chapter/five// THIS LIL' GAME WE PLAY

Michael had to admit he was a little bit excited for this mission. He didn't know what they were doing yet—Devlin had yet to brief him completely—but what he did know about it was enough: He and Sydney were going to Paris. Sydney! Paris! He hadn't felt like this in quite a while. The last time he was so pumped to pack his bags—specifically filling it with form-fitting black clothes and bulletproof vests and guns with silencers—and slap a fake ID tag on it was a couple years ago, when Devlin decided to let him crawl out from beneath the manila folders piled on his desk and get a little more involved in an operation. Since then he's been on a couple more minor missions (most of them recently, most of them because of Sydney). But now, it was him. And it was Sydney. And it was Paris. And—though he didn't want to get ahead of himself (but being a guy, he couldn't help but imagine the possibilities)—it was him and Sydney in Paris... in a hotel.

When Michael arrived at CIA headquarters, Sydney was already there waiting for him. He smiled and she smiled back—an unspoken understanding. Devlin walked up and handed them each a file folder.

Michael knew this file folder contained more than just mission details. The operation, the op-tech, the saving-of-the-world. That part was good and all. But more important was the potential energy it carried for Michael and Sydney; after all, there was nothing like the City of Lights to bring out the romantic charge in both of them. If he was right about this file folder, Michael thought, the next level (in the deep, emotional sense) and the next step (in the physical sense, meaning, well... sex) in their relationship was only a plane ride away.

"Inside are pictures of undercover operatives." Devlin said as a way of introduction, referring to the folders. "They operate out of a nightclub in Paris."

Michael's folder contained a black-and-white head shot of an alluring and strikingly beautiful blond. Sydney's had a more surveillance oriented shot of the male equivalent.

"Trishelle Beavoduer, she's a model. Frequents the nightclub circuit, but is regularly seen entertaining the V.I.P. section of the Escape nightclub in Paris." Devlin then turned to Sydney: "Andrew Nysmith is the bartender at Escape."

"Why are we interested in them?" Sydney asked.

"Both have dealings with international terrorist groups and we have reason to believe each one has access codes on their computer—codes that we need to unlock classified information. Agent Vaughn, your mission is to... interact... with Beavoduer and get her to take you to her home—she makes her permanent residence at the La Tour Hotel next door to the club. Agent Bristow, same thing with Nysmith."

"Why can't we just break in?" Michael asked.

"We don't have the op-tech or the patience to hack through each one of their security systems. They take preventative measures at every step. One wrong move and the mission is a failure. We figured it would be easier to let them invite you inside."

"And how are we supposed to get them to do that?"

"Because they only deal with confirmed and established associates, you have to take the more pedestrian route, and convince them your intentions are purely social."

"So we're supposed to try to hook up." said Michael rather dryly.

"If that's what you kids are calling it these days, then yes. Your jet is standing by. Good luck."

So. This wasn't exactly what Michael had envisioned. It was ironic, he thought, and not in the annoying, yet tolerable Alanis Morissette kind of way. As if it wasn't complicated enough having Alice still clinging to their relationship by her fingernails while he was currently trying to find steady ground in the unstable first throes of a new romance, now he had to worry about Sydney hooking up with Andrew Nysmith, all the while trying to hook himself up with Trishelle Beavoduer (a model, for fucksake). By the time he got to the plane, all prior enthusiasm and anticipation had vanished from his system.

* * * * * *

Once they arrived in Paris, Sydney went straight to her hotel room and got ready. She slipped on a little black number that did all the things anything little and black should do: her boobs were propped, her hips had attitude, her legs extended far into the heavens, her shoulders glistened in the moonlight. She didn't want to seem to seem egotistical, but if she was honest, she had to admit this mission wasn't going to be much of a problem.

Vaughn arrived, and looked surprisingly handsome—although she wasn't really all that surprised. After all, when did Vaughn not look handsome? No, it was just that she had never seen him look so cas-cute (casual, but cute, for those not familiar), wearing not his traditional suit and tie, but a sleek, stylish, monochromatic ensemble that looked both GQ and J. Crew at the same time.

"Ready?" His tone sounded a little awkward, and Sydney couldn't blame him. They had been standing across from each for a few moments now, and neither verbalized a salutation (just two quick nods and a smile) when they first came together. So now that a small, yet significant, amount of time had passed, it was no longer appropriate to say hi. And since they had spent that small, yet significant amount of time checking each other out (trying, of course, to be cool and sly about it), they couldn't say something to the effect of "you look nice" because that would, you know, bring attention to the fact that they had been checking each other out. The only thing to say, really, was something that would move things along, something that would indicate a need to go. Sydney was glad Vaughn had finally spoken up.

"Yeah." She responded. She took a small step forward, but Vaughn didn't move.

"What?" She noticed he was struck by her dress, but she didn't like the way he looked a little bothered.

"Nothing."

"What is it?"

"It's no big deal."

"No. What? Is there a hole I don't see?"

"No. It's just... I can see your..."

The corners of Sydney's mouth crept into a little smile. "What?"

"You know..." This was the type of "you know" you said when you didn't want the actual word to pass your lips. Sydney knew that, but she couldn't resist.

"My what?"

"It's just, your dress is black, but then up there, it's not... solid black."

"Yeah, I know." She said casually, managing to contain only half of what would be a devilish grin.

"Oh."

"So are we ready to go?"

"Uh-huh."

* * * * * *

The scene was so self-consciously hip he wouldn't be surprised if Pharell nudged Busta Rhymes to pass the Courvoisier. It was a nightclub in Paris, so he expected it to be like this.

