AN: I'm coming to terms.  We're past the anger and denial stages.  In fact, I've come to look at this as a warm-up for S&C since Ana's fighting me.  She thinks its the Ana Show or something.  Geez.  Fictional characters, what's up with that?

Notes before the story, sorry! 

screen names are tacky: I could have sworn you reviewed, too.  Edited to fix the numbering BTW, thanks for paying attention.

Fanatic482: I love your feedback, so detailed, so nice!  Thank you!  I've read your stories!

carmensandieo1: I read "Circle!"  You're reading my story, that's unreal!  It's so cool.  Check out my middle school vocabulary...yeah, that'll impress you)

Hips: Thank you!  Characterization, sigh, that's hard. 

Jade C: Vaughn?  Well, for Vaughn to be jealous, he'd have to be in the fic and, uh, thinking this might be a Vaughn-free fic.

Everyone else: Really thank you.  I can't believe the amount of love I got.  I'll try to continue as long as I can.

***

Over years of international travel, flying had become a necessary evil. Sydney came to associate airplanes with crying children, inquisitive grandmotherly types, and persistently flirtatious salesmen. All were obstacles to the sleep she desperately craved before and after missions thus she hated all with indiscriminate fervor. There had been instances when only Dixon's restraining hand had prevented Sydney from gassing whole passenger manifests with Marshal's optimum strength sleeping solution. The trip from Kuala Lumpur to Egypt came quickly to mind.

Now, this flight was different. Pink and orange-tinged light streamed through her windows and was gradually replaced with a serene starscape. She was in the sky, and though it had happened before, she had somehow ignored the wonder. Sydney was still looking out the cabin's windows, her arms braced against the sill when Sark rapped politely on the door.

"It's Sark," he called out unnecessarily. "Supper is ready."

She looked down at her jeans and button down. Well, besides her black business suits her wardrobe didn't get any better so it would have to do. Sark was probably dressed to the nines, overcompensating for years of government issue.

He escorted her towards the front of the plane where a table was set for two. White china dishes presented lightly broiled salmon and with fennel and mushrooms. He pulled her seat out for her, and she decided not to make a big honking deal of his gentlemanly behavior.

She did however raise an eyebrow when he sat down and sipped at his iced lemonade.

"Don't pigeonhole me, Sydney," he said as he set the glass down. "Moreover, I need to reconstruct my palate. It is not as if I have become a teetotaler."

"Right. Let's leave the stiff drinks for after dinner."

"Sydney," he said delightedly, "A nightcap?"

She did not glower, but instead chose to begin on the salad. "How did you get away from the Covenant?"

Sydney expected a line about not mixing business and pleasure so she was even more unbalanced when Sark replied.

"How do you know I did? What makes you think this isn't a trap; I won't give you to the Covenant in exchange for admission into their organization?"

"Not your style," she replied easily. "You haven't exactly toyed with me; I get the feeling you like to play with your food. Excuse the pun. And maybe it's hubris, but I like to think you would kill me yourself."

Sark nodded in agreement. "There was an opening at the bank, after I'd opened the vault. They were preoccupied with transporting the bullion and I was able to change places with one of the bank's tellers."

She looked at Sark with slight disappointment, "Did you kill him?"

"No," he said without a trace of wounded feeling, "I left him unconscious, propped up against a toilet."

"Naked?"

"Yes, Sydney, naked. And I'm certain he got pneumonia." Sark slapped himself on the hand, "Bad Sark, bad. And how is it that all our conversations turn to nudity?"

Sydney resisted the urge to stick her tongue out. "Do you think they're looking for you?"

"Do you think they're looking for you," he returned. "While I do not believe they will connect our disappearances, I think the Covenant will look for us separately. I'm a loose end, though I have not the faintest idea what you represent for them."

"How will this affect our strategy?"

"Not in any significant manner, I had already decided stealth would be our best tactic. Let us not announce our intent."

"What else have you decided?"

Though his meal was hardly touched, Sark stood. "I can see we're going to have to have a conversation about certain issues before a man is able to enjoy a simple repast, in peace, with the company of a beautiful woman."

Sydney had the grace to look abashed. She admitted, "It would make me more at ease."

"Would you like your stiff drink, now?"

"Hit me," she requested, "A finger or three of bourbon should do wonders for my temperament."

"We can only hope," he replied as he went to the sidebar to pour her drink and led her to a small sitting area off the side of the dining room.

He allowed her a moment to adjust to her chaise lounge, before reclining in his own.

"This is very Roman of you, Sark," Sydney noted. "I bet not many airplanes can boast a triclinium."

