Don't Cry, an alias fanfic

Title: Don't Cry
Author: riane
Rating: PG13
Spoilers/Timeline: AU, 3 years after Sark joins SD-6. Phase one never happened. So I guess it's a futurefic.

Summary: What happens when Sydney and Sark let their guards down. Romance/Angst. Cover Me March '03 challenge (someone's first something, broken window, 1000-2000 words)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Alias. Not even the delicious Mr Sark. weeps

A/N: Huge hug goes to Mnemosyne, my beta, for convincing me that this fic wasn't crap, and I should go ahead and post it. This is officially the first fic she's fully beta'd, and bouncing ideas off her has been priceless. Thanks so much!

She wakes up to the sound of somebody else's alarm clock. Groggily, she slams it shut and slides back under the covers.

Her half-lidded eyes widen in panic and realisation and excruciating remembrance when strong arms slide around her and pull her close.

Oh no.

'What's wrong?'

His voice is soft and so is his smile. Her mouth opens and closes again - her words have evaporated in the growing, stinging heat behind her eyes. She mumbles something about needing to go to the toilet and stifles a gasp when he kisses her forehead so gently it seems at odds with his reputation.

That would mean all of last night was another contradiction, she thinks over the blast of the tap. She hesitates before reaching for his toothbrush but then decides that it would be ridiculous for him to object.

'Feel free to use my toothbrush, soap, and everything else,' he calls out, right on cue. She hurries the morning ritual, wondering when reality will sink in and slap her - hard - across the face.

Admiring the black and silver décor of his bathroom while massaging shampoo into her hair, she absently wonders if this is another one of her pesky real-as-life-dreams. She sighs.

Slowly padding into the bedroom wearing his dark blue bathrobe, she exhales when he's not there. The bed is made to hotel-staff perfection, and a blush rises to her cheek when she notices the neatly folded pile of her clothes. A stark contrast to the scattered mess they left last night…maybe he won't be there when she slips out of his bedroom. She hurries to the bed, grabs her clothes and quickly puts them on in anticipation of a quick getaway.

No such luck.

He's dressed casually for once, in a loose unbuttoned shirt that brings out the colour of his eyes and the muscles of his arms. He smiles and asks if she'd like some breakfast.

She swallows, blinking back inexplicable tears.

'Sure.'

'Anything you want in particular?' He gestures to the coffee, pancake mix, eggs, toaster - and she covers her mouth to force back the sobs.

'Sydney?' He's in front of her now, gently rubbing her arms, looking at her with a curious mixture of panic and comfort. 'It's alright if you're not feeling too well. It was our first time…'

A sob escapes her tightly pressed lips before she can stop herself. 'Don't cry, don't cry,' he whispers, his fingers hovering clumsily about her face, not knowing if it's okay to touch her - would she break would she shatter into a million pieces -

'This was a mistake.' She turns and stumbles out the door. As she runs down the stairs, she hears the sound of breaking glass, and she dazedly wonders if the spilt pancake mix on the pavement had anything to do with it.

When did it start? When did he turn from the arrogant bastard she had constant verbal spars with into the person she'd chuckle with during odd moments during difficult missions…the only person with eyes as tired as her own.

They had let their guards down. The Sydney from three years ago would have never agreed to discuss mission specs in his apartment. Over glasses of wine. She would never have leaned into him and instigated the kiss that led to logic hurtling out the window.

Just like the pancake mix.

Things changed at the office. He no longer looked at her. No longer smiled at her. No longer spoke to her.

'Can we talk?' she asked him once, standing in front of his desk, keeping her hands behind her back so he couldn't see how much they were shaking.

His cold eyes and simple, 'No,' was enough to make her turn around and make a bee-line for the Credit Dauphine cubicles, where she leant her forehead against the cold tiled wall and cried.

'How's Vaughn?' she asks. Weiss looks at her strangely and said he was fine. Doing well, especially after he was reassigned to another agent. At her request. Three years ago. She gave him the chance to reclaim his normality. Which he did, with great zest.

She owed him that, at least.

'Alice okay?'

