A/N: Purely for the purpose of staying true to that inimitable Alias style, I’ve fudged several facts, Babelfished the French, and taken liberties with a few scientific principles. I’m sure JJ Abrams will be calling me to write for the show any day now. :) So if you’re looking for complete and total veracity… well, for one thing, you’re watching the wrong show. Hellbrunn Palace is a real place, and it looks fascinating. If anyone's reading this who's actually been there, I'd love to hear about it. Finally, I feel the need to add a note about safe sex: the thing is, I could not be a bigger proponent of safe sex. But I can never really find a way to fit it in my fics without it seeming awkward. So here’s my public service announcement: always, always practice safe sex, especially if it’s with an incredibly hot, amoral rogue spy who’s probably got a woman in every top-secret bunker. 'Kay? 'Kay.

Oh, and oodles of thanks to the brilliant KJ Draft for the inital beta and encouragement.

And now, without further ado…

Another Orpheus

Sydney smiles as she hears the sounds of the hockey game, shouting and beating their way through the cheap door to Vaughn’s apartment. She’s surprised she doesn’t hear the usual high-decibel commentary from Weiss and Vaughn, but maybe they’re out, gone for pizza or beer during a break in the action. She slides her key in the bolt-lock, shaking her head affectionately, swings open the door, calling, “Guys?” and—

Blood. Blood everywhere, on the couch, the floor, smeared in a heart shape on the TV screen. It hits her like a physical blow, and her brain shuts down, but her training takes over, and when she hears a weak, “Syd?” she rushes to find its source.

It’s Weiss, lying on the floor next to the couch with the vivid blood in contrast to his pale skin, and some corner of her takes note of the fact that he has been shot twice—leg and arm—and he should be all right. “Syd…” he coughs. “Francie… Francie was here…” but she barely hears him because she’s already getting back to her feet, and his hand grasps at her arm but he’s too weak to stop her and she just hears his voice, “Syd! No!” echoing in her ears as she stumbles to Vaughn’s bedroom…

And the entire scene pulls into vicious focus, burning itself on her memory. His green eyes, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. The unnatural angle of his arm as it rests on the bed. And blood, so much blood, all over his face his hair and the ruin of his chest and the bed where they’d made love the night before. She hears a horrible scraping, gasping, keening noise, realizes it’s coming from her own throat, and she vaguely remembers throwing up before everything goes black.

**************

Time passes, but she has no idea how much. There are expressions of sympathy everywhere, from a tear-streaked and bandaged Weiss, from her father (awkward as ever), from Will, from Kendall, even from her mother. They all blend together. There are questions and debriefings, because Francie has disappeared and Weiss, recognizing her from a recent dinner at Sydney’s, has positively identified her as the shooter. There are appointments with Barnett, where she sits and stares dully at the wall until her hour is up. There are whispers that stop as soon as she walks in the room. There are well-intentioned invitations to talk. There are concerned glances exchanged. There are nightmares nearly every night.

There’s a funeral. But she doesn’t go.

**************

“It’s irresponsible to send her back out there. She’s not ready. She’s a danger to herself and those she’s working with. As Assistant Director, you’re responsible for protecting your assets. She’s angry and she’s numb and it will make her careless. Have you looked at her—”

“People grieve in different ways, Jack. She says she needs to work. It’s a simple op, in and out. Barnett thinks it might be a good idea.”

“Then Barnett is wrong. I know my daughter.”

Eyebrows raised, “Do you? How?” It’s a low blow.

And unwarranted, as it turns out, because Jack does know his daughter. She and Dixon are ambushed in Lausanne. By the time Dixon is extracted, unconscious and losing blood fast, the team can’t find any sign of Sydney.

Jack, Weiss, and Dixon organize a search team, of course. But from what Dixon remembers, it doesn’t look good. After two weeks of searching, the CIA stamps her file: Missing, Presumed Dead.

***************

When she wakes, the room is so blurry she has to wonder if she’s really awake after all. She’s lying on a simple bunk, and when she tries to move her arms, she hears clinking and discovers her wrists are shackled to the bunk’s metal frame above her head. There’s enough play in the chains for her to sit up, awkwardly, her left arm drawn across her body.

Her vision is clearing a bit now, enough to make out a door in the corner, a large mirror in front of her, but she still feels… nothing. Two months since she’d found him lying there, and all that time she’d thought she felt numb, but this… this is a thousand times better. This is drifting. This is not caring. This is relief.

So there’s a faint smile on her face when she hears the door click, looks over to see a familiar black leather jacket. Something very deep inside her screams enemy! but it’s so far away, it’s easy to ignore.

“Sark.”

“Sydney.” He’s not smiling, no trace of his trademark cocky grin. In fact, he looks a bit taken aback.

“What?” she asks him. “Why are you looking at me like that? I can’t imagine you’re surprised to see me here.”

“No. Of course not.” He’s moving closer now, almost as if he can’t help it, staring at her with an expression she’s never seen in his ice-blue eyes. He reaches out, touches her cheek with a finger, and if she didn’t know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s a cold-blooded bastard, she’d actually think he was concerned about her. “God, Sydney. What did they do to you?”

She laughs at his shocked tone. “I think the more important question is, what did you do to me? I feel amazing.”

“Conscious sedation,” he replies almost absently, his eyes still searching her face. “Midazolam hydrochloride.”

She nods knowingly. “Mmmm. Subdues anxiety, represses pain, but the patient can still respond to questions and commands.” She grins at him. “Drunk without the hangover. Fun.” His finger is resting on her jaw now. “Better be careful.”

That seems to shake him out of his reverie, and he laughs a little. “Of what?”

“Me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

Her smile is slow. “Haven’t you heard? I kill everyone I touch.”

Heat comes into his eyes now, and his lips curve in return. Not exactly the reaction she’d anticipated. “Lethal. I like that about you.” He leans closer, slowly, gauging her reaction, and presses his mouth to hers. It distantly occurs to her that she ought to mind, but she’s responding almost automatically, parting her lips to let his tongue slide inside. After so many days of dull ache always in the back of her mind, her heart, it feels good to feel good again, even if it’s only physically. And though she’s never really allowed herself to think about it, somehow she’s always known he would kiss like this—strong, slow, confident. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark and his breathing is ragged.

“I should be beating the crap out of you right now,” she tells him, and he gives her a half-smile, his hand surprisingly warm along her cheek. She sighs. “How long since you gave me the injection?”

“An hour. As soon as you started showing signs of waking.” His smile widens. “You talk in your sleep, do you know that? Dangerous for someone in your profession.”