"You'd be surprised," He arranged himself comfortably on his side and looked at her. "Let me be clear. I am interested in collaboration. If I wanted a lackey, I would hire another one. I already have five, in fact, since this plane doesn't fly itself. In any case, I esteem your abilities above all comers and have long been curious about what a true effort of teamwork between us could produce.'

"I would like our decisions to reflect our partnership. I will defer you in matters in which you are more knowledgeable, and also swear always to listen and consider your opinions."

"The money," she interrupted.

"Is not indicative of any kind of employment. You will not be my employee, you will my equal. As it should be."

She mulled his statement over, swirling the liquor in her glass. "I'd like to discuss a few stipulations."

"Of course."

"I need to maintain contact with my father. He's a very good source of information and he's still inside the CIA."

"Let's not forget filial piety. I understand, well, maybe not that, but I've heard of the concept." Sark nodded, "I accept your first condition. Now, for one of my own. Sydney, take the money."

"If it's so important to you, fine. Term three: I have no obligations to you after we've taken down the Covenant. I'm not looking for a new career."

Sark frowned, but agreed. "Term four: No one gets left behind. For the duration of our collaboration, which will terminate only with the ruin of the Covenant, you can trust that I will never betray you, never double-cross you, and never desert you."

"Me, too. I mean, I promise the same thing to you." She met his eyes and nodded solemnly.

Feeling the need to alleviate the moment's intensity, she said, "Term five: No spandex, no lycra, no acetate, no PVC, or whatever space age flesh-clinging material has been developed now."

Sark paused, "Let's talk about this."

"Absolutely not."

"The Covenant is searching for us. We'll need disguises."

"Disguises, yes. Wigs, yes. Clown makeup, if we are about to die. But I fail to see any situation requiring me to dress as a hooker, a stripper, or a club kid."

"You have no vision."

"No way, Sark. Agree or I walk."

He sighed, "Are we saying no to leather, as well?"

"I will concede the option for leather. But not colored leather, strictly classic black."

"Be still my heart-"

"If I have to wear the leather, you have to wear the leather."

"Done." He continued before she changed her mind, "Term six: We are not to give away information. I mean it; we're not dropping helpful hints and bread crumbs to the CIA or NSA."

"I can live with that," Sydney replied. "Term Seven: Nor will we obstruct the justice of legitimate crime fighting organization including but not limited to the Joint Task Force, Interpol-."

"What about the Justice Friends, Sydney? Can we obstruct the Justice Friends?"

"Save the mockery, I'm serious."

"I suppose I am forced to comply with your wishes," Sark made a haughty face. "Term eight: we remain in contact at all times. There will be no running off to mini-golf with the parents or go on pleasure jaunts with the boyfriend."

"The husband."

"Come again?"

Sydney's face went blank. "He's married."

Sark sat up and stared at her. "He did what?"

She did not sit up, but stared at the ceiling. "The boyfriend, Michael Vaughn. He's a husband, now. Someone else's."

Sark muttered something beneath his breath but she couldn't quite make it out. There was the sound of movement, and soon she found a fresh drink in her hand.

"Thanks," she said, taking an inelegant gulp. "I still haven't adjusted to it."

"You're welcome," he said, still sitting beside her. When Sydney's complexion returned to a healthy shade, he continued, "So I venture you will consent to term eight, then?"

"You realize you're reducing your own opportunities for pleasure, don't you?" Sydney made a conscious effort to slow her heart down.

"I've grown accustomed to the hardship," he said. Checking to see if Sydney looked at all sorry for him, he went on, "Besides, how could I even look at another woman when I have you at my side."

"Looking is all you're going to get."

"It's all I need."

"Term nine, you wear a blindfold when in my presence."

"You're a regular comedienne, Sydney."

"What happened to that sense of humor, Sark?"

"You killed it," he accused. "No, you haven't, but it is rather discriminating and doesn't find you funny. At all."

Sydney laughed, "I take back term nine."

"Term ten, Sydney will make no further attempts at humor." He smiled.

"Term eleven, Sark will refrain from being the bossiest boy assassin in the free world," Sydney said in a sing-song voice.

Sark shook his head in droll amusement, "I am the bossiest boy assassin in the whole world, thank you."

"I stand corrected," Sydney fell off her chaise, snickering.

"Do I really appear so boyish?" He put a searching hand to his sculpted cheek. "I thought I was finally rid of the baby fat."

Sydney continued to laugh as he looked for a mirror. "I bet you get still get carded."

Sark's failure to correct her sent Sydney into deeper, nearly hysterical gales and soon he joined her on the floor. He placed the glass of whiskey out of harm's way. He did not remark that the tremors of her body could be attributed to grief as much as joy.

Instead, he only leaned back and was quiet, content to take pleasure from the nearness of another.

TBC