Alias fic: "Mask of Mirrors," also recs and "Sideways" talk
First up, here's a pinch-hit fic for the "Dearly Departed" ficathon. fan_elune asked for Simon to return from the dead, and the three elements desired were "Sark, coldness, heat." I'm sorry it took so long, but it ended up being kind of long, and I hope you like! Set post-series, with spoilers for the run of the show. Thanks are due to counteragent, rheanna27 and delordra, all of whom looked at it during various stages of uncontrollable, kudzulike growth.
Summary: Simon knows Julia Thorne well enough to recognize her inside Sydney Bristow.
Mask of Mirrors
Simon awakens in an unfamiliar room, Julia Thorne looking down into his eyes.
His first thought is that he shouldn't have woken up at all. He's not precisely certain why not, but the feeling is strong.
Something - a necklace? A cord? - slides away from his neck; Julia slips it into a pocket. For a few moments he lies still, trying to gather himself - but it's difficult. He feels extremely strange - not bad, just odd. Julia looks different than she should, he thinks: her hair is longer, her face softer in some way that's hard to define. The clothing she's wearing is all wrong; instead of Italian leather, she's in a cream-colored business suit. A cover, perhaps? But there's something else that's off about her, something he's forgetting, something important -
She is not Julia Thorne.
The memories punch through him like the bullets that ought to be in his body: the names Sydney and Jack Bristow, a CIA connection, a taunted father taking his revenge. Jack Bristow's flat, sharklike stare is the last memory Simon has - the last memory he should ever have had.
"Where am I?" he demands. "What have you done?"
She smiles with a certain resignation. "Simon?"
"As long as we're getting acquainted, nice to meet you, Sydney Bristow." Her real name has no impact upon her. His own voice is unfamiliar to him, as though he'd just risen from depths of unconsciousness he'd never known before. "As far as I recall, I was just chatting with your father. I see where you get your calm temper and ineffable charm."
"This would be a good time for you to prove that you really are Simon Walker."
"So far as I can recall, the only time you let me fuck you with the neck of the champagne bottle was that chalet outside Lucerne."
She ducks her head. Funny: Simon remembers her liking the dirty talk, the dirtier the better. Maybe that was just part of pretending to be Julia, but if so, she certainly threw herself into the role.
CIA. Never would've seen that coming. He's got to hand it to her - she's good. But this little game she's playing now, her father's bag of tricks, those aren't CIA tactics. Are they off-book? Time to find out who's friend and who's foe.
"Now that we've got that settled," he drawls, "Can we get back to the subject? Namely, where I am and what you've done."
"This is Jaipur. And I've - brought you here because I need information."
India? How the blazes had they taken him all the way to India without him waking up once? Simon remembers gasping in pain, slick with his own blood, on a cement floor as Jack Bristow stood above him with a gun; then he knows exactly what Sydney has done.
"You've wiped my memory. That fellow we hunted up in Hong Kong, the one you said you needed to find to take care of a 'client' - you took me to him, didn't you?"
Sydney considers that; it's as if the news came as a revelation to her, instead of to him. "That - explains a lot."
"How long has it been?" Simon demands. "Tell me how much of my life you've stolen. Last thing I remember is your father shooting me - how long ago was that?"
"Six years."
"You bitch." He wants to get his hands around her throat, but he restrains himself; she's got him at a disadvantage, and then some. His emotional reaction to losing (six fucking) years of his life - that has to wait. Sydney Bristow of the CIA is here to drive a hard bargain, and she's already taken his memories to show that she means business. "What was it so important that I forget?"
She arches one eyebrow; it's the first time since he awoke that he can see Julia in her at all. "Do you seriously expect me to answer that question?"
Simon pushes himself away from her; it's the only way he'll be able to prevent himself from socking her in the jaw. Instead he walks to the window and pulls back one of the draperies, and it's as though the world is split in two: they are in a modern hotel room, air-conditioned almost to frigidity, one obviously decorated to please Western guests, but outside is an ancient city carved of pink sandstone, in the shape of a mandala. The shimmer in the air reveals the summer's heat.
Jack Bristow shot him in wintertime.
"Anything major I ought to know about?" Simon asks lightly. His voice sounds so strange; he hopes it doesn't betray him entirely. "World wars, pandemics, bold fashion trends?"
"Leather's out." Sydney stands up and walks toward him. "Simon, I have to get details about an op you and I went on not long after we met. The Covenant sent us to find something called the Chamber."
"Right, Chamber, yeah." Simon shrugs. Batty errand if ever there was one: locate one ancient Roman basement, photograph all this graffiti left by some Renaissance ne'er-do-well named Milo Rambaldi, turn over the maps and move on to more interesting things. The two of them had to kill a surprisingly high number of people to get somebody to tell them where the blasted thing was. It's the sort of thing that would make Simon curious, if he allowed himself curiosity about matters that don't concern him. Controlling your curiosity - it's a thing too few people in their business learn. "You were there, love. So why do you need me to clear things up for you?"
Sydney hesitates, and the truth comes to him in a flash of almost immeasurable satisfaction. "They wiped your memory too, didn't they? Got us both. But they took yours even further back."
"I lost two years. And no, I don't remember the search for the Chamber. But I need to get there now, Simon. Which means I need you to tell me."
He doesn't answer her right away. It's a lot to absorb, and Simon is a man who prefers not to act without all the information he needs.
There's no point in doubting her about the time that's passed - he can feel it. Now that he's had a chance to get used to it, Simon can tell that even his body feels different; sometime in the past six years, he's lost some weight, become rangy rather than hard-bodied. His clothes don't hang the way they used to.
Despite this verification, Simon can already tell that the scenario he's pieced together is inadequate - there are gaps, puzzle-pieces missing on the borders. If what Sydney needs from him is a memory, why on earth did she take the risk of removing other memories of his? Tampering inside people's heads is tricky business; she might easily have tossed out the very clue she needed. The more he thinks about this, the more he's certain that either someone else erased his memory - the same people who went after Julia - or, less likely, that something else entirely is responsible for his forgetting.
Also, asking him straightforwardly like this - that's already an indication that Sydney's had to go to extraordinary lengths. In the world of espionage, direct questions are a last resort.
"You don't remember the search for the Chamber," Simon begins. She nods, watching him intently. It's as if his face is unfamiliar to her, as though she were trying to read him through a mask. He smirks. "Do you remember the champagne bottle?"
Her lips press together in a thin line. "No."
"Want a refresher?"
"I'm here to talk business. Trust me, Simon, you don't have lots of time to waste."
"What are you willing to offer me for the information? My life?"
Sydney hesitates. "In a manner of speaking."
Simon only has this paltry bit of information to bargain with, but it's all he needs. She won't kill him while he knows it and she doesn't; Simon figures that gives him plenty of chances to stall. Besides, she never did have the stomach for torture -
Quickly, he asks, "Your father in on this?"
For only a second, her eyes shift downward, seeking memory instead of reality. "He died more than three years ago."
Simon smiles. "Did I kill him?"
He likes the way Sydney glares at him then. "You wish."
No Papa Bear means no torture. Simon leans against the wall, casual now, happy to play this out for as long as it takes. "You'd better lay your cards on the table, Sydney. You're the one wasting time."
She stands up, as though preparing for confrontation, but all she says is, "Look in the mirror."
"What?" Simon likes his own face as much as anybody, but what possible relevance could this have? "Mirror?"
Gesturing toward the nearby bedroom, Sydney nods. "Mirror."
"Is it over the bed? If so, I suggest you get out of that suit. Not your best look, love."
"It'll do."
He goes into the bedroom, unsure what she's on about but unable to think of any reason to refuse. The bed truly is tempting, broad and soft, hung with pale blue silks - pity this is so clearly a matter of business rather than pleasure. Simon walks to the mirror, wondering if she means to shock him by his aging; maybe there's a knife scar he doesn't recall, gray hair, something like that. Well, he's braced for it.
What Simon is not braced for is looking into the mirror and seeing Julian Sark's face.
"What the -" It's Sark's lips that speak, and that voice that's so strange in Simon's ears - it's not his voice, it's Sark's.
Simon staggers backward, utterly perplexed - then horrified. He paws at himself, longing in his confusion to discover that it's just one of those new synthetic polymer disguises, but it's skin, flesh, bone, all he's got.
Sydney watches him, unsmiling, as he runs his hands over his head (Sark's hair is short and downy), takes a deep breath (Sark's lungs take full breaths, not hitching from an old knife wound) and shouts out once, wordless in his horror.