Don’t frost the pie, she thinks, and she knows it should hurt, but it doesn’t, and she feels nothing still, and the relief is so great it almost brings tears to her eyes. “Midazolam hydrochloride lasts two to four hours in the average subject.” She meets his gaze. “I want more.”

He shakes his head firmly, steps back, puts his hands in the pockets of his perfectly-cut trousers. Back in control. “No.”

“Why not?” Petulant, like a child denied a treat.

“This isn’t you,” he replies, staring intently at her. “You should be passion. Fire. This…” He gestures at her, slumped untidily on the small bunk. “This isn’t the Sydney Bristow I know.”

She laughs. “You never knew me, Sark.”

“I think I did.” Simply, quietly. “Better than you ever realized.”

Shrugging, “It doesn’t matter anyway. That Sydney… she died. Right around the time her best friend killed…” and either the drug is wearing off or the wound just runs too deep, because she feels her throat close and she can’t finish the sentence. She looks up at him, her face momentarily open. “I want to not care anymore.”

He tsks gently, shakes his head at her, his lips curving. “Sydney. Look at me. You don’t need a drug for that.”

She just stares at him a moment, then reaches out with her right hand and latches onto his wrist, chains clinking. Her eyes go hard. “Show me.”

She enjoys watching his face change, watching his cool façade crumble as he realizes what she means. She knows how long he’s wanted this. He moves to her quickly, and she can taste a kind of desperation when his mouth crashes down on hers, his hands roving over her body. She expects him to push her back onto the bunk, but his arm is firm around her back, tangling in her hair as his other hand slides beneath the elastic waistband of her pants. It’s too fast and she’s got bruises everywhere and the shackles keep her left arm pulled awkwardly across her body, but she’s ready for him anyway, feels him gasp into her mouth as he touches her, realizes how wet she is.

He tears his mouth away from hers, laughing, his breath hot on her ear. “I knew it. I knew you wanted me.”

“I—” and she breaks off with a sharp hiss of indrawn breath as he touches her again, exploring, while his lips move down her throat. “I won’t remember this. Conscious—oh God—conscious sedation results in—ah!—amnesia in most subjects.”

A chuckle rumbles through his chest, and she can feel his smug smile against her skin. “Then we’ll just have to do it again sometime,” he replies hoarsely, and she thinks her laugh might have an edge of hysteria to it as he slides a finger into her and she rocks anxiously against the heel of his hand.

She calls a name when she comes. But she’s not sure whose.

*************

She wakes, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu as she takes in her surroundings. Her entire body aches, including areas that she’s fairly sure weren’t involved in any fighting, which makes her more than a little nervous about what might have happened while she was unconscious. The room is simple: stainless steel cot and chair, single overhead light, single door, and a large mirror in front of her that might as well have a sign on it that says, “Two-Way Mirror.” She takes in her reflection, sees the multiple bruises on her arms and face, the simple black yoga pants and tank top they’ve given her—whoever they are—and the metal shackles encasing her wrists. She looks, in a word, terrible, a world away from the sexy and sophisticated spygirl. But then, she’s been that way for two months. She can’t really bring herself to care.

She doesn’t see much point in sitting up, since a quick glance around and a tug or two convinces her that the shackles are there to stay, for the moment anyway, and she’s exhausted. So she’s been lying there for several minutes when she hears the door swing open, but as soon as she sees Sark—impeccably groomed and smirking, as usual—she hauls her abused body into an upright position, her legs dangling down over the side of the bunk.

“A little medieval, Sark, don’t you think?” she asks him, rattling her chains as the door thumps shut behind him. Again, a vague sense of familiarity is gnawing at the edges of her mind.

“Atmospheric,” he replies, almost cheerfully. “You’re looking better.”

Than when? she wants to ask, but she won’t give him the satisfaction. “Stainless steel really brings out my eyes.”

He laughs, clearly delighted. “Yes. Much better.” He crosses the room, careful to stay out of her reach, and studies her. “Not quite right in the eyes, though,” he murmurs. “Still empty, behind all that wonderful defiance.”

“Fuck you, Sark,” and she knows it’s the adult equivalent of I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I, but he’s hit too close to the mark for her to come up with anything better.

He just raises an eyebrow, and something in his knowing look—coupled with that inexplicable soreness between her legs—makes her very, very nervous.

“You were in here before.”

He nods, still smirking. “We had quite a lovely conversation. Very enlightening. Pity you don’t remember it.”

It’s starting to come back to her now, a bit, and—oh, God. “You drugged me.”

“Yes.”

“And we—” She can feel herself flushing, wanting and yet not wanting to grasp after the memories that she’s only glimpsing. He’s obviously enjoying watching her squirm.

“Yes. There was a point at which we… stopped speaking.”

Her foot lashes out suddenly, and he twists aside barely in time, laughing. She’s torn between rage, shame, and the uneasy feeling that whatever they’d done, it had felt really fucking good. But he can torture her to a nice, slow death before she’ll admit it. “So that’s how you’re getting women these days? Drugging them out of their minds? Pretty pathetic.”

She’s hit her mark with that one, somehow, though she can’t imagine Sark would balk at anything, as long as it served his purposes. But the amusement drains out of him, replaced by ice. “You were asking for more,” he tells her, and the light in his eyes is cruel.

She doesn’t dare ask whether he’s referring to the drugs or to… whatever they’d done, so she sidesteps the topic altogether. “Where’s Dixon?”

He accepts the subject change without comment, though his expression is still hard. “Back in the loving bosom of the CIA, I’d imagine. We wanted nothing from him.”

She’s not sure if he’s telling the truth, though the men who’d attacked her certainly seemed to be focused on her, treating Dixon as more of an obstacle than anything else. In any case, there’s no way to verify his safety at this point. She grits her teeth. “Why am I here, Sark?”

“You’re being wasted at the CIA.”

She snorts. “And you’re going to help me realize my full potential?”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. “I’m going to give you something you want.”

“I don’t want anything,” she tells him flatly, which is a lie, of course—she wants a mother who’s not a murderess and a best friend who’s not a traitor and she wants Vaughn back, screaming at Jamie Storr on the TV and making love to her and fighting beside her. She wants to have one single person she can trust. But no one can give her any of that, least of all Sark, so he can’t offer her anything.

“The woman who killed your Agent Vaughn. I know where she is.”

Hearing his name, especially from Sark’s lips, twists the knife so hard and so suddenly that she can feel tears burning behind her eyes, but she tries to keep her face as impassive as possible. “What?” Her voice is hoarse.

“Friend of yours, wasn’t she?” Sark continues casually, but his hint of a smile tells her he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.

