Back in the darkness, she was mildly disconcerted by how much the memory of it had aroused her, and by how unlike that episode their sex had been in the last month.

He'd dragged her to several fertility doctors to make sure she wasn't permanently damaged by the miscarriage. And of course, she wasn't- that would be too easy- and now they were back to his way, his tender, considerate, aimless way of lovemaking that drove her right out of her very mind.

Worse, everyone at work somehow knew about it. She knew a select few people had seen the tape from the VCR- Marshall, her father, Director Kendall, she and Vaughn, Weiss- when they'd found it, but after the Chechnya incident she'd come back to her desk to find a mock-up of a porn video, "One Night in Sydney."

She'd stared at it, feeling her blood pressure drop instantaneously like it did when she got dangerously angry. The fake box had a still shot of them on her bed, grainy from the VCR tape. There were some titters from Newbieville, and she'd shot daggers in their direction before dumping the box in the trash.

The titters had become howls of laughter.

"How come those amateur porno queens are always named for cities?" Closet Homo Newbie had asked, "We've had One Night in Paris, One Night in Chyna, and now, One Night in Sydney!"

She'd walked evenly to the bathroom, shaking with rage. That they would compare her to that blonde bimbo heiress, or the freakishly mannish Chyna Doll. Didn't they have the sense to know she could kill them if she'd wanted to?

She'd pressed a wet paper towel to the back of her neck, under her long hair, hoping her blood pressure would come back to normal. It always did this, this uncontrollable swing, when she got super angry. Of course she'd been conditioned to be able to control her BP so she could fake lie detector tests, but this was different.

Then, the icing on her cake: a pudgy middle-aged secretary, Alice, had emerged from one of the stalls and started giving her advice on how to get pregnant.

"Sometimes it takes awhile, honey," Alice said sympathetically, "It took Merv and me almost a year."

"Right," she'd replied, forcing herself to smile, "It'll be fine."

"I'm so sorry about your loss," Alice had whispered, rubbing Sydney's upper arms with her still damp hands. "But you're strong- way stronger than I ever was."

Indeed. She would have to be, to withstand the kind of humiliation she faced at the hands of her own coworkers.

Click.

Sark flicked the light on in the same movement as he sat in front of her on an armchair not dissimilar to the one she was strapped to.

Her headache had begun to ease; instead of a sharp, throbbing pain where the butt of his gun had hit her temple, there was merely a dull ache. They stared at each other for what felt like eternity.

He was what, 27? By that age, most people had a few wrinkles, usually the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of their eyes, little pre-smile lines at the edges of their mouths. His skin was very smooth, she noticed, and he had no stubble.

Probably because he's barely old enough to have facial hair, she smirked silently. His blonde hair was shorn very short, much shorter that the first few times she'd faced him. And his eyes; they were still that burning, bright electric blue, like a gas flame. She wondered briefly if his mother had been pretty. Goodness knows, Lazarey wasn't that much of a looker. Weird to think that he had parents at all.

She longed to slouch in the chair, but he'd tied her forearms so tight that she couldn't scrunch down very much. He, on the other hand, sprawled in the chair, his legs crossed at the ankles. He was barefoot, his long, narrow feet and toes exposed. He was at home.

Damn him for being so comfortable when she was miserable. Hunger was starting to ping her stomach, and she felt shaky. Why hadn't she eaten a larger breakfast? Mrs. Curran had been trying to load her up with more English breakfast than she could stomach.

"You're kind of a grouch when your blood sugar is low," Vaughn had observed once.

Indeed. She felt her bitchiness growing with each passing hour without food. How long had she been here before he'd woken her up?

They stared into each other's eyes, but without any sense of clichéd sentiment. They were like animals, trying to stare each other down. Seeing who would turn tail and run back to his foxhole.

To her surprise, Sark closed his eyes first.

"So are you going to say something?" she finally asked.

"I didn't want to be rude," Sark pronounced. "Give you a chance to ask some questions of your own."