Michael was okay with it, for the most part. On the way over, he had mentally prepared himself; he ran through a few scenarios in his head, like some of the things he would say to Beavoduer, and some others things he would say if the conversation were to take a certain direction. The hard thing, though, was the pick-up. Just how do you pick up a model? He mentally cycled through Weiss's pick-up line rolodex, from what he could remember from the good ol' days, when he and Weiss used to play the field. He remembered a couple of lines Weiss used extensively, and stashed them in his back-pocket for easy access. He felt okay, but then he remembered how Weiss's lines never actually worked.

He had to think up a contingency plan, because the last thing he wanted was to fail a mission. But if he was completely honest, the real last thing he wanted was to showcase his inadequacies in front of Sydney. And that was the problem: this was more about Sydney than it was about Beavoduer, more about himself than about the mission.

The one thing he liked about his relationship with Sydney was that he never had to do the guy thing. He never had to hit on her at a bar, or a coffee shop, or Costco, or wherever. They never had to go through that weird "I'll call you some time" phase—the one right after you meet and exchange numbers, and then wait two days, and then think about calling, and then pick up the phone and hang it up several times before dialing and hoping for some strange reason you'd get the machine.

No, he and Sydney were different. Very different actually. Granted, a year-long courtship avoidance ritual wasn't exactly the preferred method for getting a girlfriend, but he liked it that way, since he'd rather avoid the unpleasant pleasantries that occur between the dating-scene-incarnations of two new and potential lovers. Michael knew it sounded odd, and he did feel a little too silly for his own good. He supposed this was like the relationship equivalent of not liking showers, of being the little kid who made it through by pretending: he turned on the water and left it running, allowed the mirrors to steam, foamed up the soap, and soaked the towel a little bit. In the end it was harder and required more energy and ingenuity, but if it provided a way to avoid the real thing, then Michael wouldn't mind toughing it out.

* * * * * *

Sydney sauntered over to the bar, attitude in tow. Andrew Nysmith approached almost immediately.

"What can I get you?" He asked. He had ignored two other girls who were there before her, and the lasses looked Sydney up and down before withdrawing from the bar, indignant. This cleared up a space, and Sydney claimed it for herself. She lessened the gap between her and Nysmith, and placed her elbows on the counter as she intimately leaned in.

"Vodka martini. Three olives, not two."

She had consciously invaded his personal space, and she could tell he was taking the bait.

"Coming right up." he said in a hushed tone. They were so close their faces were practically touching; there was no need to talk any louder. He reluctantly backed up, and began preparing her drink.

Sydney sat down and made herself comfortable. As she was waiting, she looked around and surveyed the room for anything interesting, as one is bound to do during any intermediate period of slight boredom. She saw Vaughn out of the corner of her eye, and wondered if he had already spotted her.

* * * * * *

Michael knew he wasn't as bad as he was making himself out to be. Just because he didn't like this part, the hitting-on-her-like-she-was-your-next-meal part, didn't necessarily mean he wasn't good at it. (In school, he never liked creative writing, but he still managed to score A's.) And when he thought about it, he had more good things going for him than bad things going against him.

He was good-looking enough. He didn't know exactly how good-looking, in terms of how he ranked on a one to ten scale. Comparatively speaking though, he was confident he'd top the curve: He was certainly more good-looking than most of the guys here, like that guy on the dance floor, doing the cabbage-patch; and that guy at the bar wearing the sombrero; and a lot of other guys milling about, looking dull and bland. He liked to think he was looking sharp and classy—but that was the thing: he didn't know if anyone else thought he was looking sharp and classy. What if he was wrong—what if his self-perception was tainted by an inexplicable case of vanity—and he actually ended up blending in with the dull and bland nobodys by the bar? He'd spend the majority of the night sulking alongside the odd assortment of rejects, looking wistfully upon the females as if they were trophies they'd never win.

On second thought (or maybe it was the third or fourth thought), Michael concluded that that wouldn't happen. And anyway, he had to stop thinking about it. Thinking about something never got you anywhere; he just had to go for it.

* * * * * *

STEP TWO: THE PLAY THE GAME (AND MAKE YOUR MAN A LITTLE JEALOUS) IN ORDER TO LET HIM KNOW THAT "I CAN HAVE ANY MAN I WANT TO; BABY THAT'S ACTUAL AND IT'S FACTUAL, BUT STILL I CHOOSE YOU" STAGE.

This was what she found out about Nysmith in the short amount of time they had been conversing: He was British, but moved to Paris a couple years ago, because he liked it better here. He only worked the bar at night; during the day he worked at a bank (uh-huh). He liked listening to Soft Cell. And he was single. All of this in a matter of minutes... Sydney knew she had Nysmith wrapped around her little finger.

She wasn't the type that prided herself on her flirting skills, and she wasn't the naive girl-girl who believed what she read in magazines, but she couldn't help but look in Vaughn's direction to see if he was checking her shit out.

* * * * * *

Michael hoped that Sydney wasn't watching him. He was about to make his move, and the last thing he needed was more pressure. He adjusted his collar, straightened his shirt, ruffled his hair so that it looked stylishly disheveled, and observed his prey. He had thought it through, and he was to do the following: He would look at Beavoduer, and pretending that he had just noticed her, show interest by moving toward her (whether she would notice or not wasn't important; this was for his sake, to get him in the groove). Then he would sit somewhat close to where she was sitting—close enough that if she regarded his presence they could start talking, but far enough that if she was blind to his moves, he could still get up and try another flirting route. Michael was ready to initiate the plan, when he noticed something else had happened, something that took him completely by surprise, something that threw everything out of order: Beavoduer was already checking him out.