Finally, he manages to gasp, "I'm in Sark. Is he in me?"
"No."
"How the fuck -"
She holds up something that looks like a pendulum, tarnished silver, deeply etched. He recognizes it as the item she took from around his neck as he woke up. "Simon, you died six years ago, after my father shot you. When Sark and I realized that we both needed to find the Chamber -" she hesitates. "We'd each tried every other way, independently. He came to me with a Rambaldi artifact that he thought might - bring you back. He volunteered for this part of it; I'm still not sure exactly why. But it was useful, so I said yes, and here we are."
You died six years ago.
Simon's head feels as though it's on fire. He wants to find Jack Bristow and smash him into bits, but the man is just a corpse now, mouldering in some grave. He wants to shoot Sydney in the face, but he has no gun and if he kills her, he'll get no more answers. He wants to slash every single member of the Covenant to ribbons -
"The Covenant," he says. "They got us both. We have to take them out."
"They were destroyed years ago. If I had them to turn to, I wouldn't have had to do this."
No revenge to take, no guilty party to kill. Simon has never known that his soul could contain as much hate as it does this moment, for her and above all for Julian Sark. Oh, maybe Sydney doesn't know why Sark volunteered, but Simon does; they were never friends, always rivals, and Sark would've thought it a good joke, making Simon rise up from the dead only to dangle like a marionette upon strings. Simon is so fully Sark's puppet now that he cannot even move without Sark's body.
He smashes his fist into the mirror. Glass sprays everywhere, and Sydney gasps. Pain roars up his arm, scalding hot and terrible. Simon grimly hopes he's severed a nerve.
"What are you doing?" Sydney grabs him at the elbow; Simon, somewhat dizzy from the first rush of blood loss, allows himself to be steered toward a chair. She grabs the scarf from around her neck and begins bandaging him. "Simon, I know this is strange. But you have to control yourself."
"Or what? Or you won't get what you want?"
"Listen to me," she says, bending low. Her hands continue to work, deft and sure, almost as though they were independent of her; their faces are so close to each other that he cannot help remembering her kiss. "I told Sark that I'd bring him out of this as soon as we got the information. But Sark's broken promises before - which means I might do the same to him."
"You'd give me his body," Simon says. "His life. Forever."
"If you get me to the Chamber within three days? Yes."
Even through the haze of panic and rage that still grips him, Simon knows how to recognize a good bargain.
"You really going to follow through on this?" he says slowly. "I don't know you, Sydney. Julia would've sawed Sark off at the knees like that, no problem. But you might have moral qualms about such a thing."
"I'd shoot him. I don't see how this is different." Sydney's head lowers so that she can finish off the makeshift bandage with a quick knot. His hand is numb for the moment - shock.
Simon considers this. It was Sark who revealed her true identity in the first place; therefore, there's no love lost between them. For all that Sydney's lied about being Julia Thorne, Simon knows there was a time when she was - fond of him. Not all those nights were a lie, of that he's sure. He'd place good odds on being the one Sydney hates least. Yes, this is one bargain she's likely to keep.
Risen from the dead, Simon thinks, and he shudders with the sheer power of it.
"You're on, love," he says. "You're on."
**
They summon the hotel's doctor for a quick patch-up job; the damage to Sark's hand proves to be mostly cosmetic. Now that Simon believes he can keep the hand for his own, he finds that a relief.
As soon as that's taken care of, they head downstairs and walk through the lobby, side by side, like any other couple checking out. Simon slings his good arm casually around her shoulders. The moment they walk out the door into the steamy heat, she shrugs it off. "It's not happening."
"Miracles occur all the time. Shouldn't I know, today of all days?" She ignores this and guides him toward a long black car that appears to be waiting.
They slide into the back, and there he receives the next of what promise to be many unpleasant shocks for the day: Michael Vaughn of the CIA is sitting there in khakis and a T-shirt. Simon learned who Vaughn was four days ago, which was also when he'd watched Julia kill the man. If he'd had any more time to consider the possibilities, Simon would have realized that he'd been played; however, in his mind, it had been less than an hour since he'd learnt Sydney was CIA herself, and he'd been busy since, what with dying and being reincarnated as Sark and all.
"Well, well," Simon drawls. "Looks like coming back from the dead is all the rage."
"Amazing. You can tell it's not Sark." Vaughn tilts his head, studying Simon, but it's Sydney he's talking to. "Just the way he sits."
Sydney takes the seat next to Vaughn, close enough that it's obvious who she's shacked up with lately. Probably they were an item six years ago, too. "You two married, then?" Simon asks.
"It's none of your business," Sydney replies.
"And that'll be a yes. How charming. Tell me, are you newlyweds? Or did I have the pleasure of fucking her while she was your wife?"
To Simon's surprise, Vaughn looks amused. "The more things change, the more they stay the same."
"Does that mean Sark fucked your wife?"
Simon means it as a joke, but Vaughn simply shrugs. "Not this wife."
"Julian did get around, didn't he?"
"And always came up short." Vaughn and Simon share a look, united for one single moment in their mutual loathing of Sark. The moment passes as soon as it arrived.
"Airport," Sydney says to the driver, an odd, uncomfortable smile on her face.
"So, is Rome the next stop?" Vaughn asks. Obviously he's in on the whole thing. How distasteful, this bland CIA man plotting out Simon's whole reincarnation. Simon prefers to think of this as Sydney's mission alone. She's someone he can fence with, someone he can test, someone he knows.
"Rome." Sydney's eyes flicker over to Simon, seeking confirmation.
"It's a place to start." It feels good, having some power again.
For the rest of the trip, Simon is quiet. He's betting that they'll start talking, excluding him, if he lets them do so. The bet pays off. They're both professionals, so Sydney and Vaughn don't make any obvious blunders; it's small talk, mostly. But small talks says a lot.
They're fairly cozy with each other. A happy marriage, then. Simon mentally imagines making a gagging gesture.
But it's not a perfect marriage, because they're so hyper-aware of Simon himself; the fact that he is Sydney's former lover is a shade too important to them both. So there are old wounds reopening, wounds that never completely healed, just got bandaged up like his aching hand. Was the breach between them caused by her long time as Julia Thorne? Something later? Simon finds himself remembering the look in her eyes as she plunged that knife into Vaughn's gut. She's a good actress, but he'd bet anything there was something else at work there.
Very, very interesting indeed.
Julian Sark, callow and arrogant as he might be, isn't a bad-looking fellow. Simon's seen him cut a swath through various safebreakers and catburglars of their mutual acquaintance. Pale or dark, curvy or thin, tall or tiny, if they're female, Sark's probably interested - as long as they're dangerous.
Sydney Bristow is obviously a very dangerous woman. Maybe the edge in the room isn't wholly about Simon. Maybe Vaughn's first wife isn't the only one Sark got to.
The soul of one lover, the body of potentially another - he appears to have awoken as a double threat. The more Simon thinks about it, the less it troubles him that his body's gone; switching seems like a brilliant tactical move. He couldn't have done better if he'd planned it. In one fell swoop, he's a few years younger, disguised from all his old enemies and rid of Julian Sark forever. Fantastic, really. If it complicates Sydney's life as well, then that's just the icing on the cake.
When Vaughn says something about home, the tone of his voice reveals that he won't be heading to Rome along with them. Simon stares at the window to conceal his grin.
In the glass he can see Sark's reflection.
**
"Why are you so eager to be rid of Sark?" Simon asks on the plane.
Sydney has removed her suit jacket; the camisole beneath is of a shimmery fabric Simon doesn't recognize. A new synthetic, maybe. "You met the guy, right?"
He laughs, his amusement genuine. "Still, rather cold. He comes to you with a plan, offers you the solution to all your problems, puts your life in his hands - and you cash in his chips, there and then."
"He would've done the same to me."
"No arguing with that." Simon leans back, enjoying the cool leather of the seats. The CIA offers swankier transport than he would've thought; might've considered going legit years ago if he'd known about the perks. "Doesn't make it any less cold."
She doesn't reply. Bending down, she rubs the back of one heel, wearily, as though the prim pumps she's wearing aren't wholly comfortable upon her feet.
More quietly, he adds, "It's something Julia would have done."
Sydney goes very still. Their eyes meet, but only for a second before she straightens up, a businesswoman once more. "The jet has supersonic capability. We'll get to Rome first thing in the morning, local time. I suggest you try to sleep. It seems like rising from the dead would be tiring."
"Never felt better, and don't change the subject. Tell me, love, how much of Julia was make-believe? I'm curious."
