TITLE: Stuck With You
E-MAIL: elishavah
RATING: R
POSTED: June 30, 2004
SUMMARY: Things don't really heat up until stuff explodes.
DISCLAIMER: Read.
NOTES: For Brix's request in the Weiss ficathon that she so wonderfully organized. Her requirements: "Some kind of mission, a zippo lighter, feather(s)." I took it upon myself to add the handcuffs.
BETA THANKS: ::tackles FBF:: My squishy!

---

Goddamn handcuffs.

Weiss winced. No, back up. The handcuffs were a good idea. Very good. The hitch was that they needed to be attached to something with a little more heft, like the leg of a table bolted to the floor by experts in that sort of thing. A human arm was nowhere near sturdy enough to be a deterrent to movement, and his own was definitely not up to the job. Yet one bracelet was secure around his left wrist and doing a great job of cutting off the flow of blood up his arm, which was tingling more now than it had after he'd spent a full minute fishing for that last worthwhile beer in a bucket of ice at his cousin's picnic the other weekend.

The other bracelet was, of course, locked on Sark.

"You have to move faster."

The blast had given Sark a fascinating leopard- or Dalmatian-like look -- a splatter of gray dust and black burns across his right side, fading reluctantly around to his left, and Weiss knew from pricks of pain in usually non-painful places that he hadn't done much better when they ducked behind the pillar -- but that glare was still cold enough to cause frost to rise on any vulnerable bits of the person on the receiving end. It was impressive and scarier than hell in the best of circumstances, and Weiss was ready to give the glare a 9 out of 10 right now. Normally, when he was silently narrowing those cold eyes across a room or behind a gun, Sark would only get a 6 or 7, of course, and Weiss would be doing his damnedest to make him think it was only a 3 or so. He'd had plenty of practice not wilting under stares-of-death, although, thankfully, less practice recently; 10 was saved for Jack Bristow's best. But Sark's glare this time earned bonus points for the accent. Things were always more condescending with a proper British accent, and not just because Weiss figured that was the accent they used right before the Beefeaters lopped off your head and mounted it on a castle wall.

Anyway, there was no way was his own glare back that impressive, Weiss knew. Not with sweat stinging at the corners of his eyes and plastering his shirt to every one of those too-many inches he still carried around. And his lungs burned, like acid was pouring down his throat and everything in his chest was contracting in protection. That had to be it. It had never been so fucking hard to breathe before, not even when he'd inhaled that whiff of tear gas during training and scrambled out of the hut desperate to puke in peace.

"Sark!" he called. It came out more as a wheeze, though. He hardly heard it himself, and his ears were a hell of a lot closer to his mouth than the ears of the man who continued to drag him forward. Jesus. This had to stop, he had to stop.

So he did.

As he dropped to his knees, the pain in his shoulder registered -- how could it not, socket and shoulder weren't entirely friends any more -- but he ignored it in favor of squeezing his eyes shut and concentrating on in...out, in...out. Oh yeah. Much better. His lungs might actually fill on the next gasp.

"Get up."

Another wrenching pain, accompanied by what felt like a serrated knife gouging his wrist. A laugh hiccupped out of him, taking precious, wonderful, smoke-free air with it. Nah, Sark wouldn't have a knife on him, or he'd have used it ages ago.

There was another jerk.

"Nope," he managed hoarsely, staying safe in his nice, dark world. "Not moving. Not...happening." He heard an almost-doglike growl, not at all upper-class, and laughed again. "Go on, rip my arm off."

His arm was yanked back and forth, and he groaned, but he still couldn't work up the energy to do a damn thing if Sark decided to take him up on that.

"Don't tempt me," Sark sneered, the words washing hot over Weiss' face. A hand cracked across his right cheek and, Christ, that stung. Weiss didn't want to know what Sark would try next, so opened his eyes to look into the narrowed blue ones even with his.

Crouched facing him, Sark registered brief satisfaction with a tight smile, then the blue went light as ice and Weiss instinctively shied away. Sark only leaned in closer.

"You will get up. Now," Sark ordered, "because if whoever planted those bombs doesn't kill you in the next minute, I will."

Weiss didn't doubt that for a second. Still, his head shook automatically, his brain knowing better than to trust any muscle to obey a command at this point, much less the words to explain that.

His mouth curling into a tight snarl, Sark stood and yanked, and leverage and, yes, the fear that Sark was just looking for a better angle to strangle him or something, hauled Weiss to his feet.

Sark immediately started moving again, dragging Weiss forward along the side of the office buildings. Knowing he had to get some control of this, or he'd end up on his knees again, Weiss dug in and pulled them both to a stop.

