Title: Expectations
E-mail: eli @ popullus.net
Rating: R
Posted: August 2003
Disclaimer: Read.
A/N: This is a WIP that never really finished, but it's pretty much complete as it stands. Written and taking place before S3 of Alias, based on nothing more than the knowledge that two years would pass, that Sark would still be in prison, and that there would be a Mrs. Vaughn, a.k.a, Lauren Reed of the NSC.

**

Lauren learned long ago that to expect is to be disappointed. Maybe that's why every time she looks at her hands she is surprised to see etched silver and a single diamond gleaming back at her.

But there was no way to expect this.

The man documented only as Sark is hard to look at. Even knowing what can be done in almost two years of CIA custody, what she sees in the stone cell is nothing like the impression she got from briefings, reports, and especially not from the stories. She never trusts others' opinions and thoughts, but when the overwhelming majority agrees on the same things, it's hard to keep that from creating a picture.

It's not as comforting as she likes to see that the picture is wrong.

The grin he flashes her emphasizes the bones of his face; there is no extra flesh padding his features. She hopes he doesn't see her wince when she reflexively compares the boyish pictures she'd studied with this reality that left "lean" behind long ago. Pushing aside sympathy, she vows to have another talk with Kelly. She has clearly not received the full briefing.

"Ms. Reed, welcome. Or should that be 'Mrs?'"

His voice isn't hard, it's smooth; although it has a harsh thread running through it, a hint of what she knows that throat has been put through. But the question, casually posed with his eyes on her hands, draws her into the room and her steps stay even despite the click of the door behind her. There are plenty watching -- they are always watching him -- as she approaches the man holding himself upright on the cot.

"It's 'Ms,' thank you. Although that's hardly something you need to worry about now."

"Ah, but it's something I enjoy worrying about, as opposed to the other issues vying for my attention." Is it possible for a smirk to be rueful, she wonders, and then pushes the question away as pointless and no longer an issue; it disappeared so quickly. Besides, he's speaking again, awfully talkative for someone who usually has to be encouraged to open his mouth with a hand holding his nostrils shut.

"That's quite an impressive file you have there," he says with a nod at the accordion folder tucked in the crook of her arm. "Is it possible that's all about me?"

She settles onto the chair the guard moved in for her before he left, crosses her legs, and flicks the elastic fastener on the file open. And notes that his eyes sharpen more at that sound and sight than the swish of her silk trousers. She knew a skirt would be wasted on him.

"I am responsible for keeping the White House informed of threats to the critical infrastructure in this part of this country, whether those threats come from external or internal sources." She smiles to herself, recognizing that her words brought his attention back to her face quickly enough. He won't dismiss her now. "You, it seems, should interest me on several levels, Mr. Sark."

He tilts his head slowly. "And I have only begun to interest you, a British national in the White House, now?"

Her smile begins to show. The subtle dig would have nicked many others sitting in this chair. "A naturalized American citizen, and yes, the CIA has only chosen to inform me of your existence now. We've already had the argument."

"'Argument?'" His eyebrows go up in what she suspects is only partial mockery. "Not a 'discussion?'"

"When I'm not happy, I believe in letting those I'm not happy with know. It makes life much easier."

He moves for the first time, pressing his shoulder back into the wall. "Well. You have a lot more in common with the people I've been spending time with than those who keep to the upper floors of this facility."

A minute, but definite shift in his relaxed pose makes her consider. A bruise, or something harsher? She is in civilian life now, but it's impossible to forget years of training in only 18 months of desk service. And the part of that training that really got her this job instantly presents her with several ways to both find out the details and take advantage of the weakness he just revealed.

"The National Security Advisor is the one who has to play politics, Mr. Sark. She keeps me around to make sure she has the ammunition to play well." She leans forward, mindful of maintaining distance, but knowing that making it personal helps to make the point. "As you well know, hardball is just as effective when played with finesse as with blunt force."

He nods once and keeps his eyes on hers as she stands to look down at him. The thought that this is a man who would not do anything unconsciously makes her look more carefully, but when he makes no move or sound, she files it away.

"I will see you again, Mr. Sark."

"Any time, Ms. Reed."

**

When she's simply driving, instead of needing to be somewhere, it takes forever to get anywhere in this city. So Lauren has plenty of time to think.

It had taken three months to dig out confirmation of Sark's existence and another two to browbeat the right people in the chain of CIA command to get access. It's never a good idea to pull out the big IOUs until they're needed. Now, having experienced the constant surveillance -- and the colossal waste of time and breath that was the follow up with Kelly -- she knows it could take longer to get the full picture. What strings should be pulled, or yanked, this time? Politics within politics. Which circle of hell is she navigating now?

Sighing, she pulls the silver stick from her twist and feels her tension and headache dissipate as the wind whips hair around her face. She doesn't like to arrive at home and have Michael sense her tension since it worries him and then he gets frustrated, knowing he can no longer ask. Plus, this is the last thing she wants to share with him. Digging into something connected to Sydney is not going to win her any wife points on their tally sheet. Even though they never hold each other to it, she already owes him for spending so much of the last month in D.C. instead of L.A.

