rhienelleth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rhienelleth) wrote2005-12-06 12:01 pm
rhienelleth) wrote2005-12-06 12:01 pm
Drabble the second
{{HUGS}} to everyone who commented on the last drabble. It was fun, short, and sweet. :) See? I can write drabbles occassionally. (Isn't a drabble something like less than 500 words? I don't know. I'm not good at writing less than a couple thousand words, usually.)
Anyway,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monanotlisa requested one of the following:
"Jet-lag from hell's gotta be... jet-lag from hell"
--Anya, BtVS
keywords: haze, twig, scar
setting: an Austrian village
Me being me, I decided to use all three. Sort of.
Fucking bleeding Christ.
Four time zones in under six days was at least one time change too many. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, he felt hungover without having enjoyed the usual method of getting that way, and his pulse beat a throbbing, constant tempo of pain in his skull.
It was Austria this morning. Some fucking village in the picturesque countryside. Sark hated the country. Give him a nice metropolitan area any day. A hotel with room service, a good masseuse, and an easy walk to any number of decent restaurants.
Right now, he was looking at a field of cows outside the window of his rented Lexus. Cows, for God’s sake. It was early yet, with no sign of another human soul anywhere the eye could see. A haze of fog covered the length of the field, the cows grazing on grass still touched with morning frost.
He sighed heavily, and tried turning the key in the ignition again. click-click Nothing. Fucking car. He closed his eyes, resting his head on the steering wheel for just a moment. He’d curse Irina for sending him here, but he didn’t have the energy. Moscow, Mali, and New York had already tapped him out.
He was just working up the enthusiasm to start walking to the nearest sign of civilization, when his phone rang. It could only be two people, and he didn’t feel like talking to either. Reluctantly, he answered it anyway.
“Yes?’
“My, but we sound surly this morning.” Irina. Perfect.
“You’d sound surly yourself if you were suffering with jet-lag from hell, and just about to embark on a lovely morning jaunt through rocks and twigs and -” Sark grimaced “- fields of cows.”
“I’ll just save you the trouble then,” Irina said, in her sweetest possible tone, which usually meant she was royally pissed and ready to scar someone for life. For the first time all morning, Sark was glad to be a couple of time zones removed from his employer. “The package has been intercepted by Sloane’s people. We’re aborting the mission.”
“Aborting,” he repeated flatly. He tried to remember how many miles he’d driven before this clearly under-maintenanced vehicle had breathed its last. Too fucking many.
“Yes,” Irina continued in the same pleasant voice. “You’re booked on an evening flight to London. Don’t be late.”
“London. Right,” he said, putting a hand to his throbbing head. “I’ll just walk back the thirty-six miles to the airport by supper, shall I?” But Irina was gone, only a dial tone in her place.
His hand clenched around the cell phone, trembling, and he only just resisted the urge to beat it into senseless little bits against the steering wheel.
It was a measure of precisely how jet-lagged and exhausted he was, that it took him as long as that to realize that he did, indeed, have a working cell phone at his disposal. To call for a tow, and a ride. It took a grueling fifteen minutes on the phone to manage that, leaving the battery dangerously low. Good. He’d run the damn thing out, pretend to miss his flight, and stay in a hotel for one blessed night. Irina and Khasinau could both just bloody wait.
It didn’t occur to him that whomever Sloane sent might be staying at the same hotel, that he might in fact have a chance to recover Irina’s package. He sat in a shadowy corner of the bar, nursing a scotch, because it’d been that kind of day, and watched Sydney Bristow slide onto one of the bar stools. He smiled slowly, jet-lag and headache forgotten.
The day was looking up.
Anyway,
monanotlisa requested one of the following:"Jet-lag from hell's gotta be... jet-lag from hell"
--Anya, BtVS
keywords: haze, twig, scar
setting: an Austrian village
Me being me, I decided to use all three. Sort of.
Fucking bleeding Christ.
