[Stage 5] Nothing Is Resolved | Sark/Rachel, Alias
Title: Nothing Is Resolved
Author: midorinomizu
Series: Alias
Pairing: Julian Sark/Rachel Gibson
Theme: 5 - Resolution
Length: 500 words.
Sark watched her get dressed, slowly replacing each item of clothing - first the camisole and underwear that had been tossed off the bed, then the smooth gray Italian wool trousers and matching jacket, and finally her high-heeled black shoes - until the only sign of their little tryst was her hair tumbling around her shoulders and the sheets of the bed behind them torn apart and tousled.
Rachel clicked the laptop shut and slipped it into her sleek black case before turned, her blonde hair flying around her face. “I’m expected,” she said.
“Dixon,” Sark asked, “or Thomas Grace?”
Rachel lifted an eyebrow and her lips curved in an amused little smile. “Tom,” she said. “At the Louvre.”
Sark laughed. “You weren’t supposed to tell me that, were you?”
“No,” Rachel said. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Do you trust me now?”
“No,” Rachel said, her expression very nearly sober. “I didn’t tell you anything you couldn’t have figured out for yourself.”
“Sydney Bristow’s been giving you lessons,” Sark murmured. He rose from the wing chair next to the wide hotel bed and advanced on Rachel, graceful strides devouring the space between them. “Always tell them something, but never something important.”
“I suppose it depends upon what you consider important,” Rachel murmured back, tipping her head back and regarding Sark through thick eyelashes. “Have you told me anything important, Julian?”
“No,” Sark said, and he kissed her, slowly and leisurely. “Not yet, at any rate.”
Rachel’s eyes flickered with confusion. “But you intend to?”
Sark shrugged, his hand grazing her hip before he stepped back. “Maybe,” he said.
Rachel rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I have to go,” she said. “He’ll call if I’m late.”
“Of course,” Sark drawled, and in an unexpected move he lifted her hand, brushed his lips against her skin. “I’ll be seeing you, Rachel.”
As Rachel Gibson stepped out of the hotel room and silently closed the door behind her, she thought of the last words of warning Sydney gave her before she left:
“Whatever happens with him, never expect Sark to adhere to any kind of preconceived idea you have about him. That’s when he wins.”
*
She was on the plane, settled in with her laptop, with Tom sitting across the aisle, his headphones covering his ears before she found it - a single scrap of paper crinkling in her pocket. She reached into the pocket of her suit and pulled it out, narrowing her eyes as she unfolded it.
J.S, 555-1348.
An American telephone number, she noted as a slow smile spread across her face. Probably cellular. If she were a good operative, she’d probably track it now, see where the number originated from, and use it against Sark somehow. She shook her head, refolding the paper precisely along the same lines as Sark had, and glancing at Tom before slipping it back in her pocket.
Rachel didn’t think she was that good of an operative yet.
Author: midorinomizu
Series: Alias
Pairing: Julian Sark/Rachel Gibson
Theme: 5 - Resolution
Length: 500 words.
Sark watched her get dressed, slowly replacing each item of clothing - first the camisole and underwear that had been tossed off the bed, then the smooth gray Italian wool trousers and matching jacket, and finally her high-heeled black shoes - until the only sign of their little tryst was her hair tumbling around her shoulders and the sheets of the bed behind them torn apart and tousled.
Rachel clicked the laptop shut and slipped it into her sleek black case before turned, her blonde hair flying around her face. “I’m expected,” she said.
“Dixon,” Sark asked, “or Thomas Grace?”
Rachel lifted an eyebrow and her lips curved in an amused little smile. “Tom,” she said. “At the Louvre.”
Sark laughed. “You weren’t supposed to tell me that, were you?”
“No,” Rachel said. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Do you trust me now?”
“No,” Rachel said, her expression very nearly sober. “I didn’t tell you anything you couldn’t have figured out for yourself.”
“Sydney Bristow’s been giving you lessons,” Sark murmured. He rose from the wing chair next to the wide hotel bed and advanced on Rachel, graceful strides devouring the space between them. “Always tell them something, but never something important.”
“I suppose it depends upon what you consider important,” Rachel murmured back, tipping her head back and regarding Sark through thick eyelashes. “Have you told me anything important, Julian?”
“No,” Sark said, and he kissed her, slowly and leisurely. “Not yet, at any rate.”
Rachel’s eyes flickered with confusion. “But you intend to?”
Sark shrugged, his hand grazing her hip before he stepped back. “Maybe,” he said.
Rachel rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I have to go,” she said. “He’ll call if I’m late.”
“Of course,” Sark drawled, and in an unexpected move he lifted her hand, brushed his lips against her skin. “I’ll be seeing you, Rachel.”
As Rachel Gibson stepped out of the hotel room and silently closed the door behind her, she thought of the last words of warning Sydney gave her before she left:
“Whatever happens with him, never expect Sark to adhere to any kind of preconceived idea you have about him. That’s when he wins.”
*
She was on the plane, settled in with her laptop, with Tom sitting across the aisle, his headphones covering his ears before she found it - a single scrap of paper crinkling in her pocket. She reached into the pocket of her suit and pulled it out, narrowing her eyes as she unfolded it.
J.S, 555-1348.
An American telephone number, she noted as a slow smile spread across her face. Probably cellular. If she were a good operative, she’d probably track it now, see where the number originated from, and use it against Sark somehow. She shook her head, refolding the paper precisely along the same lines as Sark had, and glancing at Tom before slipping it back in her pocket.
Rachel didn’t think she was that good of an operative yet.