Payback: A Christmas Story
By: Amy
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Through "Counteragent"
Feedback: Tell Amy how much you love her at her ||LiveJournal|| or email her at pie_girly @ yahoo.com
AN: Thanks to daera23 for the listening to me whine and for doling out the advice. Thanks to poohmusings for the super-speedy beta action.
~*~*~*~
Three indications this day is going to be utter crap:
One. Upon waking, you realize your tongue is dry and grainy and way too big for your mouth.
Two. You notice you are not in your own home and that you are still wearing the suit you put on - was it yesterday?
Three. Sydney Bristow is sitting in a chair across from you. And she's smiling. Well, not so much smiling as smirking.
"Good morning, Mr. Sark."
What the hell is going on? You try to ignore the pounding in your head so you can assess the situation like you've been trained, but the fog will not clear and all you can ascertain is that you are most definitely hungover.
It takes a few - minutes? seconds? - in your dimwitted state, but you finally grab a hold of two other important facts.
Your ego might be taking a bashing from the indignity of sitting in a rumpled suit with one pant leg hiked up to your knee, but you aren't tied down, handcuffed, hurt or wounded. It could be worse.
Given the generically bland Pottery Barn décor and the fact that Sydney looks right at home, it is probably safe to assume that you are in her residence.
Not an optimal situation, but much better than waking up in the same state at Arvin Sloane's.
Much better than waking up at Arvin Sloane's.
Jesus, the last time you felt this way was when you lost a bet to Mishka about that Muscovite hooker he brought home. Adam's apple equals man, no Adam's apple -
- lost a bet...Sydney...the annual SD-6 Christmas party.
You flash back to a quietly issued challenge, a row of tequila shots and another row and another -
Is it singing you remember? Oh, please, not singing. But that feeling of trying very hard not to remember overwhelms you and you know the answer.
"Pieced it together yet, Sark?"
She is laughing. Sydney Bristow is not only laughing, but she is laughing at you.
Fuck.
You croak out the only response your tequila-marinated brain can come up with. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
"Oh, you poor hungover assassin," she says with a smile while handing you a bottle of cold water. "You couldn't have gotten it up last night for Elizabeth Hurley, so no need for the sexual innuendo. It will only embarrass you."
You are thankful enough for the water that you barely feel the sting of her insult. And given how you feel right now, she is probably spot on.
"Well then why exactly, Ms. Bristow, did you bring me back to your lovely home? If not for your - personal satisfaction?"
She takes a remote control from the coffee table and you notice for the first time that the TV seems to be paused on an image. Before you can begin to mentally chastise yourself for the entire fucked-up nature of the last twelve hours and the apparent loss of every single skill you've learned as an agent, Sydney presses a button and the picture comes to life.
It is clearly video from the party last night. You remember the beginning bits of the evening well enough to know that much.
And then the camera focuses in on the bar area. Specifically, on you sitting on the floor next to one of the desks, your head lolled to the side, a glass of something next to you on the floor. Sydney is there, standing tall and looking remarkably sober. The sound keys in and you hear what you hoped was only part of a bad dream.
You see Sydney trying to stifle a giggle. She looks down at you slumped on the floor, and says, "C'mon Sark. You lost, you have to sing. Unless of course, you have a habit of welching on bets?"
Clearly her taunt hit home as your drunken self attempts to stand. How much tequila did you have exactly and how could Sydney be so sober, you wonder.
You focus back on the tape. Whoever was filming pulled back to show the small audience gathered around you. You see Dixon and Marshall, a few no name analysts, and oh God, Jack Bristow is there also. You could almost stand to be humiliated in front of this crowd, but to act as a drunken fool in front of Jack Bristow...
What were you thinking going head-to-head with Sydney Bristow who clearly must be a world champion lush?
This first humiliation passes quickly though as you hear the unmistakable sound of your off-key singing voice. A voice usually reserved for drunken rugby celebrations in dirty pubs while with your mates. Not a voice you ever planned to use while on assignment at Sloane's little organization of horrors.
"Good King Wenc-es-lash looked out -"
You are listing to one side, holding onto Sydney for support. No, check that, draped on Sydney for support. And you are blustering your way through "Good King Wenceslas." A banner day in the history of Mr. Sark.
"When the shnow lay round about,
Deep and something and something -"
Why won't you shut up? And why did you have to pick that horrid song? You don't know half the words!
Sydney finally stops the tape, and you resist the desire to kill her for being the instigator of your humiliation. You have a few questions that need to be answered first.
"What did we bet, exactly?" Begin with the basics, especially in cases where you don't remember a thing.
"The bet was simply who could put down the most tequila shots without falling down. And you, Mr. Sark, fell down. Dixon was the judge and Marshall was in complete agreement. Your rear touched the floor after only six shots. Needless to say, it was not terribly graceful."
"And why do you, Ms. Bristow, look so terrifically sober?" you inquire.
"You may want to rephrase the question," she says, way too pleased with herself.
"Okay then." She is going to make you say it, you might as well get it out. "Why am I so spectacularly drunk while you look like you've been sipping Pellegrino all night?"
She practically beams at you as she answers. "Let's just say you were the test subject for one of Marshall's new toys. A drug that accelerates the absorption of alcohol into the bloodstream. It looks like it will be quite effective on missions."
Well, fuck. That little cheating -
But before you can say anything in response, she is standing and handing you your keys.
Your head is pounding, your stomach is rolling and as much as you want to inflict some sort of bodily harm on the lovely Ms. Bristow, you fear you would just fall over. You have your dignity after all, or at least the shredded remains of it.
"Oh, before you leave Sark," she calls as you head towards the door. "I brought you back here precisely for - what did you call it? Oh yes, my personal satisfaction. Remember Paldiski? Consider this payback."
Her words trail away as you step outside into the blinding glare of the morning sun. You head for your car and begin considering how exactly you are going to get your revenge on Ms. Bristow. It will be swift, it will not be pretty, and it will feel good. But it will not happen until you've had a carafe of coffee, a handful of aspirin and a long shower.
There might be hope for this day after all.