Title: "The Brave Little Toasters"
Author: monimala
Fandom: "Alias"
Rating/Classification: NAC, humor, Sarkney, ficlet, AU.
Disclaimer: Bad Robot!
Summary: An answer to Corngirl_Jo's request for Sarkney fic that includes
or is inspired by the line "It's all about the toaster." Obviously doesn't take place anywhere in the current timeline.
They are trapped in between two sets of reinforced security doors when
the blackout hits. There are lights beyond and lights behind them--the little alarm flashes that run, like emergency lights on the floor of an airplane, along the walls--and then there's nothing.
"Well. This is a predicament," he says, and she notes that at least his eyes still provide that arrogant glow. Enough for her to move by...and she taps the wall until she reaches him.
"Comm's dead." An obvious thing to say. There isn't even static in her
earpiece. Just silence. "I wonder how much of the city's been hit?" And she shoves him with her elbow. "You wouldn't happen to know, would you?"
"It wasn't me, Sydney," he assures, loftily, sounding almost *insulted*
by the implication. "How could I possibly engineer a power outage while I'm breaking and entering for the Greater Good of the American People with the likes of you?"
"I wouldn't put it past you, Sark." She slides to the floor, sighing and pushing her hair behind her ear. "You'd probably do this just to get me alone. I wouldn't be surprised if this is your idea of mood lighting and you have some obscene vintage of wine tucked inside your Kevlar."
"Actually..." There is a sounding of Velcro rasping. And then a slosh. And a chuckle. "It isn't wine. Will twelve-year-old scotch do?"
"I hate you." But she accepts the flask, shuddering as their fingers brush in the dark, and doesn't kick his ankle when he sits down next to her.
"If I didn't know any better..." His chuckle gets worse. Rich and husky and full of things like sex. "I'd say you were growing rather fond of me."
Fond? Ha. No. She's "fond" of Marshall. She's "fond" of her favorite pair of high heels or a tub of Edy's French Silk ice cream. She's definitely not "fond" of being stuck in cramped spaces with overconfident blond playboys who've tried to kill her and now think they can ask her to the Junior Prom.
The scotch burns going down, but she doesn't choke. She made it a private point to be able to hold her hard liquors. To keep up with Dad...who might just be an alcoholic except that he doesn't go to meetings and spends entirely too much time obsessing over her mother.
Male spies are the most neurotic men she's ever met. No wonder James
Bond can't stay in one bed for more than five minutes. "Did you want to be James Bond when you grew up, Mister Sark?" she asks as she passes back the
flask.
Maybe it's her imagination, but his thumb strokes her knuckles. "Well, naturally I read the Fleming novels...but I fancied myself more of a Scarlet Pimpernel."
"You're seriously disturbed." Minutes have gone by and there is no sign of lights... of the hiss that will tell them that the doors are back on-line and the blocks can be overridden. If only she kept a blowtorch in her pants.
Sark probably has a blowtorch in his pants.
"Oh, God." She claps a hand over her mouth. The twelve-year-old scotch must be worse than she thinks. Spies + booze leads to very bad things. For instance... "My parents blew up a toaster once."
"What was that?"
She can feel his eyes on her face, knows that his eyebrows are arching up with boyish surprise. Vaughn's a furrow guy and Sark isn't. She doesn't
think she's ever seen his forehead in another state besides "impeccably smooth under pressure."
"A toaster," she repeats. "They were drinking...this was before the Big Bristow Betrayal and my summer at Project Christmas...it's all about that damn toaster. You know they can still *laugh* about it?"
"Did you make an ashtray at Christmas Camp? I think they made me
make an ashtray and take it home to Mummy."
"I repeat, Sark, you're seriously disturbed." And does he even *have* a 'Mummy'? She half-suspects he was made in a petri dish.
"*I'm* disturbed? You're the one knocking back all my scotch and
rhapsodizing about household appliances."
"You're the one who *gave* me your scotch." She yanks it back out of
his grip to emphasize her point and, this time, it's her thumb that lingers over his knuckles.
"Fond," he says, quietly, like he's convinced of it.
She swallows another mouthful of the only thing that's keeping her from
killing him.
"We could be here for hours..." he continues, philosophically, "And even
then, some lovely people might decide to check the bowels of this establishment and we may have to exchange gunfire."
She thunks her head against the wall, glad that, for once, she's not
wearing some hideous fright wig. "What's your point?"
His eyes are glowing again. Unholy blue like a song by the Who. "We have no toaster to blow up, Sydney."
"No, we don't. Thank God." Or any other appliances, for that matter. Although, Marshall did give her a suspicious tube of eyeliner before they left. And there's the guns. And the grenades.
He nudges her with his elbow. "Well, what *ever* are we going to laugh
over after I betray you?" At least she *hopes* it's his elbow.
"You're planning to betray me?" She automatically reaches for the safety on her 9mm, flipping it off.
He follows the motion with an amused grin that she can barely see. "Not at the moment, but I always have a contingency plan."
"Do you have one right now?" The flat silver flask isn't making sloshing
sounds anymore. It's almost empty. Probably a good thing since there is no bathroom in the seven feet between doors and she has about a four shot limit before the seal breaks.
"I said 'always', didn't I?" This time, he closes his whole hand around
hers and doesn't take his flask back right away. "Don't you know by now,
Sydney, that I'm very good at what I do?"
She should really move her fingers. But it's dark. Very dark. And it's
oddly comforting to know that he's there. "If you're so good, then why are we stuck in here?"
"Are we back to thinking I engineered this illustrious event?" He laughs, huskily, and now it's more than sex. It's sex and a champagne breakfast the next morning. "I don't want to fight, but I can't say I'll turn down a good sparring match."
"There's not enough room to spar." And the last thing they need is to
dole out black eyes and bruises when they might meet up with guards when
the lights come back on. They should conserve their energy. She sighs. "So, what are we going to laugh over after you betray me?"
His long, smooth, fingers come up...his other fingers...because five of
them are still holding hers. He touches her face and she knows what's coming..,
"Perhaps this?"
They are trapped in between two sets of reinforced security doors when he kisses her.
She drinks the last of the whiskey from his persistent tongue and his soft lips.
But she's not fond of him.
She's not.
No. *No*.
"W-well," she whispers, shakily, as her comm crackles in her ear. As
Vaughn's voice explodes over the channel, repeating her name and asking if
she's okay and the lights flicker off and on beyond the doors. "Well...this is a predicament."
--end--
August 21, 2003.