A/N: This is fluff. I've never written fluff before in my life; I don't even believe in fluff. But here this is, in all its fluffy glory. It's not my fault! I blame the paint fumes. :)

Pairing: Syd/Sark
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: Some alternate end of season three, where Lauren didn't turn out to be evil and Sark made some choices the real Sark never would have made. Sydney too. Look, I was painting the space I'm moving into this weekend and I just had a couple of cute lines of banter in my head, okay? Enjoy it for what it is. :)

Yellow Ochre

The doorbell rang.

"Gotta go," Sydney said to Weiss, and finished securing the bandana over her hair.

At the door, she peeked through the peephole—just to be sure. He was wearing a baseball cap (dark blond curls just visible underneath the brim) and sunglasses, but it was him. Sark. Julian. Whatever it was she was supposed to be calling him these days. Hers. He held a cup of coffee in each hand.

Sydney had given up trying to predict when he'd show up. She spent a lot of days off at home, pretending not to wait, before she realized how idiotic that was. For his part, if he ever came by while she was out, he didn't mention it. Knowing him, he had some way of keeping tabs on her. It should have infuriated her—but it didn't. It felt nice to have someone watching over her. She knew now that there were no guardian angels, only other people, flawed, often selfish and ultimately unreliable, but the fantasy still made her smile.

She opened the door. "Hey," she said to him, corner of her mouth twitching.

A sigh. "You're up uncharacteristically early. I was hoping to be able to wake you."

She smiled, dimples deepening. It was always so good to see him. So strange the way things changed. "Better luck next time. What'd you bring me?"

"I've missed you, too," he said, amused, and tried to brush past her into the house, but she stopped him, hand to his chest, leaned up and kissed him. His eyelids fluttered closed momentarily, and she was pleased by the effect she had on him.

She said, "It's good to see you."

"Mmm," he responded, and handed her a Starbucks cup. "Grande nonfat vanilla latte—with whipped cream."

"Did you remember the cinnamon?"

"Please, Sydney."

She smiled her thanks, and sipped. Hot, and perfect. She closed the door behind him as he moved into the living room as if it were his own.

"Good God!" His voice was strangled. She'd expected that, though she was surprised it hadn't been in response to her outfit. "Sydney, what have you done to your living room?"

Surveying the sheet-covered chairs, the blue tape along the baseboards, the clutter of slightly rusted rods and brushes and metal trays, she said, "I'm thinking of keeping it like this. Do you like it?"

"I'm speechless." His tone was wry.

"Possibly a first." She took another heavenly sip of coffee, and set it down on the taped off mantle. "I decided it was time for a change. I'm painting today."

"You've only been here a month and a half," he said.

"But it looks exactly like the last place." Which had been totally destroyed, thanks to a few business associates of Sark's that weren't very happy with his recent activities. "Same colors, same layout. So I'm redoing the main room."

"Today."

"You didn't exactly call first." She scrutinized his outfit, sucked in her cheeks. "You're going to have to change."

"You can't be serious." He looked downright horrified.

She put her hands on her hips. "Didn't you say last time that you didn't mind doing anything as long as it was with me?"

"Apparently I was mistaken."

"You're an internationally-known assassin, Sark. I'm sure you can handle a little paint."

He grimaced.

"Come on," she said, putting his coffee down by hers and taking his hand.

Twenty minutes later he was barefoot and dressed in his jeans and an old Tri-Delt shirt from Sydney's brief stint as a college sorority girl.

"I can't believe you're making me do this," he said as she thrust a roller into his hand.

"If you really love me, you'll help me paint."

"Can't you do this . . . later?"

"The carpet guys are coming Monday, and I need to get this done before then. So no. Besides, the sooner we start, the sooner we'll get this done, and the sooner we can do something else. Catch a movie, go out to dinner . . . ."

"Stay in for dinner," he suggested in a low voice, lifting his free hand to tug on the tie of her bandana and brush his thumb across her jaw.

She shivered, agreed, "Stay in for dinner." She put her palm flat against his chest and used the leverage to push herself away. Lord knew she couldn't do it on her own. "But first, we paint."

He sighed. "I did tell you I was only in this for the sex, did I not?"

"What do I see in you again?" she asked, prying the lid off of one of the paint cans and pouring a generous amount into the bottom of the tray, feeling surprisingly satisfied as it oozed to fill out the edges of the shallow well.

"More importantly, what do you see in this paint color?" He was standing over her, staring at it over her shoulder.

Standing, she retorted, "Are you going to help me, or are you just going to stand there and belittle me?"

He feigned surprise. "I had a choice in the matter?"

A smile tugged at her lips. "Paint."

He dipped the roller in the tray gingerly, and slathered it with the deep, murky, green-yellow. Then he lifted it awkwardly to the wall and made a few uneven strokes. Sydney fought back a smile and turned to her own work.

"You know," he called to her over his shoulder as she prepared a tray for herself on the other side of the room, "I could just pay someone to do this for you."

"This is supposed to be fun, Sark," she told him as she began on the other wall. "Try to remember that."

"I'm beginning to think the question I should have asked is what I see in you."

She threw a sunny smile over her shoulder. "Hope of redemption?"

Eric Weiss turned up early that afternoon with a Home Depot bag in one hand and a sandwich from the local sub place in the other.

"I thought you might be hungry, with all the hard work you've been doing," he said as Sydney let him in.