Lauren had known she would go through with her marriage to Michael when he had finally told her why he forever looked lost in his world, although she had already known and that certainly hadn't been his description of the pain he carried. They haven't spoken since of the cascade of events leading up to Sydney's disappearance, but his take on it had been enough to engage her curiosity. What had been a standard MIA in even their vetting -- nothing is better concealed than the secret one intelligence institution holds from another -- was in fact more.

But this is not about Sydney; it's about information. Sark has an amazing amount. It's not possible that he got to his level without hoarding pieces at every turn. However, even with all this time, the agency has only begun to pull information from him. He told her that plainly enough this afternoon. She could tell for herself that his handlers haven't noticed. A quick review of the team while she voiced her displeasure with her briefing to Kelly made an amazing fact clear: the CIA has Sark surrounded by people who never dealt personally with him before his capture. Taking that into consideration, his file is filled with more than enough snippets to please.

What she can't determine is why Sark let her become aware of his dissimulation.

What does he want? What possible reason does he have to think he can get it from her? Unless she is entirely off on her reading, he had been playing with her at the beginning; enjoying a new face, but prepared to feed her the same act as everyone else. The news of her employer...no, that had been a surprise, but not the deciding factor.

Remembering when he had literally made his move, her hands tighten on the wheel.

Her revelation that she had pushed the CIA. And won.

"Oh, Sark, you want out of there, don't you?" she chuckles. "Not that I can blame you."

There will be still more layers, but she has identified the core, she's confident in that assessment. And she doesn't object to some mutual using. She's very good at coming out holding the unbloodied end of the sword.

Calmer, able to enjoy the sunshine making her squint even through sunglasses, she checks behind her in the mirror, sees no familiar cars, and slips over three lanes to take the next exit. It will take a little extra attention and jockeying with other drivers, but she'll still be home soon after Michael.

**

They ran out of new ways to amuse themselves ages ago. Not a very imaginative bunch. Their simplicity also means they have no objection to cycling back through old methods, Sark notes as the heaviest holds him by his wrists flat against the wall. While several others watch from positions by the glass, Sark attempts to ignore the pain of fingers drilling fresh bruises into every limb by deciding whether a dog's short-term memory is a more appropriate comparison, or a goldfish's.

His right leg jerks, an uncontrolled and laughable attempt to smash into vulnerable areas that proves he needs to find a better distraction. The fist driven into his stomach in retribution triggers another automatic reaction, but there is nothing for his gagging to eject. Instead, a cough rips through him and his captor leaps back, allowing him to slip to the floor in a heap.

This is a good spot. It's stationary.

"Hey, don't make him spit up blood again!" one of the other simpletons warns. "Fixing him up isn't as easy any more."

Yes, don't damage the merchandise beyond resale value.

"I haven't seen him talk that much in months. There has to be a reason." Sark is aware enough to notice that it's one of the more intelligent agents who steps forward to crouch and force his chin up so he must look at the other man. "What do you have to say, Sark? Our faces not pretty enough to get that mouth to shape words any more?"

Sark looks into eyes that are almost blank, almost good enough to respect. The bluff that lurks at the back, however, makes it easy to glare derision while blowing a kiss.

The agent swears softly and lets go of Sark's chin with a flick that sends his head back into the wall. That is the last measure of abuse Sark's brain needs to shut down for the day.

Thank you.

**

Michael is indeed already home. Lauren trails her fingers across his car hood as she passes by and it's still warmer than the sun warrants, so she's also right about not being too far behind.

He's sitting on the couch flipping through the mail. She closes the door and he looks up at her and pauses in the act of tossing an envelope onto the coffee table, his lips tightening. It's an indicator she's seen rarely, but one that stops her in the doorway to the living room.

"Is something wrong?"

He still says nothing, only biting his lip and looking down at his hands, so she walks over to settle next to him, taking heart that he doesn't shift away as she brushes the hair away from his eyes.

"Michael, look at me."

He grimaces and turns his head. "I stopped for a quick drink with Weiss."

"Nothing's wrong, is it?"

He shakes his head and she can see him struggling to put what he is thinking into words. Before she can say anything more, he puts the rest of the mail down and turns to fully face her.

"You know I love you."

"And I--"

"No, not--" He puts his hand to her lips, the tips of his fingers lingering before dropping away. "Please, not yet. I love who you are, what you do...the crazy way you think." They both smile at that, but his fades first. "And I trust you. Completely. I trust you with my heart."

He says these things in that intense, yet matter-of-fact way that grips her own heart every time. So serious. But -- she pulls herself back from the ache -- what brought it on now?

Her question must have shown on her face because he clears his throat, a pinched line forming between his eyebrows. "Weiss said you stopped by the agency today."

"Was he there? I never saw him. I had a meeting with Kelly." Oh, too soon, is all she can think.