"I don't know." To his astonishment, he believes her answer is completely honest. "The time I knew you - those are the two years that were stolen from me."
"The memory guy in Hong Kong, that was for real?"
"For me, yes. Your memory lapse - well, that wasn't a memory lapse."
Simon weighs that for a second. "What do you remember?"
She hesitates, clearly unable to decide how much information to give him. The ovals of sky that frame her face are shifting from brilliant daylight into the rose and violet of sunset as they catch up to the night. At last she confesses, "When you walked up to me in that nightclub in Sevilla - I had no idea we'd ever met. I had to bluff my way through the next few days. Through everything with you."
He's impressed despite himself. "Nicely done."
"Thanks."
"Were you working for the CIA when we were together?"
"Not at first. The Covenant believed they'd brainwashed me into thinking that I really was Julia Thorne. I couldn't let them realize differently. After a while, I was able to make contact with the CIA and operate as a double agent. But it took some time. Too much time."
"You're telling me too much," he chides her gently.
"The CIA knows all of this; the Covenant doesn't exist any longer," she snaps. "The information is useless. You're welcome to it."
It's not useless, though; it helps him to evaluate her. So, she'd never really been brainwashed. Everything she did - killing, stealing, fucking - she did as the woman that she is right now, or at least a younger version. Simon wonders if Vaughn's ever done the things to her that he did, the things she begged him to do. He doubts it. You don't marry a girl after you've - well, you just don't.
In retrospect, her extreme appetites have an added meaning: Simon can finally see that she wasn't the perverted nymphomaniac he'd taken her for. No, she was desperate to forget, to escape, to be nothing but a body.
He wonders if she still thinks about escape, from time to time.
"You're looking lovely," he says. "Far as I can tell, you've hardly aged a day."
"You're looking like Sark."
"Touche." Folding his hands behind his head, mock-casual, Simon adds, "Can't say that your hubby's worn as well. Don't get me wrong - last time I saw him he looked dead. So today represents an improvement. But he's had a rough time of it, hasn't he? Too much salt and pepper in the hair for a man that age."
"We've all had a rough time of it." She puts one hand to her temple, and only now does he see that she's not just tired, but exhausted. Sydney hides it well. It's always best to strike when an opponent isn't at her best.
"I don't think you're giving me Sark because you hate him," he says. "Even as Julia, you wouldn't have done that. You may be a slick piece of work, but you're fair, in your way."
"Maybe I'm just trying to be fair to you."
"Maybe. Or maybe you're curious." Sydney half-turns toward him; her profile is still and pale in the darkening cabin. "I think you want to know who Julia Thorne really was - or who you were, when you lived under her name. I think it burns you up inside. All these years and your CIA job and your happy little marriage - none of it erases the need to know her. The need to be her."
He's pushed too far, too fast. Sydney stands up, sliding her feet back into those painful shoes. "I'm not interested in your theories. If you don't need rest, I do."
"Take what you need," Simon agrees, and he smiles even more broadly as she walks away without another word.
She sleeps in the very back of the passenger cabin, still in that business suit. Simon watches her sleep, and he's got to give her credit: it's damned hard to sleep with someone staring at you, particularly someone you don't entirely trust. But she's willed herself to go under, to get her strength for their mission, when she'll need it.
Of course, that leaves her on display to his gaze. Did she think about that? Did she like it a little, down deep?
Simon's eyes trace the long lines of her legs (she likes being licked behind the knees), the firm swell of her ass (he's braced his hands there countless times), the small of her back (where he's tied her hands), the slight outline of a bra strap beneath the camisole.
Now, that part, that's new. Julia was never all that much into brassieres. Simon thinks they're mostly a waste of time, himself.
Her cheek is pressed against the seat, her full lips slightly parted. She's never looked more beautiful to him than now. Simon is aware that this is because she's never held more power than him before - it's a perverse impulse, but he's enjoying it too much to let go.
What if he's right? What if she really does want to know Julia, inside and out? Maybe she's become a bit bored with Mr. White Bread of the CIA; maybe she needs some grander justification for a bit on the side. Or maybe she's having some Deep Existential Crisis. Simon's never had one himself, but he reads in magazines that they're no picnic. They lead people to do the damnedest things.
Regardless, Simon can taste it in the air: opportunity. He's not a man who lets opportunities go to waste.
**
He doesn't rest easily. Simon has trained his body to fall asleep almost instantly and wake up, sharp and ready, after about four hours - the length of an REM cycle. However, that was his body, not Sark's, which doesn't appear to have gotten the memo.
Thinking about where his former body is now (dumped somewhere by the late Jack Bristow, no doubt, rotting in a ditch or beneath a slab of cement) doesn't exactly help.
When the sky outside begins to lighten with the very first traces of dawn, Simon gives up. Like most in his profession, he's expert at tidying up in airplane bathrooms, which present any number of challenges to personal hygiene. He is delighted to discover that this jet is actually swanky enough to have a shower; granted, it's about the size of a shoebox, and the water that comes through the handheld nozzle is more of a trickle than a spray, but it works.
The shower provides his first real opportunity to check out his latest acquisition. A few scars here and there: that's a knife, that's a bullet, and god only knows what that white line on the thigh might have come from. He's a skinny fellow now, really, but Simon rather likes it. Best of all, he hasn't been shortchanged in the department that really counts. He cups his balls, then takes hold of his cock and gives it a quick stroke and a gentle tug. Little more length, little less girth, but all in all pretty damned impressive.
He thinks about Sydney in the airplane cabin and wonders if she's more familiar with this than he is. Maybe he could ask her for a user's manual. Simon grins at the thought.
As it turns out, the airplane isn't well-stocked with towels, and the ones they do have aren't generous in size. Simon mops himself off with something that won't even cover his ass, then strolls into the cabin without it.
Sydney's awake. She sits up straighter, and after the first initial second of surprise, she simply raises an eyebrow. "Is this your way of asking for a change of clothes?"
"I might be asking for any number of things."
Her eyes take him in - not lustfully, not timidly, just cool appraisal. So, she's not Sark's lover after all. But Simon would bet a good bit of cash she's thought about it. Let her think about it some more.
"What you can get is a change of clothing." Sydney rises from her place, hair slightly rumpled, and grabs a duffel from one of the storage bins. She tosses it in Simon's general direction; he catches it and holds it where it will provide a little modesty. Not that he gives a shit about modesty, but he doesn't want Sydney walking off too quickly.
"Thanks ever so. Are these Sark's togs, or did you pick something out special for me?"
"Sark's." She pours herself some water, displeasingly calm about standing in the room with her naked ex.
"Works for me. He always did have good taste."
"Hope you didn't use all the water." Sydney tosses the plastic cup away and starts walking toward the back. "I could use a shower."
"Too bad we didn't share." His hand catches her at the elbow, and she stops cold.
"You can't seriously think -"
"I'm rarely serious. You don't remember that yet, but you will."
"I don't need any reminders."
"Reminders are exactly what you do need, love, and fast." Simon steps a little closer to her. "You need reminding of the person you really are when you're not on the books, playing by the rules. You need to get out of that damned business suit and your bland marriage."
"You don't know anything about my marriage --"
"You need to know what you were as Julia," Simon whispers. "You already realize you were dangerous then. Depraved. An altogether delectable creature. Something in you has never been able to stop thinking about that - to stop wondering. You want to know so bad it's killing you. If you didn't, you wouldn't have brought me back, given me Sark's body. Would you?"
Sydney is silent. She won't quite meet his eyes. Is it his imagination, or is she breathing a little faster?
"I know who you really are." The cabin air is cool against his damp skin, and he imagines her fingers stroking him, warm and strong. "When everything else has fallen away - all that's left is Julia. I think you need to find Julia again."
"Let go."
"Not yet." Simon kisses her, hard.
Sydney doesn't pull away.
The feel of the kiss is different - Sark's jaw, Sark's tongue, Sark's nerves - but Sydney's mouth opening beneath his, that's the same. Heat from her kiss seems to melt down the length of his body; he's not shivering now. He tosses the duffel to one side, and Sydney tugs back for a moment, but only a moment, because now he's got his arms around her, his naked limbs pressed against her, the water droplets soaking through her clothes to her skin. When she's kissing him in return, really kissing him instead of letting it happen, Simon shifts his weight so she can feel how hard he is for her.
She jerks away. "Stop."
He stops, but he's grinning. "I'm curious about taking Julian's body for a test drive. Looks like you could say the same."
"We're not doing this."
