By Karen T
© March 2003
Disclaimer: Alias and its characters belong to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot, Touchstone, and
ABC. I'm just having a bit of fun.
Spoilers: Minor for "Firebomb"
Notes: A very loud THANK YOU to Rhysenn for her support, encouragement, and beta help.
(Without her, you'd have no idea who was doing what to whom.) And Rhysenn gets an extra serving
of thanks because this story never would've been written if she hadn't mentioned the pairing a
few weeks ago and then proceeded to feed me copious amounts of slash crack. *g*
Warning: This fic contains m/m slash involving Sark and Sloane. Yes, you
read that right. :) But if slash isn't your thing, then you might not want to proceed any further.
The clap of Sark's shoes against the concrete floor reverberates throughout the empty warehouse. Caplan is dead (he'd made sure of that himself), and he dismissed all of the guards an hour ago. Only he remains. Well, he and Arvin Sloane, that is, and the latter is still currently hunched over his precious Rambaldi manuscript.
The soles of his shoes are wooden (balsa, finely crafted by the nimble fingers of the most skilled cobbler in Holland) and it is plainly evident that Sark derives great satisfaction from the racket he is creating as he marches forward fifteen paces, pivots, and retraces his steps before doing another about-face. And as he again strides closer to Sloane, Sark purposely shifts all of his weight onto his front foot, thereby ensuring he will produce the loudest noise possible.
He watches with glee as he sees Sloane's back stiffen. And he continues to crash his shoes upon the floor - his eyes surreptitiously trained on the graying hairs of Sloane's head - until the older man reaches his breaking point.
"Is there something you'd like to say, Mr. Sark?" Sloane snaps without looking up.
Sark draws his feet together and comes to a halt. He is pleased that Sloane has finally paid him heed; he'd been wondering how long Sloane had intended to ignore him. "Not at all, sir," Sark responds disingenuously, the words dripping off his tongue like honey. "I'm perfectly content."
"Then will you stop your confounded pacing? You've been like a fly droning incessantly about my head."
Sark purses his lips into a tight frown as Sloane continues to keep his gaze fixated upon the manuscript spread out before him on the collapsible metal table.
"And what do you suggest I do?" Sark challenges, his tone petulant and demanding. "Should I simply stand in the corner like a good little boy and watch you squander away yet another priceless opportunity?"
Finally lifting his eyes to meet Sark's, Sloane sighs, his breath laden with both frustration and amusement. "Are you still upset that I gave Kabir the Rambaldi artifact?"
Sark opens his mouth to shoot off a sarcastic retort but thinks better of it and hesitates before saying, "Well, now that you mention it, yes. Kabir is a fool, and a questionably sane fool at that. Instead of keeping within our possession the most powerful weapon either of us has ever seen, you handed it over to him like it was a common toy."
"You already know that we needed the ahrat in order to complete this manuscript," Sloane says calmly, but it is clear to both men that his patience is growing thin.
"And I still believe we could have acquired the ahrat without having to present that madman with Rambaldi's creation. We could have done any number of things with that weapon."
"Oh, Mr. Sark," Sloane chuckles as he rises to his feet and closes the distance between them. "That weapon, while impressive, is useless in the grand scheme of our plans. And I wouldn't worry about Kabir owning it now because, if my calculations are correct and we both know they usually are, Sydney Bristow will have already disarmed him."
"Sydney?" Shock flickers across the features of Sark's face as he spits out the name. "The last we saw of the illustrious Ms. Bristow, she was being interrogated and tortured by Kabir."
"I know." A proud smile plays on Sloane's lips, which causes a sharp pang of jealousy to shoot through Sark's belly. He scowls in response. "But Sydney is such an enterprising young woman that I'm sure she somehow managed to overpower him," Sloane continues. "I have little doubt that the weapon is now safely tucked away in a CIA storage locker somewhere. I assure you, Mr. Sark, everything has gone according to my plan."
Sark narrows his eyes into a glare as the full meaning behind Sloane's words resolves itself in his mind. "Are you telling me that kidnapping Caplan, stealing the magnetometer, and incinerating Kabir's ex-wife was all just part of some elaborate game you were playing with Sydney Bristow?" He holds Sloane's dark eyes with a darkness of his own. "When I chose to join forces with you, sir, I did not agree to participate in your games."
