A Bodyguard Of Lies
by Shrift

"At the risk of belaboring the obvious," Sark says as Weiss crowds him against the bar, "this would go much more smoothly without an escort."

"Tough shit," Weiss tells him over the techno music, raising a hand to catch the bartender's attention. "It's either me or Vaughn, Sparky, and right now, Vaughn? He doesn't like you so much."

"Really," Sark says dryly, and when Weiss glances down, Sark has a tilt to his mouth that on anyone else wouldn't look anything like a smile. For a second, Weiss almost smiles back before he remembers that he's not supposed to like the sneaky little shit. And he doesn't, not really, but somebody has to suppress the urge to punch Sark's head in, and that somebody isn't gonna be Vaughn. Not with Sydney's life at stake.

No, Weiss hasn't been letting Vaughn anywhere near Sark on this mission, because if they're gonna use Sark to get leads on Sydney's location, Weiss figures he's probably gonna need his face to do it.

Weiss needs to be doing something useful. He can do this, and he's really not sure anyone else on their team can do it with Sydney missing. Personal involvement rules out Vaughn, Bristow, and Dixon, and there's no way Weiss is leaving Marshall alone with Sark.

"It's either a bodyguard," Weiss says, pointing his thumb at his chest, "or Vaughn, the abusive pimp from Hell Street. And no, you don't get to choose."

Sark leans his back against the bar and scans the crowd on the dance floor, colored lights swirling over his face. "Bodyguard? Hardly."

Weiss nearly snorts the beer he is tipping back to drink, because it's true. Sark's beaten the crap out of Vaughn before, and these days, Vaughn can kick Weiss' ass most of the time because he's still not quite back to where he was before Derevko nearly killed him.

Not that Vaughn couldn't kick his ass before that, but Weiss can still hold his own despite being out of commission for three months. And this is a good thing, because there's a guy with glasses and floppy hair coming their way, and he's looking at Sark like a guy with a tapeworm at an all-you-can-eat buffet. When Weiss glances down at Sark, he can see why the asshole with floppy hair is watching him like that, because Sark's wearing leather pants and a shirt that's all clingy. He's looking pretty hot, in a weirdly British way.

Sark cuts his eyes to the right, and Weiss figures that this isn't the guy they're waiting for, so he crowds a little closer to Sark and glares over his shoulder at the guy with floppy hair. Weiss hates guys with floppy hair just on principle, so it isn't hard to look mean.

Weiss suddenly realizes Sark is watching him, looking up through eyelashes that are just as light as his hair. Weiss may not get out much, but this is definitely a flirty look he's seeing, and his suspicions are justified, because a moment later, Sark curls his fingers into belt loops of Weiss' jeans and tugs him closer.

The entire surface area of Weiss' skin goes hot, and now there's a flash-sauna inside his leather jacket. Weiss wants to take it off, but he can't, because he's wearing the shoulder holster and there's a big-ass knife strapped to his lower back. He's armed to the teeth because he's not dumb no matter how stupid people think he looks. Weiss knows Sark is a ruthless little son of a bitch, and he's man enough to admit that Sark intimidates him. Just a bit.

Problem is, Sark isn't looking like the ruthless killer right now. More like a ruthless man-eater, and Weiss is really annoyed that he's finding it a turn-on. But not so much a turn-on that he doesn't grab Sark's wrist when his hand starts creeping toward the knife. Sark smirks when Weiss twists his wrist away, like it doesn't even hurt.

This is a game, this thing they're playing, and Weiss can't shake the feeling that Sark has been letting him win.

"Perhaps instead of 'bodyguard', you can be the overprotective boyfriend," Sark says in a way that Weiss can only describe as arch.

"Shut up," Weiss says. He doesn't know what Sark is up to, but Weiss has to go with it. He just has to remember not to trust Sark with anything, not even with his loose change.

Weiss has always been really bad at that.

He's standing close enough that he can feel it when Sark tenses. "That's our man," Sark says, pointing with his chin. His breath is warm on Weiss' neck.

"Showtime," Weiss says into his wire.

Sark tugs on his belt, his expression intent. "We're fucking," he says quietly. "Otherwise your presence here is unnecessary. Understand?"

Weiss knows how twitchy informants get. Arguing could blow this meet, and he really doesn't want to see the look on Vaughn's face -- not to mention the pavement Vaughn would be attempting to shove his head into -- if that happens. And maybe he likes hearing Sark say "fuck" way too much for his own good.

Besides, it's not like Weiss actually could land a guy like Sark without death threats being involved, so he might as well enjoy himself.

"Just remember that I'm a good lay," Weiss says.

Sark tilts his head, a strobe light making his eyes flash into transparency. "Are you."

"That's why you keep me around, right?" Weiss says. "That's why you don't ever wanna date a supermodel. Too selfish in bed."

Sark seems amused, and then he moves. He moves fast enough that Weiss is worried, but before he can do anything about it, Sark's arms wrap around his neck and pull him down.

Into a kiss.

Sark's body is hard and lean, and pressed tightly against him. Without thinking, Weiss slides his hands down Sark's back, the material of his shirt catching on Weiss' palms. Weiss opens his mouth and discovers that Sark kisses like he stares, all diamond-hard and intense, and with a slinky tongue. And by the time Sark drags his teeth up his jaw, Weiss has to admit that he's breathing kind of heavy.

"Stay here," Sark says into his ear.

And Weiss can do that. That's about all he can do, aside from watching Sark walk away, because that's just too pretty to miss. He blinks a lot and shakes his head, reaching for the half-empty beer that's still sitting on the bar next to him. Weiss slides onto a stool and chokes on a swallow of beer when he realizes that his knife is gone.

He spins around on his seat and looks around the bar, trying to find Sark in the mass of dancing guys, their bodies moving up and down like a wave pool at a water park. And then Weiss sees him in a corner, talking with a short guy who looks Italian and nervous, their heads close together. Sark nods once, and then he crosses palms with the Italian guy in the smoothest money exchange Weiss has ever seen.

A moment later, Sark sees him watching, and winks.


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