Aphrodite
The staircase is too narrow to accomodate walking side by side, so Sark takes the lead. Every other step creaks under his weight, which he normally ignores, as a regular tenant would.
With Sydney Bristow ascending behind him, however, he's tempted to believe each squeak a reminder of his own ineptitude. She's snuck up on him too many times in recent months. He's tired of being startled. It's taxing, and it shouldn't happen. She shouldn't be capable of surprising him; she's too predictable herself.
When they finally reach his apartment, on the top floor, at the end of the hall, he jiggles the door handle. Shoves, and the door opens. He's somewhat satisfied to hear her murmur in surprise.
"The door is unlocked because there's nothing inside." He steps into the bare living room, empty save for a threadbare sofa and a couple of blankets. Gestures at the kitchen, and the door to the bathroom--the entirety of the apartment.
"In case of emergency," Sydney murmurs as she looks around. "Got it."
"Now," he says as he shucks his coat and his holster. "You wanted to discuss something?"
"Um." She seems a little imbalanced, so he takes his shoes off for good measure. "The art gallery. The arms dealer you killed."
"As you would have, if you had reliable informants. I assume you know that now." Cued by her silence, he strolls into the kitchen and peers into the rickety refrigerator. "Might I offer you a bottle of water?" He pulls out two, opens one, and drinks.
Sydney takes the other bottle and looks at it suspiciously before cracking the seal. "Recently stocked, I take it?" He nods. "Do you have a lot of these little boltholes?"
He tips his head back, finishing his drink, before he responds. "Do you?"
Sydney doesn't answer, but sits carefully on the sofa, eyeing his abandoned gun. He toys with mentioning the other weapons readily available to him, but decides taunting can wait.
"How did you find me?" He believes his tone is casual enough, and knows she'll catch the underlying tension in the question. They are both professionals, after all.
She toys with her half-empty bottle. "I asked Marshall to locate you." Darts a sharp glance over. "I haven't told anyone else where I am."
Sark holds his breath for a moment, recognizing what she's offering him.
Vulnerability.
"Sydney." He decides to acknowledge it. "You realize you've put yourself at disadvantage."
She nods, and stands.
"Why?"
He isn't prepared for her response. Isn't prepared for the rush of her footsteps as she lopes across the room. Isn't prepared for her lips, her hands, the arch of her body against him as she kisses him.
Once again, Sydney Bristow has surprised him, and he refuses to acknowledge that.
Instead, he throws himself into the embrace, fueling it with every idle thought that has ever crossed his mind, watching her fight in her ridiculous, revealing costumes.
I expected this, he tells her with a flicker of his tongue. I prepared for this, he explains with his hands, in long strokes. I planned this, he declares, edging a thigh between hers. I want this, he demands, urging her sweater off as she attempts to unbutton his shirt.
Soon, he doesn't need to pretend anything at all.