Title: Say What?

Author: sangga

Email: sangga55@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: I own them all, bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!!!………oh, alright, alright, I don't own any of them – who am I kidding?

Summary: "'Let's fight till six, and then have dinner,' said Tweedledum." Syd and Vaughn do the hot and sweaty – involves surreptitious perving, not for the weak-minded. Post-'20 years' pick-me-up.

Rating: PG-13(?) M(?) – american censor rules baffle me

Spoilers: Post-Pilot. After that, it's anyone's guess

Archive: Sure – just be kind and drop me a line

Feedback: As Sandra says, "Well, duh."

Author's note: Something we've never seen…Syd and Vaughn really going at it. I've always been curious as to what sort of fighter Syd's handler really is, but this is all speculation. Props to Nautibitz, who can say more with a wink and a nudge than most writers can say with a thirty page thesis. And this fic was germinated by constant repetition of the track 'Say What?' by 28 Days/Apollo 440. Thanks guys.

SAY WHAT?

"'Let's fight till six, and then have dinner,' said Tweedledum."

Lewis Carol, Alice in Wonderland.

As far as she can tell, university gymnasiums all seem to conform to a regrettably regular pattern. They're all housed in comparatively new, modern structures – depressingly cubist architecture that bears no resemblance to the graceful sandstone arches and marble curlicues of the older, more dignified parts of campus.

Secondly, they're almost always located beside the track/football stadium – kind of the accepted norm after all – which leads onto the third point, that they're invariably too far away from whichever part of campus you need to be at any given moment. Makes it impossible to drop by in that limpid hour between classes, so Sydney's resorted to coming in either before or after lectures, or (worse – you know you're a gym-junkie when…) scheduling her classes to allow the occasional two-hour block.

So now, timetabling dramas aside, here she is – changed, and ponytailed, and walkman-ed. The mats in the main training room are a little sticky, but it is an open gym, and amazingly there's no one else around, so she's happy in her own little world, stretching out with the headphones blaring hypnotically. And then she starts her warm-up, looking forward to sliding into that zone, and she's beginning to perspire now on her fiftieth sit-up…

The time spent in lycra croptops and sweatpants feels wonderfully refreshing; sweaty and raw and real, in an almost sinfully pleasurable way. She's been reading lately, something she came across from a cultural dissertation, about how Western society has made guilt synonymous with sex for so long that now lots of other things that give pleasure – from gym-sessions, right down to hot showers, ice-cream and shoe-shopping – have become psychologically guilt-associated, so now the culture has started –

The thought cuts off as white trainers come into view in the edge of her vision, approaching soundlessly and standing too close – men's trainers, unrecognised. She hears a soft tenor rumble somewhere, but unfortunately it's too late, because it's purely instinctive, the way she moves when some unknown guy creeps up behind her – she does a rapid roll back on her shoulders, scissors her legs around the guy's ankles and twists her hips. There's a satisfying thud and an 'oof', she continues the roll onto her knees then flicks around to pounce on Mr Sneaky, one elbow positioned above his midriff and one hand at his neck, fingers –

Vaughn coughs and blinks uncomfortably, the string of his stopwatch twisting around his throat. He's still got his pen in one hand and his clipboard in the other.

"Uh, for 'reaction time', I'm gonna put 'above average'."

She backs off quickly onto her haunches, slips off the headphones, staring.

"What the hell –" Stops. Starts again, more quietly. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He lifts himself onto his elbows, face appropriately blank.

"Is that your usual reaction when you're approached? Cos I gotta say, your close friends must have a hard time –"

Sydney flicks her eyes heavenward for a second, then she's back with the staring.

"Don't be stupid – I didn't know it was you. And answer the question."

He opens his mouth to reply, but suddenly she frowns, brings up a hand, and discretely checks the corners near the roof of the gym.

"Wait. I'm assuming that you're sure this is safe."

Vaughn sighs. There's a trace of exasperation.

"Yes, it's safe. This area is anyway." He's forced to glare a little. "Sydney – relax."