All the anger that she’s tried so hard to suppress is starting to ignite again, and it’s a struggle to keep her voice steady. “Apparently not.”

“You seem to have quite a lot of trouble with that sort of thing.”

And she snaps. She whips her left arm over her head to get as much play as possible out of her chains, braces her hands underneath her, and kicks out with both feet, catching him square in the chest. He anticipates enough to deflect some of the blow, but the force of it still throws him back against the wall to land in a heap on the floor. Meanwhile, she’s off the bunk, standing with her arms pulled taut behind her and her eyes blazing, a chained animal. “What do you want, Sark?” she grates out, dizzy with rage. It’s as if a dam has broken and two months of pent-up emotions are trying to push their way out of her skin. It’s terrifying, exhilarating to feel again.

“This,” he pants, coughing a little, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “You. Fighting. Alive. Not throwing yourself away on self-pity and self-flagellation in the service of a government to which your life means nothing.” His response, and the intensity of it, catches her off-guard, renders her momentarily speechless. She’d expected threats, demands for information, torture, anything but this. He presses his advantage. “You were dead when I brought you here. I could offer you so much more.”

Finally, she manages, “You want me to work for you?” Out of the question, she thinks… and yet, she has to ask in the darkest recesses of her mind, what has her life with the CIA brought her besides death and betrayal?

He shakes his head, holding her gaze. “No. No contracts, no employers and employees, no grand plan for world domination. Those sorts of arrangements are made to be broken… as we both well know. I want you to work with me.”

“Why do you care what happens to me?” she spits. “Wasn’t that long ago you were happy to let me get eaten alive by acid.”

He smiles almost fondly at the memory, and levers himself to his feet, straightening his clothes. “Yes. I would have let you die, then, if you hadn’t been so agreeable. But that was different. That was all part of the game.”

She can hardly believe what she’s hearing. “This is a game to you?”

He nods, slowly, his tone low and intent. “As it should be to you. People are fundamentally selfish, Sydney, and never more so than in our line of work. Trust, loyalty, it’s all fleeting.” Not to Vaughn, she thinks, but Vaughn is dead now, a casualty of their mutual naïveté, their hope for a happy ending. Sark moves slightly nearer, though he’s wary not to come within striking distance. “I’m offering you the chance to see what life is like without transient attachments and empty morality hanging over your head, without the pain you’ve brought on yourself. I’m offering you freedom.” Now, deliberately daring her, he steps in close, so she can feel the heat of his body radiating along the length of hers. “Only a handful of people in the world possess the skills that we do, Sydney,” he whispers. “We have many mutual enemies. And I’ve always known we were destined to work together.”

She’s silent for a moment. Either he’s being sincere, or he’s the best actor she’s ever seen. Finally, coolly, “Did you come up with all that yourself? Or did you hire a speechwriter?”

He only smiles, turns away. “Give it some thought,” he suggests over his shoulder as he makes his way towards the door.

He’s reaching for the knob when the question tears itself out of her: “Why are you doing this?”

He turns back, and she can almost feel the shape of the air between them as he meets her eyes directly. “Worthy adversaries are difficult to find,” he answers. “Worthy allies…” He chuckles a bit. “Well, that’s nearly impossible.” Without waiting for a response, he pulls open the door and disappears into the dimness beyond.

*************

He certainly gives her plenty of time to think. Day and night are at the whim of her captors, but she thinks she counts more than a week and she still hasn’t had any visitors besides the flunkies who bring her daily meals. Partially for the benefit of whoever might be watching on the other side of the mirror, she goes through the motions of staying alert and prepared—pushups and tricep dips as best she can on the bunk, sit-ups hampered by her chains—but being alone for hours on end with only her scattered thoughts for company is starting to take a toll. Sark’s offer has awakened something in her; she begins to wonder what it would be like to use her skills purely for the adrenaline rush, not to be responsible for any life but her own. She wonders what it would be like to work with a partner whom she would never love, and who would never love her. She wonders what it would be like to leave Sydney Bristow behind, with her fucked-up family and her black widow touch and her shredded heart, and disappear in an endless series of aliases that would never demand anything and never be disappointed.

She wonders what it would be like to feel Francie’s neck between her hands.

When they turn out the lights, she curls up on the bunk, hoping for oblivion. But he’s always there, and the regret and accusation in his eyes destroys her every time, makes her clutch at him even as he slips through her fingers and all she can do is cry out, I’m sorry, Vaughn, I’m so sorry, sorrysorrysorrysorry until she wakes up with her cheeks wet and his name on her lips and her heart twisted so tight she can hardly breathe.

She can’t live like this. So on the morning of what she thinks is the tenth day, she catches the arm of the lackey du jour as he brings in her tray of fruit and oatmeal. He flinches a little, despite being nearly twice her weight, and she has to repress a derisive smile. “Tell Sark I want to see him.”

She’s just finishing her meal when he appears, stands just inside the doorway with no expression on his face and only a hint of triumph in his eyes.

“I’m in,” she tells him. “Show me where to find her.”

He smiles.

**************

“You’re joking, right?” She raises an eyebrow at Sark, seated across from her at the small table that’s been brought into her room to facilitate their planning sessions. That, the removal of the shackles, and the addition of a reading light next to her bed are the sole indications that she has changed from prisoner to partner. The table is neatly stacked with blueprints and surveillance photos; she’s actually a little bit surprised at the amount of information he’s managed to gather, and wonders—not for the first time—just how extensive his operation is. “Trick fountains?”

Sark smiles, and she almost forgets for a moment that he’s a casual murderer. “Markus Sittikus was a bit of an eccentric. Hellbrunn Castle reflects his… unusual sense of humor.”

“And there’s a Rambaldi artifact being stored there.”

“Yes.”

“And you think…” She finds she can’t say the name. “You think she’s after it, too.”

“That’s what our sources tell us, yes. Christophe Janeau, a wealthy French businessman, is hosting a party at the castle five days from now.” He pulls Janeau’s photo out of the pile, tosses it in front of her. “I’ve arranged a meeting with him, ostensibly to discuss various black market items in which he’s expressed interest in the past. When in residence at Hellbrunn, Janeau uses the library as a study.”

“And that’s where he keeps the artifact.”

“Yes. Though he doesn’t have any idea of its true nature. It’s a wooden statue, about three inches high. He finds it compliments his décor.” His smile turns sardonic.

She takes a deep breath. “OK. So, I get her, you get the artifact.”