"Yeah." The tension is back, his body, his lips, everything expressing his unease. "I know you, and I know you can't tell me, but Kelly means Sark." The last word comes out on a bitter note.

"Michael..."

He pulls back, but she can see the annoyance that the regret in her voice caused. After a deep breath, he reaches out and links their fingers together. Reassured, she casts around, trying to come up with something she can tell him. He speaks first, looking down at their hands.

"Just promise me: you won't trust anything he says."

That's a simple thing to answer, no hesitation required. "Of course." She leans forward to press her lips to his cheek. When he lifts their hands and drops his own kiss there, she tightens her fingers around his. "We're all right?"

He nods and draws her forward into his arms where she settles her forehead against the warmth of his neck. "We'll be fine."

**

This time they didn't give him any warning, but the sound of her heels does. Sark learned early to keep a memory of the way people walk; even a moment of preparation can make up for many deficiencies, including size.

Still, he hadn't expected her back. Not yet. And, of course, that's why she is here. In that case -- the hard look from the guard before the man opens the door, a familiar occurrence, settles Sark -- her turn to lead.

Mind the first step; the gap is wide.

She doesn't move to the chair this time. No folder either. Leaning against the cold stone behind him, he finds better alignment for his crossed ankles and lays his hands on his knees, waiting to discover the reason for these differences.

He is once again unable to recognize the look in her eyes and it is reassuring to know that he hadn't simply wished a cool blonde adversary into being. Seeing allies among enemies: the first sign of salvation or desperation, and the line separating the two is paper-thin. Being reminded of his reaction to seeing them in a woman is an unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome development and he considers it as she moves close, almost close enough for him to grasp.

Warm or cool, and which would be better?

"Would you promise me something?"

Clamping his teeth together barely keeps his reaction in check, but at least it prevents his hands from clenching into fists. Incredible. She did say those words -- the instantly hyper-alert posture of the men beyond the glass attests to it -- and she is standing there, perfectly still and waiting for an answer.

So he inclines his head. While it's not exactly an agreement, he is not going to give more until he knows exactly where this woman is leading him.

"Don't touch me."

There's no way to be sure, but he believes it's been almost 17 months since he tested the possibility of escape through hostage taking. It had been a slim brunette who smelled of orange blossoms. The lesson that while the CIA might not be brilliant, it is good at some things had kept him in an infirmary bed for nearly five weeks after that, with only the memory of that scent to cut through the pain. People stay in this cell until the CIA lets them out -- Irina, Tippin, he knows the history of bungled transports. And since that attempt, he has known the reason they decided to keep him here when other facilities would be...less comfortable.

All of that has to be in the folder she left behind.

Reading minds now, are we? A shame.

Staying silent, he turns his hands so the palms face up, then turns them back and folds his fingers down so he is clasping his knees. He watches her take in this demonstration of agreement rather than a spoken vow and wonders whether her hesitation means she'll force something more specific from him.

Instead, she nods and settles next to him on the cot.

His head whips around to keep his eyes on her and she looks right into them.

Warm. Very warm.

The men outside launch to their feet.

She holds them back with an authoritatively raised hand and, "Thank you, gentlemen."

Sark senses more than sees the one with his hand on the door back up one step. The others stay standing as well until she turns to look at them and, turning with her, Sark sees that even then they sit leaning forward, with their gun hands free.

He smiles in amazement. And, he'll admit, to watch them twitch.

Down boys.

He turns back to see her watching him and shrugs, giving her the point.

"Very illuminating demonstration."

"Not just a demonstration." She keeps her voice low as well and he can see the men practically tipping off their seats in their attempt to hear this intimate conversation, despite the assurance the cameras and microphones provide. "A measure of trust must always be established for any relationship to work."

"Is that what we have here?"

She arches a single eyebrow and he appreciates that she doesn't withdraw at all once the question is out there.

"I think we have the possibility for a very beneficial relationship. If all the parties cooperate."

"Cooperate with rules you set."

"Naturally."

The corner of his mouth lifts as he tilts his head, conceding. "Very well. What is the first rule?"

She can't suppress the glimmer of triumph in her eyes, but he does better with his. That slip on her emotions, the fact that it happened, will make things easier.

**

She can't be sure what he'll do.

Really, the only thing Lauren is relatively certain of right now when it comes to Sark is that if something is specifically agreed to, he will abide by that agreement. Anything not outlined in triplicate is, she has no doubt, fair game.

This is why she made the first rule a rule of distance between her and him.

It hadn't been what she'd planned to put first. But he can't be allowed to touch her in any way, not after the run of sensation from the nape of her neck to the small of her back when she had stepped close and he had raised his eyes to hers. She had simply wanted to separate the two of them from the surrounding agents, establish a sense of closeness. She had succeeded far too well. Her reaction had held only a hint of fear, and that scared her.

Almost to her car, she reaches up to pull her keys out of her purse. When a hand latches on to her arm, she spins, pushing --

"Hey, hey sorry, Lauren." Weiss trips into the side of a car in an effort to keep her from following through on her drawn-back hand, heel cocked forward and headed for his nose. The annoyance in her voice when she lowers her arm is for entirely herself, but he doesn't need to be aware of that.