As she stalks toward the back, Simon grins and mutters, "Not yet."
**
Simon leads her to the Chamber. He gains nothing by lying; if she is confused enough to trust him a little - no, she's not that dumb. But if Sydney can be convinced that he's playing by the rules, she won't run away from the game.
In a rented white jeep, they drive out of Rome, heading south, the sun beating down upon them hotter and hotter. Eventually they reach what had been the coastline, 2000 years ago; after the slow shift of centuries, it's a few miles inland, no longer a bustling port town but an indifferent suburb, one that exists mostly to supply workers to the beach resorts down the road and house the occasional archaeological team.
Sydney wears blue jeans and a black tank top. Her hair is pulled back in a too-slick ponytail, but a few strands pull loose in the breeze. The boots on her feet are practical yet just a little bit flash - the sort of thing Julia might have worn.
Simon likes to think she's thawing already.
They park in the tourist lot, assume Bostonian accents as they buy guidebooks and pretend not to read any Italian. Just two stupid, amiable Americans, nothing to see here. For the first half-hour, they walk around the ruins just like the school groups and camera-wielding hordes, but most of them stick to the main roads. Over time, Sydney and Simon are able to wander farther off, then more. If anyone stops them, they will be able to convincingly plead that they are two more lost visitors.
Nobody stops them. Within 45 minutes, they've made their way to the far ruins. The stone is not so difficult to slide - not with two people working together - and then they are going down the dank steps, coughing in the musty air.
"Is this what we did before?" Sydney asks as she flicks on the torch. The walls are decorated with frescos, still visible despite fading and chipping - there the outline of an urn, here the upraised arms of a nymph. "Pretend to be tourists?"
"We came at night for some privacy. Didn't know exactly where the stone was, then. We needed more time." Simon grins. "Besides, that way we were able to fuck right in the amphitheater. On stage, as it were. You got off on the imaginary audience."
She ignores him.
"Not as much as you used to get off on having a real audience," he adds, casually.
"You're making that up."
"I am, actually." The floor is slanting downward now, and the stones are as crooked and treacherous as Simon remembers. The crumbling silhouette of a centurion watches them go. "One of the few perversions we never tried."
"You seem to think that the only thing I'd want to know about - about being Julia - is my sex life."
"Not the only thing, love. Just the thing that makes you the most uncomfortable. Also the easiest for me to remind you about." Simon runs one fingertip down her spine, and she jerks upright. Sydney doesn't turn backward to snap at him; she doesn't pull away. Instead she stands there, his hand upon her back. No bra strap today.
Stepping closer, Simon presses his lips to the nape of her neck. When Sydney shudders, he brings one hand around to her breast, gripping it roughly, fingers digging into soft flesh. She still doesn't budge.
"Down here, then?" Nothing to lie on, but Simon wouldn't mind having her against the wall. He licks one of her earlobes. "Is that what we'll do?"
"I said no."
"So convincingly."
Sydney steps forward, and he lets her slide from his half-embrace. "After we get what I need from the Chamber -"
"Then you'll run back to the CIA and leave me to make my own way. I get that." Simon folds his arms. "But you'll come back to me, Sydney. For a day, or an hour. You'll tell yourself it's just another errand, or that you need Sark to be seen somewhere, something like that. And I'll show you what it is you really want. You've given me my life again, you see. I'm happy to return the favor."
She looks back, then; the flashlight's glow outlines her profile - that straight nose, her full lips. There is something bruised about her gaze.
"You don't like hearing that, do you? It's hard, facing the truth about yourself. But what you're doing down here - with me - that's the real you."
"Let's finish this," she says, and walks away.
Grinning, he follows her deeper into the ruins, pointing the way as he remembers it, until at last they find the Chamber.
The moment they step inside, the room seems to illuminate, and Sydney gasps. It startled Simon the first time, too. Turns out it's only a clever arrangement of mirrors hung about the ceiling; they take the beam of the flashlight, reflect it and refract it a thousand different ways, so that the Chamber is brightly lit as though with the sun. A canopy of light shimmers above.
"Oh, my God," Sydney whispers.
"A stunner, isn't it?" There are Roman artifacts in this room - more murals, and a couple of statuary fragments that would fetch several thousand pounds in less-reputable London auction houses. However, Simon has been given to understand that the room acquired no real value until Rambaldi broke in, added his mirrors and wrote his screed.
One wall is covered with it: sepia-tinted writing, slightly faded but, compared to the Roman swastika designs next to it, clear and vivid. Sydney immediately pulls out a silvery thing that looks like a credit card but apparently takes pictures. It seems as though every word is important.
"I can't read it," Simon says. "It's not Italian -"
"It's mirror-writing."
He glances upward and sees bits of reflections through the light above them; amid the glow, some of the mirrors are bouncing back bits of the text. Passenger. Chosen. Immortality. "Fancy that."
"Can you put your hand up by the bottom line?" Sydney gestures. "For scale."
"What would you do without me?"
"Let's see."
The chain falls around his neck, laughably slender. Simon laughs. "If you want a garrote, you'll need -"
Everything turns gray; the world is made of shadows on shadows. The one clear outline Simon can discern is the pendant Sydney showed him - the Rambaldi artifact - that one that switched him and Sark -
"What I'm doing to you now," Sydney says, "that's who I really am."
"Keeping - your word - to Sark?" he manages to gasp. "Or - betraying me?"
"It's all the same, in the end."
She let him kiss her and feel her up just to convince him he was the one in charge - the one playing the game. All her coyness, going so far and no further: tricks to fool him. And she did fool him, she did.
Fuck me, Simon thinks, and he falls back into the dark.
**
"You didn't seem surprised," Sydney says, as they walk toward the center of the ruins, closer to the tourists.
"To regain my body? Not at all." Sark's hands are in his pockets; he's relaxed, at ease. "I knew you would keep your word."
Her sideways glance is reluctantly pleased. "I guess I have trouble believing that you trusted me. I wouldn't trust you."
"That's because you're far too clever to do such a thing."
"Why did you offer to do it? You can tell me now. It would have been just as easy to find another volunteer to be Simon - and you could have traded him a new life for real."
"Or left him for dead." Sark does not grieve for the late Mr. Walker. "I always felt it rather keenly that your father had the honor."
Sydney sighs. "You're not going to tell me why."
Laughing, Sark gives in. He might as well say this before Vaughn rejoins them and ruins all the fun. "I had a hunch that you might end up having to play certain mind games with Simon Walker. Do a certain amount of bartering. Lower some standards. Granted, you didn't go as far as I'd hoped, but it was still a hell of a show."
She stares at him.
Sark grins even wider. "Did I not mention that the Rambaldi artifact leaves the body's 'original' inhabitant wide awake? Able to sense everything? See everything?" He casts a glance down at her breasts. "Feel everything?"
Sydney opens her mouth to say something - insults, perhaps, or threats to his person - but instead she takes a deep breath and keeps walking.
Following in her footsteps, Sark repeats, "One hell of a show."
He wonders if Simon was right about Sydney and her need to escape. Might be worth finding out, someday.
THE END
Speaking of ficathons, you have today and tomorrow to sign up for the Aliases Ficathon. We've got a good number together, but I can't get enough of characters in amusing outfits, so if you've been fence-sitting or putting it off, this is the time to get on board! Not only can you play dress-up with your favorites, but you can also enjoy the good fic (to judge by the DD offerings) that results.
And speaking of good fic, two quick recs: "225 Days Earlier" by midorinomizu, which takes a Sark/Peyton/Rachel triangle and does some interesting things with it -- "no competition," hmm, Peyton? It, too, is set post-series, so be braced for spoilers. Also, in HP fandom, "The Moon at Perigee" by kenazfiction is Snape/Lupin. Believeable Snape/Lupin. With edge and romance. Both are well worth checking out.
I took Monday off for no real reason. I therefore had a very long and very quiet weekend, not that this is a bad thing. I did a lot of writing and watched a lot of movies, including "Sideways," which despite the presence of the delectable Sandra Oh I found somewhat disappointing. No, that's not right: overhyped is the word I want. Because it was very funny, not at all ordinary, smartly characterized and mature -- IMHO, very few films really capture the reality of dating after 30, and this one did. But given the Oscar nods, I was expecting too much, probably. Also, is it just me, or did you feel like Maya could've done better? I mean, I get what Paul Giamatti's character sees in her. She's beautiful, warm, understanding and passionate about their shared interest. He, however, is a chronically depressed, shlumpy alcoholic who gets their relationship started by lying to her about something pretty important. I can see her taking interest in him and even liking him, but honestly, Virginia Madsen isn't going to have better options? OTOH, maybe this is the reality of dating after 30.
