A Wiglet - Hoppin' down the bunny trail
Up front warning: unbeta-ed.
I just had to do it.
I'm sorry.
Here Comes Peter Cottontail
Fandom: Alias.
Disclaimer: So not mine. Still. Which is probably good. Look what I do with them.
Rating: Hahahahahah.
Summary: See above. It's Bad Wigs. Sometime in an AU Season Two.
Here Comes Peter Cottontail
Marshall whimpered.
Sark couldn't really blame him.
Frankly, if Jack Bristow had ever looked at him with the same level of venom, he would have changed his name, shaved his head, and joined the Hare Krishna's to hide out. (He'd thought this out when he realized that sooner or later Jack would find out Sark was sleeping with his daughter. Though Jack was more likely to simply shoot him for that. This was much, much worse.) Sark was very grateful to not be the recipient of the (patented) Stony Bristow Glare of Eventual Painful Death.
Sydney's giggles were not helping the situation. Sark narrowed his eyes at her. She just put her hand over her mouth and squeaked.
He hated her.
He really, really hated her.
Jack was talking. Since Jack didn't talk constantly like Sloane, Sark thought it was probably a good idea to tune in when he did. He looked at Jack and winced. Jack was also grinding his teeth. He wondered idly if the CIA had a good dental plan.
He would have to ask Sydney.
If he ever talked to her again.
Because he hated her.
Really, really hated.
"Is this really necessary?" Jack said. Sark imagined tiny crystals of ice forming in the air with each word.
"I'm afraid so, Jack. It's critical that we recover those disks from Victor Covarubbia before he sells them," Sloane said. He squinched up his monkey face in expression that was supposed to look sympathetic. The Sally Jesse Raphael glasses ruined it though, and he just looked like he was lusting after Jack.
Which - Eeeuw. Not going there, Sark decided. He shoved the thought into small compartment in his mind and padlocked it closed.
"Sydney would be a better choice - "
"Oh, no," Sydney said fast.
" - Or Dixon," Jack said, plowing on.
"I agree," Sark said fast.
"Unfortunately, Sydney and Dixon are both known to Covarubbia. They ran a mission in Gstaad four months ago when he first began dealing classified information," Sloane said. "He would remember them. That leaves you and Mr. Sark."
Sark grimaced and muttered, "Because SD-6 doesn't have any other field operatives."
Jack snorted quietly. Quietly enough Sloane didn't hear. But then Sloane was entranced by the screen he was standing in front of, staring at the black-and-white blow-up of Victor Covarubbia like it held the secret to Milo Rambaldi's favorite salad dressing or something. Sydney and Dixon did and shared a look that said: Oh, look, they're bonding. Isn't it cute? Marshall was still trying to disappear by not talking, or moving, or possibly even breathing. Sark thought it might be nice to help him with that last part. Just on principle.
"Our intel is that Covarubbia is holding an all-day Easter Egg Hunt and Party for his two nieces on Sunday. All the guests have been vetted by his security and we can't infiltrate that way." Sloane stopped and smiled smarmily at Jack and Sark. "But Covarubbia has engaged a catering staff and two entertainers for the children. You'll be replacing the two entertainers."
Sark slumped lower in his chair.
"Marshall has duplicated the costumes you'll be wearing."
Costumes. Sark bit his lip to keep from groaning.
"Marshall?" Sloane prompted the op-tech geek.
Marshall looked around wildly. His hands fluttered nervously. Sark looked at him, blank-faced as Jack, when Marshall's eyes rolled in his direction. He wondered if anyone had ever told Marshall his chin bore a striking resemblance to that fellow in that Clive Barker film. What was it? Not Hellraiser. Sark frowned. Nightbreed. That was the one.
He realized he was drifting, ignoring Marshall's frantic babble. Then again, it was a defense mechanism. He'd already heard about the horror that awaited him - and Jack (which was almost enough to reconcile Sark to the humiliating prospect, but only almost, because such things are really only funny when you're not being subjected to the same) - and blanking it out of his mind was really the only way to keep from weeping like a baby and shooting someone.
" - The suits are tailored to each of you," Marshall was saying.
Sark picked up a pen and twirled it through his fingers. Cheap plastic, unfortunately. Not really suitable for stabbing people, unless you went for the eye. (Lucky for him, Sloane was wearing those damned glasses again.)
Sydney and Dixon were listening with that solemn, responsible attitude that really just screamed, Heeheehee, glad it's you this time and not me.
"I've installed all the relay equipment you'll need to let me hack into Covarubbia's security system," Marshall said. "That's in the suit you'll be wearing, Mr. Bristow."
Jack grunted.
"That's the, ah, the one, ah, well, I like to think it's the color of cotton candy - "
"It's pink, Marshall," Jack interrupted. "It's a giant pink bunny suit."
Sydney squeaked again.
"Well, okay, yeah, it's, that is, you could describe it that-that-that way," Marshall stuttered out. "It's the Easter Bunny, so, yeah. Um. Yeah." He was twitching.
"And Mr. Sark?" Jack asked. Because Jack wasn't going to be miserable alone. No, Sloane wanted both of them to go after the disks.
Marshall flashed frightened eyes at Sark.
"His costume is, uh, it's white."
Jack blinked.
Sark blinked.
"Well, isn't that lovely," he said finally. "You've made me the White Rabbit."
End
___________________________
Here comes Peter Cottontail
Hoppin' down the bunny trail
Hippity hoppity
Happy Easter Day.