Sark shakes his head. “No. We get the artifact, then you get your murderous friend.” At her frustrated eye-roll, he chuckles. “This is a risk for both of us. And since I have the resources, the lesser risk is mine. Don’t worry, you’ll get your revenge. If everything goes as planned.” He rises, brushes off his trousers. “Be ready in five days.”

She grins smugly at him, wondering if he realizes he’s just given away a fairly significant hint as to their present location. “It’s a short plane ride, then?” she asks sweetly.

He laughs. “Short enough. You’ll be blindfolded most of the way, however, so don’t count on any sight-seeing.” He shakes his head admiringly. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Yeah, it’s a real dream come true for me, too,” she replies sarcastically, but he’s already almost out the door, and she can’t help wincing as she hears the lock click into place behind him.

**************

“Nice little place,” Sark observes as they enter the great hall, which is awash in twinkling lights and swirls of expensive fabric. Janeau’s guests seem to be enjoying his hospitality so far; many are dancing, even more are drinking, and occasional bursts of too-loud laughter mark the latest victims of the famous trick fountains. Easy marks, all of them, Sydney thinks with disdain.

“I detest these society parties,” Sark murmurs in her ear, a charming smile fixed on his face as he tucks her hand into the crook of his arm. “We could rob everyone here blind, if they were clever enough to own anything worth having.”

She’s a little unnerved at how closely his thoughts mirror hers. “We’re not here for petty theft,” she hisses back through demurely curved lips, but he only laughs in response. She feels oddly naked; she doesn’t have a single piece of jewelry from the patented Marshall line, and there are no voices in her ear rattling off specs and parameters and countermeasures. The whole situation has left her off-balance and strangely exhilarated and it doesn’t help that Sark nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw her in this dress—black silk that flows and clings in all the right places. He’s been looking at her ever since like he’s barely restraining himself from tearing it right back off of her. All in all, it’s enough to make her more than a little tetchy.

A familiar face catches her eye. Grateful for the opportunity to shift her focus, she tightens her grip on Sark’s arm. “There’s Janeau. In the corner.”

He responds to the nearly imperceptible tilt of her head and spots their target almost immediately. “Ah.” He turns the full force of his smile on her, the picture of the doting lover. “Let’s go introduce ourselves, shall we?”

He leads her through the mass of dancing couples until they’re within earshot of Janeau. “Monsieur Janeau,” Sark calls over the noise of the music and the crowd, bowing slightly as the other man turns to face them. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ian Parrish. We spoke on the telephone. I was so gratified to receive your invitation.”

A light of recognition comes on in Janeau’s eyes. “Ah, yes, Monsieur Parrish. I have looked forward to meeting you.” His gaze takes on a hungry gleam as he turns his attention to Sydney. “I have spent a great deal of time and money on the decorations for this little soiree, Monsieur Parrish. Had I known you would provide us with something so beautiful to look at, I would not have bothered.”

No matter how many times she’s met and used sexist wealthy men in the course of her missions, somehow she never gets used to it, and she can’t quite help gritting her teeth beneath a vapid smile. Only the hint of a smirk betrays Sark’s enjoyment of her frustration. “May I present Elizabeth Fairchild.”

She holds out her hand for their host to drool over, lays it on thick with the Southern accent. “Hi,” she giggles. “It’s a great party. I’ve never been in a real castle before.”

Sark steps a bit closer to Janeau and offers, just loudly enough for Sydney to hear, “Elle est belle et stupide. La compagne parfaite, non?” Which sends both men into gales of chummy laughter while she just blinks innocently and imagines strangling Sark with his perfectly proportioned bowtie.

When her companions have regained their composure, she gives a trilling little laugh. “I never can understand Ian when he speaks those fancy languages,” she sighs, simultaneously digging her finger into a pressure point inside Sark’s elbow. She can feel his arm jerk slightly, and though the noise of the party is enough to mask the strangled choking sound he makes, she moves to distract their host just in case. No sense endangering the mission just for the sake of her revenge--satisfying though it might be. “French is such a romantic language,” she tells Janeau, all big eyes and heaving bosom. “Maybe you could teach me?”

“Elizabeth,” Sark manages, “as much as I hate to tear you away from our host, we haven’t had the opportunity to dance yet. Would you care to?”

“Certainly, darling,” she replies airily, wondering how a completely numb right arm is going to affect his dancing abilities. She looks up through her eyelashes at Janeau, full of regret and just a hint of promised sin. “Some other time?” she breathes, and he nods, swallowing hard.

Sark seems to have recovered his usual smoothness as he steps in to reclaim her hand. “Would you still be interested in discussing my proposal, Monsieur?”

Janeau nods again, still a bit dazed. What a cliché, Sydney thinks with disgust as he confirms, “Meet me in the library in twenty minutes and I will see what you have to offer.”

Sark inclines his head politely, and leads her away to the dance floor.

“That hurt,” he remarks, wrapping his right arm carefully around her and slipping easily into the rhythm of the waltz. It doesn’t surprise her that he’s as agile a dancer as he is a fighter.

“Good.” She smiles beatifically up at him, and to her amazement, he actually laughs.

“You’re breathtaking, do you know that?” he asks, as sincere as she’s ever heard him. The hunger is back in his eyes, even more intense than before. And though she’d never give him the satisfaction of returning the compliment, she has to admit to herself that he’s actually distractingly handsome when he’s not trying to kill her. The contrast between the dark fabric of his tuxedo and the clear blue of his eyes is striking, and the heat of his hand resting possessively in the small of her back is creating a corresponding heat between her legs. She’s just trying desperately to come up with a cutting comeback when suddenly she catches a glimpse of dark hair and a red dress, and her blood turns to ice in her veins.

Though she doesn’t miss a step in the dance or allow her pleasant expression to change, Sark instantly notices her shift in mood. “She’s here, isn’t she?” he asks, and she can only nod. “You’re tired, my dear,” he adds, more loudly, slipping his arm easily around her back to support her as they move to the outskirts of the hall. The other couples dance on, ignoring them.

As they move, Sydney contrives to keep the other woman in her sight at all times. When she sees her disappear through a door at the back end of the great hall, she turns quickly back to Sark. “Change in plan,” she informs him.

“Agreed,” he replies, surprising her. “We get her before she gets the artifact.”

As quickly as they can without drawing attention to themselves, they maneuver their way around the hall, slip through the doorway. The hallway beyond is dark, and they’re waiting for their eyes to adjust when Sydney vaguely sees a shape melt out from the wall in front of her. A blow to her face that she’s still too blind to block sends her reeling back into Sark, and by the time they disentangle themselves, she can hear footsteps pounding away from them down the hallway. She kicks off her shoes and follows the noise, noticing but not particularly caring that Sark is right behind her. When they reach a fork, she turns right automatically, still pursuing, but Sark catches her arm.