New man at work is actually cute and apparently heterosexual. I think he's also married, but at least he's scenery.
Summary: Simon knows Julia Thorne well enough to recognize her inside Sydney Bristow.
Mask of Mirrors
Simon awakens in an unfamiliar room, Julia Thorne looking down into his eyes.
His first thought is that he shouldn't have woken up at all. He's not precisely certain why not, but the feeling is strong.
Something - a necklace? A cord? - slides away from his neck; Julia slips it into a pocket. For a few moments he lies still, trying to gather himself - but it's difficult. He feels extremely strange - not bad, just odd. Julia looks different than she should, he thinks: her hair is longer, her face softer in some way that's hard to define. The clothing she's wearing is all wrong; instead of Italian leather, she's in a cream-colored business suit. A cover, perhaps? But there's something else that's off about her, something he's forgetting, something important -
She is not Julia Thorne.
The memories punch through him like the bullets that ought to be in his body: the names Sydney and Jack Bristow, a CIA connection, a taunted father taking his revenge. Jack Bristow's flat, sharklike stare is the last memory Simon has - the last memory he should ever have had.
"Where am I?" he demands. "What have you done?"
She smiles with a certain resignation. "Simon?"
"As long as we're getting acquainted, nice to meet you, Sydney Bristow." Her real name has no impact upon her. His own voice is unfamiliar to him, as though he'd just risen from depths of unconsciousness he'd never known before. "As far as I recall, I was just chatting with your father. I see where you get your calm temper and ineffable charm."
"This would be a good time for you to prove that you really are Simon Walker."
"So far as I can recall, the only time you let me fuck you with the neck of the champagne bottle was that chalet outside Lucerne."
She ducks her head. Funny: Simon remembers her liking the dirty talk, the dirtier the better. Maybe that was just part of pretending to be Julia, but if so, she certainly threw herself into the role.
CIA. Never would've seen that coming. He's got to hand it to her - she's good. But this little game she's playing now, her father's bag of tricks, those aren't CIA tactics. Are they off-book? Time to find out who's friend and who's foe.
"Now that we've got that settled," he drawls, "Can we get back to the subject? Namely, where I am and what you've done."
"This is Jaipur. And I've - brought you here because I need information."
India? How the blazes had they taken him all the way to India without him waking up once? Simon remembers gasping in pain, slick with his own blood, on a cement floor as Jack Bristow stood above him with a gun; then he knows exactly what Sydney has done.
"You've wiped my memory. That fellow we hunted up in Hong Kong, the one you said you needed to find to take care of a 'client' - you took me to him, didn't you?"
Sydney considers that; it's as if the news came as a revelation to her, instead of to him. "That - explains a lot."
"How long has it been?" Simon demands. "Tell me how much of my life you've stolen. Last thing I remember is your father shooting me - how long ago was that?"
"Six years."
"You bitch." He wants to get his hands around her throat, but he restrains himself; she's got him at a disadvantage, and then some. His emotional reaction to losing (six fucking) years of his life - that has to wait. Sydney Bristow of the CIA is here to drive a hard bargain, and she's already taken his memories to show that she means business. "What was it so important that I forget?"
She arches one eyebrow; it's the first time since he awoke that he can see Julia in her at all. "Do you seriously expect me to answer that question?"
Simon pushes himself away from her; it's the only way he'll be able to prevent himself from socking her in the jaw. Instead he walks to the window and pulls back one of the draperies, and it's as though the world is split in two: they are in a modern hotel room, air-conditioned almost to frigidity, one obviously decorated to please Western guests, but outside is an ancient city carved of pink sandstone, in the shape of a mandala. The shimmer in the air reveals the summer's heat.
Jack Bristow shot him in wintertime.
"Anything major I ought to know about?" Simon asks lightly. His voice sounds so strange; he hopes it doesn't betray him entirely. "World wars, pandemics, bold fashion trends?"
"Leather's out." Sydney stands up and walks toward him. "Simon, I have to get details about an op you and I went on not long after we met. The Covenant sent us to find something called the Chamber."
"Right, Chamber, yeah." Simon shrugs. Batty errand if ever there was one: locate one ancient Roman basement, photograph all this graffiti left by some Renaissance ne'er-do-well named Milo Rambaldi, turn over the maps and move on to more interesting things. The two of them had to kill a surprisingly high number of people to get somebody to tell them where the blasted thing was. It's the sort of thing that would make Simon curious, if he allowed himself curiosity about matters that don't concern him. Controlling your curiosity - it's a thing too few people in their business learn. "You were there, love. So why do you need me to clear things up for you?"
Sydney hesitates, and the truth comes to him in a flash of almost immeasurable satisfaction. "They wiped your memory too, didn't they? Got us both. But they took yours even further back."
"I lost two years. And no, I don't remember the search for the Chamber. But I need to get there now, Simon. Which means I need you to tell me."
He doesn't answer her right away. It's a lot to absorb, and Simon is a man who prefers not to act without all the information he needs.
There's no point in doubting her about the time that's passed - he can feel it. Now that he's had a chance to get used to it, Simon can tell that even his body feels different; sometime in the past six years, he's lost some weight, become rangy rather than hard-bodied. His clothes don't hang the way they used to.
Despite this verification, Simon can already tell that the scenario he's pieced together is inadequate - there are gaps, puzzle-pieces missing on the borders. If what Sydney needs from him is a memory, why on earth did she take the risk of removing other memories of his? Tampering inside people's heads is tricky business; she might easily have tossed out the very clue she needed. The more he thinks about this, the more he's certain that either someone else erased his memory - the same people who went after Julia - or, less likely, that something else entirely is responsible for his forgetting.
Also, asking him straightforwardly like this - that's already an indication that Sydney's had to go to extraordinary lengths. In the world of espionage, direct questions are a last resort.
"You don't remember the search for the Chamber," Simon begins. She nods, watching him intently. It's as if his face is unfamiliar to her, as though she were trying to read him through a mask. He smirks. "Do you remember the champagne bottle?"
Her lips press together in a thin line. "No."
"Want a refresher?"
"I'm here to talk business. Trust me, Simon, you don't have lots of time to waste."
"What are you willing to offer me for the information? My life?"
Sydney hesitates. "In a manner of speaking."
Simon only has this paltry bit of information to bargain with, but it's all he needs. She won't kill him while he knows it and she doesn't; Simon figures that gives him plenty of chances to stall. Besides, she never did have the stomach for torture -
Quickly, he asks, "Your father in on this?"
For only a second, her eyes shift downward, seeking memory instead of reality. "He died more than three years ago."
Simon smiles. "Did I kill him?"
He likes the way Sydney glares at him then. "You wish."
No Papa Bear means no torture. Simon leans against the wall, casual now, happy to play this out for as long as it takes. "You'd better lay your cards on the table, Sydney. You're the one wasting time."
She stands up, as though preparing for confrontation, but all she says is, "Look in the mirror."
"What?" Simon likes his own face as much as anybody, but what possible relevance could this have? "Mirror?"
Gesturing toward the nearby bedroom, Sydney nods. "Mirror."
"Is it over the bed? If so, I suggest you get out of that suit. Not your best look, love."
"It'll do."
He goes into the bedroom, unsure what she's on about but unable to think of any reason to refuse. The bed truly is tempting, broad and soft, hung with pale blue silks - pity this is so clearly a matter of business rather than pleasure. Simon walks to the mirror, wondering if she means to shock him by his aging; maybe there's a knife scar he doesn't recall, gray hair, something like that. Well, he's braced for it.
What Simon is not braced for is looking into the mirror and seeing Julian Sark's face.
"What the -" It's Sark's lips that speak, and that voice that's so strange in Simon's ears - it's not his voice, it's Sark's.
Simon staggers backward, utterly perplexed - then horrified. He paws at himself, longing in his confusion to discover that it's just one of those new synthetic polymer disguises, but it's skin, flesh, bone, all he's got.
Sydney watches him, unsmiling, as he runs his hands over his head (Sark's hair is short and downy), takes a deep breath (Sark's lungs take full breaths, not hitching from an old knife wound) and shouts out once, wordless in his horror.
Finally, he manages to gasp, "I'm in Sark. Is he in me?"
"No."