He nods again and gives her an almost sad, lopsided grin. 'They've got a kid on the way.'

'If it's a girl, hope they don't name her Sydney.'

She walks out with her counter-mission, and he wonders if he should call Vaughn.

Being stuck in the back of a van next to Sark, on the trip back from another mission, did not help.

She had tried to make conversation to lighten the sombre mood, but all his icy replies did was make the claustrophobic surroundings even more unbearable.

One last try.

She reaches out and gently grasps his hand.

He looks at her with bewilderment, anger, and maybe even hurt before shaking it off and turning around.

She cries quietly into her knees.

She doesn't realise that he's trembling.

Will notices the darkness in her eyes.

'Everything at work okay?' he asks over breakfast. She nods and smiles brightly.

He knows she's lying.

She hovers outside the door of his apartment for half an hour. Too afraid to knock, and even more afraid of turning around and leaving him behind. The suitcase looks heavy and foreboding, and she knows that most of her luggage is guilt.

She closes her eyes and knocks three times.

The door opens slowly.

'What do you want?'

The harshness of his voice cuts into her but she rushes on. 'To say goodbye. I'm leaving.'

'Oh. Goodbye.' He moves to close the door but she pushes it open with violence that surprises both of them.

'I'm sorry!' She hisses the words and tears spring to her eyes. 'I'm sorry. How much longer do you intend to carry on like this?' She sounds furious, but the tears coursing down her cheeks betray that.

He looks at her stoically. 'It doesn't matter to you, does it?' She takes a deep breath and notices the broken window. She smiles despite herself in remembrance of how sweetly he had offered to make her breakfast. She wonders why he hasn't fixed it, seeing how he can't tolerate disorder.

'What-?' He turns around and sees the broken glass and faces her again. Sighs. Notices the suitcase outside.

'Where are you going?' He sounds tired now.

She licks her lips and tries to keep her voice steady. 'I'm not sure.'

'Oh.'

She rubs at her eyes and stares at the floor.

'Is this another mistake?' he asks.

No venom this time. Just infinite sadness.

'I don't know.'

She hurries out. It's raining outside.

I ran because I was afraid. Can't you see?

Somewhere in the Pacific. Three months later.

And she can still remember how he made love to her with heart-wrenching tenderness.

Back in the office.

He looks up at her once, and some fleeting emotion passes through his eyes before settling someplace too far for her to reach. She wants to tell him her solitude only made her miss him even more, but the coldness in his expression tells her enough.

Going on missions with him must be a preview of a slow and agonising death.

During this particular operation she touches his arm but before she can say anything, he walks away.

I'll give up now.

He was fortunate to have turned away when he did. A bullet whizzes right past him and buries itself in her flesh.

Sniper.

More gunfire rings out. She's crumpled on the ground in a bloody heap, clutching her battered body, tears seeping down her chin. He's crying out her name.

'It wasn't a mistake,' she whispers, weeping not because of the pain but because she can't see him and she wants to, before everything fades away.

Wake up Sydney!

Don't want to. Let me die.

Not yet. Not yet. Not without me.

Blink.

She wakes up to the harsh glare of daylight and the sterile smell of hospital air. What surprises her more than being alive is the warm hand entwined in hers. A tousled blond head is resting next to hers. She coughs and he wakes up instantly, his hand tightening around hers, his bloodshot eyes making her own widen.

'Hello,' he says awkwardly, tilting his head to the side. She smiles. Her lips hurt but she doesn't care.

'Hi.'

'You've been asleep for so long. I thought you didn't want to wake up. So I spoke to you, while you slept. Sydney I-' His voice cracks towards the end of his jagged sentence and she tightens her weak hold on his trembling hand.

'It's okay. It's okay.'

Relief floods his eyes. He gently buries his face in the curve of her neck, and the sound of his steady breathing lulls her into restful, dreamless sleep.

Rehab will take six months.

He turns up as often as he can. He tries his best to help, even if it means just keeping her company.

The nurses whisper jealously among themselves.

She giggles when he brings her pancakes.

When she wakes up next to him this time, she holds him and doesn't let go.

THE END