Delorme Farm
Fleury, Normandy, France

"Looks like we lost them. C'mon," Vaughn said, climbing off the bike.

She sat and stared at him for a moment, then dismounted. Immediately, he wheeled the bike into a small, empty shed and shut the door that had been standing open. The fairly gentle rain had turned into a downpour.

"Vaughn --?" she began, but he interrupted her.

"Let's get in out of the rain first, OK?" he said, striding up the front steps. Shockingly, he pulled a key ring out of his pocket and unlocked the front door. She was too bemused to protest as he ushered her inside the dark house and shut the door firmly behind them.

"We should be safe here. We can hide out for a bit and then get you back to your hotel. I don't know about making your flight from Paris in the morning, though. Not unless this rain lets up."

She barely heard him. "What is this place? Who lives here?" she finally burst out, pushing the dripping strands of hair out of her eyes.

"I do." She shot him a startled look. "Well, I used to. This is where I grew up. Where my mother grew up. We moved to the States to be near my aunt after my father died, but we kept this place. We used to visit every summer until I was in college."

She shook her head in surprise. "No wonder your French is so much better than mine!"

"Merci du compliment. At least it's good for impressing dates in fancy restaurants."

She smiled. "Well, it impressed me."

He glanced at her, unsure how serious she was being. His study was interrupted, however, by a rather pressing observation. "Sydney, you're shivering. Hold on a sec." He quickly left the room and returned in a few moments with several large blankets and a fluffy white robe. "Here. You should, um, probably take off that dress. You're soaked. I'm going to go to the back and get some wood to make a fire. I'm sorry, since I didn't know we would be here, the electricity's not on."

She nodded, amused at how quickly he exited. The tight dress was difficult to take off, the wet material sticking to her clammy skin. She actually opened her mouth in frustration to call for him to help her at one point before snapping it shut in shock. What was she thinking?

She finally wrestled herself out of the dress -- it now seemed to be two sizes smaller -- and hung it up on a hook beside the fireplace before wrapping herself snugly in the robe.

Vaughn clearly was taking his time. She let her gaze wander around. It was a cozy room and looked lived-in despite the fact that no one did anymore. There were two comfortable-looking sofas perpendicular to the wide fireplace and a large, plush, cream-colored rug on the floor. A grandfather clock stood in the corner, and she was a little surprised to see that its time seemed to be correct. It was only a little after midnight.

She could imagine Vaughn growing up here. The thought of him as a young boy brought a smile to her face. He must have been adorable.

She noticed a row of pictures sitting on the mantle. Curious, she walked closer and studied them closely. The first was of a tow-headed boy -- she guessed about seven -- on a pony. She recognized him immediately. He was grinning proudly at the camera, showing off an already-spectacular set of dimples -- and a missing front tooth.

She smiled and looked at the next one. It was of a chubby infant, bare-bottomed and chewing on the ear of a stuffed rabbit that was almost as large as he was. Her grin widened.

"Sydney?" he called from outside the doorway. "Is it OK if I come in?"

"I'm decent."

He came in carrying an armful of firewood and set it down by the fireplace. As he raised up, she held out the picture. "Is this you?"

"Uh, yeah. Why don't we just put that back?" He took the photograph from her and returned it to the mantle -- face-down. She almost laughed out loud at his obvious embarrassment.

She pointed to another one, of a youngish, square-jawed man holding an unsteady toddler by the hands. "This is your father, right?"

He smiled wistfully. "Yeah."

He stared at the picture, seemingly lost in thought. Sydney's heart ached at the sadness in his eyes. "Vaughn, I am *so* sorry. I --"

He looked up immediately, shaking his head. "Sydney, don't. You have nothing to apologize for."

"I know, but it was *my* mother --"

"It doesn't affect us, OK? We agreed."

She nodded. They had agreed. And she knew that he was right. It wasn't her fault. But it didn't prevent the guilt for what he had lost from sometimes rising, unbidden, to prey on her mind.

He smiled at her for a moment, then cleared his throat. "OK, I'm freezing. I think it's time to make that fire."

