The Boss's Daughter
Fandoms: Alias/Scandal
Characters: Sark, Fitz, Jake
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,675
Summary: Sark walks into a gala to meet Jake, and winds up meeting Fitz instead.
A/N: Written for the intoabar challenge.
Security swarms the entrance to the National Gallery, and the queue for the metal detectors blocks the door. The Navy’s annual gala has always been one of D.C.’s most heavily monitored events; now that the president himself is a Navy man, it is even more so.
Except, apparently not.
Sark hands his beautifully forged American driver’s license to the men in black, smiling to himself as they scan it through their useless machines. The fact that he didn’t even bother to put an alias on it gives him additional satisfaction when they stone-facedly wave him through, approved.
He refrains from touching sweaty jackets and sequined gowns (the air conditioning seems to be as faulty as the background checks) as he makes his way through Washington’s elite, looking for his contact, as well as a drink. Once he reaches the oak-paneled bar area, he surveys the room. Almost everyone is wearing Naval white, the better to show off their tans, bottled or otherwise; it makes for a lovely tableau, but also a difficult time picking people out of a crowd.
He assumes his contact is also caught up in security, so he orders a glass of champagne, praying it’s properly chilled.
“Hey,” a voice behind him says, with a slight slur of drunkenness (so slight that Sark is almost certain he’s the only one who can detect it). “You cut me in line.”
Sark is about to ignore the man, but the voice is familiar. He turns around to find Fitzgerald Grant III, looking impatient.
“I would have thought you had men on call to get your drinks,” Sark replies, having it both ways with a teasing tone that undercuts the rudeness of his words.
Grant smiles. “I’m a man of the people.”
“My apologies.”
“All’s forgiven if you get me a scotch.”
Sark has a feeling the man probably doesn’t need one, but the boasting potential of a known terrorist being asked to fetch drinks by the President of the United States is too much to pass up. Sark dives into the fray again, and emerges a minute later with the drink.
“Thanks, you’re a life saver,” Grant says, gazing sadly into the glass.
“Is everything all right, sir?” Sark isn’t particularly concerned, but perhaps there’s something to be gleaned by continuing the conversation. This isn’t an opportunity that comes along every day.
Grant seems startled, as though no one has asked him about his own welfare in quite some time. “Not really,” he replies, with a wholly inappropriate honesty. “But hey, no one said being the leader of the free world was like a trip to Disneyland.”
Sark spots Captain Ballard walking towards them. He looks as though he’s about to veer off his trajectory, but Grant waves him over.
“Jake! I’ve been looking for you,” Grant says.
“Sir?” Ballard asks formally, careful not to make eye contact with Sark, to treat him as a stranger.
“This is a party, Jake. You’re off the clock. It’s Fitz here.”
Grant pulls Ballard into a hug, practically toppling him off his balance. Ballard’s features unclench slightly to form a smile, and the two men shake hands warmly.
“I didn’t know you knew President Grant, Jake,” Sark says with perfectly feigned innocence, despite knowing full well not only how the two know one another, but also that Ballard will be thrown off-kilter by being forced into a three-way conversation. Ballard’s a good sort, but Sark enjoys teasing him; it’s a little private game of his to see if he can make the other man blink.
“Jake and me?” Grant says, surprised to see that Sark knows Ballard. “We go way back. What about you? We haven’t met, have we?”
“No, we haven’t had the pleasure. I’m Julian,” Sark replies, saving Ballard from having to make up a lie by using the infuriating American habit of introducing oneself by only his Christian name. It comes in handy in cases like these. Ballard dare not react in Grant’s presence; so instead, he pulls his mask of practiced blandness (or perhaps that’s his actual personality… Sark has never been able to tell) even further over his features.
“Julian and I ran into one another when I was in London last year, with MI6,” Ballard explains smoothly. The story is true, too. Although the joint mission they had been on wasn’t their first meeting, nor was it exactly sanctioned by MI6…
“How’s the project going?” Grant drunkenly asks, and from Ballard’s flash of concern, Sark knows this is not a project that should be discussed in public, around strangers. Ah, he thinks, figuring out what they’re talking about.
“My report is the same as it was last week. All’s quiet.”
“Good to hear. Don’t be deceived, though. Snakes like the quiet grass.”
