Title: "Fruition"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Alias"
Rating/Classification: 'PG-13', voyeurism, S/V.
Disclaimer: JJ Abrams, Bad Robot, etc.
Summary: After 2.14, "Double Agent." You never know who's watching... or what it is they see.
Notes: For my twinkie, who wanted Sark fic...and for Dare, who wants to keep me chained up in her basement.
The screen flickers as it receives the data. And he curses the wisdom of putting a camera in Sydney Bristow's bedroom, wondering if his felonious little asset is watching this same set of images ...wondering if she sees this...the muscles of Agent Vaughn's shoulders bunching...Sydney's legs wrapping around his waist...her hair winding around his tanned throat.

He wanted pillow talk. The lurid bedroom whispers of spies. Not pornography. Erotica. *This*.

Because they don't speak. They don't need to. He's never seen bodies move in such perfect unison. As if one anticipates the other's every thought, every desire, and brings it to fruition. The only sounds are the cries breaking from the back of her throat. His hand slides unwilling, unbidden, over the suddenly too- tight crotch of his designer slacks. He's never heard her like this...weak little moans, gasps, as her fingers trail spirals across a man's spine.

It was too much to hope that the bug would transmit in color. That there would be flashes of red and her nails carving into skin instead of the grainy black and white footage that looks like it came from a patched-up hand held camera. But his imagination is a thousand times worse...placing blushes in every sweat-slick shadow....heightening the blues and browns of the eyes that never once break contact.

He had a friend who shot what he quaintly referred to as "snuff films" on 8 millimeter when they were in college. And they thought they were such artistes. Had such finesse for capturing that artful look of death in the confines of a lens. But the frozen mask of acceptance, of inevitability is not art...not compared to Sydney's body shuddering in the throes of orgasm.

He was sent first to the States, to Exeter. And then to the Continent. Cambridge. He's a prep school boy with prep school charm clawing at the handles of the chair and throwing the remote receiver aside as he bites through his lip and follows her and her lover into oblivion.

Irina would smile at him when he brought her an important piece of intel. And that smile was his reward, her lush Mona Lisa lips curving as she reached out and absently ruffled his hair. "Alexi," she called him, like he was an adored wolfhound or a milkfed infant. "Alexi, you're learning fast."

Sloane simply calls him "Sark." Sometimes "Mister Sark." A young man now instead of a hound or a child. A protege to be tutored in mayhem and molded in sin.

And he's learned all right. Yes. Learned that one name breathes familiarity and the other breeds contempt. And no names at all... well, that is a place of power he has never been able to reach.

A place that Sydney has lived in for just a few short weeks... the spun-fantasy world of her partner's embrace...where nothing is needed save touch and sensation and complete synchronicity.

His knuckles bleed white as he slumps low against leather and keens. These transmissions are obscene and superfluous. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. He doesn't need them. They reveal nothing of the CIA's confidential operations. And yet he cannot resist them. Cannot stop watching. Looks forward to the next.

He thinks his felonious little asset will need taking care of soon.

And when she's dead, the goings-on in Sydney's bedroom will belong only to him.

Like his nightmares.

His dreams.

And his twisted vision of family.

February 24, 2003.