"You should know better than to sneak up on a woman in a garage, really, Eric."

"Heh, yeah, just, I wasn't sneaking. You didn't hear me calling and you walk faster than any other woman I've known, so had to try something."

She covers her unease at being that unaware of her surroundings by drawing her purse from under her arm to finally reach her keys. "Sorry, I was thinking."

"Could see that. And I've got a good idea about what."

Suppressing an amused "I hardly think so," she looks at him, eyebrow raised.

"Look, if there's something going on with Sark, you've got to tell--"

She frowns at him. "No. I can't."

To her surprise, he frowns back, but when he speaks it becomes clear there is more worry than anger in his thoughts. "Then there is new information about Sydney?"

"No, Eric, there isn't," she sighs before reaching out to squeeze his hand. "I appreciate your loyalty to the matter, but it's been almost two years. The CIA has questioned him repeatedly about Sydney and all matters having to do with that night at her apartment. You know this. Michael knows this."

Weiss' shoulders sag, even as he nods, and she starts away again; understanding his frustration, but unable to do anything to relieve it. "Sark is a man with knowledge in many areas. The CIA has explored few of them and yet is unwilling to--" She cuts herself off as he catches up to her at her car, shakes her head at her own frustration. "Your agency can be a tad short-sighted sometimes, Eric. I'm trying to work around that."

"Oh, believe me, I understand," he mutters and she chuckles, remembering some of the stories tossed back and forth as pros and cons over beer at her old apartment, which she had offered up as a secure neutral zone for Michael when he tried to get Eric to leave the agency with him.

But he doesn't laugh with her, and when she moves to unlock her door he doesn't wave and start back to his office. Instead, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and when she looks up, she catches him chewing on his lip.

"What is it?"

He flicks a glance at the concrete pole behind her, aware as she is of the cameras concealed there, and then looks straight down into her eyes. "If there's...you know I can't touch anything that has to do with Sark...officially."

"Yes, I know." Contemplating the unspoken offer, she opens her door and he steps around to stand with his hands on the frame. He's clearly waiting for the rest of her answer, but she simply slides into the seat and starts the engine. There are too many ways that his involvement could confuse things.

His face as blank as she's ever seen it, he pushes the door closed and turns to leave. Oh, hell. He might not be the best option, but… She rolls down the window and leans out on her bent arm.

"Eric."

He turns back.

"Would you like to do drinks Thursday? Michael will be covering an evening class for another professor and I'd enjoy the company."

That bright, almost child-like smile lights up his face and, as always, she has to smile back.

**

Used in limited ways, he will make things easier, she justifies to herself when she's out on the road headed to her own office. He'll know some of the details of the L.A. branch's structure, the possible in-fighting and pitfalls, which she would have to work to discover. Plus, Michael will be calmer knowing someone he trusts is involved.

There is still so much to consider that Eric can't be involved in, however.

Silent or no, she knows she had Sark's agreement on the prohibition on touching. After drawing that promise, she had tried to hem him in with every truly strategic possible possibility, probability, or just completely crazy-ass idea -- as some of her decisions have been called over the years -- that she could imagine.

Expect nothing and you will be blindsided by everything. Anticipate what you can and prepare to counter anything that happens. There are plenty of pat phrases to be thrown at the situation, and Sark will be setting his mind to getting around all of them. She knows this. The morning was spent surrounding him with barriers built out of specifics and designed to lead him back down paths the CIA has already covered in months upon months of interrogations.

They only define a place to start.

She would rather have been able to take him out of that cell, away from CIA eyes and ears -- although not away from surveillance altogether; that would be foolish -- but there is no reason to push the CIA that hard this fast. Start with a nudge, work up to a push, and by the time it comes down to the point, the hard shove will seem like a helping hand.

Sark wants out.

She wants an in.

A man with an eye on what's best for himself, but with a strange set of principles that he follows scrupulously, is more suited for her purposes than a standard mercenary. If she can outline the rules well enough, tight enough, he'll become a source of information for years to come, not just based on what he has stored in the past.

The CIA is not the only one she must coach through the process to accept the helping hand.

**

It isn't possible that this is happening. The thought hits with a heavy thud, forcing Sark's lungs to constrict for just enough of a moment that he can't hope to feign sleep, despite his doubts that the two in the front seat saw his eyes open and widen.

He has always known that Lauren Reed is interested in more than they have been discussing for the last three weeks. She would have to be; even if the CIA had severely pruned his file there was no reason to believe that she would be ignorant of the details of his capture, the reasons for Allison's placement, what he thought of the agency's brand of hospitality.

But now...

For the first time in more months than bear counting, he opened his eyes to look out of glass that doesn't extend from ceiling to floor, but rather fills a frame. He is now looking -- no squinting -- at the sun, flitting in and out between branches flashing by. The inside of his cheek sends a sharp protest to his brain as he bites down to keep from requesting that the window be lowered so he can feel the wind, but he can taste the difference anyway; air that hasn't been filtered through three systems before being allowed near him has a crispness that he had almost forgotten.