"You're amazing, Eric," she said, and wiped her hands on the sides of her t-shirt. "Oh, and you picked up the extra rollers I wanted!"

"You ask, I deliver," he said. Then, "Sydney, I don't want to alarm you, but there's a wanted terrorist in your kitchen, and he appears to be drinking all your coffee."

"He's been on a five minute break for the last hour and a half," she said, eagerly unwrapping her lunch and breaking the sandwich in two. "I'm thinking of turning him in."

"I enjoy watching you work," Sark protested. "And may I remind you both once again that I am no longer wanted by the CIA? Thank you," he said to Sydney, accepting the half a sandwich Sydney offered.

Weiss sighed. "You help bring down one international terrorist organization and all of a sudden all's forgiven. What's up with that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Sark said agreeably, and took a bite. He chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. "This is actually quite good." He sounded surprised.

Weiss shrugged. "It's amazing what a little hard work will do for the taste of food."

"A very little," Sydney said pointedly, taking her own first bite and closing her eyes in bliss. "Oh God that's good."

When she opened them again, she caught Sark staring at her, his own sandwich forgotten.

"You should see what happens when she does that on a mission," Weiss commented, taking a kitchen chair, swinging it around, and straddling it. "Ought to have it registered as a weapon."

"I don't want to know that she does that in front of anyone but me," Sark said, still transfixed.

Weiss chuckled. "Pretend all you like, my friend. It doesn't change the fact I've seen more men felled by that look than by my own gun."

Sydney teased, "That's not really saying much."

"Shouldn't you be on your way somewhere?" Sark suggested. "The Rotunda, perhaps? Some sports game or another?" He hadn't taken his eyes off of her, and Sydney actually felt herself start to blush.

"All right," Weiss said, dragging himself back up. "I know when I'm not wanted."

"Do you?" Sark asked, feigning interest.

"You know, Syd, back when you were dating Mike, he never kicked me out."

"I know, I'm sorry," she said, and grinned.

"Right. Of course you are. Call me if he gives you any trouble."

Sark snorted.

"See you at work tomorrow." She kissed him on the cheek and walked him to the door.

Sark grabbed her when she came back around the corner into the kitchen, and she shrieked, and laughed.

"Now, now, Sydney," he murmured against her lips, one hand playing with a tendril of hair that had escaped her bandana. "That's not the a reaction befitting an agent of the United States government."

She let her mouth open under his, reveling in the taste of him. He was so solid against her, and warm, and his grip was tight along her waist. He made her feel needed. Desired. Like the center of his world, whether she was or not. She didn't care what was true; she only cared what she felt. Regretfully, reluctantly, she pulled away from him. Her lips were the last thing to disengage.

"Sydney . . ." he complained.

"As soon as we finish," she promised, wishing her sense of responsibility didn't extend to paint.

Turning and wrapping his arms around her so she could lean back against him, she asked, "Seriously. What do you think?"

He cocked his head to the side and scrutinized her work. "Masterful application." He kissed the side of her neck, and she smiled.

"But you hate the color."

"I hate the color," he agreed.

"I'll tell you a secret," she said after a moment. "Our living room used to be this color when I was growing up. Mom painted it."

"Ah!" Sark snapped his fingers, and she shifted to look up at him. "I knew I'd seen this color somewhere before."

"Where?"

"Your mother's study. My God it was atrocious. One didn't dare say so, of course. Sometimes I thought she did it on purpose, picked the most hideous shade she could conceive of in order to the test the loyalty of her lieutenants. As far as I know, no one ever said a word."

Sydney's mouth quirked. "Dad hated it. But he loved her. So he let her do it."

"What's wrong, Sydney?" he asked when she got quiet.

"There was this one time, I was twelve and I wanted to touch it up, the paint was chipping around the baseboards. Dad said he thought there was a can of it left in the garage, but I couldn't find it. I wanted to take a paint chip in and match it, but he just had it repainted. Dark blue, I think."

"I'm sorry," he murmured into her hair.

She shrugged. "Dad did a lot of things that way, when it came to Mom. It was how he handled it."

"Still," he said, and gently tilted her mouth up to his. The kiss was soft. It still surprised her sometimes, how he could be so soft.

She smiled at him. "Thank you," she said.

"You could make it up to me by joining me back in the kitchen."

It was tempting. "I really should let the first coat dry, shouldn't I."

"Absolutely," he agreed.

"And there'll be time after dinner to go over the whole thing again."

"After dinner," he echoed, sliding his hands along her stomach.

"It is going faster than I thought it would."

"Have you talked yourself into it yet?"

She ducked her head and smiled. "Maybe."

He pulled her back into the kitchen. "We could go out for a few hours. Take a walk, go to a museum, conclude with some dinner. . . ."

"Or, we could stay in," she suggested, pushing him down into the chair he'd vacated and straddling him.

"I do like these shorts you have on," he said, grazing the exposed length of her thighs and toying with the frayed edges of the old gray jersey material. "It would be a shame to have you change." His thumbs brushed against the edges of her underwear, and the rush of heat was familiar and stirring and welcome.

"We really need to go out," she decided, pushing herself off his lap and just barely escaping the hands that tried to pull her back down to him. "I'm taking a shower."

"You can't believe I'm going to stay out here after that," she heard him call after her, and, laughing, she left the bedroom door open for him and went to turn on the hot water.

END