"Sydney," Jack said as she slipped in and shut the door behind her, "You have the intel you need. I should be going."

"Oh," she said, a little confused. "Um, so you're leaving now?"

"Yes," he said, and he hugged her to him suddenly, quite hard, so hard her breath almost squeezed out of her. "I'll see you."

She caught a glimpse of Sark, seated at her kitchen table already pouring over the file, over Jack's shoulder. He seemed oblivious to the weird moment that was happening just a few feet from where he was sitting.

They walked slowly to the door and as he opened the door, Jack turned back to her and said, "Sydney, be careful. And know, no matter what, that I love you."

"I know, Dad," she whispered, her voice trembling with the near-certain tears, "You too." He told her so rarely that he loved her.

Jack leaned over and kissed her cheek before walking out to his car.

She closed the door behind her and leaned on the doorknob. She refused to blink her eyes, even though they burned with unshed tears, until those tears dissipated. Sark didn't even look up.

"What did you say to each other," she asked, without moving. She was suddenly tired, so tired.

"Nothing important," Sark replied, seeming bored.

"You were in here for 10 minutes," she shot back, "That's a lot of 'nothing important.'"

"Sydney, please," he said, without even looking up, "Leave it alone."

She couldn't believe how dismissive he was being. That he wouldn't even answer her question after he'd been talking to her father about her, alone, while she sat shivering outside in the cold. She hated him right now, in this moment. Everything that had passed between them not even a half an hour ago might as well have never happened.

She walked past the kitchen to their bedroom and slammed the door behind her, locking it. She threw herself face down on their bed, and let the hot, scratchy tears roll out of her eyes.

After twenty solid minutes of Sark-loathing and self-pity, there was a quiet knock at the door. "Hey," Sark's voice came, muffled by the wood, "How about you open the door?"

"How about you fuck off and die?" she cried, her face against the comforter.

"Fine, then."

She heard his footsteps receding down the hallway.

She lay still, so still she could hear the beating of her own heart against the comforter. Finally the sobs that were wracking her torso subsided, and she rolled over onto her back. When she really got to crying like this, she usually held her breath for an interminably long time, minutes it seemed, until she was sure she could breathe without a sob cutting her off in the middle. It was like her diaphragm had gone on strike against normal breathing.

She still hated Sark, she decided. How dare be treat her like that, like she was… a child? It was so insulting.

Then again, that was kind of their dynamic. Mutual antagonism—it was her repertoire with him.

I'm a man of my word, Sydney. Those had been his words as he'd slipped away from them and disappeared three years earlier. A man of his word my ass, Sydney thought.

She rolled off the bed and went to the door. She started when she opened it and found Sark, standing in the hallway, leaning against the opposite wall.

"I thought you'd come out eventually," he said, "You can't seem to stay away from me today."

She longed to slap him, punish him for his sarcasm, but she knew the likeliest outcome of that scenario.

"Sydney, don't pout," he tried, "I need your help. I can't do this by myself—I need you to come with me."

She just stared at him, leaning against her wall, as if none of the weirdness of the last 12 hours had even happened.

"You don't need me," she clarified, for herself more than him, "You want me to come with you."

"However you choose to look at it," he shrugged, but she could see that whatever plan his mind was forming depended on her coming along.

"So we're settled, then," he said. "You're coming with me to Bucharest."

They flew together on Aliltalia, using aliases, but sitting next to each other like a couple of honeymooners.

Sydney kept her engagement ring firmly on her finger. At this point it could be part of her disguise, she decided. She didn't ask Sark where her wedding band was. It seemed moot at this point.

"Argh," Sark huffed suddenly, shoving the papers away from him on the tray table and resting his head against the headrest. "What is he up to?"

They had been pouring over the intel for hours. Still, they hadn't been able to piece together a plausible reason for Wells' actions.

She picked up the phone records again, the ones she had gone over ten times already, it seemed like. Who are you? Who knows you? She wondered as she looked at the in- and outbound calls. Wasn't the sum of your persona who you knew, and who knew about you? Bits and pieces gathered up to create a… "somebody" instead of just a void.

She started making a chart of the incoming calls to Wells' phone. Time—Duration—Date—she titled the columns on her notepad.

"You're right handed," Sark observed.

"Yes?" she wasn't sure why he chose to point it out. "And you're left-handed, so what?"

He shook his head. "I just now noticed, that's all."

