hissed, “Rio de Janeiro. Be there.”
I LOVE this exchange here. Sydney's denials and Sark's perceptive nature are SO in-character.
(Continued in the next comment, since LJ hates me and won't let me post it all together.)
Sweetness
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She wanted him to give her chocolate and a tin of coffee beans. She wanted the dream of what could be.
She said instead, “What happened? What did you get this time?”
He shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it on the back of the armchair. “Nothing happened. There’s an arms trade negotiation taking place in Barcelona, if that’s what you mean,” he said slyly. “I’m afraid we’re both sitting out on this one. If your superiors become too bothersome about it, you can blame me,” he added magnanimously.
“Very clever.” She rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Sark?”
He moved forward, sure of his step in the dark. She felt his hand on her shoulder, and it was such an odd gesture that it gave her pause.
“What was wrong with the status quo, Sydney?” he asked softly, and this close to him, she could see his eyes were dark.
She shook her head, unwilling to reveal any more weakness to him. Why break your scars in open water?
“We need this, Sydney,” came his voice from behind her, his lips caressing the back of her neck. “It helps.”
Helps what? She wanted to ask, but she bit back the words.
Somehow, she acquiesced. And when he laid her out on the bed and the cool sheets, his hands moved a gentle and slow balm along her sunburned skin.
I love this exchange, too. And the last sentence? Keeled me.
And this is your first time writing Sarkney? A lot better than my first effort. This is the way I WISH I could write, but never could. VERY good job. I can't wait to see Sarkney fic from you in the future.
Sweetness
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