"No," he said, and wow, that actually sounded like him, instead of him in desperate need of an oxygen tent.

"No?" Sark's eyebrows went up as he stepped closer, the ice forming again in his eyes.

Holding up his right hand to fend off any immediate retaliation, Weiss frowned and forged ahead. "You've got to tell me where the hell we're going, because I am not running around on the off chance that the people chasing us get tired of chasing us," he snapped, and that got such a considering look from Sark that Weiss worked up a sneer of his own. "Somehow I don't see that happening, do you?"

"Indeed, no, Agent Weiss. And as I'm not any more excited about running in endless circles than you, I am headed there," he raised his left arm and pointed down the street at...something, "where I, for one, plan to stop running. You, it looks like," and now Sark raised his right arm and jangled the short chain keeping them together, "will be doing the same."

That was a long way from the answer Weiss had been looking for, but it was an answer and it was good enough. Weiss nodded and gestured for Sark to take the lead.

"Thank you, Agent Weiss."

Sark's voice dripped with sarcasm, but he didn't hesitate before sliding along the sidewalk again, keeping just out of range of the street lamps.

After being dragged for another half block and a stern argument with his feet, Weiss kept up.

**

He was wheezing again when he ran full-length into Sark, almost toppling them both.

"Careful," Sark spat.

"If you'd...just give a guy some warning..." Weiss panted, rubbing his chest where it had collided with Sark's shoulder. Bony little bastard. But he took a step back when Sark tossed another one of those glares over his shoulder. "Okay, okay..."

Now that he wasn't concentrating so fiercely on not falling over his own feet, Weiss looked up at the...neon? He scanned the street, or, really, the buildings, which had at some point transformed from soaring architected office blocks with their marble lobbies to a squat and dingy--

"Karaoke bar? You...your hideout is a karaoke bar?" he hissed.

Sark lowered his hand instead of knocking on the scuffed and scratched black door, and his head turned again; this time with a smirk. "You are remarkably uninformed about the environment around your offices," he said without toning down the smirk at all. "Do you believe that the corporate world only unwinds with cigars bars and Thai takeout?"

"No, but--"

The door opened without Sark's summons and Weiss gaped at the two figures that came out. At first they were nothing more than broad-shouldered silhouettes, highlighted by the colored lights blinking in the space behind them. They were enormous, towering over both him and Sark -- neither of them were exactly midgets, Weiss thought, leaning forward onto his toes -- with hair out to there, like those women him mom complained about, the ones who "pushed" other women out of the way of bargains at the mall.

They moved forward, heels clicking, little spikes of sound creating a syncopated beat with the pounding bass from the bar. As they eased past, the one on the left pursed violently-painted lips to utter a husky, "Hel-lo there," and Weiss automatically smiled while forcing his mouth closed before, this must be what mom meant when she called Amy a 'tart'...they never even came close with Sydney, could slip out.

It was probably better not to think about why he was suddenly relating everything to things his mom said. Yeah.

He cleared his throat. "Hi, ladies," he said, and then he glared at Sark. All he'd said was "hi" there was no reason to go jerking the chain again.

The one on the right smiled, a lovely wide-open smile that could break into a laugh at any moment. "Hi, hon. Now you two have a good time in there."

Weiss caught Sark's curt nod at the corner of his vision, but something about that low-voiced comment was really holding his attention. What? Sark pulled them into the flashing lights and last high breathless note from the really-not-so-bad singer, and Weiss stumbled after, his head tracking around to keep the two...

"Were those guys?" he hissed.

"Shut up," Sark hissed back and Weiss' eyes popped wide when the other man slid their hands together, the metal bracelets clinking as Sark's fingers clamped down on his, painfully.

"What are you--?"

In the pause between the last synthesized chord and what Weiss dazedly recognized as the opening bars to "Toxic," the world stopped and spun and came to a thump of a halt against a wall. But that wasn't what cut off the question and it most definitely wasn't what provided the answer.

"Is there something about 'shut up' that you don't understand?" Sark was breathing in Weiss' ear -- breathing, all hot and...and...breathy -- which was easily accessible now that Sark was fucking clinging to him.

Holy shit.

Weiss shook his head, impressed that it didn't explode while he strained to sink into the wall and as far from the lunatic who was now nuzzling his neck while said lunatic muttered something along the lines of "follow my lead, dumbass." Despite the realization, the understanding that, really, this wasn't that big a deal, Sark's hard nose nudging at him sent shivers of panic -- yes, panic, and yes, about the nose -- through Weiss to chase out any lingering confusion.