“What?” she hisses, pulling away from him as the footsteps grow fainter.

“Library’s that way,” he pants, gesturing in the opposite direction. They look at each other for an instant, and then he nods. “Go. I’ll take care of the artifact and meet you at the extraction point.”

She nods back, and takes off down the hallway without a second thought, focusing herself entirely on the chase. She doesn’t entirely remember how she gets outside, but suddenly there’s damp grass beneath her feet, and the fleeing shape in front of her is faintly lit by moonlight. She pumps her arms and legs harder, her lungs starting to burn, and she’s just starting to gain a little ground when the other woman takes a sharp turn to the left, disappearing momentarily behind a stand of bushes.

When Sydney rounds the corner, she finds herself at the edge of a natural amphitheatre. And there, standing framed in the stone proscenium of the stage, is her erstwhile roommate. Laughing.

“‘Ill met by moonlight’—isn’t that what you’d tell your literature students?” she calls cheerfully. “Nice place for a stand-off, don’t you think?”

Sydney hadn’t thought she had any pieces of her heart left to break. But as usual, her capacity for pain seems limitless. The force of it knocks the breath out of her for a moment, and then her entire body goes white-hot with rage. The next thing she knows, she’s crossed the remaining space between them and is throwing herself into the attack.

They’re surprisingly well-matched, the other woman meeting her blow for blow, and all Sydney can think is, Francie, Francie, I loved you, I loved you so much, while she lets the tears stream down her cheeks so they don’t block her vision.

“Did you find my message, Sydney?” her opponent hisses, twisting away from a kick aimed at her knee. “The heart drawn in blood? Such an appropriate metaphor, I thought,” and somewhere through the fog of pain and anger, Sydney realizes there’s something not quite right about her friend’s voice.

“Yeah, you know, they just don’t make greeting cards for ‘I killed the man you love,’ now, do they?” she replies, hoping to keep the other woman talking, forcing herself not to think about what she’s saying. She finally lands a punch to the jaw. “You left Weiss alive. You had to know I’d come after you.”

Another laugh, while Sydney increases the speed of her attack. “I was hoping you would. But you really have to stop being so careless with your loved ones.”

Despite the flippant tone, she’s weakening, enough to make the hint of an accent more pronounced. Dread licking at the edges of her stomach, Sydney drops to the ground suddenly, her leg sweeping out to knock the other woman’s feet out from under her. She presses her advantage, pinning her opponent’s legs and arms, affording her, for the first time, a clear view of the face she used to love. And though the features are Francie’s, the expression isn’t, and suddenly the pieces all fall together: attitude, voice, fighting style, everything. Without knowing how it’s possible, she’s sure. “Anna,” she whispers.

Francie’s lips smile, form into a mocking kiss that’s pure Anna Espinoza. “Miss me?” she asks sweetly, before taking advantage of Sydney’s shock to twist out of her grip and throw her back against the rocks.

Sydney’s brain is spinning, but a well-aimed kick to her ribs reminds her that she could very well die if she doesn’t focus. She rolls out of the way, coughing, comes to her feet just in time to block the other woman’s punch. “How?” she manages, remembering that Anna always was a chatty fighter and hoping to gain as much information as she can before she breaks this murderer’s neck with her bare hands.

“Some DNA-cloning thing,” Anna replies carelessly, Russian accent back in full force now that the jig is up. “And killing your roommate was easy enough; she had a kitchen full of knives at her disposal, and all she could do was scream. Pathetic.”

Don’t think about it, don’t think, Sydney tells herself firmly, forcing the pain away as she tries to concentrate on attack and counterattack. She catches a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye, realizes that somehow Sark has found them, and he’s making his leisurely way down the slope of grass, white shirt gleaming in the moonlight. He doesn’t seem to be planning on interfering, which is good, because if he tries, she’ll have to kill him, too.

Anna’s breathing harder, now, and neither one of them has the energy for talking, both pouring everything they have into the ebb and flow of the fight. Sydney’s lungs are starting to burn, all of her limbs ache, and her fury is making her light-headed, but when Anna’s foot catches on the uneven ground, Sydney has her pinned again in an instant.

“You killed two people I loved,” Sydney grates out, chest heaving.

Anna only smiles. “Saint Sydney,” she answers between her own gulps of air. “Never kills unless she has to. What’re you going to do, drag me back for a round of brutal CIA questioning? I’ll be out in a month.”

Sydney simply reaches out her left hand, easily catches the gun that Sark tosses to her. She stands slowly, aims at the other woman’s forehead, takes one last look at her best friend’s face. “I don’t work for the CIA anymore,” she says evenly. And fires.

Too much blood, and she has to turn away from the ruin that’s left, distantly aware of Sark’s arm supporting her as she stumbles up the hill. She’s still gasping for breath, her hair sticking to her face, tears pouring down her raw cheeks, utterly exhausted inside and out, and she collapses in the sheltering curve of the bushes. Sark’s hands are moving over her, surprisingly gentle, checking for any serious damage.

“Are you injured?” he asks.

“No.” She sees a small box lying on the ground next to him. “You got the artifact.”

That gets a small smile. “Yes.”

Before she realizes what she’s doing, her hand is on his cheek. “Thank you,” she tells him, though whether it’s for the gun, the concern, or the opportunity, she’s not exactly sure.

“You’re welcome,” he answers simply.

And suddenly her arms are around his neck and his tongue is warm in her mouth and his hand is sliding under the black silk, along her thigh, and she’s leaning slowly back onto the grass, clutching him desperately, and—

“It came from this direction!”

The distant voice jolts them both into action. They separate instantly, and Sark grabs the artifact with one hand while extending the other to help her up. They stand looking at each other for a split second, until he puts one hand around the back of her neck and pulls her to him for one last, hard kiss before they take off running and disappear into the darkness.

***************

They hardly speak on the plane back to Sark’s base, but she can feel the charge building in the air between them. Under the curious eyes of his lackeys, he grates out a hasty goodnight to her as they’re preparing to blindfold her and return her to her room. The last thing she sees before they secure the hood over her head are his eyes, smoldering.

The room is dark when they leave her, and she changes out of the ruined dress, slipping on the clean tank top and pants that are resting on the bed. When she’s finished, she switches on the reading lamp and sits cross-legged on the bunk, waiting.

