Title: Spy Girl
E-mail: eli @ popullus.net
Rating: PG-13
Posted: March 19, 2004
Summary: Public places. Sark. Children.
Disclaimer: ABC and the Abrams are getting all the money, not me. Read.
A/N: A continuation of the Seeing Stars universe. And this one got a little sappy. Written for Ellen after a bunch of us went on our own field trip to the International Spy Museum.
Sydney hadn't bought the tickets to the Spy Museum to annoy Sark. She'd just heard so much about it that, well, it'd be weird if she weren't curious. Wouldn't it?
The annoyance is a perk. She has fun when he's irritated.
"There were children."
"Yes, there were. And there still are." She places her hand on his forearm to keep him by her side and away from the three boys tussling over the "invisible ink" pen. "Please let them grow into adults."
Sark grumbles and, as she uses her grip to steer him to a portion of the gift shop without temptation, he aims a dark glare over his shoulder. "If anyone -- man, woman or child -- steps on either of my feet one more time, you won't have any say in the matter."
He wouldn't, not really. She's pretty sure. Not after he managed to hold up through the dramatic voice-overs and storytelling. And she thinks she might be able to get him to admit to enjoying the history.
It's only been a month since he officially joined the CIA, though. Less than two months since he'd been acting the good-if-disgruntled little minion for the Covenant. So it hadn't been a total surprise to feel him struggling for control in that final exhibit room, vibrating with his need to spit out insults about the designers, the visitors, and possibly the gullibility of humanity. He had settled for muttering a few choice derogatory names loud enough that she'd dissolved into laughter. She's still fighting the giggles off every time she looks at his face. The exhibits hadn't been that bad.
Just then, Sydney stumbles. Sark has stopped short behind a rack of videos -- to stare at the miniature leather-clad Diana Riggs displayed on all the box covers there. Naturally. That's okay. She can drool over all of the Bond variations lined up right beside The Avengers. Well, all of them except Timothy Dalton. He's kind of freaky.
She reaches out to shift Goldfinger in front of License to Kill.
"Your outfits are flashier."
"Of course they are," she says without turning. "If the outfit is getting all the looks, who's paying attention to the face?"
His voice is different when he pulls her around saying, "Oh, I don't know." Serious. Almost dropping to 'sexy.'
Here?
She barely gets through that one-word question before his eyes sweep over her, taking in the fitted black turtleneck and gray wool trousers that she'd deemed suitable for her appearance before the FBI's "interagency working group" that morning. Who knew whether they got any work done since they hadn't stopped sniping at each other long enough to listen to her presentation, but she's not going to think about that now. Is it possible for anyone think while this man lets go and hits you with a mischievous smile?
"There's something to be said for subtlety."
Huh? "What?"
She watches, breath held, as he draws a single finger up the middle of her torso, trailing heat through her shirt even though, maybe because, he keeps that finger one careful inch away.
Dear god, she prays, don't let me pass out here.
He taps her nose. She gasps, then glares at his grin.
"Go wander for a bit. There's something I have to take care of on my own."
A hard swallow doesn't help steady her much, but it at least clears her throat enough to make the question, "You're not going to kill anyone, right?" sound like a joke instead of a plea.
His smile isn't all that reassuring. And it's all she gets before he turns and walks over to peruse the book displays.
With a soft huff of disbelief, she heads the opposite direction and ends up standing in front of a colorful stack of "hidden" cameras.
Great. Yes, this is great. She's exchanged two hours of amusement for the next five minutes of stress. That's not a bad deal. Truly. It's not even really stress, more a slight concern. He'll never be completely reformed -- which provides more than a little bit of the heat in this relationship -- but they're in a public place. A public place with almost as many security cameras as the government buildings around the corner, according to Marshall. Shit. Marshall. She'd promised him a souvenir. What could she possibly get him here that wouldn't be tacky? Well...the cola can camera is actually kind of cute.
Okay, stop talking to yourself. The kids are giving you funny looks.
Looking away from a particularly wide-eyed boy she panics when she doesn't see Sark anywhere. Oh, no. She would've heard a commotion if he'd done anything, right?
A flash of blond hair and black leather. She spots him leaning against the window right outside the door, arms crossed, smiling at the tourists passing by. Keeping her eyes on him -- although what is she doing to do, jump through the glass if he tries anything? -- she pays for the stupid camera. Then she smiles politely at the woman trying to keep her little girl from crawling butt-first down the stairs, and rushes out.
"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" she demands.
"I didn't leave, darling Sydney." His left arm hooks around her waist and it's not just relief that makes her lean into him; public displays of affection are still rare enough that she'll savor them whenever they happen. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"Yeah, but you could have grabbed me on your way outside."
Sydney turns to hook her arms together behind his back and her hand jostles the plastic bag he's holding. She pulls back. It's too small to be a book. Please say he didn't buy the lipstick pen. She'd have to laugh if he did. "What's that? Don't tell me Marshall conned a souvenir out of both of us."
"Actually, this is for you."
Oh. "You bought me something? What?"
Sark dangles the bag between them on his index finger. "If you'll take this, I'm sure you'll find it easier to figure out."
She tries to glare, but it's hard through the smile. She settles for sticking her tongue out at him before she snatches the bag. It jingles. What in the world--?
The plastic envelope crackles between her fingers when she pulls it out. Inside, catching the slant of the afternoon sun, is a simple link bracelet. More of a chain, really. But it's the charm hooked through one link that makes her bite her lip. Laugh or cry? She's not sure which impulse will win out.
"It seemed appropriate," he murmurs.
She looks up to see something in his eyes, and it takes a moment to recognize it as uncertainty. "It is." She tears the package open and draws the bracelet out so she can hand it to him. His frown clears when she holds her right arm up. "Put it on for me?"
His lips curl and he presses a kiss into her palm as he fastens the metal around her wrist.
"So does this make you my spy girl?"
"That's what it says." She links her fingers through his and draws him down the sidewalk toward the corner. Waiting for the light to change, she rests her head briefly on his shoulder. "But we already knew that."
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