Some questions? Fucker. Why did you kill my best friend? Were you my mother's lover? Where the FUCK have you been since you sold Anna out and took off?

"Um…. You ride horses?" she said, lamely.

"Yes."

O-kaaaay…

"But you don't live here…Who takes care of them when you're gone?" She fervently hoped they were being taken care of.

"I have a neighbor girl in my employ," he replied, "A 16-year old filly, completely horse crazed, and a much better equestrian than I am. She could ride the pants off me," he admitted.

"In fact…" his weird lower lip flicked upwards, "She has a time or two."

"You're sick, you know that?" She couldn't--but yet completely could--believe that he'd take advantage of a teenager. SICKO.

"Oh, she was more than willing," he assured her, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees, "I am many vile things, but a rapist is not one of them, Sydney."

"You ought to take comfort in that, given your present state of capture."

She averted her eyes from his steady gaze. She had kissed him, once; they had been on a mission before he had evaded their custody, and she had had to dress up like… Lauren.

Vaughn's now-deceased wife. Who had been fucking Sark on the side in some kind of sick double-agent love triangle.

Sitting on his lap in the club, there'd been some banter about the two of them, Sark and "Lauren", giving their contact a private show upstairs. Instead, she'd kissed him, taking a lime from a round of shots from his lips and leaving him with a bloody lip from her teeth.

She remembered how he'd grabbed her a little tighter around the waist as she'd bit him, but not drawn away. He was too good an operative to give them away, or…

"I don't know what you'd want with me," she finally retorted, "A boring old married woman."

He smiled at that, a real smile. "So, being married to Vaughn is as boring as I'd heard."

They resumed the staring contest.

"What are you doing here," she asked after several minutes. "You let us find you."

"Hm," he considered, "I'm afraid that's need-to-know," he smiled at her again, reminding her of that infuriating day when she thought she'd handed Sloane over to him to be killed, only to have them form a strategic alliance.

He'd been so smug that day in the conference room at SD-6. Had he actually been mocking her in Tokyo, when she'd rendered Sloane unconscious- "You are so good, you know that, don't you?" His voice had quickened over her comm when she started calling for the ambulance.

Click.

This was bullshit, she decided, she needed to get out of here. What had he tied her with? Leather? Were these… reins? She bent over towards her arm as much as she could. Could she chew through a leather rein?

No matter, she couldn't get close enough to get her teeth on it. But, as she leaned forward, she noticed—her necklace with her rings was no longer around her neck.

Great.

He'd taken her rings? Why?

Ridiculous, she ridiculed herself, that you can't even get out of this. First mission out after… that… and you get captured, tied to a chair by your mortal enemy, and he steals your wedding rings. Perfect.

As if her thoughts had willed him back, the door opened right then. She could make out his silhouette in the doorway, backlit by the hall light.

"Sydney." He purred her name.

"What."

"Are you hungry?"

What?

"Well?" his voice broke into her confusion. "Are you hungry or not?"

"Yes," she admitted, more readily that she'd intended.

He entered the room without turning the lamp on again, and she heard him slide his gun into his waistband. Maybe he'd forgotten to put the safety on and would shoot himself in the crotch, she thought cruelly. My, hunger did make her bitchy. Actually, that would be the worst possible outcome—then she'd be forced to take care of him. No way.

"I suppose I can't treat you any worse that I treat my horses," he surmised, "Which, luckily for you, is quite well."

He untied the leather straps around her shins first, then drew his gun as he undid her wrists. She was unarmed. He'd taken her gun, and her hunger made her doubt whether she was strong enough to take him hand-to-hand.

"Stand up," he commanded, again pressing his gun into her neck, "Slowly."

She obeyed, and kept her palms open, and at the level of her shoulders. He was at least a half a head taller than she was.

"Upstairs, please."

Ok, so they were in the basement, no wonder there were no windows, she thought. Maybe once she had her strength back she could kick his ass and escape.