"But didn't you?" Sloane coyly asks as he saunters behind Sark's back, his gaze never deviating from his young partner's figure. "Isn't that what you said, more or less, in Tokyo when you proposed to become my collaborator? As well as other things?"
Sark's anger dissipates upon hearing Sloane's last question. Shaking his head with mild aggravation, Sark shoots a look over his right shoulder in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Sloane, but the older man continues to keep himself hidden from view.
"How has your wife been able to tolerate you for so many years?" Sark's words are tinged with exasperation, yet something else is also there, something he is always attempting to conceal from Sloane.
"She admires my passion. As does someone else I know."
And before Sark has a chance to react, Sloane spins him around and slams his mouth onto his.
The sudden movements catch the young agent off guard, and he struggles for several seconds to extricate himself from Sloane's grasp, but Sloane's fingers are embedded in the sinewy muscles of his shoulders and they hold him firmly in place. Sark continues to squirm until Sloane's hands travel upwards and tilt Sark's head so that their mouths will have easier access to each other.
As Sloane's stubble scrapes his skin while his tongue thrusts past his lips, older more powerful memories overpower Sark's senses. He inhales the scent of Sloane's aftershave, allows it to travel to the core of him, and wraps his arms around his partner's back, pulling him closer.
The two men remain in that pose for several seconds as their tongues battle one another and their teeth gnash at each other's lips. With his fingers clawing the base of Sloane's neck, Sark sucks and nips and licks, reveling in the heat he is drawing from Sloane's mouth, the moans that are bubbling up his throat, and the hardness that is being ground against his crotch.
"Fuck," Sark groans as he feels Sloane push away the starched collar of his shirt and close his teeth upon the exposed skin. The pain sears through his mind almost as if he's been burned with a branding iron, and Sark throws his head back in response to it. But the pain also saturates him with desire as he pulls Sloane's shirttails out of his pants and runs his hands up the curve of the older man's back. Sloane's skin is initially cool, but Sark is pleased to find it almost instantly warms under his touch.
Using the full force of his weight, Sark propels Sloane backward towards the table. He grabs a handful of the older man's hair as Sloane swears under his breath before, once again, capturing Sark's mouth with his own. When Sloane raises an arm to caress Sark's left cheek, Sark seizes it in midair and, with his hand wrapped around the imprisoned wrist, wrestles it back down to Sloane's side.
When Sloane's hip collides with the edge of the table - its legs skidding a few inches at the unanticipated encounter - he releases his hold on Sark and swipes a hand across his sweaty forehead. He pauses for a second, head bowed down, mouth slightly open, short spurts of air passing through his windpipe. He's always enjoyed these feverish sparring matches he engages in with Sark. Sometimes he allows Sark to "win" - the poor boy's ego must be kept happy, after all - but more often than not he is the victor.
But his excitement seeps from the folds of his face when he looks up to see Sark dangling the reassembled Rambaldi manuscript before his eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" Sloane growls, his hands closing into fists.
"What, Arvin?" Sark mischievously purrs as he arches an eyebrow and lifts the manuscript just beyond Sloane's reach. "I thought you liked to play games. Don't you want to play this game with me?"
A corner of Sloane's mouth curls up into a half-smile, half-sneer at the young man's invitation. He has to admit it: Sark never fails to surprise him.
Making sure to maintain eye contact with Sark, who is still beaming like a child who's just defeated his best friend in an arm wrestling match, Sloane shuffles a few steps backwards, a sign that he is acquiescing and Sark has won.
Disappointed that Sloane has surrendered so easily, Sark's upraised arm drops a bit and a pout begins to form on his lips. "Now, Arvin, what fun is it if you-"
The rest of his words are left behind in his throat, unspoken, as he sees Sloane charge towards him, his eyes now cold and feral.
Sark had prepared himself for such retaliation, but the intensity with which Sloane springs upon him overwhelms him and he soon finds himself falling backwards, his feet flying out from under him. The back of his head smacks upon the gritty floor with a dull thud, and Sark finds himself momentarily dazed and short of breath. When his gaze refocuses, he realizes that he is not gasping for oxygen because he has had the air knocked out of him, but because Sloane has his right forearm lodged against his Adam's apple, which has effectively closed off his trachea. "Ar...vin..." he gasps as he feels his consciousness slowly begin to slip away.
