Stop stealing my LJ! (auchic) wrote,
Stop stealing my LJ!

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Title: Sticks and Stones
Author: Auchic
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never mine. Sark will be mine. ;D
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: Written for CoverMe's August challenge, which was the word "proclivity". Lauren's thoughts during 'Resurrection'.
A/N: I don't really know why I wrote this, but it was very different, and a good learning experience. I hope I don't mis-characterise Lauren too badly; I tried, but I'm sure my prejudices against her slip through. Reviews always welcome.

She let her weapon fall next to her husband’s prone body. The nasty little voice in the back of her mind urged her to pick it up and beat him to death, but her common sense overrode it. Escape first. You can kill the bastard anytime.

She almost felt bad for killing the last Good Samaritan left in LA. Oh well. Best thing for him really. Better me than some of the filth in this city. Anyway, doesn’t he know better than to stop for strangers?

In the still that the car provided, she could hear the commotion through her com and suppressed a smile. He’d undoubtedly got himself caught. She detached the small piece from her ear and threw it out the sliver or open window. She hardly needed to hand more evidence of her true colours over to CIA.

But the lack of the com and the absence of background noise disturbed her concentration and brought the words that had been whispering through the recesses of her mind screaming to the forefront.

I must say, your disguise, it addresses a certain proclivity of mine…

She pushed it away and concentrated on driving. But there was a steady echo around her that wouldn’t go away.

disguise…a certain proclivity of mine

Her fingers wrapped tighter around the steering wheel. Hardly an insult; she’d heard worse in her life, so why did those casual words sting so much?

I must say, your disguise…

She couldn’t remember whose idea it had been to choose the Golden Girl of the CIA as the pasty. It could have been hers, so eager to put a black mark against perfect Sydney. It could have been Cole: she remembered his amusement at the idea of “Pigtails gone rogue.” She couldn’t recall Sark’s choice, but she would never forget the dark glitter in his eyes as she prepared…

…addresses a certain proclivity of mine…

And again she could feel the swooping sickness in her stomach. It triggered another memory: this one of a stuffy hot classroom, itchy wool skirts, sitting stiffly on splintering wooden benches as Sister Rosalie taught with that sharp voice of hers, “Proclivity. It means a tendency towards, or a natural inclination to…”

…a certain proclivity of mine…

Her breath came out in an angry hiss. It was all her fault. The prodigy, the resurrected angel, Rambaldi’s chosen and the darling of the CIA. It seemed fitting that this part of her life also fell victim to Sydney Bristow.

…certain proclivity...

Damn her. Michael she could have; he was never Lauren’s to begin with. But Sark…it was he that approached her to work together, he that initiated their relationship, he that killed Bomani for her. By all rights he belonged to her.

…certain proclivity…

It should not matter this much and had it just been a flip comment, she could be sitting in smug silence instead of stomach turning rage. But his remark wasn’t casual, wasn’t made as a joke. No, there was more behind it, things he thought no one had seen. How engrossed he would become in memorizing any tiny little detail about Sydney, how he would almost force Lauren to recount every encounter the two women had, to the tiniest detail and how furious, passionate, driven he would be to take her after any encounter with her...

At first she’d assumed it was the mark of a professional: know thy enemy and what better way than to study a person until you knew everything? But eventually she saw that there was more that just the game in Sark’s mind. Obsession, the nasty voice whispered. Not proclivity, obsession. Living and breathing in everything about her, because he knows the closest he’ll ever get is…

Like the wigs. How very Freudian.

She pulled to a stop in front of her destination and sat in the darkness, willing her mind to shut out that taunting phrase. No matter anymore. He was in CIA custody, and there was only a small amount of time before someone-Jack Bristow most likely-broke him. She wasn’t about to let petty jealousy ruin this.

I must say, your disguise, it addresses a certain proclivity of mine

They were words, only words. Still, she couldn’t remember the last time words had hurt so much.

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