She wakes up the next day and he's solid and warm in her arms, his cheek resting in the curve of her neck. Smiling, she gently kisses his rumpled curls. He stirs. She melts as he lifts his groggy, blue-eyed gaze.

'Happy now?' he yawns.

'Very.'

He chuckles, low and husky, and that's enough to make her want him again.

'I don't want to get out of bed.'

She giggles. 'I won't if you don't.'

'Sydney, darling, you're insatiable.'

'I know. Can you blame me?'

He shrugs and smiles smugly. 'Hardly.'

She rolls her eyes, laughing. 'Unfortunately,' he adds sadly, 'I have work to do. The sooner I get it over and done with, the sooner I can see you today. And we know what that means.' He growls comically, and she grins.

'Speaking of work, have you officially quit the CIA?' She grimaces.

'Oops.'

His turn to laugh. 'Well you'd better get to it. You are going to leave, aren't you?'

She nods. 'Yes. Don't try recruiting me, sweetheart. I've had enough of the adrenaline rush. For a while.'

'I understand.'

'You're going to try, anyway, aren't you?'

He grins.

'Incorrigible.'

'It's gotten me this far.'

'Oh really?'

It takes him a while to leave the mansion.

--

I will never let her go.

Ruthless, cunning, brilliant—he knows he's all this and more. He exploits all his talents, stretches himself to the limit, races against the clock. Irina is no fool, and he has much work to do. The hazy, euphoric weeks have unbalanced him, and she has noticed.

Issuing orders, dispensing bribes, pulling the right strings and cutting the useless ones— nothing must come between Sydney and him. The thought fuels his frantic pace. He's silenced many men loyal to Irina, men who refused to be part of his merciless deception.

Their twisted valour touches him. Their deaths are quick and painless.

—Sinking to the depths of depravity to salvage something he believes is entirely pure—

Whatever it takes.

--

She greets him at the door, kisses him lightly on the mouth, asks him how his day went.

'It was fine. Yours?' She grins, and describes her latest foray into the world of pottery. He laughs and tells her he'll make the appropriate orders—and replacements.

This should be such a normal scene, but there's blood on his expensive suit.

'You're hurt.' Her voice quavers a little. He shakes his head.

'It's not mine.'

'Oh.' She steps away from him, not meaning to, really, and he catches her gently by the hand.

'Don't dwell on it.' She nods mutely. His incandescent smile is worth the reminder that she's been making love to a murderer.

--

He mentally kicks himself for being so careless. Of course she would notice the blood. His eagerness to see her again rendered years of training useless, and that worries him. Immensely.

She sleeps beside him, murmuring occasionally, making him smile. He tenderly caresses her smooth cheek. Allie never did talk in her sleep, through sheer force of will. She said it was dangerous for people like them—

He stops cold, pulls his hand back.

Sydney is not like him. Not the way Allie was.

He rubs tiredly at his eyes. Stupid. Why is he even drawing comparisons? He seriously doubts Sydney does the same with him and Vaughn. Both lovers belonged to a different time. When things were less frantically complicated.

Allie was a partner in a world where there was no trust, no love, no affection. A harsh existence, but it was one they both chose. At least, to some extent. They gave each other mutual, wordless comfort. It was only after she was killed that he realised how much he loved her. Rage and grief drove him nearly insane.

With Sydney, it's different—love runs so deep it frightens him. He's confessed he needs her. Her offer of trust cut him to the bone.

Sighing, he gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

It won't end happily, if they remain within Irina's reach. Minimising any chance of either woman discovering the truth is challenging enough, but as long as Irina knows where he is…

She mumbles something about burning the toast.

He makes up his mind.

--

'Going again?' He nods, faintly apologetic.

'I'm sorry, Sydney.' Closing the distance between them with long, graceful strides, he sits beside her and gently takes her by the hands.

'Things have been exceptionally busy lately. A few more loose ends to tie up, and I'm done. Permanently.'

She pulls back, surprised. 'You're planning to leave?'

He nods solemnly, and she's speechless. He's leaving his life behind. For her? 'I didn't know I would disrupt—'

'I know you're not comfortable with the idea of me…doing what I do. Please come with me, when I leave all this behind.' He turns his face a way, takes a deep breath, meets her gaze again, and smiles crookedly.

She's never seen him so anxious before.

And rightfully so. Betraying Irina Derevko is never a good idea. She pictures their future together: ephemeral—everything. Identities, friendships…happiness?

She traces the perfect line of his jaw with her fingertips.

'We'll be on the run for the rest of our lives, won't we?' she says softly.

He blinks a little, and the mask she hasn't seen for so long freezes his angelic features.

'Yes. Unless you can find a better alternative.' Cold face, cold voice. He's not touching her.

I didn't mean it that way—but anger is always easier. Far easier.

'There isn't one, is there?' she replies coolly. 'That's the life we'll be forced to lead. Always looking back over our shoulders, jumping at every shadow—'

He shakes his head, chuckling, but his icy eyes hold no mirth. 'Don't you realise Sydney? This is the life you were born into. Regardless of who you spend it with. You know what's in the shadows. You're rightfully afraid.'

'I wasn't, at one point in time,' she says in a fierce whisper. 'And I was happy.'

He fixes her with a chilling, azure glare that tells her everything she needs to know about complacency and happiness.