She sat on one of the sofas and watched him. He had shed his tuxedo jacket and tie, and his damp shirt clung to his muscles as he worked. She couldn't seem to look away from him, and she felt a stirring deep within her. By the time the fire was roaring, her chilliness had dissipated completely, replaced by a suffusing warmth.

He sat back on his heels and glanced up at her. His face was partly in shadow, partly aglow with the flickering firelight, his features in sharp relief. God, he's beautiful, she thought. She had to fight the impulse to reach out and run her fingers through his damp, tousled hair, to brush them against his cheek and over that tantalizing dimple in his chin.

She forced herself to blink and break the spell. "Your turn."

"What?" He looked confused.

She held out a blanket. "You're soaked, too."

"Oh."

For a moment there was silence. She stood quickly. "I'm going to go to the bathroom, OK?"

"Yeah. Second door on the right."

She fled, nearly as quickly as he had.

* * * * *

When she returned, he was sitting on the hearth, wrapped tightly in a blanket. She found herself looking at his bare feet. She had never particularly been interested in men's feet before, but something about his long toes made her heart beat quicker. She had the urge to lay her own smaller feet beside his, to tickle his toes with her own.

Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice her staring at his feet. He held up a bottle and two glasses. "It wouldn't be a French pantry without wine. We may have nothing else, but we have a nice merlot."

"I love the French," she sighed, and then blinked at the implication of her words. His eyes widened for just a moment, then relaxed as he looked down to the floor briefly.

She sat on the rug, close to him but not too close, and covered her feet with another blanket. "It's still really coming down, isn't it?" He poured a glass and handed it to her. She sipped the alcohol gratefully. "Mmmm, it's wonderful."

"I'll be sure to extend your compliments to Etienne." In response to her unspoken question, he added, "My cousin's a vintner in Burgundy. Well, second cousin once removed, or something like that. At least close enough to get a case of wine every Christmas."

She shook her head in amazement. "What other secrets do you have, Michael Vaughn?"

He laughed, a full, deep-throated laugh that lit up his eyes. "I don't have any secrets." The wide, dimpled smile that lingered on his face almost took her breath away. She didn't think she had ever seen a more brilliant, beautiful smile in her life. She wanted to see it more.

"OK, maybe not secrets. But there are so many things I don't know about you. Like *this* for instance." She swept her hand in a wide arc to indicate the room, the house, the country. "I feel so close to you, I depend on you for so much, but I don't know the details, the little things. I want to know those things, too."

He fixed her with his penetrating gray-green eyes. "All you have to do is ask. So ... what do you want to know about me?"

Suddenly, Sydney was speechless. Hundreds of questions spun through her mind, and she couldn't seem to fix on any one. There was too much to ask. Too much she wanted to know. Where should she start? Something simple....

"Where did you go to college?"

He laughed at the easy question. "Stanford. Go Cardinal."

"Good school. What was your major?"

"Are you just trying to lull me into a false sense of security before hitting me with the hard stuff? Political science, with a concentration in international relations. What's your favorite movie?"

"Wait a minute, I thought I was asking *you* questions!"

He raised one eyebrow. "You think I'm just gonna bare my secrets without finding out some of yours in return?"

"But you already know all the important stuff about me!" she protested lightly.

"Not nearly enough, though."

He tried to make his voice flippant, but it came out more serious than he'd intended. She dropped her eyes for a moment but couldn't hide her pleased smile. "It would be cliche to say ÔGone With the Wind,' wouldn't it? So, ÔDead Again.' It's so romantic and suspenseful. Francie and I love that movie. We must have seen it a dozen times. What music do you like?"

He pondered this a moment. "A lot of kinds. But not much new stuff -- it's pretty much crap. Who can listen to that?" He gave a short laugh. "I sound like an old fogey, don't I? I have a lot of Sting, with and without The Police. Peter Gabriel. The Stones. And jazz, I like jazz a lot. *That* is real music. Miles Davis. John Coltrane. Nina Simone. Sometimes when I'm feeling Gallic, I'll put on Edith Piaf. What's your favorite book?"

