The biggest problem of all is that you have no idea when
you're going to see her again. Ironic, because between all the gunslinging and
finger-pointing and artifact-stealing and blurting-out-that-you-love-her, the
thing you're really worried about is when or if (it's the "if" that
really kills you) you're going to see her again.
You check your mail every day with a constricting throat and pounding heart,
and after you're done with it you go back over every envelope, checking for
irregularities or codes or watermarks, anything that would tell you she's out
there and trying to contact you. You show up half an hour early to your Tuesday
movie and buy an extra-large greasy popcorn, but only a kid-size drink, because
you don't want to leave the theater in the middle, because you don't want to
miss her. You sit in the low-slung creaking chair until the last of the credits
roll, until you're the last one remaining, and you remember why you hated the
third Godfather so much in the first place.
She never comes.
You check the newspaper meticulously every morning, refusing to let Donovan and
his teeth anywhere near it, afraid he might mar something, afraid you might
miss any mark, any hint, anything she's left for you. As if she would do it the
same way again, as if she would summon you to another dark theater. As if she
would take out an ad in the personals.
SWF, criminal, seeks SWM, government agent, for blackmail, treason, death
threats, possible lifelong relationship. No sanity required, emotional baggage
a necessity.
No, that wouldn't work, either.
And so you wait.
******
She's standing in the middle of a shopping mall, wearing solid black, right in
the middle of L.A. You blink once, certain the caffeine and late nights and
herbal energy supplements have finally done it to you. And when you open your
eyes again, she's gone.
Then she's back. At the wide doors just outside Saks, standing half-shielded
behind an overcrowded cart hawking the latest in non-botox overpriced wrinkle
reduction. She walks behind the stand and out of sight, and you follow. You
catch a glimpse of her on the far side of the fragrance counter, and another
past the displays of shoes, and a third behind an elaborate arrangement of
steak knives in housewares. You hear the click of a heel and see a flick of
dark fabric around a long corner leading to the ladies' rooms, and heaven help
you, you follow. You're down a long hall and around a sharp curve and breaking
into a jog, not caring whether anyone sees you and your J. Crew bags charging
full speed toward the ladies' room. You nearly collide with a woman in a suit
before you notice that the ladies' room door is just swinging shut, but so is
another one, a blank steel door along the hall that opens out onto the loading
bay and that should be locked this time of day.
You push your way out before the door can slam shut behind you, and before you
have the chance to get your bearings, you're blindsided, slammed against the
brick wall with your shopping bags falling to the ground and a knife against
your neck. As if she needed that.
"Were you followed?" She hisses the words out between sharp breaths,
dark eyes flashing, hair sticking to her neck. "Were you
followed?"
"No." She doesn't move, knife still pressed to your throat. "No
one was behind me when I entered the store and I didn't attract attention until
I was beside that door. And if you were smart, you would have moved us further
away from the entrance by now."
She steps back, eyes still flashing, and slowly lowers the knife. "Around
the corner. That way." She indicates the direction by inclining her head.
You lead the way around the corner, leaving the shopping bags behind, Sydney
trailing behind you, on edge as always. Once into the long, narrow alley, you
turn to face her. "You're taking a huge risk by contacting me in the
middle of L.A. You must have something important on your mind."
You use your best tough-agent voice, but she's still standing too close to you,
and it's making you nervous. You're surprised to realize she feels the same
way, because she takes a step back, brushing her hair back behind one ear as
she does so. Yes, this must be important.
"I need to know what's in the immunity deal the CIA is offering me. I
can't accept anything until I'm certain of all the terms."
You stifle the urge to pump your fist in the air and break into some sort of
Weiss-esque victory dance. Instead, you put on your best briefing-room voice
and meet her eyes.
"We can't offer you everything for nothing. You won't have to turn in your
parents, but you will have to give us any information that might lead us to
Sloane. You'll have to turn over your mother's contacts, especially the arms
dealers. The CIA wants possession of any Rambaldi artifacts you might have in
your possession—"
"I don't have any."
"—and you'll have to give us the location of your mother's
storehouses."
"She'll empty them out the moment she realizes I'm gone."
"I know that, but that's what the CIA is asking for. They're adamant about
it."
She gives you a slight nod. "Anything else?"
"You'll have to become an agent again. You'll be under tight
supervision,"
"Just like Sark." She says, not missing the irony.
"The arrangement will be similar to Agent Sark's."
"The CIA will trust me?"
"The CIA will watch you. This is what I can offer you, Sydney. And don't
for a minute think that deal was easy to work out. This is not a negotiation or
a preliminary offer, this is my offer. Now it's up to you."
This is it. Your heart's in your throat and you can hardly hear over the blood
rushing through your ears. She glances at the ground, and then at you, and you
can see the struggle going on behind those dark eyes. Your heart starts to
pound even faster, and you're mentally begging her to say what you're wanting
to hear, what you've imagined her saying all along. Vaughn, I want back in.
Then she looks up, jaw set, resolve glimmering in her eyes. Her voice doesn't
quaver and her gaze is steady. Say it, Sydney. Say it.
"Okay."
You let out a breath you didn't even realize you were holding.
"Are you sure?" You don't want to ask the question, but you need to
know.
She glances off to one side, then back at you. "Did you mean what you said
to me last time?"
You silently curse yourself, then open your mouth and give her the only answer
you can.
"Yes. I meant it."
"Then I'm sure. Meet me next Tuesday at 11:30 at Club 1330 in Berlin. Be
sure to bring anything I need to sign."
You're utterly speechless. And it doesn't matter, because before you can think
of a thing to say, she steps forward and shoves you back against the wall
again, shoulder blades digging into the brick. She pins you in place, hands on
your shoulders, but that's as agressive as she gets. She leans in slowly,
tilting her head up, and she brushes her lips across yours gently, tentative
and careful. You reach up to cup her face, fingertips brushing her soft hair,
and ease her ever so slightly closer, returning her soft kiss, showing her the
same emotion. Her lips and her skin and her hair are just as soft as the always
were, and you've already forgotten everything except the feel of her lips on
yours and having her close, so close, with the same electricity that's always
been there.
She pulls away slowly, hands still resting on your shoulders, reluctant to let
you go. You run your fingers back along her cheekbones, brushing the hair away
from her face and smoothing it behind her ears, tracing your fingers down her
neck as you slowly pull away.
"I'll see you Tuesday," she says, softly, dimples denting her cheeks
as she smiles.
She turns on one heel and disappears around the corner, and you sag back
against the wall, glad to have something to hold you upright, and wonder for
the thousandth time what the hell you've been doing for the last five years.