“If you say so, sir. I’ll keep on the lookout.” Ballard’s answer is polite, but Sark knows him well enough to see that he’s angry, furious, and something else, too... The pieces come together in his mind, forming a most interesting picture, one with many delicious potential applications.
“Gotta go get my talking notes from Cyrus. We’ll catch up later this week, right, Jake?”
“Yes, sir. Fitz.” Jake retains the friendly smile, but his teeth are clenched in position.
Grant is too drunk to notice.
Once the president walks away, Sark leads Jake to a quieter corner, away from the bar.
“When you suggested this as our meeting place,” Jake begins, “I thought you were joking.”
“I wanted to see the Boy Scout for myself.”
Ballard looks over at President Grant, schmoozing with ambassadors. “How does he measure up?”
Grant’s classic good looks, easy affability, annoying earnestness, lovelorn idiocy, and general aura of romantically-induced distraction from his job remind Sark of someone else, someone he likes just as little. “As well as any other.”
“I take it you don’t like boy scouts,” Jake notes.
Sark doesn’t shrug, but he takes an extra long sip of his champagne, which generally means the same thing. “I was never exposed to boy scouts growing up. I’m English. What do I know?”
“Word on the street is you’re Russian,” Ballard rejoins.
Sark is never one to be one-upped. “Word on the street is ‘Fitz’ has you doing a little extra-curricular surveillance on his favorite spin artist.”
Ballard doesn’t blink (he never blinks), but his eyes widen ever so slightly; his poker face is excellent, but Sark still thinks it needs work. “My job is intelligence, and the president says this is a matter of national security. I’m only doing my job.”
“And what do you say?”
“It isn’t my place to question my commanding officer.”
“I’m not asking you to question. I’m asking for a report.”
“She seems like a sad workaholic, with a wine problem.”
Sark likes the sound of her. “There’s no such thing,” he replies, snatching another glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter. He gets on for Ballard, too, and forces him to take it. Of everyone Sark has ever met, Ballard is the one most in need of a drink.
Ballard actually laughs, and Sark is glad to have brought even a hint of mirth into the man’s otherwise dour life. He likes Ballard; when he’s in one of his more charming moods, he reminds Sark a bit of himself---resourceful, reliable, ruthless, but ultimately disinterested in the silliness around him. They’ve had some good times in London and beyond, working with whomever Irina and Rowan tell them to; as far as Sark allows himself friends, he wouldn’t mind calling Ballard one.
“You should introduce yourself,” he suggests, responding to the struggle that’s all too clear under Ballard’s very good attempts at blankness.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“She isn’t a threat. You said so yourself. I place more faith in your intuition than in Grant’s. The man can’t even see…” Sark shakes his head at the vast number of state secrets Sark has been fully briefed on of which Grant has never even heard. “Introduce yourself.”
Ballard raises his glass and quirks a knowing smile. “I never thought I’d see the day when Julian Sark was living through me. I didn’t want any champagne, but I’ll drink to that.”
Tetchily, Sark says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How’s your little surveillance operation going these days? had me install equipment in Sydney Bristow’s new apartment last month.”
“I can’t imagine what you are implying. The situations are not at all comparable. Ms. Bristow and I have not only already been introduced, but are also already responsible for numerous attempts on one another’s lives. You and your pretty target, on the other hand, have all the opportunity in the world.”
Ballard points. “So you admit it! You do… find her attractive.”
“Even if I did, and I’m not saying I do,” Sark relents, “she is my employer’s daughter. The idea isn’t worth considering. In my case.”
Ballard sighs. “That’s true. Derevko would probably castrate you.”
“I hadn’t thought of anything quite so graphic, but, yes.”
“Yeah, I guess I don’t have that.”
Ballard brightens. “You know what? I’m going to do it. She likes to go to this coffee place near her house. I could just… I could bump into her. The coffee’s pretty good there.”
“An excellent plan. And a few weeks from now, when you have invariably won her goodwill, feel free to consult me about wine recommendations to, ahem, seal the deal.”
Ballard shakes his head. “I think a better victory would be to get her to drink beer.”
“That will never happen.” What little Sark knows of Olivia Pope makes the idea of her imbibing carbohydrates, much less beer, highly unlikely.
“Want to make a bet?” Ballard challenges, in as good a mood as Sark has ever seen him. “If I can get her to drink a beer with me, you owe me a favor, to be named whenever I ask for it. If I can’t, I’ll owe you one.”
