A/N: I was reading my reviews and I have to agree with Margot, I was looking back at my story a couple of days ago and I suddenly thought, my God, I've turned them into Jack and Irina! Or at least how they could be if Jack wasn't such an a** and admitted he still loves the woman! Okay, going on a tangent...Bad author! Must focus on Syd and Vaughn...
Chapter Seven---47
A room at the airport hotel had been reserved for them, just as they had been promised. That the reservations had been made under the name Bristow--not Vaughn--was a clue within itself that the blackmailer still thought of Sydney as Agent Bristow. It might not be much, but it was certainly something to keep in mind.
Standing outside in the hallway, Michael gawked disbelievingly at the gold-painted number hanging on the door. "Forty-seven," he mumbled as Sydney fit the key into the lock. "Room number forty-seven. Whoever is doing this to us has one hell of a sense of humor."
Sydney didn't make any comment herself, the room number only further supported her theory that this was trap, it couldn't possibly be anything else; she was just waiting for the bottom to drop out, because whenever she got comfortable in her environment, the bottom always, always dropped out. She let the door swing inward, taking in the state of the room with a tinge of distaste; the whole thing was done in neutral colors, earthy browns, duns, and subdued yellows, the carpet smelled like ashes, all the furniture was dilapidated with the evidence of previous occupants, and there was only one, sunken bed. There had been no pains taken to make sure they were comfortable, but all in all, she'd stayed in worse.
Michael's attention moved first between the single bed and the couch, a moment of panic slicing through him. Someone was certainly set on torturing them. He made a decision and without a word he brushed past her and crossed the room, dropping his baggage on the sofa to claim it silently as his and surrender any entitlement to the bed. He thought he caught a shiver of relief pass over her, but if it was ever there, it was quickly suppressed.
He reached into his bags to begin unpacking, but then frowned in the half-light of the room, made darker by the dull colors, and reached to pull back the filthy curtains on the window behind the couch. The setting sun filtered through, lighting his pale hair on fire in a golden halo, and he lingered with his hand still on the dirty fabric, watching the skyline and the busy hustle visible outside, calling to mind the last time he was in Taipei to see this view. "Brings back memories, doesn't it?" he said out loud before he could stop himself.
Sydney froze where she stood, folding her clothes efficiently across the bed, as the image seized her: his face against the glass, his hands pressed to the barrier between them, alone in the darkness of the water so far away from her. She didn't know she could still feel those things, the fear, the pain, the heartbreak. But your heart can't break unless there's something to miss...
Suddenly she couldn't breathe, she was suffocating, drowning in the middle of the room.
The phone rang.
She drew in a shaky lungful of air.
They looked at each other; there was only one phone so they couldn't pull the same trick as last time. They both slowly approached the bedside table, the phone shrieking in an angry pitch at them, urging them to move faster than they felt like doing. Sydney reached to pick it up, and he leaned his face in close to hers to listen. "Hello?"
"Sydney," the distorted voice greeted her. "So glad you made it safely. Now, to satisfy your curiosity...you'll find the manuscript at the National Palace Museum. It's not currently in rotation, so it is located in the third vault."
"If you know so much about where it's located, why are you sending me to get it?"
"Because I always liked to watch you do your job."
"You like to..." she trailed off, clearly made ill at ease by that statement. "How do I know you really have my daughter?"
"Can you afford to doubt me? But you'll find out for sure soon enough."
Sydney set the phone down without waiting for the tone, already knowing he had hung up. "Get changed, Michael."
Her face was only inches from his, and he had to step back away from the temptation of her lips, the curve of her neck; she always had this effect on him, even in the most perilous of times--maybe especially in those times--and he had to be in control of himself because he could feel the argument shimmering in the space between them. "We can't go for it now, Sydney."
"We have to leave straight away, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we get Laramie back."
"It's long past five o'clock, the museum's been closed for hours, and it's getting dark."
"Dark is the best time for these kind of things."