The world can end now; wouldn't be a total loss.

He frowns a bit at that. That's a thought that can't be allowed to flourish.

To focus himself on the present, he shifts to study the back of Reed's head. Her hair is up once again, secured in a sleek twist with a clip instead of an implement that could double as a weapon. Perhaps because for the first time, he's behind her -- he sits up, feels the tension keep his manacled wrists down by his sides, and lets out a small huff of amusement -- hands secured to a bar underneath him, or no.

Unable for the moment to do more than appreciate her foresight, he eases back into the thin padding of the government-issue plastic seats to ask: "And we're headed where?"

"Someplace different," she informs the windshield.

Eyes narrowed at her tone, he considers. Yes, he could wait. However, since other than the disorientation of waking to find himself here, so far this day has gone better than most, he could also push things along a bit. "So I see. I won't bother to ask how you arranged such a miracle, but I don't think wondering about your motives is entirely uncalled for."

That makes her turn her head, revealing the faint annoyance crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Patience. I'm certain it's a virtue you still hold dear."

The driver snorts, drawing Sark's attention to the man who he is himself certain he hasn't seen before today. He didn't think the NSC had lackeys, but the CIA has been consistent about the people assigned to his detail, and he hasn't seen new muscle since he lost the patience she has such faith in and broke the collarbone of a particularly sadistic bastard of a guard. This one, however new and however amused by the situation, holds himself ready with only one hand on the wheel. Reed may have briefed him well, but Sark also recognizes the posture of someone who is more natural in this state than at rest.

A flash of color almost hidden in the trees up ahead keeps Sark from testing the man's tolerance for irony further. A sign in Park Service brown -- the first indication that he isn't being driven off the end of the earth. When they draw close enough for white blurs to form into words, Sark goes completely still, mind racing, heart pumping faster to catch up. Crater Lake? He should have guessed at least some of the distance from LA by the pine needles on the trees whipping by, but he hadn't even noticed that...can't exactly call it a detail when he's surrounded by a bloody forest.

Body firmly in fucking Oregon and mind orbiting Pluto for all the good it's doing.

"Do you have a cabin with a nice lake view that the park rangers casually don't notice?"

The question comes out sharper than he intended and he takes an uneven breath, trying to conquer the jitter of self-flagellation before it manifests visibly as Reed braces herself on the arm rest to twist fully around.

"Of course. A cabin equipped with all the comforts of home, including several black bears chained in the back. Hungry ones."

After a quick glare she presses her lips together and faces forward again, and Sark is left trying to maintain a blank face for the benefit of the back of her head. Well, damn that. She can be as irritated as she likes, he'll figure her problem out later; at this moment he has his own. Unforgivable. Eyes open to some details and not all are worse than useless.

Realizing that silently berating himself is no more productive than snapping at her, he deliberately shuts out the trees, the sun, the now shaking shoulders of the driver. When he trusts himself again, he opens his eyes.

Only a fool part of the time.

**

Half a step below seething, Lauren can't even be relieved when they pull up to what is indeed a prototypical American log cabin just as the sun heads behind the trees. She hears Sark's short laugh at the sight. "So glad someone's happy," she mutters. On catching the curious look Davis sends her, she gives him a tight smile, determined to push away everything but now.

Never mind that Michael is hardly speaking to her. He may have turned his back on the intelligence world, but his brain works as well as ever, particularly when assisted by a friend. She should have realized that Michael would always been more important to Eric than her.

Never mind that her own boss is questioning her sanity; seriously this time. She hadn't needed visual confirmation of the look that accompanied the terse warning that "if this doesn't pan out, I hope you've got ideas for where you want to spend your vacation." She has no doubt the warning could turn into a threat.

Everything had been moving and moving well, but she needed to get away from the overwhelming control of that glass and stone cell. The patterns, the roles, the moves of the players were too set in their ways there. She needs to jolt everyone out of those patterns, so she decided to push and here they are. Here they are.

She consciously eases the car door open instead of flinging it wide the way she would like -- it would only bounce back -- and then moves to the front of the cabin as quickly as possible without running, needing a moment without anyone able to see her face. After thinking she had gotten a hold on her nerves, it's disturbing to know she clearly hasn't if a few comments from Sark can set her teeth on edge. A gust of wind sneaks under her open suit jacket as she swipes her keycard and holds her thumb to the panel that is revealed. Shivering, she hears the jingle of the metal restraints sliding from under the car seat and Davis' wry, "Sorry, no lake view." She shakes her head at the ridiculousness of such a statement and turns in time to be completely floored by the amused grin on Sark's face, despite the gun pointed unwavering at his head. Blinking, she swings back to push the door open and step inside to key in the necessary code. For a moment, the boy had reappeared. Perhaps she should be grateful he did now; she'll be prepared should it happen again.