She doesn’t have a clock, but she estimates roughly half an hour before the door bangs open and then Sark is slamming it behind him, his tux jacket gone, his shirt untucked, his hair tousled. He looks a little wild, actually, and she wonders if he tried to deny this, if he tried to stay away from her. If he did, he’s an idiot. In a way, it’s as if the entire night has been leading up to this moment.

She jerks her head towards the two-way mirror. “Who’s watching?”

“Do you care?” Even in the dim light, his eyes are scorching.

A pause, then, “No,” and suddenly she can’t get to him soon enough, but he’s moving towards her, too, until their mouths meet in a kiss that shocks her body as much as if he’d punched her. She’s numb for an instant, but then he pulls her tighter against him and groans into her mouth, and every nerve in her body sparks. All the adrenaline that was coursing through her body a few hours ago is back, filling her veins with quicksilver. She can feel his heart hammering against hers.

He tears his mouth away, presses desperate kisses along the length of her neck. “Sydney, Sydney,” he gasps, over and over again, as she lets her head fall back and sinks her fingers into his hair. “You were brilliant tonight… do you know…”

“Don’t,” she breathes, tightens her fingers at the nape of his neck as he dips his tongue into the hollow of her collarbone. “I don’t want to…”

“All right.” His hand sliding over the curve of her hip, he begins to maneuver her towards the bunk. When they reach it, she hitches herself up, and he presses her down onto her back, positions himself over her with one knee between her legs. “Can I tell you, then,” and his voice is more than a little unsteady now, his expression strangely unguarded, “Can I tell you how beautiful you are?” He slides his hands beneath the fabric of her tank top, sweeps it off over her head. Her skin is bare beneath it; he slides one finger slowly down, between her breasts, over her firm stomach, the look in his eyes something perilously close to wonder. “Can I tell you… how long I’ve wanted to touch you…” and he leans down and captures her lips again, but this time there’s a hint of sweetness mixed in with all that raw sensuality, and her heart contracts painfully. Nononononono. Not that. Desperate to change the mood, to leave no room in her body for anything but pleasure, she claws at his shirt, hears the satisfying sound of fabric tearing as it catches on the ebony studs. He chuckles a little at her eagerness, pulls back enough to yank off the shirt. Meanwhile, her fingers are working at the fastener on his trousers, and his chuckle goes hoarse as he turns his attention to helping her, then returning the favor, until their clothes are in a heap on the floor and he’s poised over her and she can feel his bare chest heaving against hers.

The bunk is narrow and the position is awkward but she’s beyond caring, so when he reaches down between her legs, she sees his eyes widen slightly at how wet she is. An almost feral grin curves his lips. Then she takes him in her hand, shifts her legs a bit to grant him better access. “Sark—” she hisses, “now—please—” and the entreaty is barely out of her mouth before he buries himself inside her with a single thrust. The sudden rush of pleasure is so intense she has to bite her lip to keep from screaming. His eyes close, and he drops his head into the curve of her neck, exhaling on a long sigh that’s shaped like her name. She clenches her muscles around him, can’t quite contain a self-satisfied smile as his body jerks in response. He levers himself up on his elbows, looks down at her with those unbelievably blue eyes, and begins to move. Now it’s her turn to let her eyelids drift shut, focusing on the sensation as each thrust builds the tension tighter inside her, her hands coming up to tangle in her own hair. She’s panting, “Yes—yes—yes” and his breath comes shorter, faster, and he laces his fingers through hers for leverage, pushing even deeper inside her as she crosses her ankles behind his back. The change in angle sets off fireworks in her center, and she cries out, contracting around him, feels him shudder in response as he lets himself go and follows her over the edge.

***************

Afterwards, she realizes that—ironically—this night has had all the external trappings of her life in L.A.: target identified, mission successful, mind-blowing sex with her partner afterwards. But the results are devastatingly different. There’s no sense of accomplishment, despite having achieved their objective and worked well together in the process; there’s just a vague haze of guilt and pain, and beneath it, an overwhelming emptiness. It’s as if this was the final test, and now she has no choice but to acknowledge what her heart has been telling her all along, behind the rage and fear and regret: whatever she’s looking for, it isn’t this. She had emptiness before, and without the guilt. And just like that, she knows it’s over.

The bunk is really too small for two people, but they’re managing, she on her back and he propped on one elbow, looking down at her in sated silence, the blanket pulled over both of them. “You were right,” she tells him finally, because she owes him that, at least. “I was dead when you brought me here.” She meets his eyes. “You… saved me. Thank you.”

He’s been tracing a lazy ellipsis along her arm, but at her tone, he freezes. There’s a pause, and then, flatly, “You want out.”

“Sark…”

His laugh is short and bitter. “Well. That was certainly a brief honeymoon, wasn’t it?”

And there’s the pain she’s been trying so hard to avoid, rushing over her like a flood. But at least it’s real. “Tonight… this whole thing, all it did was show me… It can’t work, Sark, not caring. Not forever. Not for me.” Then, remembering the way he’d looked at her earlier, she adds, “I’m not sure it works for you, either.”

Something violent flashes in his eyes, but then he forces it down, rolls over her in a surprisingly smooth motion and begins searching for his scattered clothes. “They’ll kill you, you know,” he tells her, and he can’t quite keep the edge out of his conversational tone as he yanks on boxers and trousers. “These people you care so much about, that you fight for. They’ll use you, and lie to you, and betray you, until you’re dead. And if you’re lucky, next time your body will die, too.”

“Maybe.” She rolls her head to the side, watching him.

He shrugs on his shirt, leaves it hanging unfastened as he shakes his head at her, abruptly intense. “It’s waste, Sydney, what you’re doing. I hate waste.”

She murmurs, “I could say the same thing to you.”

He just stares at her for a moment, but then she can see the mask descend, the cool and calculated Mr. Sark who’s been her enemy ever since she’s known him. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you and the CIA deserve each other,” he sneers.

If he’s expecting me to get back to the CIA, then… “You’re not going to try to kill me?” she asks, surprised.

The cruel edge to his grin makes her inexplicably sad. “Kill you? Here? Now where’s the fun in that? Worthy adversaries, remember?” He shakes his head, clucks his tongue. “No, no. I’ll happily kill you in the future if the opportunity presents itself, but for now, your reward—and your punishment—will be something entirely different. Good night, Agent Bristow. It’s been a pleasure working with you.” He steps close, fists a hand in her hair, and kisses her thoroughly, one hand snaking down between her legs. She can’t quite repress a gasp at his skilled touch on her still-sensitive skin. Then he pulls back, smirking, and deliberately licks the moisture from his fingers. “And I’m so glad to know the pleasure has been mutual. Sleep well,” and before she can even muster a response, he’s gone, the sound of the lock clicking home echoing in the empty room.

