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.