The inside panel beeps its acceptance of her presence and she automatically motions to Davis that it is clear to proceed. He nods toward the door and Sark shuffles forward casually enough, almost making it seem like the chains draped between his ankles are not the reason he is moving so slow, but it's a relief to see that the amusement has left his face by the time he reaches the doorway. There is a reason there is no lake view, for the lake is the reason that far too many people are at this park. They are as far removed from those throngs as is possible and there is nothing around, no indication other than the road of where they might be. She spares only a moment to regret not getting to experience the water that Michael described to her as bluer than the star-dusk sky, but the Secret Service knows how to position a safe house, and in the middle of a tourist haven in the middle of nowhere is as good as she could find on short notice.

From Davis' disgusted look, it's not good enough. He quickly wipes his displeasure from his face, but his eyes are not pleased. Truly looking around, Lauren sighs. Yes, it is a safe house. It isn't precisely what one would call "safe," however. There are all sorts of objects scattered throughout the front room, heaven only knows what they'll find elsewhere. The picture of someone's happy family is sweet, but the frame that displays it so elegantly has at least three uses she can tick off on her fingers. The implements by the fireplace...she doesn't want to contemplate.

"I'll pull one of the chairs from the kitchen, we can put him by the sofa for now," she offers, knowing it is a far from perfect solution. The staid beige sofa practically floats in the middle of the room, surrounded by tables, lamps, and various dustcatchers, but at least it's in the middle with nothing in easy arm's reach. Davis doesn't say a thing while she fetches one of the natural wood ladder back chairs and places it with a definitive thud on the offensively lime green rug. Lips tight, Davis gestures with his gun and Sark carefully lowers himself onto seat, tilting his head as he considers his surroundings.

"The decorator should be shot."

Sark's opinion slips through her shaky control and Lauren can't entirely muffle her laugh. She is immediately sorry for it when Davis' expression turns to stone. Hell, she'd better get herself sorted out quickly or this is all going to have been an expensive field trip. As it is, for the first time she dreads returning home. It isn't only her boss who is going to want answers. But she isn't going to second-guess this. She can't.

"Why don't I--"

"Yeah. You go get the stuff." Davis settles on the sofa, eyes never leaving Sark. "Let me get him set, and then how about we have a chat?"

She barely catches the keys Davis flings in her general direction. Wonderful, she thinks as she circles behind him and pulls open the door to see ominous top-heavy clouds rolling in like a fog. Just wonderful.

**

Eating dinner isn't easy.

Preparing it was relatively uncomplicated, but watching as Davis struggled with himself and the situation before giving in, that was painful. He had tightened Sark's leg chains and released the manacles so the man could feed himself, and then sat with watchful eyes while Lauren cleared the rest of the room of potentially lethal knickknacks and tried not to think about the way the increasingly heavy air outside made her skin tingle. All around, 30 minutes she would rather not repeat.

Sitting here with Sark less than a meter away, listening to a low-voiced lecture while thunder rumbles in the distance -- it's almost impossible to swallow.

"There was no way to send someone ahead of time, Lauren?"

Her fork cuts into her palm and she relaxes, pulling open the fist that formed. "Don't you think I tried?"

"Well, obviously--"

"Mark." Her use of his first name is enough to net her a glance, but she doesn't want his attention to stray too far. They both know the chance they are taking with only two guards where there is usually a small army. He is also putting a lot of trust in her, and she needs him to understand. "I could get this authorized; a plane to get us to one of our D.C. facilities was out of the question."

"It shouldn't have taken this long to get settled." Davis' irritation isn't as strong, but it's still there and she can't argue the point. It shouldn't have taken this long. It shouldn't have taken any time at all because she should have checked the condition of the cabin instead of taking the agent's word for its suitability. But Davis is one of the few who knows why this is so important, and watching him so carefully, knowing him, she sees his capitulation before he says, "I'm still not thrilled, but we won't let him out of this room."

One of the knots loosens in her back. She fights the temptation to sag. "That's fine."

"You hear that much, Sark?" At Davis' raised voice, Sark slowly turns his head away from the window. What in the world could he hope to see through the blackness that has taken over? "Yeah, you heard. You need to relieve yourself, let me know. We'll set up a little port-a-potty, just for you."

"How...thoughtful."

"Knew you'd appreciate it."

Lauren shakes her head. "If you men are done taunting each other--"

The flash catches her unprepared. The metallic tang of her own blood spreads over her tongue and there is no thinking, just the alphabet running as quick as she can make it go, determined to not close her eyes. Over the years she's gotten it down to just under four seconds. Few notice a pause that long.

"You going to be okay?"

That was Davis, worried. Don't--can't make him worried. Her lungs are half filled, ready for speech, but she loses all words when the rumble of the lightning passing through air reaches them, with another flash on its heels. The screech of a chair dragging across wood registers through the buzz that has taken over the world and Lauren realizes that this time she gave in. She forces her eyes open to see Sark twisted to look at her and Davis standing, frowns turned on her by both men. She tries a reassuring smile, but it must be a weak attempt because Davis' frown grows.

