Title: No White Flag

Disclaimer: As if I was cool enough to have thought up "Alias!" I wish!

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Sydney/Sark

Author's Note:  This chapter, "Mystery Girl" is based on the song from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, which totally rocks. (It's off their first EP, not the newer CD, "Fever to Tell"). I know you guys would probably like longer chapters, but unfortunately I don't tend to have the time/plot design to write more than 600-700 words or so at a time. Sorry!

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Once in the hallway, Sydney paused and looked at Sark. Really looked at him, straight in the eye.

He did the same.

She folded first.

"What do you want with me? I already told you last night that I'd stay close to Simon."

"I know," he said, with a smirk beginning to grow. "In fact, my surveillance shows you've been doing quite the job. It seems Julia's managed to 'tame the tiger.'"

She was sick. He knew about last night. She didn't even know about last night, not really, not through the alcoholic daze, but he knew. So typical. He probably got off on watching her.

That thought made her even sicker.

"Look, I don't want to talk about that," she pleaded.

The conversation paused again. Another exchange of glances.

"Why are you even talking to each of us alone? It really isn't your style," she said.

"Neither is that outfit, mystery girl," he said, looking her up and down, checking out the tight leather ensemble. "Straight out of cell block three, I might add. Although I can't say my clothes were quite as form fitting when I was behind the glass …"

This time, she was the one who glared.

"Anyhow, Simon suspects that one of his three operatives is an informer," he continued. "Shocking, really. And you're his prime suspect, after your bloody little encounter with Agent Vaughn. Therefore, he's asked me to interview each one of you with and to give threats of intimidation."

"So this conversation is really just a time-filler, until you intimidate the other men, right?"

"Not quite. I did make a promise to him. So you better leave here looking a bit 'roughed up.' I have a reputation to maintain."

Sydney prepared for his blows. After all, each previous fight between her and Sark had practically been the struggle of the century.

Sark walked even closer, rolling up his sleeves. She backed up and was practically against the wall.

She steeled herself, wondering if this was how Vaughn felt before she stabbed him – helpless and vulnerable, knowing that accepting mild pain was worse than the even greater pain that would come with resistance.

But the blows never came.

Instead, Sark grabbed her back with one hand and put another hand around her neck. She was sure he was going to choke her.

But he just moved her curls again, as he had the previous night. And leaned in toward her ear.

"There are many ways to rough a person up," he whispered, deep with intonation.

And at that moment, Sydney found herself strangely attracted to Sark.

Their eyes met again. Barriers suddenly vanished, faster than they had been put up.

They went for it, kissing, groping, breathing madly, almost primally.

And then they heard footsteps.

Simon was coming around the corner.

Sydney was frozen in shock, but Sark came through as usual.

He kneed her in the stomach, flooring her in pain. Their physical encounter had removed her prior readiness, and the blow hurt. Badly. But somehow, it didn't linger as much as the kisses had. She could still feel Sark's hands, remembered how he had stroked her roughly, but just right, only seconds before.

"Ah, Julia, I see you and Mr. Sark must have had a nice little chat," Simon said, holding out his hand and helping Sydney rise. Her face was red and her hair was in disarray. Sure symptoms of a good rough-up, she thought.

"Shall we?" Simon asked, pointing her in the direction that would lead them back to his room.

"Of course, dear" she replied, walking with Simon, but first taking a moment to look over her shoulder at Sark.

He blew her a kiss, suggestively, before turning around and walking away, back to find the other partners to 'rough up,' in the more usual fashion.

Somehow, she was beginning to like the cold-hearted bastard.