Empty, But Still I Run
Rating: PG-13/R
Characters: Sark/Vaughn
Summary: Vaughn goes hunting.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
Notes: This is a Secret Santa Drabble for honeymink who supplied the color black, and "I've seen your picture in the paper and wondered what you looked like." If you squint and tilt your head a bit, you can sort of see how I've used the text as the theme. If not... well, squint harder! (I am very bad with word limits. Let's all pretend for a moment that 446 is the new 300.)
***
He did this once before, chased the one who had stolen someone from him, but last time the sun bearing down on his neck was not this strong, the heat didn’t make him sweat, and the air didn’t make his eyes sting with tears. Last time Irina Derevko had stolen his father. Sark had stolen his wife. His father, he wanted back, but Lauren… her, he only wanted dead.
She was the reason he found himself suddenly awake in the middle of the night, tangled in his new, sweaty sheets; she was why Sydney had left again. She was still alive, and that was why he was standing outside this small cabin, stranded in the middle of the desert.
The door was unlocked, and he pushed inside. It was empty. He pulled his gun from its holster, the black metal cold and melting in his hand. He pointed it from room to room, his breath coming in sharp pants now as the heat was stifling, and suddenly the gun found a target, two inches away, too close, too sudden. Vaughn would have shot him if not for the heat, if not for Sark swiping the gun from his grasp, if not for suddenly finding himself pinned to the floor.
“Agent Vaughn,” Sark drawled, appraising him from lowered lids. “I can’t say I’m surprised to find you here.”
The gun was lying within his reach, but Vaughn knew it wouldn’t help him now. “I’ll ask you again. Where is she?” He said tersely.
“Which lovely lady are you referring to? You seem to have misplaced several as of late.”
There wasn’t much resistance when Vaughn bucked violently, rolling easily until he was lying on top. Sark didn’t even wince when the fist connected with his face, and the blood that spurted ended up on Vaughn again-as it always did-Sark’s tongue snaking out to push it into Vaughn’s mouth. He shuddered into the salty kiss for a moment, holding still, pretended it was the first and pretended he was shocked. When he went to roughly shove Sark away, Vaughn found that he was already alone, curled up on the ground.
“You can’t hide her forever,” he said, shivering, but not possibly cold in the sweltering heat.
Sark sighed from above him, and his voice was tired, as if he was ready to stop trying, but stop trying for what?
“Nobody is hiding anything from you. You’re just running away from the truth.” When Sark spoke next, his voice was farther away, but Vaughn could only see his gun lying a few feet away, shiny and still unused. “Close the door on your way out.”
He did.
Characters: Sark/Vaughn
Summary: Vaughn goes hunting.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
Notes: This is a Secret Santa Drabble for honeymink who supplied the color black, and "I've seen your picture in the paper and wondered what you looked like." If you squint and tilt your head a bit, you can sort of see how I've used the text as the theme. If not... well, squint harder! (I am very bad with word limits. Let's all pretend for a moment that 446 is the new 300.)
***
He did this once before, chased the one who had stolen someone from him, but last time the sun bearing down on his neck was not this strong, the heat didn’t make him sweat, and the air didn’t make his eyes sting with tears. Last time Irina Derevko had stolen his father. Sark had stolen his wife. His father, he wanted back, but Lauren… her, he only wanted dead.
She was the reason he found himself suddenly awake in the middle of the night, tangled in his new, sweaty sheets; she was why Sydney had left again. She was still alive, and that was why he was standing outside this small cabin, stranded in the middle of the desert.
The door was unlocked, and he pushed inside. It was empty. He pulled his gun from its holster, the black metal cold and melting in his hand. He pointed it from room to room, his breath coming in sharp pants now as the heat was stifling, and suddenly the gun found a target, two inches away, too close, too sudden. Vaughn would have shot him if not for the heat, if not for Sark swiping the gun from his grasp, if not for suddenly finding himself pinned to the floor.
“Agent Vaughn,” Sark drawled, appraising him from lowered lids. “I can’t say I’m surprised to find you here.”
The gun was lying within his reach, but Vaughn knew it wouldn’t help him now. “I’ll ask you again. Where is she?” He said tersely.
“Which lovely lady are you referring to? You seem to have misplaced several as of late.”
There wasn’t much resistance when Vaughn bucked violently, rolling easily until he was lying on top. Sark didn’t even wince when the fist connected with his face, and the blood that spurted ended up on Vaughn again-as it always did-Sark’s tongue snaking out to push it into Vaughn’s mouth. He shuddered into the salty kiss for a moment, holding still, pretended it was the first and pretended he was shocked. When he went to roughly shove Sark away, Vaughn found that he was already alone, curled up on the ground.
“You can’t hide her forever,” he said, shivering, but not possibly cold in the sweltering heat.
Sark sighed from above him, and his voice was tired, as if he was ready to stop trying, but stop trying for what?
“Nobody is hiding anything from you. You’re just running away from the truth.” When Sark spoke next, his voice was farther away, but Vaughn could only see his gun lying a few feet away, shiny and still unused. “Close the door on your way out.”
He did.