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Chapter Three: The Tide

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There is no seam where the sky meets the sea. There is no distinct horizon to focus on, just a mesh of light gray and charcoal, a thick tent of clouds, the beginnings of turbulence in the Atlantic.

There is only one scent on the coastal breeze: salt. It mixes well with the muggy air, naturally clinging on like a pesky, loveable younger brother. It teases her nostrils with the idea of clearing her mind. If only the air held more crispness, was lighter, then she might not feel as if her thoughts were being buried beneath the humidity.

There is an overwhelming comfort in the way her toes dig into the sticky sand. She's standing on her favorite part of the beach - a narrow strip the tide recently caressed and then abandoned. The tide, so methodical (and fickle, she thinks) is moving on, moving out, leaving the grains of sand clumped together, not dry but not saturated. In limbo. It's the feel she likes the best - the feel of a place that was once loved, once blessed, once soft and stable. And with her toes she's trying to expose something, dig at a wound, reveal a hidden promise. Instead she finds a broken sand dollar and a few dirty shells.

There is no way to pretend she's somewhere else - too many reminders (smell, touch, sound) of this island. There is no way to pretend she's someone else - too many reminders (voices, tastes, murky memories) colliding in her mind. There are no reasons to do the former anyhow - she is at home here with the squawking seagulls and the palm trees that are permanently contorted from the ocean breeze. The latter, thoughwell, there are days she wants to be anyone but Sydney Bristow. But for the moment, with a rivulet of sweat finding its way from the crook of her neck down through the valley between her breasts, she is content.

There are no words she wants to say. Her tongue, carrying the bite of salt, probably wouldn't work properly even if she had something pressing to say. Her hands, clammy and warm, are jammed into the pockets of her shorts as she stares off into the distance, trying to find the line of the horizon. Common sense tells her it must exist, but it's elusive and almost impossible to define. She doesn't want to end her search, but she hears him approaching, appearing at the very moment the wind picks up. He's closer to the tide than she - she knows this without looking. His bare feet, in a deliberate rhythm, are smacking against the wet sand. Slap Slap. Pause. Slap Slap. His toes and heels are increasingly intimate with the type of sand that (for now) is ruled by the water, that slurps up feet, that lets a person sink ankle-deep. The unstable, cool, ultimately forgiving sand.

"Hey," his voice is almost carried away by a sudden gust of wind.

She doesn't look away from the place in the sky/sea continuum where the horizon should be. "Hey," she breathes, her mouth dry. The single word feels foreign on her tongue, like she's trying to pronounce a new sound. "How was your walk?"

"Nice, but I think I'm ready for a swim.what do you - what are you looking at? Is there a ship out there or something?"

He's now standing to her right, a foot or two behind her, his wet feet having splattered drops of seawater in every direction on his brief walk up to her.

"No," she replies, peeling her eyes away from the gray sky/sea and down to her toes, covered in a hard crust of drying sand. She is briefly amazed at the clarity of her vision, with her eyes finally having something on which to focus. "There's nothing."

His hand comes in contact with the small of her back. A burning tingle is the result - she imagines his hand surrounded by a flickering neon glow, bright and bold, with the power to warm her skin. "Can you believe how fast these clouds rolled in?"

"No, it was so sunny this morning," she says, turning to face him. The first thing she sees is his hair, spiky and windblown. The second - his smile, radiant and stretched wide. How does he get his teeth so white? Is he always smiling? She remembers his expression as he touched her tenderly this morning, so intense and passionate in orange glow of the mid-morning sunlight, and she answers her own question. No.

His blue eyes are bearing down on her. She smiles, feeling genuinely happy, storing this moment away in the corner of her mind. This is what she wants to remember - not the feel of a cold metal against her skin, not the smell of gunpowder, not the taste of blood.

He bends, kissing her gently. She's not surprised when she tastes salt and tiny granules of sand on his lips. Or maybe they were from her lips.

"Mind if I ask you something?" He says after a few seconds of silence.

Yes. "Mmmm, what?" She kisses him playfully on the cheek, his facial stubble scratching her lips.

He looks like he's about to speak for a second. But instead his hands move upward to cup her face, his damp fingers moving along her sharp jawline, her prominent cheekbones.

"God, Sydney," he whispers the moment before he kisses her again. Passionately - tongues and lips and their own brand of heat.

A minute later, she pulls away slightly so she can really look at him. She doesn't want to say it, but she does. "What did - you said you wanted to ask me something?"

"Umyeah." His eyes dart away, to the gray sea, to the distant form of a person walking down the beach, to focus on something that isn't her. He shifts his weight from one side to the other, obviously uncomfortable. "Yeah. I was sorta' worried about you this morning. You were taking to someoneyou sounded upset."