"To Kill a Mockingbird. That's one of the first *real* books I remember. It made me think about what was *right* for the first time. And Atticus...." She shook her head ruefully. "I wanted Atticus to be my father."

"Oh, Sydney," he said in sympathy.

She looked up at him and smiled softly. "It's OK. Really. I know a lot more now. I think I'm finally happy with the father I have." And, amazingly, she realized that she was. They still had a lot of work to do, but she had stopped wishing for her childhood image. The realization pleased her. "What's your favorite color."

"Orange."

"Orange?" she wrinkled her nose. "Whose favorite color is *orange*?"

"Mine!" he said with affected huffiness. "Orange is a *fine*, under-appreciated color."

"You never wear it," she pointed out.

"I do. You just never see it. Orange isn't officially sanctioned by the CIA dress code."

She nodded his point and took a sip of wine, gazing at him over the glass. She had to suppress an unexpected urge to giggle. It had been an insane, stressful evening -- again -- but now she was having *fun*. She realized with surprise that simply sitting here in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a robe, talking to Michael Vaughn, was one of the most enjoyable, relaxing nights she'd had in a long time. Either that was a sad commentary on her life ... or it revealed something important, something that she had been trying to ignore. She took another drink of wine.

"What's your favorite food?" he asked.

* * * * *

The first bottle of wine was long gone; they were well into the second. The downpour had continued, and neither seemed in any hurry to venture back into it. They sat on the rug across from each other, backs propped against the facing sofas. As the alcohol had disappeared, so, gradually, had the simplicity of the questions.

"First kiss?" he asked.

"Billy Reardon. First grade. We wanted to see what all the fuss was about. We immediately decided that it was incredibly icky and adults were gross." She smiled. "First *real* kiss was Andrew Jamison in high school, after homecoming in the 10th grade. He took me to the park and pushed me on the swings. It was ... nice." She lifted her eyes to meet his, lost in the sweetness of the memory. She wasn't quite prepared for the hunger she saw in his eyes, the hint of ... could it be jealousy? His expression triggered something deep within her, and she felt her heart begin to beat wildly, the blood coursing through her veins. The knowledge that had been sneaking up on her all night -- and for a lot longer -- was suddenly overwhelming.

"Most memorable kiss?"

It wasn't his turn again, but she didn't care. Every part of her, body and soul, was being drawn toward him as if by gravity or magnetism or some other elemental, immutable force that would have been impossible to resist, even if she had wanted to.

"This one."

She leaned over and touched her lips to his. It was as if a dam had burst. He responded instantly, his hand reaching to cradle her neck, his fingers twining in her hair, pulling her even closer. His lips were warm and soft and sweet, so achingly sweet, and she knew that she had spoken the truth. She would never, ever forget this moment. They deepened the kiss, tongues stroking and probing, and everything else melted away, replaced by an insistent, unquenchable desire.

When they finally broke apart, they were breathless. He swallowed hard. "Sydney ... we shouldn't," he gasped out, his voice husky with obvious effort.

"I know." But in spite of the seemingly countless reasons why it would be wrong -- it didn't feel wrong. It felt wonderfully, blessedly *right*. She wanted this. She wanted him, more than she would have ever thought possible. More than reason.

And so she kissed him again, and he kissed her back, and the protestations, the words, disappeared. She needed to be closer to him, so much closer, and she pushed the blanket away from his chest, impatient with the soft wool barrier. He responded by lifting his fingers to her neck and easing the loose robe from her shoulders, his mouth never leaving hers. She wriggled eagerly so that it fell to her waist, slipping her arms free and immediately wrapping them around his neck. Her breasts pressed against his bare chest, and the sensation was incredible and exhilarating and still not enough and she wanted to crawl beneath his skin and feel him under hers and why were they still so far apart?

She ran her hands over his arms and his back, reveling in the smooth play of skin over well-defined muscle. Despite his slim build, she could feel the strength underneath her fingers, the power normally hidden beneath those conservative suits, just waiting to be unleashed. She yearned to feel it against her, inside her.