Sark feels fairly confident about his chances. “Agreed.”
Characters: Sark, Fitz, Jake
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,675
Summary: Sark walks into a gala to meet Jake, and winds up meeting Fitz instead.
A/N: Written for the intoabar challenge.
Security swarms the entrance to the National Gallery, and the queue for the metal detectors blocks the door. The Navy’s annual gala has always been one of D.C.’s most heavily monitored events; now that the president himself is a Navy man, it is even more so.
Except, apparently not.
Sark hands his beautifully forged American driver’s license to the men in black, smiling to himself as they scan it through their useless machines. The fact that he didn’t even bother to put an alias on it gives him additional satisfaction when they stone-facedly wave him through, approved.
He refrains from touching sweaty jackets and sequined gowns (the air conditioning seems to be as faulty as the background checks) as he makes his way through Washington’s elite, looking for his contact, as well as a drink. Once he reaches the oak-paneled bar area, he surveys the room. Almost everyone is wearing Naval white, the better to show off their tans, bottled or otherwise; it makes for a lovely tableau, but also a difficult time picking people out of a crowd.
He assumes his contact is also caught up in security, so he orders a glass of champagne, praying it’s properly chilled.
“Hey,” a voice behind him says, with a slight slur of drunkenness (so slight that Sark is almost certain he’s the only one who can detect it). “You cut me in line.”
Sark is about to ignore the man, but the voice is familiar. He turns around to find Fitzgerald Grant III, looking impatient.
“I would have thought you had men on call to get your drinks,” Sark replies, having it both ways with a teasing tone that undercuts the rudeness of his words.
Grant smiles. “I’m a man of the people.”
“My apologies.”
“All’s forgiven if you get me a scotch.”
Sark has a feeling the man probably doesn’t need one, but the boasting potential of a known terrorist being asked to fetch drinks by the President of the United States is too much to pass up. Sark dives into the fray again, and emerges a minute later with the drink.
“Thanks, you’re a life saver,” Grant says, gazing sadly into the glass.
“Is everything all right, sir?” Sark isn’t particularly concerned, but perhaps there’s something to be gleaned by continuing the conversation. This isn’t an opportunity that comes along every day.
Grant seems startled, as though no one has asked him about his own welfare in quite some time. “Not really,” he replies, with a wholly inappropriate honesty. “But hey, no one said being the leader of the free world was like a trip to Disneyland.”
Sark spots Captain Ballard walking towards them. He looks as though he’s about to veer off his trajectory, but Grant waves him over.
“Jake! I’ve been looking for you,” Grant says.
“Sir?” Ballard asks formally, careful not to make eye contact with Sark, to treat him as a stranger.
“This is a party, Jake. You’re off the clock. It’s Fitz here.”
Grant pulls Ballard into a hug, practically toppling him off his balance. Ballard’s features unclench slightly to form a smile, and the two men shake hands warmly.
“I didn’t know you knew President Grant, Jake,” Sark says with perfectly feigned innocence, despite knowing full well not only how the two know one another, but also that Ballard will be thrown off-kilter by being forced into a three-way conversation. Ballard’s a good sort, but Sark enjoys teasing him; it’s a little private game of his to see if he can make the other man blink.
“Jake and me?” Grant says, surprised to see that Sark knows Ballard. “We go way back. What about you? We haven’t met, have we?”
“No, we haven’t had the pleasure. I’m Julian,” Sark replies, saving Ballard from having to make up a lie by using the infuriating American habit of introducing oneself by only his Christian name. It comes in handy in cases like these. Ballard dare not react in Grant’s presence; so instead, he pulls his mask of practiced blandness (or perhaps that’s his actual personality… Sark has never been able to tell) even further over his features.
“Julian and I ran into one another when I was in London last year, with MI6,” Ballard explains smoothly. The story is true, too. Although the joint mission they had been on wasn’t their first meeting, nor was it exactly sanctioned by MI6…
“How’s the project going?” Grant drunkenly asks, and from Ballard’s flash of concern, Sark knows this is not a project that should be discussed in public, around strangers. Ah, he thinks, figuring out what they’re talking about.
“My report is the same as it was last week. All’s quiet.”
“Good to hear. Don’t be deceived, though. Snakes like the quiet grass.”
“If you say so, sir. I’ll keep on the lookout.” Ballard’s answer is polite, but Sark knows him well enough to see that he’s angry, furious, and something else, too... The pieces come together in his mind, forming a most interesting picture, one with many delicious potential applications.