"How the fuck -"
She holds up something that looks like a pendulum, tarnished silver, deeply etched. He recognizes it as the item she took from around his neck as he woke up. "Simon, you died six years ago, after my father shot you. When Sark and I realized that we both needed to find the Chamber -" she hesitates. "We'd each tried every other way, independently. He came to me with a Rambaldi artifact that he thought might - bring you back. He volunteered for this part of it; I'm still not sure exactly why. But it was useful, so I said yes, and here we are."
You died six years ago.
Simon's head feels as though it's on fire. He wants to find Jack Bristow and smash him into bits, but the man is just a corpse now, mouldering in some grave. He wants to shoot Sydney in the face, but he has no gun and if he kills her, he'll get no more answers. He wants to slash every single member of the Covenant to ribbons -
"The Covenant," he says. "They got us both. We have to take them out."
"They were destroyed years ago. If I had them to turn to, I wouldn't have had to do this."
No revenge to take, no guilty party to kill. Simon has never known that his soul could contain as much hate as it does this moment, for her and above all for Julian Sark. Oh, maybe Sydney doesn't know why Sark volunteered, but Simon does; they were never friends, always rivals, and Sark would've thought it a good joke, making Simon rise up from the dead only to dangle like a marionette upon strings. Simon is so fully Sark's puppet now that he cannot even move without Sark's body.
He smashes his fist into the mirror. Glass sprays everywhere, and Sydney gasps. Pain roars up his arm, scalding hot and terrible. Simon grimly hopes he's severed a nerve.
"What are you doing?" Sydney grabs him at the elbow; Simon, somewhat dizzy from the first rush of blood loss, allows himself to be steered toward a chair. She grabs the scarf from around her neck and begins bandaging him. "Simon, I know this is strange. But you have to control yourself."
"Or what? Or you won't get what you want?"
"Listen to me," she says, bending low. Her hands continue to work, deft and sure, almost as though they were independent of her; their faces are so close to each other that he cannot help remembering her kiss. "I told Sark that I'd bring him out of this as soon as we got the information. But Sark's broken promises before - which means I might do the same to him."
"You'd give me his body," Simon says. "His life. Forever."
"If you get me to the Chamber within three days? Yes."
Even through the haze of panic and rage that still grips him, Simon knows how to recognize a good bargain.
"You really going to follow through on this?" he says slowly. "I don't know you, Sydney. Julia would've sawed Sark off at the knees like that, no problem. But you might have moral qualms about such a thing."
"I'd shoot him. I don't see how this is different." Sydney's head lowers so that she can finish off the makeshift bandage with a quick knot. His hand is numb for the moment - shock.
Simon considers this. It was Sark who revealed her true identity in the first place; therefore, there's no love lost between them. For all that Sydney's lied about being Julia Thorne, Simon knows there was a time when she was - fond of him. Not all those nights were a lie, of that he's sure. He'd place good odds on being the one Sydney hates least. Yes, this is one bargain she's likely to keep.
Risen from the dead, Simon thinks, and he shudders with the sheer power of it.
"You're on, love," he says. "You're on."
**
They summon the hotel's doctor for a quick patch-up job; the damage to Sark's hand proves to be mostly cosmetic. Now that Simon believes he can keep the hand for his own, he finds that a relief.
As soon as that's taken care of, they head downstairs and walk through the lobby, side by side, like any other couple checking out. Simon slings his good arm casually around her shoulders. The moment they walk out the door into the steamy heat, she shrugs it off. "It's not happening."
"Miracles occur all the time. Shouldn't I know, today of all days?" She ignores this and guides him toward a long black car that appears to be waiting.
They slide into the back, and there he receives the next of what promise to be many unpleasant shocks for the day: Michael Vaughn of the CIA is sitting there in khakis and a T-shirt. Simon learned who Vaughn was four days ago, which was also when he'd watched Julia kill the man. If he'd had any more time to consider the possibilities, Simon would have realized that he'd been played; however, in his mind, it had been less than an hour since he'd learnt Sydney was CIA herself, and he'd been busy since, what with dying and being reincarnated as Sark and all.
"Well, well," Simon drawls. "Looks like coming back from the dead is all the rage."
"Amazing. You can tell it's not Sark." Vaughn tilts his head, studying Simon, but it's Sydney he's talking to. "Just the way he sits."
Sydney takes the seat next to Vaughn, close enough that it's obvious who she's shacked up with lately. Probably they were an item six years ago, too. "You two married, then?" Simon asks.
"It's none of your business," Sydney replies.
"And that'll be a yes. How charming. Tell me, are you newlyweds? Or did I have the pleasure of fucking her while she was your wife?"
To Simon's surprise, Vaughn looks amused. "The more things change, the more they stay the same."
"Does that mean Sark fucked your wife?"
Simon means it as a joke, but Vaughn simply shrugs. "Not this wife."
"Julian did get around, didn't he?"
"And always came up short." Vaughn and Simon share a look, united for one single moment in their mutual loathing of Sark. The moment passes as soon as it arrived.
"Airport," Sydney says to the driver, an odd, uncomfortable smile on her face.
"So, is Rome the next stop?" Vaughn asks. Obviously he's in on the whole thing. How distasteful, this bland CIA man plotting out Simon's whole reincarnation. Simon prefers to think of this as Sydney's mission alone. She's someone he can fence with, someone he can test, someone he knows.
"Rome." Sydney's eyes flicker over to Simon, seeking confirmation.
"It's a place to start." It feels good, having some power again.
For the rest of the trip, Simon is quiet. He's betting that they'll start talking, excluding him, if he lets them do so. The bet pays off. They're both professionals, so Sydney and Vaughn don't make any obvious blunders; it's small talk, mostly. But small talks says a lot.
They're fairly cozy with each other. A happy marriage, then. Simon mentally imagines making a gagging gesture.
But it's not a perfect marriage, because they're so hyper-aware of Simon himself; the fact that he is Sydney's former lover is a shade too important to them both. So there are old wounds reopening, wounds that never completely healed, just got bandaged up like his aching hand. Was the breach between them caused by her long time as Julia Thorne? Something later? Simon finds himself remembering the look in her eyes as she plunged that knife into Vaughn's gut. She's a good actress, but he'd bet anything there was something else at work there.
Very, very interesting indeed.
Julian Sark, callow and arrogant as he might be, isn't a bad-looking fellow. Simon's seen him cut a swath through various safebreakers and catburglars of their mutual acquaintance. Pale or dark, curvy or thin, tall or tiny, if they're female, Sark's probably interested - as long as they're dangerous.
Sydney Bristow is obviously a very dangerous woman. Maybe the edge in the room isn't wholly about Simon. Maybe Vaughn's first wife isn't the only one Sark got to.
The soul of one lover, the body of potentially another - he appears to have awoken as a double threat. The more Simon thinks about it, the less it troubles him that his body's gone; switching seems like a brilliant tactical move. He couldn't have done better if he'd planned it. In one fell swoop, he's a few years younger, disguised from all his old enemies and rid of Julian Sark forever. Fantastic, really. If it complicates Sydney's life as well, then that's just the icing on the cake.
When Vaughn says something about home, the tone of his voice reveals that he won't be heading to Rome along with them. Simon stares at the window to conceal his grin.
In the glass he can see Sark's reflection.
**
"Why are you so eager to be rid of Sark?" Simon asks on the plane.
Sydney has removed her suit jacket; the camisole beneath is of a shimmery fabric Simon doesn't recognize. A new synthetic, maybe. "You met the guy, right?"
He laughs, his amusement genuine. "Still, rather cold. He comes to you with a plan, offers you the solution to all your problems, puts your life in his hands - and you cash in his chips, there and then."
"He would've done the same to me."
"No arguing with that." Simon leans back, enjoying the cool leather of the seats. The CIA offers swankier transport than he would've thought; might've considered going legit years ago if he'd known about the perks. "Doesn't make it any less cold."
She doesn't reply. Bending down, she rubs the back of one heel, wearily, as though the prim pumps she's wearing aren't wholly comfortable upon her feet.
More quietly, he adds, "It's something Julia would have done."
Sydney goes very still. Their eyes meet, but only for a second before she straightens up, a businesswoman once more. "The jet has supersonic capability. We'll get to Rome first thing in the morning, local time. I suggest you try to sleep. It seems like rising from the dead would be tiring."
"Never felt better, and don't change the subject. Tell me, love, how much of Julia was make-believe? I'm curious."
"I don't know." To his astonishment, he believes her answer is completely honest. "The time I knew you - those are the two years that were stolen from me."
"The memory guy in Hong Kong, that was for real?"
"For me, yes. Your memory lapse - well, that wasn't a memory lapse."