"Not always. If we go now, we not only have to break into the vault, but the museum itself. Tomorrow, we can visit as tourists, it'll be easier that way." His momentum had started, building with every new contention. "Plus, I have to work on hacking into their system so we can cut the surveillance. I haven't done this in so long, it's going to take me hours...Neither of us have slept in nearly two days, either. We need more time to prepare." Her jaw hung slightly ajar, but she had nothing to say. "I want to get her back as much as you do, Syd, truly I do, but it's just not practical to leave now."
His understanding took her by surprise; she could have handled condescending or prudent, but she hadn't been counting on his sympathy. She didn't have an answer for him, she hadn't been prepared for anything but a fight, so she picked up her toiletries and locked herself in the bathroom.
With a sigh, he searched through his bags until he found his laptop, and borrowing a blanket from the bed, he set his mind to a long night of work. His concentration only strayed once when Sydney emerged from the shower, hair still dripping, wrapped from neck to ankle in the thickest pajamas that she could find, to pace across the room. She hurried under the covers and pulled them up to her chin, quickly snapping off the light, leaving him illuminated only by the artificial glow from the computer. When he finished almost two hours later, he closed the laptop and quietly set it on the floor next to him with consideration for the slumbering woman in the room, and arrayed his limbs on the too-short couch. But he couldn't sleep, couldn't calm his thoughts, not with her so near. He reminded himself multiple times that he needed to rest if he wanted to concentrate tomorrow, but the knowledge only made it more impossible, tossing and turning on the cramped surface, his senses stretched to the other side of the room. After a long time of lying awake, he realized the only way he was ever going to sleep was to give in.
Stealthily, he crossed the distance and eased his weight beside her on the bed, stretching himself out along her length. The blankets had slipped down while she dozed to reveal the upper portion of her body, and he traced her curves in the dark with his eyes, but he was careful not to let himself touch her; he knew he had already crossed a line by being here with her, but somehow touching her when she wasn't aware, when she hadn't given him permission, seemed more criminal. He contented himself with listening to her even breathing, basking in the heat she displaced, until finally, without meaning to, he fell asleep in that familiar place at her side.
Chapter Seven---47
A room at the airport hotel had been reserved for them, just as they had been promised. That the reservations had been made under the name Bristow--not Vaughn--was a clue within itself that the blackmailer still thought of Sydney as Agent Bristow. It might not be much, but it was certainly something to keep in mind.
Standing outside in the hallway, Michael gawked disbelievingly at the gold-painted number hanging on the door. "Forty-seven," he mumbled as Sydney fit the key into the lock. "Room number forty-seven. Whoever is doing this to us has one hell of a sense of humor."
Sydney didn't make any comment herself, the room number only further supported her theory that this was trap, it couldn't possibly be anything else; she was just waiting for the bottom to drop out, because whenever she got comfortable in her environment, the bottom always, always dropped out. She let the door swing inward, taking in the state of the room with a tinge of distaste; the whole thing was done in neutral colors, earthy browns, duns, and subdued yellows, the carpet smelled like ashes, all the furniture was dilapidated with the evidence of previous occupants, and there was only one, sunken bed. There had been no pains taken to make sure they were comfortable, but all in all, she'd stayed in worse.
Michael's attention moved first between the single bed and the couch, a moment of panic slicing through him. Someone was certainly set on torturing them. He made a decision and without a word he brushed past her and crossed the room, dropping his baggage on the sofa to claim it silently as his and surrender any entitlement to the bed. He thought he caught a shiver of relief pass over her, but if it was ever there, it was quickly suppressed.
He reached into his bags to begin unpacking, but then frowned in the half-light of the room, made darker by the dull colors, and reached to pull back the filthy curtains on the window behind the couch. The setting sun filtered through, lighting his pale hair on fire in a golden halo, and he lingered with his hand still on the dirty fabric, watching the skyline and the busy hustle visible outside, calling to mind the last time he was in Taipei to see this view. "Brings back memories, doesn't it?" he said out loud before he could stop himself.