She knows she ought to be formulating an escape plan, but he’s already said he’s not going to kill her, and at the moment, she’s just too damned exhausted to care much about anything else. So she just throws an arm over her eyes and tries to calm herself, but it’s a long time before her jumbled thoughts and emotions allow her to escape into sleep.

**************

The next time she’s fully aware of her surroundings, she’s lying on her back on uneven ground. There’s a broken pattern of sunlight and shadow above her, which she distantly identifies as tree leaves, and the vague recollection of being roused from sleep by the sound of her door opening, which was quickly followed by a whack to the head and a needle in her arm. She rubs the sore spot in the crook of her elbow, blinking repeatedly as she tries to clear the fog.

She’s just reaching up to check her head for major injuries when she hears a groan, just a few feet away. And her heart stops. Ignoring the pounding headache that’s beating at the backs of her eyeballs, she rolls over on one elbow, towards the sound. There, lying in the brush, is an impossibility. An hallucination. Her mouth works soundlessly, until finally she pushes a single word past her dry throat.

“Vaughn?”

The impossibility groans again, turns its head towards her, and she notices bruising on its face just before eyelids flutter, and everything stops as green eyes focus blearily on hers.

“Sydney?”

It can’t be it can’t be it’s a trick it can’t be, her brain is insisting, but it’s his eyes and his voice and her hand is creeping out of its own volition, trembling fingers stretching towards him. “You’re dead,” she whispers, a ghost of sound.

He shakes his head, coughs weakly, rolls over so that he can touch her fingers with his. At the contact, she skitters back, putting her back against the nearest tree trunk, watching him warily.

“Syd… it wasn’t me. Markovic’s device… they had a copy of the plans… they wanted you to think I was dead…”

Double, they killed the double, her brain fills in helpfully, but it can’t be, it can’t be… “Liar.” She’s breathing hard, tears burning her eyes and cheeks.

“Sydney.” He levers himself up, painfully, begins to crawl towards her. “It’s me. I swear.” She only shakes her head, and a determined look comes into his eyes as he approaches her. “You had a cat named Puck, who died not long after your mother left. You always crave ice cream after you drink tequila. Your favorite book is A Room With a View.” He’s close enough now to reach out, lay tentative fingers along her cheek. “When you were in the trunk of my car last year, when we broke you out of FBI custody, you asked me why I was doing what I was doing. I told you that I wouldn’t throw just anyone in my trunk. And that I believed in you.”

And that breaks her, because there is no one else in the world who would know that, and it can’t be him but it has to be. “Vaughn,” she gasps, “oh, God, Vaughn,” and she pulls him to her, heedless of her bruises and his, the tears blinding her now.

“Syd,” she hears him murmur in her ear as his arms come around her, “I’m back from the dead, and you still can’t call me Michael?”

And she’s laughing and crying and choking and she can’t think anymore, she can hardly breathe, so she just closes her eyes, tightens her grip on him, and holds on.

**************

Their reunion is cut short, though, by the realization that they should take advantage of their freedom before it’s rescinded and attempt to get their bearings. They follow the noise of traffic to a major road, which turns out to lead into Vienna, and from there it’s a simple matter of finding a phone and contacting the CIA. Eventually, after spouting off a variety of codes and being routed through several international offices, Sydney hears her father’s voice on the line.

“Sydney?” His tone is brisk, businesslike.

“Dad. Hi.”

“How’s the weather over there?”

She grins, squints up at the drizzling sky. “Clear.” Clear if she’s safe, cloudy if she requires assistance, and he just wouldn’t be Jack Bristow if he didn’t need to verify her identity and situation. “And I used to hide cookies under the living room couch when I was little. It’s me, Dad.” Standing next to her, Vaughn smiles tiredly.

“Sydney,” Jack repeats, and they’re the same sounds, but utterly different—the profound relief in his voice, the not-quite-steadiness, is clear even over an international connection. Her eyes fill. There’s a pause, and then she can hear him clearing his throat. “We’ll connect you with one of our operatives there who can give you a place to stay for the night. You’ll be on a flight back to the United States tomorrow.”

“Dad—it’s not just me.” She takes a deep breath. “Vaughn’s with me.”

An even longer pause. “What?”

“I know it sounds impossible, and you probably think it’s just grief talking, but I’m not crazy or delusional. Sark stole the plans for Marcovic’s replication device. They wanted me to think Vaughn was dead, but he’s alive, and he’s with me.” Even as weary and sore as she is, she can’t quite stop a huge, goofy grin from spreading across her face as she reaches for Vaughn’s hand and squeezes it.

“Sydney. How can you be certain?”

“The same way you knew that I was me. He knows things. Things that only Vaughn would know.” She grits her teeth. “I’m a highly trained operative of the United States government. Believe me, this is something I’d want to be sure about.”

“Assuming that you’re right, that Sark’s operatives doubled Vaughn and then killed the double, why would they release him now? Why end the deception so soon, or at all? What do they have to gain?” She can almost hear the wheels in his brain turning, analyzing all angles.

She sighs. Sometimes having a very intelligent, suspicious, conniving father is exhausting. “I don’t know. We’ll have the local operative sweep us for bugs and tracking devices, and that’s the best we can do for now. The rest of it we’ll have to figure it out when we get back to L.A.”

She knows he wants to pursue his line of questioning, and she can almost hear him swallow the words. “All right. Our contact will want to speak with both of you. Separately.”

“He can ask us anything he wants. Tell me where to find him.”

Her father recites location, code-phrase, and name in rapid fire, knowing she’ll memorize the words instantly. She thanks him, and she’s just about to hang up when she hears him say her name.

“Yeah?” she answers.

Yet another pause, and then, “I’m glad you’re safe.”

She smiles, absurdly touched. For her father, that’s quite an emotional outburst. “Me, too. I’ll see you soon.”

The next several hours pass in a blur. She’s on autopilot most of the time, the stress of the past couple of weeks—as well the two months or so before that—catching up to her with a vengeance. Finally, after she and Vaughn have completed their preliminary debriefings and medical assessments, they’re shown to a safehouse and left to themselves for the night.

She goes first with the shower, so by the time a damp and slightly healthier-looking Vaughn joins her in the bedroom, she’s seated on the bed with her knees pulled up to her chin, deep in thought. Now that the shock of seeing him alive and the necessity of arranging their return have passed, she’s beginning to remember that she’s not exactly the same Sydney Bristow that Vaughn knew and loved. She’s done things—not to mention people—that he won’t like. And as much as she’d like to just revel in the joy of having found him again, she has to tell him everything, because their lives have been so full of lies that she can’t bear the responsibility of more. But how does she say it? “Vaughn, I went crazy when you died and I slept with Sark and I almost joined the other side and I’m not entirely sorry it all happened”? There’s no easy way. There’s no good way. And yet, somehow it has to be said, and soon.

