Bad Hair and Better Smiles [Alias]

Bad Hair and Better Smiles
by Jennifer-Oksana
Fandom: Alias
Rating: PG-13
Setting: Mid-S2
Pairing: Sark/Will (Will/Jack implied)
Disclaimer: JJ Abrams and Bad Robot own, I just borrow.
Summary: Will, Sark, and a sticky situation.

He was severely, very much, completely stupid for falling for this “lead.” More than that, he was probably going to lose his off-the-record CIA analyst job that Vaughn had so thoughtfully provided for him.

Will Tippin? Not entirely sure he cared. He just wanted to get unlocked and go home.

“You know, if Jack Bristow had turned me into a heroin-shooting drug addict to protect his daughter’s not-so-pristine career, I might have told him to fuck off,” Sark was saying, his thumb pressing gently against Will’s trachea. “But I’m not as devoted to Sydney as the rest of the world.”

“Your loss,” Will replied, arching up against the handcuffs that had him bound to the metal pole. “Asshole.”

“Language, Mr. Tippin,” Sark said, smiling. Will didn’t get what was so funny, and he didn’t quite feel like asking. What he actually felt like was kicking this smarmy jerk in the teeth, showing him what it felt like to be molested while cuffed to a very cold metal pole, and then finding Jack Bristow to help in the fun.

But not until after Will got his turn, because leave Sark and Jack alone in a room together, and Will suspected that Sark wouldn’t be so pretty anymore. Or so alive, for that matter.

“So what the hell is this, anyway?” Will asked, refusing to struggle because all that did was make Sark smirk with his smarmy superspy superiority and cut into the skin on his wrists. He was already going to have bruises; why give Sark more satisfaction than he was already getting. “Tie up the damsel in distress and call for Sydney?”

“Still the damsel in distress, then?” Sark asked, getting far closer to Will than was strictly necessary, even in the threatener/threatenee relationship. “How…pathetic, really. Bristow must get tired of having to rescue you so consistently.”

This was a direct hit, but Will had no intention of giving this weasel the pleasure of hearing him protest that it isn’t true, that he’s stronger than that, et cetera. The truth is, no one who hasn’t had years of training had much chance of protecting themselves against insane spies who had a jones for abducting them.

“Not as tired as she gets always finding you behind every scheme, evil plan, et cetera,” Will replied. “One day Syd’s going to drop you execution-style. Maybe even tonight.”

Sark’s smile was almost luminous, and not a little bit shark-like. “I wasn’t talking about Miss Bristow, Will,” he purred, his mouth now far too close to the little hairs in Will’s ear. “Do you think I haven’t noticed how close an eye Jack keeps on you?”

Will’s silence said everything that Will can’t. The son of a…

“That’s very interesting,” Sark said, eyeing Will’s very closed-tight mouth. “Does Sydney know that she’s not the only Bristow you’ve got ties to? Or is it another secret?”

At that, Will decided that either way, this was going to get uglier, and he wasn’t going to get anywhere by pretending it wasn’t. He spit on Sark, ready for the upcoming blow.

It came, but it wasn’t the swift, sharp punch that created bruises and left week-long ache. Sark might have considered it a love tap; given that Sark followed up the backhand to the chin with a kiss that was at least as brutal, if not more so, than the slap?

Will was guessing it was a love tap.

He didn’t kiss back, and after a moment, Sark pulled away and gives him a Look. A very significant Look. Will, despite the fact he was still handcuffed to a metal pole with a homicidal sociopath who apparently harbors some kind of jealous homoerotic fancy for him because Jack had an inappropriate attachment to him. The world was strange, and bizarre, and deeply whimsical.

“So,” Will said, feeling like the sassy heroine in a screwball comedy. “Was that a come-on, or were you just trying to check my fillings for implants?”

Sark chuckled, looking fierce and suddenly sort of turned-on. “You’ve got a smart mouth, Tippin,” he said. “There’s nothing quite like listening to you talk, or try to talk before someone breaks another tooth.”

Love talk, no doubt. Will had gotten used to the world of spies, superspies, and their love that hits you and feels like a kiss. Maybe it was a suggestion that Will’s brain had gotten used to this that he didn’t quite feel sick at the idea of his blood being part of the romance.

“You’re here to listen to me talk?” Will asked. “Are you serious?”

“I’m here to consider what Jack would do to me if I touched you,” Sark murmured, his eyes alight with unholy mischief. “If I left you here naked and clearly…mussed.”

“Jack would shoot you in the face,” Will muttered. “If he doesn’t do it for the pleasure of watching it happen anyway.”

Sark laughed. “You’re really quite certain daddy will protect you, aren’t you?” he asked, leaning in and licking a warm, wet stripe along Will’s jaw. “What if he’s already here? What if he’s watching?”

“You’re deeply overestimating how interested Jack is in my ass, man,” Will said, trying to sound more Vaughn. He came off sounding like Ben Stiller playing a tough guy, but whatever. Sark tapped Will smartly on the face again.

“You have no idea what game we’re playing here,” Sark said. “You’re only assuming it has something to do with that all-too-fascinating relationship you have with Jack Bristow; it might be something entirely different.”

“Yeah?” Will asked, unconvinced. “Like what?”

Another kiss. This time, it was the kind of kiss that forced anyone, straight, gay, man or woman, to kiss back, tangle tongues because Will still didn’t have hands, and get a little of his own back.

When Sark pulled away, the smile was better. Much better.

“I’ve put in a call to Jack,” he murmured, dropping the keys to Will’s handcuffs at his feet. “He’ll be around in fifteen minutes. Do tell him all about this.”

And with that, Sark was gone into the night.

Right. Will? Pretty much the stupidest man alive. The end.


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