Despite how much he enjoys seeing the desperation and fear that are flooding into Sark's eyes, Sloane relents and eases his chokehold enough for the younger man to gulp in a few priceless packets of air. The gray shadows that had been encroaching on the edges of his mind recede, and Sark's hazy vision clears to allow him to see Sloane straddling his thighs, his enraged face inches from his own.
"So, you want to play games, do you, Mister Sark?" he hears Sloane goad just before he feels the zipper to his pants being tugged down and a sudden rush of air against his bare skin.
And then one of Sloane's hands is on his rigid cock, massaging it, teasing it, torturing it.
The talented hand slides over the engorged head, coats itself with the juices oozing from the tip, and proceeds to spread its sticky wetness all along Sark's shaft. And as Sark props himself up on his elbows, his cheeks flushed and his eyes squeezed shut from the ache ripping through his groin, he feels Sloane's hand travel down to his testicles, palming each one, rolling them between his fingers. His throbbing intensifies and Sark honestly feels like he might pass out.
But then there are two hands where there had only just been one, and Sark's eyes snap open in astonishment. Sloane is watching him with a devilish glint in his eyes. As one hand alternates between kneading each ball, the other latches onto the base of Sark's cock, tightens its grip, and jerks up to the tip. And the pumping continues with both hands reaching such a frenzied pace that Sark's elbows give out from under him, and he collapses onto his back.
Pitching his hips upwards, he begins thrusting in counterpoint to Sloane's strokes. He wants to come, needs to come. And what's more, his mind is filled with thoughts of how much he wants to possess and be possessed.
Suddenly, just as he is moments away from coming, the hands melt away and Sark finds cold air mixing with the heat of his crotch as he is yanked up onto his feet.
Sark's eyes flash open, and he sees Sloane wiping his palms clean on the sides of his pants. The older man's clothes are slightly rumpled and his hair is dsiheveled, but he is no worse for the wear. Sark ruefully admits that the same cannot be said for him.
"Arvin?" he queries hesitantly, and immediately curses himself for how weak and thin - needy - his voice sounds.
When he opens his mouth to continue speaking, he finally notices that the Rambaldi manuscript is now being held firmly in Sloane's left hand. Sark can't remember when he'd released his hold on it, but he comprehends now how his latest tryst with Sloane had not been about his pleasure. No, it had all been about Sloane and what he'd wanted.
Running a hand idly through his hair, Sloane catches Sark's eyes with a vague smile before he grabs the young man's collar with his free hand and claims the unsuspecting mouth once more.
Sark lets out a cry of surprise as Sloane's teeth grind against his soft skin, slicing open a small area. He jerks away from the embrace and runs the tip of his tongue along the bottom edge of his lower lip. The coppery taste of his blood fills his mouth.
Calmly, almost reverently, Sloane places the Rambaldi manuscript onto the tabletop, smoothing out the corners with his fingertips. "Don’t ever touch my belongings again without my permission," Sloane tells him with a mild tone, but the threatening undercurrent coursing through his words is palpable.
Sark nods and attempts to form the proper words to express himself verbally, but his mind, which is consumed by a slew of disjointed thoughts, fails him.
"Now, why don't you bring the car around front while I collect the remainder of my things," Sloane commands, his back already turned to Sark before the young man has a chance to respond.
As Sark zips up his pants, he hears Sloane flip open his cell phone, speed dial a number, and then gush, "Hello, sweetheart. How are you feeling? ... Oh, I just wanted to call and hear your voice. ... No, I haven't heard anything back from the realtor about which offer the sellers will accept, but..."
Retreating from the warehouse with as much dignity as he can muster, Sark rushes out the door, eager for the brisk wind to chill his still fiery body. By the time he reaches the lone sedan parked outside the building, his skin has cooled, but his blood continues to boil.
He detests his partnership.
He tells himself that if he'd known how warped his relationship with Sloane would become, then he would never have approached the man with his proposal.
He detests his partner.
Sloane, with his ever-changing personality and manipulative ways, is the exact type of person Sark has never before trusted or enjoyed the company of.
But most of all, he detests himself.
He detests the way his body is always betraying him, always making him feel, always reminding him of how much he wants Sloane to once, just once, speak to him like he speaks to his wife.
But he knows that will never happen. Not as his painfully hard erection grows flaccid. Not as the memory of Sloane's unfulfilling touch lingers on his skin.
-the end-
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