There's a little downward glance and a bit of shoulder adjustment as she backs off. Hard for her – she's so used to being all caution, all the time, especially when she's not alone. He sees a residue of tension there as she remembers that there had been a question…

He sits up up and taps his clipboard with the pen.

"As for what I'm doing here – well, this is your fitness assessment."

Deadpan. "Come again?"

"Your fitness assessment." Like he's explaining to a two-year old. "You know – your regular, bi-annual –"

"- illogical, dumb CIA procedural –"

" – fitness assessment, yes that's the one." He takes the description out of her hands gently to finish, a mildly berating expression on his face.

She squints at him. He can't be serious.

"You're kidding, right?" She lifts an eyebrow to punctuate as she rattles off highly plausible excuses. "I mean, y'know – me, in deep-cover, spent most of the last seven years in training, acting primary in field operations about every week…"

She sees his look and trails off. Baulks.

"You're not kidding, are you."

Vaughn winces apologetically and shakes his head. He looks genuinely sympathetic, but steadfast.

Sydney riles back, suddenly realising that she can't wriggle out of this, this beauracratic hiccup, and getting mighty pissed off. She scrambles to her feet, hoping for higher terrain to press her case, and he follows, reluctant to cede her a foundation.

"Vaughn – Vaughn, this is stupid. I think I've provided ample evidence of my fitness during my fieldwork."

He sighs. "Sydney, I'm sorry –"

"Not sorry enough," she snaps, and puts her hands on her hips. Her cheeks are beginning to pink, he notices. "Take your little clipboard and tell Devlin he can shove it up his –"

"Sydney." He fixes her with a reprimanding stare, then softens his tone with an edge of dry humour. "Sydney, look – yeah, you're right, it's a CIA procedural. 'Field operatives fitness assessment'…this from the bureau that brought you Castro's exploding cigars, and Lambert as your potential handler…"

She can't help herself, snorts out a giggle. He's watching her carefully to gauge her mood, lets his smile broaden just a little. It seems safe to proceed.

"Syd, come on – give me a break. It's easy stuff." He nods his chin towards the clipboard, gives her a beseeching look. "It won't take thirty minutes to finish and you'll get my boss off my back…" He sees her frown returning and opts for plain old begging. "I'll be eternally grateful."

Her eyes narrow. "How grateful?"

"Eternally." Vaughn's expression is a study in sincere wheedling. Time to pull out the big guns… "I'll buy you a Slush-O next time I see you at the store."

Her stare is deadly. He gets desperate.

"A new smiley band-aid?"

Cracks in the surface veneer; the trace of a smile. He pushes his advantage.

"A decoder ring?"

She presses her lips together to suppress a grin. "Kapt'n Krunch or Cocoa Pops?"

"Kapt'n Krunch, naturally." He loves it when she grins.

Jackpot – she breaks into a snorting laugh. Then, realising that she's just given in, she sighs melodramatically.

"Alright, alright – what do I have to do?"

Immediately his natural enthusiasm bubbles up. "Excellent. Okay, check it out. First, you –"

"Wait – wait." Sydney holds up a hand again, putting a gentle rein on the sight of his vivacious smile. Pretty dazzling, really, considering how infrequently she gets to see it. "I have one more condition."

"Name it."

"You have to do this crap too." He opens his mouth to protest and she rides on roughshod, with mild teasing the spice. "Come on, Vaughn – if I have to go through this then at least my handler should be able to hold his own as well."

"But I already did this test."

His clipboard sags at his side – he's a pushover and she knows it.

"Well, great." She smiles sweetly at the look on his face. "So this time you can ace it." She whirls to peruse the range of equipment laid out for general use in the cavernous gym hall. "Where do we start?"

Vaughn's expression is grudging.

"The pull-up bar." He watches her stride off confidently towards the left-hand corner of the room, grumbling sotto voce in her wake.

"I aced it the first time."

oOo

Final chapter will be up asap folks…