She continued charting the calls without comment. There was that weird sensation again, that she'd had the night before when he'd made her laugh. Like they were having a moment. He had gone back to his hotel without her, after she'd agreed to come with him. She had slept in her clothes, on top of the covers on their bed. Vaughn hadn't come home from Eric's.

"Wait, she said, "Look at this." She pointed to the time and duration of several incoming calls. "Wells received a 1 minute phone call every other Thursday afternoon at 3:47."

"His contact protocol," Sark supplied. "So we need to find out who is contacting him and where they meet—that will likely lead us to his employer."

"Exactly," she breathed, feeling the rush of satisfaction that this kind of detective work always gave her.

"I can't stand that I didn't notice that," Sark griped, but he was smiling. And then, while she was still looking down at the page in front of her, he leaned over and kissed her cheekbone on her bruise.

"Sark," she whispered, "Stop it, we're on a plane."

"I'm just trying to play my part," he whispered, his face near her ear, "How about you play along?"

An old man across the aisle from him opened one eye from his sleep and smiled at them. Sydney wasn't sure, since Sark's face was in the way, but she thought she saw him wink at her when Sark put his right hand on the inside of her thigh.

She leaned her head against the window frame and stared out at the clouds below them. His hand was making her crazy. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about his hands on her, tried not to imagine the two of them together in her closet. No, no! She squeezed her eyes shut—even trying not to think it was making her replay it in her mind.

They had hours until they were due to land. Sydney kept her eyes closed and pretended to sleep.

Jack sat in his car in the parking garage, and messaged Irina.

"How r u?" came her reply after some time.

"Need yr help", he typed in shorthand.

With?

Trying 2 find Wells.

I figured.

Jack waited, not sure what to type next. Then Irina's note:

I don't think Anastasia is dead.

? he fired back.

A. disappeared, but I don't know where.

Where r u?

Bucharest.

Jack nodded. It made sense that she would return to the last place she had known Anastasia to live, to try to find out where she'd gone after Sark had been taken from her.

S&V? came her question.

Sark dbl-xx-ed S., he explained.

I knew it. He could hear Irina's voice, see her shaking her head slowly in her mind.

Is S. OK?

? he typed. S. is w/ Sark. WITH SARK, he typed for emphasis.

I had hoped she wouldn't make the same mistakes as me, Jack, Irina's reply startled him in its completeness. But she has to choose for herself.

I know, he replied, and logged off.

On the plane, somewhere over continental Europe, Sark had removed his hand from Sydney's leg. They sat in silence for a long while before she had gone into her bag to get her iPod.

He held out his palm wordlessly, the universal gesture for "May I see that?"

She had a mini, not a full sized-Pod, and he scrolled through the playlists without comment. Hm, she liked Tori Amos, it appeared, Elton John, Rufus Wainwright. Her iPod was a veritable tribute to piano rockers.

"Well?" her voice issued a challenge. "Go ahead and say you hate my taste in music."

He merely shrugged. "I don't really listen to music for that reason… I just use it to pick up different accents."

She stared at him without comment.

"You can listen to it if you'd like," she said. "I guess I don't mind my headphones being in your ears."

He went along with her request and tamped the tiny white-corded headphones into his ears. He was amazed how much more comfortable the Apple headphones were than any other ear bud headphones he'd ever had. He was also amused how eclectic people's iPods were. It was like they were reflections of the schizophrenia within each of them.

Psychology through technology, he smiled.

"What?" he could see her mouth the word, but he was already deep into listening to a song.

My heart is like the ocean
It gets in the way
So close to touching freedom
Then I hear the guards call my name

And my priest says, "You ain't savin' no souls"
My father says, "You ain't making any money"
My doctor says, "You just took it to the limit"
And here I stand, with this sword in my hand

You can say it one more time—what you don't like
Let me hear it one more time, then—have a seat
While I take to the sky

He pulled the headphones out and handed them back to her, motioning them to put them in her own ears. She looked at the headphones suspiciously, as though they might suddenly become hissing snakes and bite her hands, but she obeyed.

He knew the next lyric to the song.

If you don't like me just a little, well—
Why do you hang around?
If you don't like me just a little, well—
Why do you hang around?
If you don't like me just a little, well—
Why do you take it, take it, take it, take it?1

He smiled at her as she glowered at him as he stood to go to the bathroom.

Songs:

1 "Take to the Sky." Winter Single (US- 1991), Tori Amos.