"Shit. I forgot."

"No." She holds up her hand when he takes a step toward her. "No, don't. I'll, I'll be fine." Another rumble cuts through her concentration and she knows she didn't hide her flinch when Davis jabs his hand toward the back rooms.

"Go. Find a napkin, a washcloth, whatever, soak it, and calm yourself down." He pulls her up from her chair and she makes a noise, warning as Sark begins to shift. Davis gives her a shove, sending her two full steps backwards down the hall before he spins back to glare at Sark. Frozen, Lauren sees the eyebrow Sark raises, the tension in both men's postures. She can't leave them alone like this.

"Mark, I --" The flash turns into a crash before she can handle either sensation and a whimper escapes through her teeth clamped on her lower lip. He doesn't even turn to see the shock on her face.

"You're no use to me like this. Go."

She stumbles away.

**

Fascinating.

"You can wipe that look off your face."

Sark looks away from the hall and into the frown of Mark Davis. That's a good solid American name for the man. Too bad his humor appears to have left for the day.

"To what look would you be referring?"

"You're well aware." Davis takes a step closer -- just a bit more -- to loom over Sark. A tried and true tactic that does its job this time more because of the look in the man's eyes and his steady gun rather than the size of either. He is good, Sark admits. Knew just where to stop.

"What possible harm could a look do, Davis? Is it something I could use to remove the rest of these chains? That would be useful."

"Good to see you haven't lost your sense of the ridiculous."

"It's been a comfort, yes."

Davis' eyes narrow. Would he let himself break and lunge if given enough provocation? Under normal circumstances Sark wouldn't think so, but today has been a day of surprises -- the afterimage of a square stays behind in Sark's eyelids as thunder rolls through following the latest lightning flash through the single unshaded window -- and he has already been handed more than he could possibly dream.

Why the hell not?

"Come, Davis. I'm here entirely at your beck and call." Sark leans back in the chair and lets his hands gesture a wide invitation.

Instead of the glare Sark expected, Davis' attention shifts to the side. His eyes are back on Sark so quickly he wonders if the moment happened, but Sark trusts his instincts, yet another one of the things it pleases him to think he has managed not to lose. It's near impossible to be casual when the center of someone's entire focus, so Sark doesn't bother to make the attempt. He turns and looks at the table next to the sofa -- lamp, book...ah.

"Get up."

Sark looks up at Davis, considering. There are far too many factors to deal with, not to mention another armed professional elsewhere on the premises. And then there are the fingers tightening on the gun that is now pointing at his head instead of somewhere less permanently hampering. Very well.

Holding his hands open at his sides, Sark rises. "Is it my turn to sit on the comfy sofa?"

"Don't push it, smartass," Davis growls as the next strike hits and then everything freezes as the whole cabin goes dark.

One step, one step to the lamp and Sark yanks and spins, knowing that Davis has moved but, yes, the hum of the generator and the lights and there. Sark throws, clipping Davis' head as the other man ducks and brings up his gun.

Hell.

Sark jerks his hand back, pulling the cord that he held onto and the lamp tries to follow, hitting Davis' elbow on the way. The man drops the gun, but uses his crouch to drive his shoulder into Sark's stomach where the ache joins the sharp pain boring through Sark's leg as they fall against the sofa.

Free hands allow for blows -- to the head, aiming for the eyes and the potential for extreme pain -- but the damn leg chains and the sheer size that Davis brings to the confrontation are more than a problem. Should have hung on to the fucking lamp.

Sark bucks, arching to flip the two of them over, but the sofa cushions compress beneath their weight and offer no leverage at all against the dense muscle of the other man. Davis clamps his thighs around Sark's and draws back just enough to give his fist room to slam into Sark's side, doubling him over. Feeling the edges of his world darken, Sark twists, fighting to roll out from the bottom, seeking air, and feels Davis' balance waver. Focusing, Sark sees Davis' foot trapped between his own and pulls his knees up, tripping Davis with the chains.

As the other man falls to his back, his head cracking against the wood, Sark finally rolls to the side and stretches his arm out under the sofa to grab the picture frame they had both noticed glinting in the lamp light. He just gets his fingers around it when he is tugged across the floor by his feet. Swinging up, using Davis' own action for leverage, Sark drives the edge of the frame into Davis' temple and the man drops.

Letting himself relax would be a relief, but a foolish thing to do. Lightning flares again. There is no way to tell how much longer Reed will be gone. Sark looks down at the man on the floor. Does he need to...? He leans forward and feels for the pulse. Nothing. At least things don't need to get too messy, then.

He swiftly pats through the man's pockets. Nothing. Where are the keys? Davis undid the manacles, what did he do with the keys after that?

Sark sweeps his gaze around the room. Nothing out on any visible surface. He braces his hands under him and pushes--

"Shit!"