Up the carpeted stairs into, to her surprise, what appeared to be a well-decorated living room. There were oil paintings of horses on the hunt on the walls, and the brown leather couches were well worn but still had life in them. A rich, tightly woven Oriental rug covered the creaking wood floor, a dizzying pattern of reds, oranges, cream and dark blues.

"This house isn't mine," he said. "It belongs to my sister, Natashya."

He had a sister? How could the CIA not have… Nevermind. There was so much they didn't know about their marks, she had ceased to wonder.

"Half-sister, actually," he corrected himself, guiding her into the kitchen, "She is my father's daughter. Born to his wife."

She had worked with Lazarey, in her missing years at the hands of the Covenant. Still she'd had no idea Sark had been his son.

"Whereas I," he continued, "Am the product of a happy…accident with my father's mistress."

He seated her at the kitchen table, in front of a bowl of what appeared to be some kind of soup.

"Wine?" he asked, politely. He held up a balloon glass, obviously intended for red. Red was not her first choice; he should have known that if he knew so damn much about her. She was kind of a lightweight.

"Whatever."

He poured her a larger glass than she would've liked, especially given her hunger and the apparently nature of the soup, some kind of tomato-based vegetable. She squinted towards the label- Chateau Petruse, 1982. What else did he drink?

"Bon Appetit," he said, "Or Guten Appetit, if you prefer."

She ravished the soup like a person who hadn't eaten in days. Ever since the Covenant had held her, barely feeding her, trying to break her down, she had been able to force herself to eat almost anything.

"Sydney," he chuckled, "You appear to be famished. You should've said something earlier."

He took a generous slug of the wine. And watched her. It made her a little uncomfortable, his characteristic amused-but-terribly-bored expression, like nothing in his life was really interesting enough to keep him entertained for more than a second or two. This was his default setting. The only time she saw any different was when they were in the field, when he was torturing someone, shooting at someone, or otherwise generally being a murderous assh—

"My condolences on your… loss," he offered, not completely sincerely but with a trace of 'I need to form a bond with you so I can use you for something later' in his voice.

"If you can't say anything nice," she spat, sounding like her mother, "Don't say anything at all."

"My apologies, then," he shrugged and sipped the wine. "I didn't realize you were so deeply affected by your little mishap. How is Agent Vaughn taking it?" He paused for a second, thoughtful, "Though I suppose, you would be 'Agent Vaughn' now as well. Or did you retain your maiden name?"

What was he doing? She glared at him over her bowl of soup. She couldn't believe they were having this kind of conversation. Like he… knew her. Instead of being someone who periodically tried to kill her.

"I still go by Bristow."

He nodded, one jerk of his chin towards her. "So why did you come here? To kill me? Finish me off? That hasn't been terribly successful in the past now, has it?"

"Surveillance."

"It's been fairly boring thus far then, hasn't it," he nodded. "I can't always be up to something heart-quickening."

She stared at him. "Where are my rings?"

His eyebrows shot up, and the bored expression dropped from his face. "These?" he asked, reaching into his pocket and drawing out her chain with the rings. "I'm afraid I need some collateral from you. To make sure you don't take off on me."

She willed herself to keep still, not to snatch them away from him as he traced his forefinger around the inside of the wedding band. Did he really think her rings were enough to keep her there?

"It would drive him mad," he began, "To know that you were with me as well, now, wouldn't it?" his lips quirked upwards, "Especially now that you're trying to start a family."

Asshole, asshole, asshole. He intended to send her rings to Michael? What would that prove? Vaughn had better sense than to believe she'd willingly sleep with Sark, didn't he?

"He knows me better than that," she shot back at Sark. "That it's an idle threat."

"Sydney," Sark laughed, "You should know by now that torture doesn't have to be physical to be effective… It is the anticipation of pain as much as the actuality of it that does subjects in."

Her head was feeling heavy again. She had eaten too fast; no—had he drugged her wine? Or was she really that much of a lightweight? She couldn't tell.

"It won't… work…" her head nodded to her chest, despite her efforts not to let it.

"We'll see about that," was the last thing she heard.