“Gotta go get my talking notes from Cyrus. We’ll catch up later this week, right, Jake?”
“Yes, sir. Fitz.” Jake retains the friendly smile, but his teeth are clenched in position.
Grant is too drunk to notice.
Once the president walks away, Sark leads Jake to a quieter corner, away from the bar.
“When you suggested this as our meeting place,” Jake begins, “I thought you were joking.”
“I wanted to see the Boy Scout for myself.”
Ballard looks over at President Grant, schmoozing with ambassadors. “How does he measure up?”
Grant’s classic good looks, easy affability, annoying earnestness, lovelorn idiocy, and general aura of romantically-induced distraction from his job remind Sark of someone else, someone he likes just as little. “As well as any other.”
“I take it you don’t like boy scouts,” Jake notes.
Sark doesn’t shrug, but he takes an extra long sip of his champagne, which generally means the same thing. “I was never exposed to boy scouts growing up. I’m English. What do I know?”
“Word on the street is you’re Russian,” Ballard rejoins.
Sark is never one to be one-upped. “Word on the street is ‘Fitz’ has you doing a little extra-curricular surveillance on his favorite spin artist.”
Ballard doesn’t blink (he never blinks), but his eyes widen ever so slightly; his poker face is excellent, but Sark still thinks it needs work. “My job is intelligence, and the president says this is a matter of national security. I’m only doing my job.”
“And what do you say?”
“It isn’t my place to question my commanding officer.”
“I’m not asking you to question. I’m asking for a report.”
“She seems like a sad workaholic, with a wine problem.”
Sark likes the sound of her. “There’s no such thing,” he replies, snatching another glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter. He gets on for Ballard, too, and forces him to take it. Of everyone Sark has ever met, Ballard is the one most in need of a drink.
Ballard actually laughs, and Sark is glad to have brought even a hint of mirth into the man’s otherwise dour life. He likes Ballard; when he’s in one of his more charming moods, he reminds Sark a bit of himself---resourceful, reliable, ruthless, but ultimately disinterested in the silliness around him. They’ve had some good times in London and beyond, working with whomever Irina and Rowan tell them to; as far as Sark allows himself friends, he wouldn’t mind calling Ballard one.
“You should introduce yourself,” he suggests, responding to the struggle that’s all too clear under Ballard’s very good attempts at blankness.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“She isn’t a threat. You said so yourself. I place more faith in your intuition than in Grant’s. The man can’t even see…” Sark shakes his head at the vast number of state secrets Sark has been fully briefed on of which Grant has never even heard. “Introduce yourself.”
Ballard raises his glass and quirks a knowing smile. “I never thought I’d see the day when Julian Sark was living through me. I didn’t want any champagne, but I’ll drink to that.”
Tetchily, Sark says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How’s your little surveillance operation going these days? had me install equipment in Sydney Bristow’s new apartment last month.”
“I can’t imagine what you are implying. The situations are not at all comparable. Ms. Bristow and I have not only already been introduced, but are also already responsible for numerous attempts on one another’s lives. You and your pretty target, on the other hand, have all the opportunity in the world.”
Ballard points. “So you admit it! You do… find her attractive.”
“Even if I did, and I’m not saying I do,” Sark relents, “she is my employer’s daughter. The idea isn’t worth considering. In my case.”
Ballard sighs. “That’s true. Derevko would probably castrate you.”
“I hadn’t thought of anything quite so graphic, but, yes.”
“Yeah, I guess I don’t have that.”
Ballard brightens. “You know what? I’m going to do it. She likes to go to this coffee place near her house. I could just… I could bump into her. The coffee’s pretty good there.”
“An excellent plan. And a few weeks from now, when you have invariably won her goodwill, feel free to consult me about wine recommendations to, ahem, seal the deal.”
Ballard shakes his head. “I think a better victory would be to get her to drink beer.”
“That will never happen.” What little Sark knows of Olivia Pope makes the idea of her imbibing carbohydrates, much less beer, highly unlikely.
“Want to make a bet?” Ballard challenges, in as good a mood as Sark has ever seen him. “If I can get her to drink a beer with me, you owe me a favor, to be named whenever I ask for it. If I can’t, I’ll owe you one.”
Sark feels fairly confident about his chances. “Agreed.”