Knowing full well what he's implying, she rises, heads for the window, blinks back tears.

'Why are we arguing?' she asks wearily.

But when she turns around, he's gone.

--

He's furious.

He thought she'd be happy. Thrilled. Ecstatic. He'd expected all sorts of responses to his disclosure, but not that. Not sadness. Disappointment. Fear.

Does she even realise the sacrifices he's made? The hours he's put in? The time and effort and bloodit's taken for him to secure their relative safety?

Of course not. Then she'd really hate me.

If only she knew how difficult this madness is for him. Being infatuated—not love, not love, not love—with the woman who killed Allie is betrayal enough. Giving everything up for her is another issue altogether. If everything goes to plan, she'll never know his inner torment. Despite being with her, he'll suffer alone.

Perhaps this pain is penance for his innumerable crimes, his worst being the cold-blooded murder of her father, and lover. He shuts his eyes against the harsh truth that not too long ago, emotionally disembowelling Sydney was the driving force of his existence.

Exhaustion threatens to overwhelm him. He knows it's reckless to continue when he's stretched so thinly, but he's too close to completion. Irina barely calls him anymore, and that can only mean one of two things. He's either successfully misled her—

Or she's preparing to pay him a visit.

--

She stays awake all night, waiting for him.

Two a.m., and he's still not back. Pacing the room, she forces herself to stay calm, but vivid images of missions gone horribly wrong refuse to go away. He's always told her if he would be gone for more than a day, but he didn't today—for obvious reasons.

Logic provides cold comfort.

Frantic with worry and almost sick with regret, she wishes, for the millionth time, that she had kept her mouth shut. The man's willing to give up his way of life for you!

She has her make-up speech planned in advance.

What she wants to say: I'm sorry, I was just afraid. Of the future. It is frightening, don't you think, especially with a madwoman like my mother hot on our heels? But she'll soon get tired of us, I hope, and then everything will be okay. Relatively. We'll be together, that's what matters.

She doubts she'll stick to the plan. Overwhelming relief tends to render her incoherent.

It's then, as she stares out into the dark of night, that she realises the bitter truth.

Living without him?

Impossible.

--

He sleeps in snatches.

Brief slips into oblivion, punctuated by nightmares. His distress is obvious now—he rarely dreams.

The mission is easy enough; get in, secure a business deal, get out. Unless the esteemed chairman refuses, in which case, leave no survivors.

Simple, really.

Flanked by four bodyguards, even in his exhausted state, he's sure everything will go smoothly.

Unfortunately, he leaves the compound with a bullet in his arm, and only one man by his side. He detonates the bomb with relish, watching the building go up in flames.

He laughs sadly, wondering what Sydney would say.

--

She dimly hears the main door open, and it jolts her out of pseudo-sleep.

He walks slowly through the door, looking so haggard and pale she gasps and scrambles to her feet—

Smothering him with kisses probably isn't a good idea, but she does it anyway, giddy with relief. Choking him half to death with a ferocious embrace makes him gasp a little. He gingerly shows her his bandaged arm.

'You were shot,' she says flatly.

'An occupational hazard,' he replies, smiling crookedly.

She bursts into tears.

'Sydney? Sydney, I'm alright, the bullet's out, I just need to change the bandage, and get some painkillers.' He gently wraps his arm around her waist as she weeps helplessly.

'Come with me. I'll show you my very own pharmacy. Lots of very useful things in there.'

She nods, still crying, tired, so tired of all this. He soothes her with gentle words and an equanimity only he could possess. He could have bled to death from the bullet wound, and she's the one breaking down.

She finds herself in an unexplored portion of the mansion, and dazedly memorises the access codes he punches in. Force of habit. The door slides open, and he chuckles at her sharp intake of breath.

'This isn't a pharmacy,' she says. 'This is enough for an army.'

'That's the idea,' he whispers into her ear.

Row upon row of medication fill the massive room. Syringes, tablets, capsules, stacked, organised, meticulously categorised. The blinding whiteness of the walls and sterile air add to the imposing sight.

She scans the row to her right, and cringes. Most of those substances are used only for interrogation.

He sits on a nearby stool, fresh bandages on the table. 'I'll do it,' she says quietly, gently unwrapping the bloodied dressing. He grits his teeth against the pain.

'Done. Careful, now.'

He smiles faintly. 'Much better. Thank you.'

'You're welcome. Just don't get shot again.'

He chuckles. 'Not a problem.'

'You have to eat something,' she exclaims, grasping his hands. 'Are you hungry?' He shakes his head.

'I'm exhausted. Too tired to eat. I'll just sleep.' He looks at her with exaggerated solemnity. 'As in sleep.'

She giggles, slipping her fingers through his as they walk to the bedroom. 'I take it I'm forgiven?'

He kisses her fingertips. 'There's nothing to forgive.'

'That's so clichéd,' she says tremulously. He smiles at her.

'We could use a few.'

She slides under the covers with him, nodding in agreement. He falls asleep almost instantly. She chooses to stay awake, perfectly content with simply watching him. Her heart aches at the exhaustion lining his handsome features, and she wonders how much of his weariness has do with her—

Well. Maybe she will sleep.

Moments away from sweet oblivion, she hears him mumble something that freezes her blood.

'Allie.'

--