Flaming pooh will be left out for your dog to roll in.
I just had to do it.
I'm sorry.
Here Comes Peter Cottontail
Fandom: Alias.
Disclaimer: So not mine. Still. Which is probably good. Look what I do with them.
Rating: Hahahahahah.
Summary: See above. It's Bad Wigs. Sometime in an AU Season Two.
Here Comes Peter Cottontail
Marshall whimpered.
Sark couldn't really blame him.
Frankly, if Jack Bristow had ever looked at him with the same level of venom, he would have changed his name, shaved his head, and joined the Hare Krishna's to hide out. (He'd thought this out when he realized that sooner or later Jack would find out Sark was sleeping with his daughter. Though Jack was more likely to simply shoot him for that. This was much, much worse.) Sark was very grateful to not be the recipient of the (patented) Stony Bristow Glare of Eventual Painful Death.
Sydney's giggles were not helping the situation. Sark narrowed his eyes at her. She just put her hand over her mouth and squeaked.
He hated her.
He really, really hated her.
Jack was talking. Since Jack didn't talk constantly like Sloane, Sark thought it was probably a good idea to tune in when he did. He looked at Jack and winced. Jack was also grinding his teeth. He wondered idly if the CIA had a good dental plan.
He would have to ask Sydney.
If he ever talked to her again.
Because he hated her.
Really, really hated.
"Is this really necessary?" Jack said. Sark imagined tiny crystals of ice forming in the air with each word.
"I'm afraid so, Jack. It's critical that we recover those disks from Victor Covarubbia before he sells them," Sloane said. He squinched up his monkey face in expression that was supposed to look sympathetic. The Sally Jesse Raphael glasses ruined it though, and he just looked like he was lusting after Jack.
Which - Eeeuw. Not going there, Sark decided. He shoved the thought into small compartment in his mind and padlocked it closed.
"Sydney would be a better choice - "
"Oh, no," Sydney said fast.
" - Or Dixon," Jack said, plowing on.
"I agree," Sark said fast.
"Unfortunately, Sydney and Dixon are both known to Covarubbia. They ran a mission in Gstaad four months ago when he first began dealing classified information," Sloane said. "He would remember them. That leaves you and Mr. Sark."
Sark grimaced and muttered, "Because SD-6 doesn't have any other field operatives."
Jack snorted quietly. Quietly enough Sloane didn't hear. But then Sloane was entranced by the screen he was standing in front of, staring at the black-and-white blow-up of Victor Covarubbia like it held the secret to Milo Rambaldi's favorite salad dressing or something. Sydney and Dixon did and shared a look that said: Oh, look, they're bonding. Isn't it cute? Marshall was still trying to disappear by not talking, or moving, or possibly even breathing. Sark thought it might be nice to help him with that last part. Just on principle.
"Our intel is that Covarubbia is holding an all-day Easter Egg Hunt and Party for his two nieces on Sunday. All the guests have been vetted by his security and we can't infiltrate that way." Sloane stopped and smiled smarmily at Jack and Sark. "But Covarubbia has engaged a catering staff and two entertainers for the children. You'll be replacing the two entertainers."
Sark slumped lower in his chair.
"Marshall has duplicated the costumes you'll be wearing."
Costumes. Sark bit his lip to keep from groaning.
"Marshall?" Sloane prompted the op-tech geek.
Marshall looked around wildly. His hands fluttered nervously. Sark looked at him, blank-faced as Jack, when Marshall's eyes rolled in his direction. He wondered if anyone had ever told Marshall his chin bore a striking resemblance to that fellow in that Clive Barker film. What was it? Not Hellraiser. Sark frowned. Nightbreed. That was the one.
He realized he was drifting, ignoring Marshall's frantic babble. Then again, it was a defense mechanism. He'd already heard about the horror that awaited him - and Jack (which was almost enough to reconcile Sark to the humiliating prospect, but only almost, because such things are really only funny when you're not being subjected to the same) - and blanking it out of his mind was really the only way to keep from weeping like a baby and shooting someone.
" - The suits are tailored to each of you," Marshall was saying.
Sark picked up a pen and twirled it through his fingers. Cheap plastic, unfortunately. Not really suitable for stabbing people, unless you went for the eye. (Lucky for him, Sloane was wearing those damned glasses again.)
Sydney and Dixon were listening with that solemn, responsible attitude that really just screamed, Heeheehee, glad it's you this time and not me.
"I've installed all the relay equipment you'll need to let me hack into Covarubbia's security system," Marshall said. "That's in the suit you'll be wearing, Mr. Bristow."
Jack grunted.
"That's the, ah, the one, ah, well, I like to think it's the color of cotton candy - "
"It's pink, Marshall," Jack interrupted. "It's a giant pink bunny suit."
Sydney squeaked again.
"Well, okay, yeah, it's, that is, you could describe it that-that-that way," Marshall stuttered out. "It's the Easter Bunny, so, yeah. Um. Yeah." He was twitching.
"And Mr. Sark?" Jack asked. Because Jack wasn't going to be miserable alone. No, Sloane wanted both of them to go after the disks.
Marshall flashed frightened eyes at Sark.
"His costume is, uh, it's white."
Jack blinked.
Sark blinked.
"Well, isn't that lovely," he said finally. "You've made me the White Rabbit."
End
___________________________
Here comes Peter Cottontail
Hoppin' down the bunny trail
Hippity hoppity
Happy Easter Day.
Flaming pooh will be left out for your dog to roll in.