Four time zones in under six days was at least one time change too many. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, he felt hungover without having enjoyed the usual method of getting that way, and his pulse beat a throbbing, constant tempo of pain in his skull.
It was Austria this morning. Some fucking village in the picturesque countryside. Sark hated the country. Give him a nice metropolitan area any day. A hotel with room service, a good masseuse, and an easy walk to any number of decent restaurants.
Right now, he was looking at a field of cows outside the window of his rented Lexus. Cows, for God’s sake. It was early yet, with no sign of another human soul anywhere the eye could see. A haze of fog covered the length of the field, the cows grazing on grass still touched with morning frost.
He sighed heavily, and tried turning the key in the ignition again. click-click Nothing. Fucking car. He closed his eyes, resting his head on the steering wheel for just a moment. He’d curse Irina for sending him here, but he didn’t have the energy. Moscow, Mali, and New York had already tapped him out.
He was just working up the enthusiasm to start walking to the nearest sign of civilization, when his phone rang. It could only be two people, and he didn’t feel like talking to either. Reluctantly, he answered it anyway.
“Yes?’
“My, but we sound surly this morning.” Irina. Perfect.
“You’d sound surly yourself if you were suffering with jet-lag from hell, and just about to embark on a lovely morning jaunt through rocks and twigs and -” Sark grimaced “- fields of cows.”
“I’ll just save you the trouble then,” Irina said, in her sweetest possible tone, which usually meant she was royally pissed and ready to scar someone for life. For the first time all morning, Sark was glad to be a couple of time zones removed from his employer. “The package has been intercepted by Sloane’s people. We’re aborting the mission.”
“Aborting,” he repeated flatly. He tried to remember how many miles he’d driven before this clearly under-maintenanced vehicle had breathed its last. Too fucking many.
“Yes,” Irina continued in the same pleasant voice. “You’re booked on an evening flight to London. Don’t be late.”
“London. Right,” he said, putting a hand to his throbbing head. “I’ll just walk back the thirty-six miles to the airport by supper, shall I?” But Irina was gone, only a dial tone in her place.
His hand clenched around the cell phone, trembling, and he only just resisted the urge to beat it into senseless little bits against the steering wheel.
It was a measure of precisely how jet-lagged and exhausted he was, that it took him as long as that to realize that he did, indeed, have a working cell phone at his disposal. To call for a tow, and a ride. It took a grueling fifteen minutes on the phone to manage that, leaving the battery dangerously low. Good. He’d run the damn thing out, pretend to miss his flight, and stay in a hotel for one blessed night. Irina and Khasinau could both just bloody wait.
It didn’t occur to him that whomever Sloane sent might be staying at the same hotel, that he might in fact have a chance to recover Irina’s package. He sat in a shadowy corner of the bar, nursing a scotch, because it’d been that kind of day, and watched Sydney Bristow slide onto one of the bar stools. He smiled slowly, jet-lag and headache forgotten.
The day was looking up.
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Again with the last line. You know just where to leave us so we have to beg for more!
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And yes, your request is next. Though there may be a delay before it's posted, as it's almost lunch and I have to run some errands. It'll go up today, though, never fear. :)
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*has Smallville moment*
You rock.
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And thanks. :)
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But, to Rhien -- I loved this little drabble :) *sigh* I thought my Sarkneylove had pretty much vanished, and here you've revived it :)
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Seriously, I'm speechless. you seamless integrated all the elements and gave us a kick-ass scenario complete with Irina, a mission, and Sydney --
just excellent. Thank you!!
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Gods that's fabulous.
Give us more, give us more!
(Got Spy?)
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Cows!! :D
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I love this because it's so your Sark, which remains probably my favorite slight-variation-of-Sark in all of fanfic. Also this:
and he only just resisted the urge to beat it into senseless little bits against the steering wheel.
And on a totally non-"yay! rhien's Sark!" note, I do love the way it ends, the great sense of things turning in Sark's favor, of things about to happen. Good drabble. :) (Really liked the other one, too, btw-- just didn't have time to comment!)
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