Simon weighs that for a second. "What do you remember?"
She hesitates, clearly unable to decide how much information to give him. The ovals of sky that frame her face are shifting from brilliant daylight into the rose and violet of sunset as they catch up to the night. At last she confesses, "When you walked up to me in that nightclub in Sevilla - I had no idea we'd ever met. I had to bluff my way through the next few days. Through everything with you."
He's impressed despite himself. "Nicely done."
"Thanks."
"Were you working for the CIA when we were together?"
"Not at first. The Covenant believed they'd brainwashed me into thinking that I really was Julia Thorne. I couldn't let them realize differently. After a while, I was able to make contact with the CIA and operate as a double agent. But it took some time. Too much time."
"You're telling me too much," he chides her gently.
"The CIA knows all of this; the Covenant doesn't exist any longer," she snaps. "The information is useless. You're welcome to it."
It's not useless, though; it helps him to evaluate her. So, she'd never really been brainwashed. Everything she did - killing, stealing, fucking - she did as the woman that she is right now, or at least a younger version. Simon wonders if Vaughn's ever done the things to her that he did, the things she begged him to do. He doubts it. You don't marry a girl after you've - well, you just don't.
In retrospect, her extreme appetites have an added meaning: Simon can finally see that she wasn't the perverted nymphomaniac he'd taken her for. No, she was desperate to forget, to escape, to be nothing but a body.
He wonders if she still thinks about escape, from time to time.
"You're looking lovely," he says. "Far as I can tell, you've hardly aged a day."
"You're looking like Sark."
"Touche." Folding his hands behind his head, mock-casual, Simon adds, "Can't say that your hubby's worn as well. Don't get me wrong - last time I saw him he looked dead. So today represents an improvement. But he's had a rough time of it, hasn't he? Too much salt and pepper in the hair for a man that age."
"We've all had a rough time of it." She puts one hand to her temple, and only now does he see that she's not just tired, but exhausted. Sydney hides it well. It's always best to strike when an opponent isn't at her best.
"I don't think you're giving me Sark because you hate him," he says. "Even as Julia, you wouldn't have done that. You may be a slick piece of work, but you're fair, in your way."
"Maybe I'm just trying to be fair to you."
"Maybe. Or maybe you're curious." Sydney half-turns toward him; her profile is still and pale in the darkening cabin. "I think you want to know who Julia Thorne really was - or who you were, when you lived under her name. I think it burns you up inside. All these years and your CIA job and your happy little marriage - none of it erases the need to know her. The need to be her."
He's pushed too far, too fast. Sydney stands up, sliding her feet back into those painful shoes. "I'm not interested in your theories. If you don't need rest, I do."
"Take what you need," Simon agrees, and he smiles even more broadly as she walks away without another word.
She sleeps in the very back of the passenger cabin, still in that business suit. Simon watches her sleep, and he's got to give her credit: it's damned hard to sleep with someone staring at you, particularly someone you don't entirely trust. But she's willed herself to go under, to get her strength for their mission, when she'll need it.
Of course, that leaves her on display to his gaze. Did she think about that? Did she like it a little, down deep?
Simon's eyes trace the long lines of her legs (she likes being licked behind the knees), the firm swell of her ass (he's braced his hands there countless times), the small of her back (where he's tied her hands), the slight outline of a bra strap beneath the camisole.
Now, that part, that's new. Julia was never all that much into brassieres. Simon thinks they're mostly a waste of time, himself.
Her cheek is pressed against the seat, her full lips slightly parted. She's never looked more beautiful to him than now. Simon is aware that this is because she's never held more power than him before - it's a perverse impulse, but he's enjoying it too much to let go.
What if he's right? What if she really does want to know Julia, inside and out? Maybe she's become a bit bored with Mr. White Bread of the CIA; maybe she needs some grander justification for a bit on the side. Or maybe she's having some Deep Existential Crisis. Simon's never had one himself, but he reads in magazines that they're no picnic. They lead people to do the damnedest things.
Regardless, Simon can taste it in the air: opportunity. He's not a man who lets opportunities go to waste.
**
He doesn't rest easily. Simon has trained his body to fall asleep almost instantly and wake up, sharp and ready, after about four hours - the length of an REM cycle. However, that was his body, not Sark's, which doesn't appear to have gotten the memo.
Thinking about where his former body is now (dumped somewhere by the late Jack Bristow, no doubt, rotting in a ditch or beneath a slab of cement) doesn't exactly help.
When the sky outside begins to lighten with the very first traces of dawn, Simon gives up. Like most in his profession, he's expert at tidying up in airplane bathrooms, which present any number of challenges to personal hygiene. He is delighted to discover that this jet is actually swanky enough to have a shower; granted, it's about the size of a shoebox, and the water that comes through the handheld nozzle is more of a trickle than a spray, but it works.
The shower provides his first real opportunity to check out his latest acquisition. A few scars here and there: that's a knife, that's a bullet, and god only knows what that white line on the thigh might have come from. He's a skinny fellow now, really, but Simon rather likes it. Best of all, he hasn't been shortchanged in the department that really counts. He cups his balls, then takes hold of his cock and gives it a quick stroke and a gentle tug. Little more length, little less girth, but all in all pretty damned impressive.
He thinks about Sydney in the airplane cabin and wonders if she's more familiar with this than he is. Maybe he could ask her for a user's manual. Simon grins at the thought.
As it turns out, the airplane isn't well-stocked with towels, and the ones they do have aren't generous in size. Simon mops himself off with something that won't even cover his ass, then strolls into the cabin without it.
Sydney's awake. She sits up straighter, and after the first initial second of surprise, she simply raises an eyebrow. "Is this your way of asking for a change of clothes?"
"I might be asking for any number of things."
Her eyes take him in - not lustfully, not timidly, just cool appraisal. So, she's not Sark's lover after all. But Simon would bet a good bit of cash she's thought about it. Let her think about it some more.
"What you can get is a change of clothing." Sydney rises from her place, hair slightly rumpled, and grabs a duffel from one of the storage bins. She tosses it in Simon's general direction; he catches it and holds it where it will provide a little modesty. Not that he gives a shit about modesty, but he doesn't want Sydney walking off too quickly.
"Thanks ever so. Are these Sark's togs, or did you pick something out special for me?"
"Sark's." She pours herself some water, displeasingly calm about standing in the room with her naked ex.
"Works for me. He always did have good taste."
"Hope you didn't use all the water." Sydney tosses the plastic cup away and starts walking toward the back. "I could use a shower."
"Too bad we didn't share." His hand catches her at the elbow, and she stops cold.
"You can't seriously think -"
"I'm rarely serious. You don't remember that yet, but you will."
"I don't need any reminders."
"Reminders are exactly what you do need, love, and fast." Simon steps a little closer to her. "You need reminding of the person you really are when you're not on the books, playing by the rules. You need to get out of that damned business suit and your bland marriage."
"You don't know anything about my marriage --"
"You need to know what you were as Julia," Simon whispers. "You already realize you were dangerous then. Depraved. An altogether delectable creature. Something in you has never been able to stop thinking about that - to stop wondering. You want to know so bad it's killing you. If you didn't, you wouldn't have brought me back, given me Sark's body. Would you?"
Sydney is silent. She won't quite meet his eyes. Is it his imagination, or is she breathing a little faster?
"I know who you really are." The cabin air is cool against his damp skin, and he imagines her fingers stroking him, warm and strong. "When everything else has fallen away - all that's left is Julia. I think you need to find Julia again."
"Let go."
"Not yet." Simon kisses her, hard.
Sydney doesn't pull away.
The feel of the kiss is different - Sark's jaw, Sark's tongue, Sark's nerves - but Sydney's mouth opening beneath his, that's the same. Heat from her kiss seems to melt down the length of his body; he's not shivering now. He tosses the duffel to one side, and Sydney tugs back for a moment, but only a moment, because now he's got his arms around her, his naked limbs pressed against her, the water droplets soaking through her clothes to her skin. When she's kissing him in return, really kissing him instead of letting it happen, Simon shifts his weight so she can feel how hard he is for her.
She jerks away. "Stop."
He stops, but he's grinning. "I'm curious about taking Julian's body for a test drive. Looks like you could say the same."
"We're not doing this."
As she stalks toward the back, Simon grins and mutters, "Not yet."
**
Simon leads her to the Chamber. He gains nothing by lying; if she is confused enough to trust him a little - no, she's not that dumb. But if Sydney can be convinced that he's playing by the rules, she won't run away from the game.