Over Sark's tilted head, beyond the light curls that took on every blinking shock of color, was a bouncing, writhing mass. And the part that was near enough to separate into people was sparkling and shining and pairing, grouping, groping, and even with at least half of them in the makeup -- and good god, those outfits -- they were all male.

Weiss felt his shake turn into a nod.

The sense of loss when the other man eased back and grabbed Weiss' restrained hand again nearly distracted him from what his eyes were still struggling to take in without bulging out. It wasn't like he was sheltered or anything, not with all the nutso things he'd seen and done in this job; that was part of the thrill, after all. But the thrill wasn't so thrilling when you were being "briefed" at the same time as you were being sucked into the situational debauchery by the deadly bastard you'd been shackled to for hours and that you were suddenly missing the heat from, not the reassuring solidity of, and this was now disturbing enough that Weiss was more than happy to end that thought on a preposition.

Still, he returned the tight grip on Sark's hand as they slid and turned, and occasionally forced their way toward the middle of the crowd, and missing Sark's heat wasn't a problem at all because if they weren't pressed against each other, they were pressed against everyone else. The people around them were dancing with their hands raised high, or back to front, or back to back for chrissake, and there was tons of grinding going on between everyone, oh jeez, everyone.

The sweat gleefully started up again, especially on the back of Weiss' neck when they turned again to get past a particularly rowdy group and he saw the door swing open and two men men step in.

Weiss didn't duck, but he flinched. Sark immediately stopped and pulled Weiss around to face him. Slitted blue eyes gleamed. "They're here."

"Yeah," Weiss said, because it wasn't a question but he needed to say something while the really bad guys continued to scan the room for them. How the hell had they known to even come in this place, a hole that most would've dismissed on sight as holding nothing but spiders and possibly a rat for the spiders to dine on? Just his luck to have the most thorough killers ever land on his tail.

And then Sark reminded Weiss why he was skittish before the guys who were determined to blow them to tiny bits, or at least put several precise bullet holes in them, showed up.

Sark took only one step forward, but that step put his right leg between Weiss' -- just how his legs had ended up far enough apart to make that possible, Weiss had no clue, since there wasn't enough proper personal space in this body mash for him to do jack shit -- and Weiss closed his eyes. It was the only defense he could come up with against the fact that Sark had looped his free arm around Weiss' neck, leaned back against that anchor without moving his feet, and had started moving. And they now fit far too well into the crowd around them.

"Oh good god," Weiss groaned, because, yeah, that felt--

Sark leaned in again, the heat of his chest strong and specific, and their still-clasped and -linked hands somehow ended up trapped there between them, almost like they were sweethearts. A low, sinfully British chuckle dropped and settled into the bottom of Weiss' stomach where it, and other things, hardened. Shit. Shitshitshit

"I sincerely doubt that god, good or otherwise, has anything to do with the situation," Sark murmured, his voice coasting into Weiss' ear on that damn chuckle, riding the wave of what should have been shame but so wasn't. "I hate to be obvious, presumptuous or, heaven forefend, cliché," Sark continued, and Jesus, Weiss didn't need to see the smirk to know it was there, "but I must say, you feel happy to be here with me now."

Weiss fought not to return the pressure Sark exerted on that last word, but he just knew that his own hips twitched slightly in response to the twist of lust that tightened his balls further. Damn it. Almost three years of ignoring, denying, thrusting aw-- No, don't think of thrusting, you idiot.

"It's my lighter," he muttered, and Sark's chuckle held a triumphant note this time as he really did writhe, his entire body rubbing up against Weiss.

Weiss sucked in a breath that whistled through his suddenly-clenched teeth.

"Sure, we can play pretend," Sark said lightly, but maybe a bit breathlessly. Maybe. Hopefully. "However, you might want to consider taking another look around as I cannot currently see our pursuers."

"Shit!" Weiss shouted, his eyes flying open to again take in the dancers convulsing around them.

Sark snickered, and Weiss grimaced and started automatically scanning again, starting with the main bar and working out toward the stage. At least the final screech of a nearly seven-foot black man attempting action-Britney had kept the rest of the universe from finding out how much of an idiot he was. His gaze went involuntarily back to the stage. And he wasn't enough of an idiot to try that song with curls and a hot pink boa, he thought.

A dark hole in the glitter, caught his attention, over there under the speaker left of the stage. Weiss squinted, another spike of purple light swung that way, and...

"Found 'em," he said, lightheaded with either relief or the re-direction of blood to its proper arteries now that he was concentrating on what he was damn well supposed to be concentrating on. But who cared?

"Both?" Sark asked, all humor gone from his voice. He hadn't moved back even an inch, though, Weiss noted before he stopped. Not thinking about that again. No.

