Mission debrief start.

Sly Sloane. Smug Sark. Suspicious Sydney.

Destination? London. Aim? Retrieve documents detailing the location of a Rembaldi artefact from Harold Bruckheimer, a trusted contact of Sark's.

So far so good.

Our cover - a pair of lovers canoodling on a bench.

Mission debrief end.

I'm swearing under my breath.

*

'So what's my countermission?'

Vaughn clears his throat. The wrinkles on his forehead look even deeper than usual.

Is that even possible?

'It's riskier this time round. Sark probably trusts you as much as you trust him - yeah that's right, not very much!' We both manage a small, strained laugh. 'So there isn't much you can do for this mission. If we give a false location to SD-6, Sloane will question Sark's loyalties, and Sark is more likely to suspect you rather than his contact. What you can do is make a duplicate of the documents you receive, so the CIA can get a lead on where the Rembaldi artefact is.' He hands me this tiny silver camera. And I make sure our hands don't 'accidentally' touch.

'Is that all?' He slowly nods. I turn to leave the basement but he catches my elbow. I have this insane hope that he'll confess his undying love for me.

'Is something wrong Sydney?'

I sigh and shake my head. Of COURSE there's something wrong. I happen to be infatuated with you and despite the fact that I thought I killed Sloane in exchange for the antidote that saved your life and at the same time got flirted at by Incredibly Sexy in Leather Sark - you've been seeing Alice all along?!

'Can I go now, Vaughn? I have a flight to catch,' I say quietly, the sound of my voice surprisingly weary.

'Yeah, sure.' He looks at me with a mixture of concern, confusion, and that familiar sadness lurking behind his eyes. I feel almost sorry for him.

Almost.

*

'It's a beautiful night isn't it darling?'

I do a good job of stiffening as his arm curls around my waist.

'Yeah,' I mumble noncommittally, trying so hard not to concentrate on the way his fingers are lightly caressing my side.

'Sydney,' he says, in the same sensual whisper, 'if you don't start acting like you're besotted with me, you'll blow our cover and we'll both be killed.'

Yelp.

'I knew that,' I croon back, gazing adoringly into his eyes, running my hand up his chest.

Aah. Muscled. Nice.

He smirks. I blush. Am I that transparent?

'No need to be so shy,' he chuckles softly, trailing his finger along my collarbone. 'We are lovers after all.'

'We're pretending Sark,' I whisper furiously. I really am furious. Really.

'Are we?'

He brings his face dangerously close to mine. Ohdearohdear. His eyes are blue. So blue. His lips are like thisclose to mine andand should I should I ohohoh -

Ah heck. My hand slides up to the back of his head and pulls -

'Excuse me…'

I gasp. He doesn't. Naturally. He turns around and stands up as if it's the most ordinary thing in the world to have our Forbidden First Kiss interrupted by another bad guy in a trenchcoat. Sark shakes his hand and gets the folder, exchanges a few words, and he's done.

I sit there fuming, realising I was going to kiss that horrible awful damnably attractive monster -

'Let's go shall we?' he chirrups, offering his hand.

'I can stand perfectly well by myself, thank you,' I snap, demonstrating how great I am at doing just that. I'm mad at him. So blazingly mad. I'm mad at me too. I'm so mad that I know there's absolutely no way I can carry through with the countermission on the flight back without making it obvious and -

'Is something wrong, Sydney?'

'No!'

He tilts his head to the side and the smallest of smiles tugs at his lips. His perfect lips. His crooked lips. His oh-so-kissable lips.

'You're upset,' he chuckles, 'about the…interruption.'

'I - am - not!' Well that's only half a lie since the other half has to do with my total inability to think straight and hence jeopardise the success of my countermission. Right? Right.

I stalk off into the passenger seat of his rented Merc (I can't believe he insisted on renting a Merc for driving to and from the airport) and slam the door shut, pointedly looking away from him.

The rest of the drive is uneventful. He leaves the radio off.

We board the plane in silence. Until he whispers, 'I'm not too happy about the interruption myself. We should pick up where we left off one day. Preferably sooner than later.'

He must have known that saying that while placing his hand on the small of my back would send me stumbling into the window seat.

*