In a rented white jeep, they drive out of Rome, heading south, the sun beating down upon them hotter and hotter. Eventually they reach what had been the coastline, 2000 years ago; after the slow shift of centuries, it's a few miles inland, no longer a bustling port town but an indifferent suburb, one that exists mostly to supply workers to the beach resorts down the road and house the occasional archaeological team.
Sydney wears blue jeans and a black tank top. Her hair is pulled back in a too-slick ponytail, but a few strands pull loose in the breeze. The boots on her feet are practical yet just a little bit flash - the sort of thing Julia might have worn.
Simon likes to think she's thawing already.
They park in the tourist lot, assume Bostonian accents as they buy guidebooks and pretend not to read any Italian. Just two stupid, amiable Americans, nothing to see here. For the first half-hour, they walk around the ruins just like the school groups and camera-wielding hordes, but most of them stick to the main roads. Over time, Sydney and Simon are able to wander farther off, then more. If anyone stops them, they will be able to convincingly plead that they are two more lost visitors.
Nobody stops them. Within 45 minutes, they've made their way to the far ruins. The stone is not so difficult to slide - not with two people working together - and then they are going down the dank steps, coughing in the musty air.
"Is this what we did before?" Sydney asks as she flicks on the torch. The walls are decorated with frescos, still visible despite fading and chipping - there the outline of an urn, here the upraised arms of a nymph. "Pretend to be tourists?"
"We came at night for some privacy. Didn't know exactly where the stone was, then. We needed more time." Simon grins. "Besides, that way we were able to fuck right in the amphitheater. On stage, as it were. You got off on the imaginary audience."
She ignores him.
"Not as much as you used to get off on having a real audience," he adds, casually.
"You're making that up."
"I am, actually." The floor is slanting downward now, and the stones are as crooked and treacherous as Simon remembers. The crumbling silhouette of a centurion watches them go. "One of the few perversions we never tried."
"You seem to think that the only thing I'd want to know about - about being Julia - is my sex life."
"Not the only thing, love. Just the thing that makes you the most uncomfortable. Also the easiest for me to remind you about." Simon runs one fingertip down her spine, and she jerks upright. Sydney doesn't turn backward to snap at him; she doesn't pull away. Instead she stands there, his hand upon her back. No bra strap today.
Stepping closer, Simon presses his lips to the nape of her neck. When Sydney shudders, he brings one hand around to her breast, gripping it roughly, fingers digging into soft flesh. She still doesn't budge.
"Down here, then?" Nothing to lie on, but Simon wouldn't mind having her against the wall. He licks one of her earlobes. "Is that what we'll do?"
"I said no."
"So convincingly."
Sydney steps forward, and he lets her slide from his half-embrace. "After we get what I need from the Chamber -"
"Then you'll run back to the CIA and leave me to make my own way. I get that." Simon folds his arms. "But you'll come back to me, Sydney. For a day, or an hour. You'll tell yourself it's just another errand, or that you need Sark to be seen somewhere, something like that. And I'll show you what it is you really want. You've given me my life again, you see. I'm happy to return the favor."
She looks back, then; the flashlight's glow outlines her profile - that straight nose, her full lips. There is something bruised about her gaze.
"You don't like hearing that, do you? It's hard, facing the truth about yourself. But what you're doing down here - with me - that's the real you."
"Let's finish this," she says, and walks away.
Grinning, he follows her deeper into the ruins, pointing the way as he remembers it, until at last they find the Chamber.
The moment they step inside, the room seems to illuminate, and Sydney gasps. It startled Simon the first time, too. Turns out it's only a clever arrangement of mirrors hung about the ceiling; they take the beam of the flashlight, reflect it and refract it a thousand different ways, so that the Chamber is brightly lit as though with the sun. A canopy of light shimmers above.
"Oh, my God," Sydney whispers.
"A stunner, isn't it?" There are Roman artifacts in this room - more murals, and a couple of statuary fragments that would fetch several thousand pounds in less-reputable London auction houses. However, Simon has been given to understand that the room acquired no real value until Rambaldi broke in, added his mirrors and wrote his screed.
One wall is covered with it: sepia-tinted writing, slightly faded but, compared to the Roman swastika designs next to it, clear and vivid. Sydney immediately pulls out a silvery thing that looks like a credit card but apparently takes pictures. It seems as though every word is important.
"I can't read it," Simon says. "It's not Italian -"
"It's mirror-writing."
He glances upward and sees bits of reflections through the light above them; amid the glow, some of the mirrors are bouncing back bits of the text. Passenger. Chosen. Immortality. "Fancy that."
"Can you put your hand up by the bottom line?" Sydney gestures. "For scale."
"What would you do without me?"
"Let's see."
The chain falls around his neck, laughably slender. Simon laughs. "If you want a garrote, you'll need -"
Everything turns gray; the world is made of shadows on shadows. The one clear outline Simon can discern is the pendant Sydney showed him - the Rambaldi artifact - that one that switched him and Sark -
"What I'm doing to you now," Sydney says, "that's who I really am."
"Keeping - your word - to Sark?" he manages to gasp. "Or - betraying me?"
"It's all the same, in the end."
She let him kiss her and feel her up just to convince him he was the one in charge - the one playing the game. All her coyness, going so far and no further: tricks to fool him. And she did fool him, she did.
Fuck me, Simon thinks, and he falls back into the dark.
**
"You didn't seem surprised," Sydney says, as they walk toward the center of the ruins, closer to the tourists.
"To regain my body? Not at all." Sark's hands are in his pockets; he's relaxed, at ease. "I knew you would keep your word."
Her sideways glance is reluctantly pleased. "I guess I have trouble believing that you trusted me. I wouldn't trust you."
"That's because you're far too clever to do such a thing."
"Why did you offer to do it? You can tell me now. It would have been just as easy to find another volunteer to be Simon - and you could have traded him a new life for real."
"Or left him for dead." Sark does not grieve for the late Mr. Walker. "I always felt it rather keenly that your father had the honor."
Sydney sighs. "You're not going to tell me why."
Laughing, Sark gives in. He might as well say this before Vaughn rejoins them and ruins all the fun. "I had a hunch that you might end up having to play certain mind games with Simon Walker. Do a certain amount of bartering. Lower some standards. Granted, you didn't go as far as I'd hoped, but it was still a hell of a show."
She stares at him.
Sark grins even wider. "Did I not mention that the Rambaldi artifact leaves the body's 'original' inhabitant wide awake? Able to sense everything? See everything?" He casts a glance down at her breasts. "Feel everything?"
Sydney opens her mouth to say something - insults, perhaps, or threats to his person - but instead she takes a deep breath and keeps walking.
Following in her footsteps, Sark repeats, "One hell of a show."
He wonders if Simon was right about Sydney and her need to escape. Might be worth finding out, someday.
THE END
Speaking of ficathons, you have today and tomorrow to sign up for the Aliases Ficathon. We've got a good number together, but I can't get enough of characters in amusing outfits, so if you've been fence-sitting or putting it off, this is the time to get on board! Not only can you play dress-up with your favorites, but you can also enjoy the good fic (to judge by the DD offerings) that results.
And speaking of good fic, two quick recs: "225 Days Earlier" by midorinomizu, which takes a Sark/Peyton/Rachel triangle and does some interesting things with it -- "no competition," hmm, Peyton? It, too, is set post-series, so be braced for spoilers. Also, in HP fandom, "The Moon at Perigee" by kenazfiction is Snape/Lupin. Believeable Snape/Lupin. With edge and romance. Both are well worth checking out.
I took Monday off for no real reason. I therefore had a very long and very quiet weekend, not that this is a bad thing. I did a lot of writing and watched a lot of movies, including "Sideways," which despite the presence of the delectable Sandra Oh I found somewhat disappointing. No, that's not right: overhyped is the word I want. Because it was very funny, not at all ordinary, smartly characterized and mature -- IMHO, very few films really capture the reality of dating after 30, and this one did. But given the Oscar nods, I was expecting too much, probably. Also, is it just me, or did you feel like Maya could've done better? I mean, I get what Paul Giamatti's character sees in her. She's beautiful, warm, understanding and passionate about their shared interest. He, however, is a chronically depressed, shlumpy alcoholic who gets their relationship started by lying to her about something pretty important. I can see her taking interest in him and even liking him, but honestly, Virginia Madsen isn't going to have better options? OTOH, maybe this is the reality of dating after 30.
New man at work is actually cute and apparently heterosexual. I think he's also married, but at least he's scenery.