Her CIA-issued cell phone. Ringing. She can't find it under the heap of discarded clothes, pillows and bed linens. Naked and sweaty, she finally spots it near one of the strappy sandals she wore to the wedding. "Yeah?" she pants, annoyed. It's Weiss, wanting to know when she'd be back in LA. His jokes don't alleviate her frustration. She'll be back soon is all she'll say. He gets serious, saying he'd like some specifics, please. She snaps back, irritated. Apologizes when she senses hurt in his voice. She'll be in touch tonight to let him know.

"This morning? When?" She stalls, feigning confusion.

"When I was getting out of the showeryou sounded angry, said something like you would give specifics as soon as you had a handler with an ounce of professionalism?"

"You'll have your specifics once I have a handler who possesses a single ounce of professionalism." That was just about it. Add in an equally mean-spirited remark about yo-yosand that was what she said. Part of her thinks the dig about the yo-yos wounded Weiss more than the professionalism comment.

Then, a realization. Will is concerned, not jealous. He doesn't want her to hurt any more than she wants to hurt him. He wants this weekend to last forever, these smiles to stretch on until next week, next month, next year. Like Sydney, he just wants to forget about everything that exists off this island.

"Oh, that was just the bank," she laughs. "My assistant called, wanting to know when I was coming back. She annoyed me, so I snapped at her, said that thing about professionalismI shouldn't have, though."

"Handlerthat's what you call your assistant?" She's relieved to hear amusement in his voice. He lets out a deep whistle. "That's hardcoresounds downright medieval or something."

"It does, doesn't it? I guess it's just one of those stupid in-house terms. It's funny, I never really thought twice about it before."

She silently reprimands herself for being so careless. It must be a result of the whole emotional attachment thingbecoming careless when she develops an emotional attachment to any man, whether it be Danny, Will.or Vaughn.

She braces herself for what will inevitably follow any mental mention of Vaughn. Flashes of memory - his lopsided, sexy grin, the creases his shoulder holster left on his crisp white shirt at the end of a long workday, the feel of his body moving slowly beneath hers.

Then, the flashes change theme. The day she walked into the warehouse to find Weiss, not Vaughn. His first words, so plain, still stick in her heart like a pin in a voodoo doll. "Wait, before you say anything. The CIA found out about you two. He's been transferredI don't know where. Sydney, I'm so sorry." The anger that pounded in her temples, pulsating, burning, making the room flash a bright, painful white. The rattle of the chain link gate as she slammed it on her way out. The tears she held in until she reached her apartment, how they stung as they rolled down her cheeks, spilled down the front of her blue dress shirt. The unanswered phone calls. The coded explanation from Weiss on the answering machine that did not suffice. No explanation would ever suffice.

The numbness that followed. Forced smiles. The fade of the LA sunrise to muted tones, described only in terms of darks and lights. Each day lacking more vividness, more vitality. Untilshe found something that almost bordered on acceptance. She still hurt, but knew the pain would become unbearable and devastating if she took a final, stupid risk. She didn't need love - she needed to function properly, as her father reminded her. She could have love once SD-6 was gone. So like the tide, she moved on.

"So how about that swim?" she says, biting her lip. She unbuttons his white linen shirt, her fingertips pausing on his chest after releasing the last button, feeling his taut muscles tense under her touch.

"Sounds good," he replies, giving her a long squeeze, his fingers trailing down her spine. They grasp her thin tank top and pull it over her head, revealing her navy blue bikini top. She swears his hands purposely graze the underside of her breasts, sending her heart into overdrive. His lips brush against hers once last time before he dashes into the surf, carefree and smiling.

She's amazed that she feels the same way -- light and airy -- despite the humidity, despite the worries of work weighing on her mind, despite a heavy dose of somber flashbacks.

She catches his eye as her shorts fall to the ground in a denim blur. She knows he's in love with her - and it scares her more than she's ever imagined. But there is exhilaration in knowing she won't pull away from him - after all, he's the one who is helping her feel somewhat whole again. There is an undeniable comfort in feeling wanted, in wanting.

For now she won't pull away. For now she'll look into Will's eyes, laughing, seeing the blue horizon that has been somehow misplaced.

For now she'll just forget about what waits in the distance, about the elusive seam where the sky meets the sea.

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AN: That's it for this baby. I still have some ideas dancing 'round my brain..."nasty" ones as Kat (the most wonderful beta) said. Maybe I'll pick up where this left off one day....hope you enjoyed it. :)