"Yeah." And, actually, that didn't seem right. Why would they both be together? Over there? "You sure there aren't any your way?"

"I don't see any others," Sark said slowly.

"So the door's clear?"

"Apparently." But Sark sounded like he was having just as much trouble believing that.

Weiss called on long-ago lessons to swing them around within the press of bodies with only one slight collision, and didn't respond to Sark's raised eyebrow as they both double-checked the other ends of the room.

"Clear."

"Here, too," Weiss muttered. Well... "Let's go for it."

Sark started shifting away and toward the door, moving and then swaying a bit with the new beat of the surrounding crowd. They were all now singing along with "Pretty Fly for a White Guy." Clearly a favorite. Weird.

It was difficult, but Weiss didn't laugh at the image in front of him. A good thing, because Sark looked over his shoulder at that moment.

"There will likely be at least two others outside the door," he said.

Weiss cleared his throat and nodded. "There'll be two less with those guys stuck inside, though," he pointed out.

Sark didn't respond. His attention was locked on something to his right. His eyes narrowed.

"There is...another option."

**

"Why do I have to be the one in the wig?"

Weiss knew he was whining, but how the hell did Syd put up with this? His head itched. And deep purple really wasn't his color, no matter where on his body he wore it.

"Because you need something to hide the incredibly non-invisible 'CIA agent' stamped across your forehead, and you were not going to fit into the dress," Sark snapped, before flinging the restroom door open and stalking out.

Very true, Weiss thought as he hurried after Sark's hot pink spandex-covered ass, but... "Hey, just be glad I recognized that guy. It's not like you were concentrating on the stage, from what I remember."

Sark's smirk re-emerged, a cool slice of mischief in the humid bar. "Ah, but you are still the one who knew it was a Britney Spears song. And knew all the words."

Weiss started walking faster, moving out in front and reaching inside his jacket for the can of Mace they'd also talked off the black guy. Gal. Ah, whatever. "Jasmeet" had almost tripped getting out of that outfit after Weiss had come up with the fundamentalist father story, and that was all that mattered.

"Shut up and adjust your feathers, Sark. They're slipping."

**

It was harder fighting one-handed. Blood-immediately-and-bruises-shortly harder. But there had only been two more and while Weiss hadn't done more than bloody a nose -- not his own, thank you -- Sark was still deadly.

Made a guy wonder, Weiss thought while the fresh, spiffy, and very late cavalry took over. They were escorting boa-less but still pink-clad Sark to an unexploded armored SUV and had definitely started doing a better job of hiding their grins once Weiss had mentioned that he himself hadn't snapped any necks.

He scratched a last lingering itch on the back of his head, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned away to watch the some feathers flutter off down the street. Thought about chasing after the one spinning in its own mini-whirlwind over on the next corner.

"Agent Weiss?"

The youngest agent had been spared escort duty and was still broadcasting relief in every direction, but he approached Weiss almost as carefully as he had stayed away from Sark. Weiss wasn't going to call himself super-spy, especially not after this little adventure, but he couldn't not roll his eyes. Had he ever been that raw?

"Yes?" he prompted when the kid got stuck shifting from foot to foot and fingering the breast of his jacket.

"You...you don't think..."

Weiss didn't want to snap, but he did want to go home. And he didn't think this kid was volunteering to drive. He sighed. "Just say it. All the mean and crazy ones are over there."

"Well, I...I've been trying to give up smoking..."

Well, good for you, Weiss thought, and considered it another tick on the day's victory slate that he only nodded encouragingly.

"...and, well, I could reallyuseonerightnow," the kid got out in two breaths.

Weiss spread his hands, patience wearing thin. "Okay, and?"

The kid grimaced. "Part of the giving-up plan is having the cigarettes, but not anything to, you know, light them with."

"Gotcha." Weiss gave him a tight smile. "Want a light?"

A huge exhalation of air almost masked the "thank you." Weiss shrugged and reached into the left pocket of his pants.

The kid handily snagged the small hunk of metal tossed his way. "Hey, cool." He turned it over and then flipped the lid up a couple of times. "Didn't think you'd have anything, I've never seen you smoke. I was just going to ask if you knew who did." He stared at the flame rising from the matte silver lighter, seemingly mesmerized past his craving.

Weiss looked at Zippo, too. Something about it. "It's more of a luck piece. My grandfather's..."

A crowded dance floor, a muttered comment.

Weiss grinned. They'd both been right.

The growl of the SUV's engine starting brought Weiss' head back around in time to see the red tail lights disappear around the corner. His grin dimmed, but didn't fade entirely. Until they figured out who had managed to infiltrate the transfer, looked like Sark was going to be staying in L.A. a while longer.

##

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