He pulled his lips from hers and she felt bereft, but before she could do more than moan a quick protest, he began trailing his mouth down her neck and shoulder, his lips nipping and caressing a fiery path. She dropped her head back and let the waves of ecstasy overwhelm her, her back arching toward him. By the time he reached her breast, she was hardly capable of coherent thought. She collapsed backward onto the rug, pulling him with her, his weight heavy and welcome and warm.

Their eyes locked for seconds that stretched into an eternity. He smiled at her then, at once shy and sexy, his eyes warm and dark and so full of love that she felt tears well up in hers. She smiled back and cupped his cheek in her hand, her thumb caressing one of those dimples that she had longed to touch for so long.

Their lips met again. And there were no more thoughts of danger or the rain outside or of returning to Rouen anytime soon. There was only them, the fire and the slow, sweet bliss of discovery.

* * * * *

They sat, staring into the newly restoked flames. The rain appeared to have stopped. Sydney was leaned back against him, his arms wrapped around her, one of the blankets wrapped around them both. It was one of the most perfect, peaceful moments that either of them had ever experienced.

She fingered the medallion that she had stolen, the medallion that had ultimately brought them to this place. The formula -- if that's indeed what it was -- didn't make any more sense to her now that it was complete. There were even more strange, unfamiliar symbols on the back.

"Do you think it's true?" she asked him thoughtfully. "Do you think this medallion holds the key to eternal life?"

He took the medallion from her and mirrored her study of it, turning it over and over in his hand. "I don't know. A few months ago, I would have said ÔOf course not.' But for some reason, lately I've been finding myself believing in things I would never have considered before." He kissed the back of her neck and rubbed his thumb against the medallion. "It feels strange, don't you think? Warm. Almost alive somehow." He shook his head and blew out a quick breath at his whimsy.

"I thought so, too." After a moment, she ventured, "Would you want to? Live forever, I mean."

"Only under the right circumstances."

"And what would those be?"

"If I had the right woman living forever with me. I think it would be unbearable living forever without the person you loved. That would be a curse, not a blessing."

She nodded in agreement, suddenly realizing with a sharp pang that they were about to get a taste of that curse themselves.

"This has to be just for tonight, doesn't it?" she asked softly.

He leaned his forehead against her hair. She couldn't see his face, but she knew exactly how it would look, pained and frustrated and resigned. He didn't say anything, but she knew. They both knew.

She turned in his grasp so that she could look at him. He looked just as she had imagined, beautiful and sad, his eyes a little moist. She touched his cheek. "Then let's not waste it." She captured his mouth with hers and bore him down to the floor.

This time, it was wild and frenzied, as if they were trying to fill their coupling with all the passion of all the nights that they would not be allowed. As if it would have to last them forever.

* * * * *

The birds woke him. Once, he would have barely heard them, but that was a long, long time ago. Now it was the sounds of traffic that no longer disturbed him.

Her head rested on his chest, her hair splayed in a wide, brown fan. He simply lay there for untold minutes, unwilling to let go of the moment, the pendulum on the grandfather clock in the corner swinging off the time, the shadows in the room lightening and shortening.

How was it possible to be so happy and so sad at once? So content and so agonized?

Sydney Bristow was lying in his arms, warm and naked and exquisite -- and he didn't know if he would ever get to feel her that way again.

How could he ever live without making love to her again? But now that he had, couldn't he exist on the memory forever, just waiting for another night, just one more night?

Finally, he slipped from underneath her, trying not to wake her. She mumbled his name -- Vaughn, not Michael, and he realized with wry amusement that it still seemed completely normal, just as it had last night coming from her lips as a gasp or a scream. He tucked a blanket around her and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek; her sigh of contentment filled every corner of his soul.

Quietly, he gathered his rumpled clothes and dressed, his eyes barely leaving her sleeping form. He found a pencil and paper and wrote her a note in case she awoke while he was gone. Then he forced himself to walk outside the door, into the bright morning sunlight.


Home of Sophie Delacroix
Fleury, Normandy, France

The front door was flung open before Vaughn had finished climbing the steps to the porch. "Michel!" The slim gray-haired woman immediately enveloped him in a hug. "What a marvelous surprise!"

"Sophie! You look wonderful!" He kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry I didn't call first. I didn't know I was going to be here today."