He can feel the tension, too, she knows, standing hesitantly in the doorway, running a hand through his hair. “Hey,” he says, finally.

She can’t help smiling. “Hey.” He crosses the carpet on bare feet, sits gingerly on the bed next to her. But his eyes are trained on the floor.

There’s an awkward silence, and then he looks her directly in the eyes, speaks quietly. “It’s so good to be with you again, Syd. I can’t tell you.”

It breaks her heart. She takes a deep breath. “Vaughn… there’s something I have to tell you. I’ve been—”

“I know.”

“No, Vaughn, I—”

“Syd.” His eyes are still holding hers. “I know.”

Something like dread starts to gnaw at her, but she can’t quite figure out why. “How could you know?”

He gives her a half-smile, but there’s no mirth in it. “The two-way mirror, in your room? I was on the other side of it.”

Her entire body goes cold. “What?” And yet, somewhere in the back of her mind, she’s realizing, He never asked me what I was doing here today… he didn’t seem surprised to see me…

He drops his gaze to his hands, joined loosely in front of him, elbows on knees. “It was just physical torture, at first. Nothing that bad, just kicks and punches and cuts. Sark did most of it. I don’t think he really wanted information; just wanted to hurt me. At the time, I didn’t understand it. And for a long time, the room was empty, across the hall.” His voice is quiet, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “But they still kept my room and the hallway dim, and that room lit, so that I could always see in, and I never knew why. Until one day I woke up… and there you were.” He shakes his head, laughs a little. “I went nuts when I saw you. They had me chained to the bed, and I almost broke both my arms trying to get free. Dislocated my shoulder, actually, but it didn’t do me any good.” He hunches his left shoulder unconsciously. She’s too stunned to speak, but he’s already continuing. “You looked so different. Lost. Empty. Dead… just like he said. And then he made you angry, and you fought back, and it was the first time since they’d brought you there that you looked anything like the Sydney I knew.”

She whispers, “Vaughn…”

“You said my name, the first time,” he says suddenly, and despite the apparent non sequitur, she feels her stomach turn to lead, because she knows exactly what he’s talking about. He shakes his head again, and one side of his mouth curves up in more of a wince than a smile. “The first time. But not the second.”

Her reward and her punishment, Sark had said. Finding him alive had been her reward; the look on his face now is a punishment harsher than she could have imagined. Tears scalding her eyes, she forces words past the lump that’s cutting into her throat. “Vaughn, I’m so sorry…”

That brings his gaze back to hers, quickly. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. You thought I was dead. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His acceptance hurts almost as much as condemnation. “But I did,” she insists. “You told me… you told me not to let it darken me. And I did.” She’s starting to sob, now, the words coming out ragged around hitches of breath. “I almost left my dad… Dixon… Will… everything I care about. Everything I fought for. What kind of person am I, that I could do that? I was going to kill Francie, Vaughn.”

“It wasn’t—” he starts.

“I know. But I didn’t know that. And I would’ve killed her. My best friend since high school, and I would’ve…”

“But you didn’t,” he says firmly, even though she can still see the pain in his expression. “You didn’t choose that life. You had every reason to, and you didn’t.” He shifts his gaze to the wall. “It makes me love you even more.”

She closes her eyes, feeling the tears stream down her cheeks, hugs her knees closer. When she speaks, her voice is barely audible. “Then why won’t you touch me?” Because two months ago, they would have been in each other’s arms by now, and despite everything he’s said, the barrier between them is almost palpable.

He exhales hard. “I mean it when I say that you didn’t do anything wrong. And I don’t blame you for anything, Syd, I need you to know that. But… knowing that in some ways he did understand you, and he did help you, maybe in ways that I couldn’t have…” He swallows hard, then forces himself to continue. “And then, seeing you with him… it’s going to be awhile before I can get that out of my head.”

Reward and punishment, is all she can think, and she’s lucky it isn’t worse, but she hates having hurt him, not to mention her father and her friends and even, she’s almost certain, Sark. And there are some things she will never be able to fix, not entirely. “Vaughn,” she says finally. “Tell me what I can do.”

His forehead furrows. Naturally. She’s almost sure he wants to say that there’s nothing she can do, but he remains silent. After a moment, he gets to his feet, and she feels a quick thrill of panic, but he only crosses to the light-switch and flips it off. Then he returns to his place next to her, reaching out tentatively to touch the damp hair spilling over her shoulder. “I can’t tell you what it was like. Being so close to you, and not being able to touch you. Talk to you. He knew that would be the worst torture.” He stretches out on his side, pulling her gently down with him until he’s curled against her, one arm around her waist, his breath warm on the back of her neck. She bites her lip to keep in a sob. “Tonight,” he murmurs against her skin, “I just want to know that you’re here. That we’re here. The rest can wait.”

She nods shakily, presses herself closer against him. God, I never thought I’d do this again. And it’s awkward and she can still feel the tension between them but it’s so much better than the emptiness she’s been facing for so long. “OK,” she whispers, and links her fingers carefully with his.

They stay like that, curled up together, not speaking, hardly daring to breathe, while the red numbers on the digital clock blink and change. It’s a long time before either of them sleeps.

**************

“You failed in your objective, Mr. Sark.”

“Yes, sir. Agent Bristow proved… unsuitable for our cause.”

“It’s disappointing for both of us, though I believe our… expectations were different. Sydney has always been like a daughter to me, and I would have loved to have had her here, working with us. But the choice was hers.” Papers shuffling, heralding a change in topic. “I am, however, concerned that in the process of your elaborate attempt to recruit Agent Bristow, we lost not only a valuable operative in Anna Espinoza, but a valuable source of information in Agent Vaughn.”

“Espinoza became expendable as soon as her cover was blown. As for Agent Vaughn… either he’ll reject her and the loss will weaken her, or he’ll forgive her, and their mutual dependence will weaken them both. Which, I think you’ll agree, is more valuable in the long run than any trifling information he might have been persuaded to give up. Either way, I’ve planted seeds that should bear fruit for us, given time.”

He nods, then, “It’s still difficult to believe. Even though she betrayed me, I wanted to think she’d finally seen the truth of her situation.”

A pause. Finally, he rises to leave. As he reaches the doorway, he turns. “I think perhaps she did.” And the door swings shut behind him.

END