Sydney slowly pulled her clothes on, her hair dripping from the hotel shower. She heard her cell beep its message tone in her purse—she wondered that she'd remembered her purse when they'd left the restaurant—and she drew it out.

The call log indicated 12 missed calls.

Press one to hear your new voice mail, the female automaton instructed her.

"Sydney, it's your father. Please call me. I'm worried about you."

Delete.

"Hi Syd," Vaughn's voice made her start a little, "I see you didn't come to work, and… I'm worried about you. Maybe your dad knows where you are. Anyway, um… call me. Please."

She listened to it three more times before she pushed her thumbnail on the six key. Delete.

Sark was still in the shower. She straightened the room a little, righted the chair they'd knocked over, tried to smooth the sheets back over the bed where they'd kicked them off in their urgency. She was standing up when she caught a glimpse of herself in the large decorative mirror on the wall.

The bruise under her left eye was quite large. Her makeup was all at home, she didn't have any concealer. From his fingers.

She put her wet hair in a loose braid and secured it with the ponytail holder she'd stripped out earlier.

The water in the shower stopped running and she went to the door of the bathroom. It was open.

"Hi," he said, a towel already around his waist. "Are you alright?"

It was such a strange question, coming from him. He was the last person on earth she needed concern or pity from.

"Julian," she felt so strange saying his first name. She'd never called him anything but Sark. Ever. "I still intend to get you the intel on Wells. I just need more time."

He nodded and rubbed some shaving cream on his face. Wordlessly, he began shaving, wincing only when he hit a bump on his cheek and a droplet of blood welled up to surface.

"I just can't go back to work," she said, hopelessly. "I can't face Vaughn like this."

"I fail to see how this is really any different than last week, when you went back to his bed." He looked at her in the mirror. "Don't feel like you shouldn't, if you want to."

She was surprised at him, really and truly. What he'd said about not loving anyone. She knew people always said, don't confuse love with sex, but… it was hard sometimes. She didn't love him. She didn't. Really. Too much polluted water under the proverbial bridge had seen to that. She loved little things about him, though. Like the way his lower lip was a little deformed, like he was always biting part of it in his front teeth. How his feet were. His funny English accent.

"I don't think either of us wants that," she said at last, in Russian. He kept shaving and only his eyes betrayed his amusement. "I can ask my dad to help us. I think he still will."

"If we're going to remain partners," Sark replied, his speech quicker and more fluid than her own, "We're going to have to work on your Russian."

"Your accent is piteous for the child of a native speaker," he chided her gently, back to English. "But then, I suppose she never spoke Russian to you."

It killed her that he had more memories of her mother than she did.

"No."

"Nyet, darling," he splashed water on his face and walked over to where she stood in the doorway. He took her hand and placed her finger tips on his lips. "Nyet."

She left the hotel and phoned Jack from inside the safety of her locked car.

"Sydney, where are you?" Her father's voice was strong, full of concern.

"Dad, I'm fine," she assured him. "Listen, can you meet me."

"Vaughn is crazy with worry for you," her dad's voice was slightly accusatory. "Would you please let him know you're alright?"

"Yes, I will," she agreed. "Meet me on the bridge over the freeway by the Museum of Contemporary Art." They had met there before, suspended above the whizzing cars. There was enough background noise that no one could listen in on them from afar.

They hung up and she dialed their home number. Vaughn picked up after one ring.

"Syd," he breathed, not angry. "Where are you?"

"It doesn't matter," she lied, "But I'm alright."

They were silent for a few minutes, just listening to each other be quiet. It reminded her of when he'd run off to track down Lauren—to kill her—after she'd taken off. After Vaughn had broken Sark's shoulder and nose to find out where she'd gone. The eerie silence on his end of the conversation when she'd realized what he was going to do.

"Listen Syd," he said, his voice tired, "If you want to come home, I can go to Weiss's. This is still your house, too."

"Ok," she said, and she could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. She hated herself for hurting him like this. "Maybe I will, later." She had no intention of doing that.

They hung up and she turned up her radio, really loud. A CD had been playing the whole time, but she'd turned the sound off so she could talk to them.

Thought I'd been through this in 1919 counting the tears of ten thousand men

Tori. She loved this song.

And gathered them all, but my feet are slipping

There's something we left on the windowsill there's something we left, yes…

She closed her eyes and rested her head on the seat. She was tired. And not a little sore from the day's activities.

We'll see how brave you are, we'll see how fast you'll be runnin'

We'll see how brave you are, yes Anastasia

She began singing along, horribly out of tune, but she didn't care.

Thought she deserved no less than she'd give

Well, Happy Birthday—her blood's on my hands

It's kind of a shame, cuz I did like that dress

It's funny, the things that you find in the rain, the things that you find

She was beyond shame at this point. She didn't care how bad it sounded.

In the mall

In the date-mines

In the knot still in her hair

On the bus I'm on my way down 1

By the time Tori hit that prolonged high note on "see" in the second round of the chorus, Sydney had sung out whatever sullenness had been lurking after her since she left the hotel.

She was done feeling bad, she decided. She had no regret about what she'd done.

Jack strolled onto the bridge, waiting for Sydney to show. He might as well have been a lonely older businessman talking a walk at night from his hotel.

She must be nearby, to have requested they meet there. It wasn't anywhere near the office, or their houses.

They didn't know where she'd taken off to that morning, but both he and Vaughn were worried sick over her for different reasons. He knew Vaughn was circling around and around her infidelity, whereas he was trying to figure out Sark's endgame, and what it had to do with his daughter.

He heard her heels behind him on the concrete of the bridge.

"Dad," her voice, strong above the sound of the wind being pushed around by the cars below them.

He turned. Her hair was loose, damp, and there was a bruise purpling on her left cheekbone.

"Sweetheart," he rushed forward and hugged her to him. "What—" he touched her face where the mark was—"Is this from Vaughn?" Suddenly he didn't feel so bad for punching his son-in-law earlier that afternoon.

"No, no," she shook her head and grimaced a little. "Michael didn't do that to me—you know he would never touch me."

There was a weird moment between them. It hung in the air, begging to be questioned.

"You've been with Sark, haven't you," Jack said, knowing the answer already.

She nodded and wouldn't meet his eyes. "Dad, I need your help. I still need to deliver the intel Sark asked me for."

"Wells." Jack could hardly believe he was hearing this from her.

"Right," she confirmed. "If Sark can find him…" She stopped.

"Then what, Sydney," Jack said. "Sweetheart, where do you expect this to go? Someone like Sark, you can't make a life with him."

She pursed her lips, but didn't say anything.

"I can't pretend to understand, what goes on between you, or between you and Vaughn," he sighed. "But… just think about the consequences of this. Of what you've set in motion. Where will you go when this is over?"

"Yeah," she said, so softly that he could barely hear her. "I dunno."

Songs:

1 "Yes, Anastasia." Under the Pink, Tori Amos.