Sydney froze where she stood, folding her clothes efficiently across the bed, as the image seized her: his face against the glass, his hands pressed to the barrier between them, alone in the darkness of the water so far away from her. She didn't know she could still feel those things, the fear, the pain, the heartbreak. But your heart can't break unless there's something to miss...
Suddenly she couldn't breathe, she was suffocating, drowning in the middle of the room.
The phone rang.
She drew in a shaky lungful of air.
They looked at each other; there was only one phone so they couldn't pull the same trick as last time. They both slowly approached the bedside table, the phone shrieking in an angry pitch at them, urging them to move faster than they felt like doing. Sydney reached to pick it up, and he leaned his face in close to hers to listen. "Hello?"
"Sydney," the distorted voice greeted her. "So glad you made it safely. Now, to satisfy your curiosity...you'll find the manuscript at the National Palace Museum. It's not currently in rotation, so it is located in the third vault."
"If you know so much about where it's located, why are you sending me to get it?"
"Because I always liked to watch you do your job."
"You like to..." she trailed off, clearly made ill at ease by that statement. "How do I know you really have my daughter?"
"Can you afford to doubt me? But you'll find out for sure soon enough."
Sydney set the phone down without waiting for the tone, already knowing he had hung up. "Get changed, Michael."
Her face was only inches from his, and he had to step back away from the temptation of her lips, the curve of her neck; she always had this effect on him, even in the most perilous of times--maybe especially in those times--and he had to be in control of himself because he could feel the argument shimmering in the space between them. "We can't go for it now, Sydney."
"We have to leave straight away, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we get Laramie back."
"It's long past five o'clock, the museum's been closed for hours, and it's getting dark."
"Dark is the best time for these kind of things."
"Not always. If we go now, we not only have to break into the vault, but the museum itself. Tomorrow, we can visit as tourists, it'll be easier that way." His momentum had started, building with every new contention. "Plus, I have to work on hacking into their system so we can cut the surveillance. I haven't done this in so long, it's going to take me hours...Neither of us have slept in nearly two days, either. We need more time to prepare." Her jaw hung slightly ajar, but she had nothing to say. "I want to get her back as much as you do, Syd, truly I do, but it's just not practical to leave now."
His understanding took her by surprise; she could have handled condescending or prudent, but she hadn't been counting on his sympathy. She didn't have an answer for him, she hadn't been prepared for anything but a fight, so she picked up her toiletries and locked herself in the bathroom.
With a sigh, he searched through his bags until he found his laptop, and borrowing a blanket from the bed, he set his mind to a long night of work. His concentration only strayed once when Sydney emerged from the shower, hair still dripping, wrapped from neck to ankle in the thickest pajamas that she could find, to pace across the room. She hurried under the covers and pulled them up to her chin, quickly snapping off the light, leaving him illuminated only by the artificial glow from the computer. When he finished almost two hours later, he closed the laptop and quietly set it on the floor next to him with consideration for the slumbering woman in the room, and arrayed his limbs on the too-short couch. But he couldn't sleep, couldn't calm his thoughts, not with her so near. He reminded himself multiple times that he needed to rest if he wanted to concentrate tomorrow, but the knowledge only made it more impossible, tossing and turning on the cramped surface, his senses stretched to the other side of the room. After a long time of lying awake, he realized the only way he was ever going to sleep was to give in.
Stealthily, he crossed the distance and eased his weight beside her on the bed, stretching himself out along her length. The blankets had slipped down while she dozed to reveal the upper portion of her body, and he traced her curves in the dark with his eyes, but he was careful not to let himself touch her; he knew he had already crossed a line by being here with her, but somehow touching her when she wasn't aware, when she hadn't given him permission, seemed more criminal. He contented himself with listening to her even breathing, basking in the heat she displaced, until finally, without meaning to, he fell asleep in that familiar place at her side.