Sark colapses again, hands clamping around his thigh. Adrenaline or no, the hole is determined to make its presence felt. It is seeping blood into the cotton pants so freely that the thick liquid drips on the floor and his grip is doing little to stop the flow. A quick and painful examination, and it's clear the bullet went clear through. Breathing quickly, Sark pulls himself close to the dead man again and with two hard yanks at the button-down shirt, has enough material to fashion a makeshift tourniquet.

No time. Up. Out.

He manages to get to his feet this time and from the higher perspective, sees the jacket. Davis' suit jacket. Pockets. Sark shuffles forward and within seconds has the keys, has freed his legs, and has pulled the jacket around himself to provide additional protection against the elements.

It's not going to be comfortable, but he can't remember the last time he was.

**

Sark is always pale, but now with him fading into the sheets that are the only thing covering him and protecting the sofa, concern starts to take over. Just how much blood had he lost before she found him, half-drowned in the puddle of muck that his body finally gave up in? There's none to be seen flowing now anywhere other than out into the bandage she secured to his leg.

Lauren checks the gauze again as she listens to the decreasing thrum of the rain drilling into the cabin walls. The bandage doesn't seem to be turning deep red as disconcertingly fast as the previous one, which is a very good thing. Safe house aid kits are better stocked than most, but even they have a limited inventory. Doctors are supposed to be only a call and a helicopter drop away. The call has been taken care of. The helicopter--

She feels the flash before she hears it, which is well before the crash hits her. She keeps her eyes open this time, although what good will that do now? After a moment, testing herself, she walks over to the window. The storm may be headed elsewhere, but the sky that should be glowing with stars is beyond black. She prefers that unknown to the shock of purple that appears when electricity ignites the atmosphere. Even in her nightmares she's never seen that color before.

There will be no helicopter tonight.

Lauren spins back to pace the room, still shivering. She tossed her sodden clothes in a corner earlier, wanting them off. Michael's old shirt, while comforting, is not a floor-skimming dress, even on her. Perhaps she should put on her other trousers, but she can't leave the front room. Not now.

Nightmares. This...is not a nightmare -- god she wishes it were, there would be someone to wrap their arms around her and pull her back into a comforting reality. This is reality. It is the hell of a reality that she created because of her need to be the one with the answers.

About to step into the hall, her arms come around her middle and she spins back to stalk back toward the door.

The answer now? Davis. A man for whom she learned the finer points of American football so she can tweak him by feigning ignorance each Monday. Even when they aren't in the same city he e-mails her, ranting or raving, and she responds appropriately because it is--hell.

Say it.

No.

The warmth has to be gone now. The body she moved so easily, now stiffening under the blanket on the floor...

Say it.

Was.

Her strides have brought her to the sofa again and she kicks it, wincing when her unprotected toes protest and ignoring the tears that had to have come from that pain. They had to. She kicks the sofa again so she can see Sark's body jolt with the impact, but it's not nearly enough. Beyond that movement of the cushions, he doesn't stir at all, not even a grimace to show that her anger had any effect, even his breathing hasn't changed, staying shallow, barely raising his chest, but it's regular, damn him, regular and proving he is alive while--

"Damn you, Sark. You bastard. You heartless idiotic bastard! Were you planning to flap your arms and fly out of here?"

Leaning over him, almost hissing, her wild mocking gesture catches his shoulder on the downswing and his cold fingers lock around her wrist. Instinct takes care of the situation while her brain is frozen slapping her free hand down on his chest for leverage and yanking her entire body backward, so she tumbles to the floor. She rolls up into a crouch and stares at him, amazed to finally see the grimace of pain she had wanted as he blinks into full consciousness and absently rubs the spot above his heart that she all but punched in her panic. Then he shifts and reaches down. He doesn't have far to go before his fingers discover the bandage on his inner thigh. His hand slowly pulls away and it hovers for a second before he lowers it to stroke the pattern on the cushion beneath him.

But he says nothing.

Knowing how close she is to again launching herself at him with a scream, she starts to push to her feet and leave.

"Why am I alive?"

Fully shocked by the barely-slurred question, Lauren drops to the floor, distantly feeling the tackiness of the wood her bare legs, refusing to think about what she missed in her numbness.

"I don't know, I wanted you dead." When he turns his head to pin her with narrowed blue eyes she counters the surprise of hearing those words come out of her by raising her chin and giving him the rest of the truth. "By the time I headed after you, I was ready to skin you alive."

His expression doesn't change at all. It is another blow to realize she expected, wanted some change. If not fear or regret, at least awareness of what he did. She had forgotten. She realizes this as he simply looks at her with nothing other than curiosity. She had forgotten what this man is. How could she?

"You would have killed me as well."

She isn't asking and he knows it. A mocking smile slides into place and he provides her with her reminder.

"If you had stood in the way as well."

Now she does push to her feet, the better to look down at him. What to say to that while the man who had done his job and stood in the way lies dead in the other room?

She manages to turn on her heel without stumbling and makes her way into the bathroom, not caring at that moment if he drags himself and his answers to hell. The door solidly sealed, she runs the water in the sink and slides down to press her forehead to the chilled tiles, wishing for sunrise.

##

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