Crossover ficathon

[doyle]

Crossover ficathon entry. Meep. Please excuse the suckiness of this. Somebody remind me next time that seeing three episodes of Alias (and coming away from them with the review 'Sloane is my spydaddy, Sark is the hot, Will should dress as David Beckham all the time, Sydney should marry Weiss, for the love of God shut the hell up, Vaughn') does not qualify me to write fanfic about it. I'm just glad it's done since I haven't been able to write anything else.

Title: Tie That Sucker Down (Builds Like a Skyscraper)
Author: Doyle
Fandom: Buffy/Alias
Pairing: Faith/Sark
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For voleuse for the crossover ficathon - she wanted a not so trendy nightclub and dancing.

The guy reminds you of Wesley when he's going psycho-Watcher (the accent, the sharp edges just beneath the smile) and of Spike (the height, build, the way he looks you over like he sorta wants to fuck you and eat you at the same time and he doesn't care if you know that). Makes you think of people in prison, too - no one person you can think of. Just that feeling. May not look like a hell of a fighter, but back him into a corner and he'll cut you up quicker and cleaner than B did.

But mostly he reminds you of somebody you knew in Boston. Told Spike about him once. Guy who was into schoolgirl costumes and heavy S&M, emphasis on the S. Which is weird, 'cause Sark doesn't look anything like him at all, but there's a vibe. Slayer sense. Whatever. Finds vampires, demons, and men in clubs who want you to suck on a lollipop and call them daddy while they break out the bullwhip. Handy sort of thing to have.

If this club was Disneyland, you think, it'd be the Shittiest Place on Earth. Got a decorator that can't figure if it's a bondage club or the Bronze, a DJ who thinks D12 are the start and end of music and a bartender that won't believe you're over twenty-one. Still. You're dancing out in the middle of the floor with somebody hot and British and maybe batshit crazy and Robin's hovering on the edges of the crowd staring at you both like you skinned his puppy. Beats prison movie night.

"I don't think your minder's very happy," Sark says, leaning in close to your ear so he doesn't have to yell over the music.

"Yeah," you say. "Sucks to be him."

The tempo picks up. You move with it, let your hair fly. Sark's hand's on your hip, thumb settled on the bare skin above your pants. Giles said he'd try to see were you wearing a wire. Could be that's what he's doing. Looks more like he's just looking at your breasts. You spin around, grind your ass against him, bring up your hand to palm the back of his neck.

You wonder if Robin remembers the jealous boyfriend thing's only meant to be an act.

Sark's mouth grazes your ear as he says, "For a Watcher he doesn't seem to like the show."

World's Greatest Actor, right? You stop dancing, just freeze in spot and look back at him, let your eyes go big and shocked. Not overdoing it, though. "What's that even mean, a Watcher?"

"I know who you are. Faith." Doesn't make a lot of sense how he can talk so quiet and still make you hear him over the music. Damn shame he can't teach you that trick for the meetings back in England. You and B and dozens of new Slayers and a bunch of Watchers that didn't die, mostly yelling at each other.

"I better get back to Robin."

He locks his hand around your wrist. Not tight, 'cause he knows about Slayers (and you know he knows but does he know you know he knows and you think, fuck, you weren't cut out for this spydaddy crap, you just want to hit things till they die) but his fingers slide along your arm and he says, "Can we go somewhere a bit more private?"

You think about the two other girls, the ones the Council's psychics say took days to die. Did he kill them or get a flunky to do it? He's killed people. Wouldn't matter if you'd never seen the file. Takes one to know one. Blood on your own hands, better than a gang tat and a secret handshake.

"We're goin' somewhere, we better go fast," you say, pulling him to where the emergency exit glows green through the dry ice.

**

The alley's pretty dark, but you can see him better by the streetlight than under the strobe inside. Older than you, but younger than Robin. Shaved head that he didn't have in the one picture you've seen. He lets the metal door swing shut behind you both.

You feel the prickle in the back of your neck that says you're being watched.

"So what's up?" Roll of your shoulders, stretching your arms behind your head. Ready for a fight. He's not wearing a gun. You'd've felt it. Ankle holster? Doesn't matter. He won't get the chance to use it. "Covenant run out of Slayers' blood, Julian?"

And it looks like you might have to give the Academy its award back, because he doesn't look surprised. Not a flicker. "We have, actually," he says, fucker sounding pleased that he doesn't have to explain it to you. "Lucky for us you brought enough for the whole class. There are, what, a dozen Slayers surrounding us?"

Shit, shit, shit.

"Two dozen," you say.

"There are snipers on the roof of this building and the one opposite."

Once again. Shit.

"Everybody get back," you yell. You should have had a plan for this and you don't because demons and vampires, they're not this organized. They don't have guns.

There's a bang that sounds like a shot and for the second before you realize it's Robin bursting through the club door, your heart doesn't beat. Turns out that second's long enough for Sark to grab you and get a knife pointed at your throat.

You could kill him. You could snap the arm that's around your neck and turn around and take off his head. Why Giles picked you for this assignment, right? Him and Robin, they never said it, but they knew whoever went in'd probably have to kill somebody.

"I'm sure you're not interested," he says to you, just to you, low and private, "but there's a prophecy."

Fuck you, you can't say, since he'd blocking your air. There's always a prophecy.

"It made it a bit difficult on us," he goes on, and he's walking backwards, pulling you with him. Robin watching, helpless and looking scared. Don't do anything, you try to say with your eyes. Don't let anybody else get hurt. "Rambaldi talks about the Slayer, not hundreds of them. But I've got a good feeling about you, Faith."

You hear a van pulling up at the mouth of the alley. You can see the other girls now, backing away as you pass them, every one of them staring at Sark like he's the biggest, baddest vampire they've ever seen. You look up at the roof and you think that maybe you see a figure all in black, maybe light gleaming off a gun barrel.

He drags you backwards into the van and you let him. Last thing you see as he pulls the door across is Robin standing there, like he's four years old and stuck in one of those nightmares about Spike killing his mom.

Sark says, "Good girl," and shoves a needle into your arm.

As you pass out you think maybe you should have offered to do the bullwhip thing after all.

Comments

[doyle_sb4.livejournal.com]

Thanks! Probably won't be more because that would require more Sark knowledge than I have (namely: hot, British, called Julian, rich, probably born in Ireland, part of the Covenant, killed his dad). I know next to nothing about the rest of the show *g*