"What, you were just in the neighborhood?" Her still-vivid blue eyes flashed at him in humor as she led him to a seat at the kitchen table.

"As a matter of fact...." He laughed. "And I'm afraid it's just going to be a quick visit. With ulterior motives."

She snorted in a decidedly unladylike fashion. "Always in such a hurry! Michel, when are you going to bring home a young lady for me to meet? It is time for you to settle down, not work so much, make beautiful, dimpled babies for me to coo over."

Vaughn smiled at her. He'd heard this before. "Ah, Sophie, you know my heart belongs to you."

"Merde. And do not smile at me so. It makes me regret my age." She eyed him speculatively. "What of the young woman on the motorcycle last night?"

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, then had to give a small laugh. "You don't miss much, do you, Sophie?"

"Not if I can help it. She is all over you, you know. Is she not the one, then?"

"She's the one ... who can't be the one." He looked up at her, his green eyes suddenly as stricken as any she had seen in her long life, and her heart ached for him. "There are complications, obstacles I can't explain. It's ... too dangerous."

"Michel, my poor dear." She put her hand on his arm. "The heart cares nothing for danger. It feels what it will feel."

He nodded, remembering the intensity of the previous night, the tenderness and fury, the emotions that had swelled his heart, stronger than any he had ever known. Circumstances be damned.

"As long as there is love, my boy, there is hope. And sometimes hope can work miracles. I know. Were not Martin and I a miracle?" She smiled at him. "So I intend to meet this one of yours someday."

He smiled back, her certainty contagious, as always. "Then I intend to bring her to you someday."


Delorme Farm
Fleury, Normandy, France

Sydney was still asleep when he returned, but she immediately awoke upon his arrival, sitting up and wiping her eyes. Her hair was tousled in a thousand different directions and her eyes were bleary with sleep. He thought she looked beautiful.

"Vaughn? Where have you been? Is everything OK?"

"Everything's fine." He set the paper bags he'd been carrying on the floor next to her. "I walked next door and got us some breakfast and some clothes."

Her eyes opened wide then. "Are you sure that was a good idea?"

"I've known Sophie Delacroix all my life. She was in the French Resistance when she was only 14. Believe me, she knows how to keep a secret." He knelt down and began taking items from one of the bags: a still-warm loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, a Thermos of coffee. "She's one of my favorite people in the whole world."

Sydney could sense immediately his regard for Sophie, and she relaxed the tension that had instinctively flared within her. "She must have a lot of stories to tell."

"She does. And she is still as sharp as they come." He looked up at her and smiled. "You'd really like her."

For a moment, they simply stared at each other. "Good morning, Sydney," he finally said, the night mirrored in both their eyes.

"Good morning, Vau -- Michael." She grinned sheepishly.

He chuckled. "It's OK. Nobody's ever made my last name sound sexy before."

* * * * *

They stood outside the house a little more than half an hour later. Sydney looked up at him in surprise.

"You're not coming with me?"

He shook his head. "It would be safer if I didn't. There's a train station just a mile or so away. I'll catch a train to Rouen and back to Paris. Sophie said the 9:35 still comes through every day."

She made no move to climb onto the bike. They simply stood and looked at each other, reluctant to bring the time they'd shared to an end. Each second seemed like the rarest of jewels, more precious than anything in the world. How could they leave this behind? How could they go back to a world where they couldn't know each other like this?

Suddenly, they were in each other's arms, kissing fiercely, deeply, lips sweet and searing. Nothing existed but this final moment of connection, this last infinite gift of a finite few hours that they had not even dared to allow in their dreams.

When they finally drew apart, it was by mutual, silent, painful agreement.

He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek softly. He could see the tears in her eyes. "I'll see you back in L.A." he said, feeling his own eyes mist up.

She nodded and lay her hand over his. She wanted to pull him back into the house, bar the door, make love to him again and again, and never come back out. Instead, after a soft, quick kiss to his palm, she turned and climbed on the motorcycle.

He stood and watched her ride away until she rounded a turn and was lost to view -- and even for a few moments afterward.

She didn't let herself look back.