III. This Is the Best Day Ever
You can't brace yourself when the time comes;
you just have to roll with the blast.
Within the hour she was back in Dixon's office, using one of their secure lines to call her way through to Simon's private cell phone. Luckily, all the re-routers and codes he used for his contact protocol seemed to have remained the same. She leaned against one of the sofas and waited for three rings before he picked up.
"Yeh?" he answered in the usual distracted, amiable tone. He'd never been a big believer in caller ID.
Sydney almost smiled. She could just picture him, sprawled out on a couch in some corner of the world with a bottle of scotch, dressed like some kind of British GQ model turned rogue. "Hello, Simon," she said calmly, trying to ignore Dixon's watchful eyes. "It's been a while."
"Julia! It's been ages, where the hell'a you been?" She could hear the smile on his face. He'd always been that way— enthusiastic, cheerful, capable. And ready to rain down hell the moment he was crossed.
"Oh, had to lay low for a while. You always said I'd kill the wrong one someday."
A low chuckle came through the line, and Dixon's presence began to feel entirely inappropriate. "That I did."
"Missed you," she told him. It didn't quite feel like a lie. "I heard you're putting a team together."
"Yeah, y'heard right. Don't know if it's anything you'd be interested in, though."
Sydney realized she was twirling a piece of hair around her finger, a mannerism she'd created specifically for Julia. Ah well. She had to be in character, and every little bit helped. Her tone was teasing when she replied. "Oh I don't know. I could use a little excitement in my life."
"We could use a little help with our entrance. Don't you speak Russian? Along with every other bloody language…"
Her cue for a light, breezy laugh. "You flatter me. But in this case . . . I think I could be just what you need."
"Aren't you always."
And just like that, she was in. They made the arrangements for the meet and said their goodbyes.
It would have made sense for Dixon to be paying close attention to her conversation, but when she finally closed the phone and looked up it was clear he was distracted. And she knew that as director it was his prerogative to dispense classified information as he saw fit— and as an agent, it was her job to prioritize and concern herself with the assignment at hand— but goddammit. "I'm going to Estonia," she said sharply.
Dixon nodded. "Good. We'll have to send you in with minimal op-tech. I'm afraid Sark will be your primary back-up."
"That won't be a problem." Her jaw was set in annoyance, but before she could ask he interrupted.
"Syd," he warned, his dark eyes fixing her in place, "not now."
"Dixon, h—"
"Not. Now."
There was nothing she could do. Even if he weren't her superior, the hypocrisy of criticizing Dixon for keeping secrets would have stuck in Sydney's throat. She could still see him standing in the blazing heat of the oil field as his world crumbled around him. As he begged for it not to be true. She owed him this.
On her way out of the Rotunda, she called her father. To check in before leaving, she told him, but he just said 'I'm fine, Sydney' in that knowing voice.
When she got back, she swore she would get to the bottom of this. For now, she had another flight to catch.
Galway
It was strange to return, after all these months, to the place where Sark had held her prisoner. It was strange to arrive as a guest, in broad daylight and of her own volition, to be able to admire the lush green lawns as the sun rose over Ireland. To see that house, modest and beautiful and secretly a fortress.
Sydney had lost nearly two entire days flying east at this point, but she had another thirty-six hours before her meet with Simon in Vaivara. He was still in the process of contacting his usual team—at least, the team that had become usual after he stopped working closely with Julia Thorne. With any luck, the familiarity of her and a Covenant assignment would encourage him to set aside any more pesky questions about where, precisely, she'd been.
Bits of loose gravel crunched beneath her feet, and in her peripheral vision Sydney could see the gate quietly locking itself behind her. She knew she would find Sark standing in the main doorway, but the sight of him still quickened her pulse beneath the dull exhaustion.
"Hey, stranger," she called out with what she strongly suspected was a loopy grin.
In the soft golden light of dawn, Sark's eyes were the palest of greys. "Good morning," he replied. He reached out a hand and drew Sydney in by her elbow, tugging gently until she was close enough to kiss. She reciprocated slowly, lazily, with a bone-deep sense of relief that she hoped wasn't too obvious. It had been almost a month since they'd had any real time alone. A month of anxious waiting and time spent concocting worst-case scenarios whenever his check-ins were a few minutes late.
Even so, she had to pause when they went inside. She took in the unchanged kitchen and dining table to the left, the living room and library to the right, and the stairs to the second floor as if they were all old friends. Ahead, of course, lay the hallway to Sark's bedroom, but there would be plenty of time to look at that.
Sark saw what she was doing and smiled slightly. "Welcome home," he murmured in a voice that was almost teasing.
And Sydney knew it wasn't home, that it never had been and she had no reason to think of it fondly, but god she wanted those words to be real. The rawness of the desire startled her, and for a moment all she could think of was someday, some place that could be theirs, together, and no one else's.
Rather than speak, she reached to the side and took Sark's hand, interlacing their fingers with ease.
"Good to be back," Sydney replied when she knew her voice could be light and steady.
"If you'd like to sleep, you'll find the room upstairs prepared for you," he said, because now he was teasing her outright, and because somehow he still had that almost shy gentlemanly streak that she couldn't make heads or tails of. Sydney just turned to face him and gave him a look.
"I slept on the plane." Not well, and not enough, but it would have to do.
Sark followed her to the bedroom. She toed off her shoes and socks just inside the door; pulled down her jeans and kicked them away; peeled off her sweater, shirt and camisole with one quick motion. The smooth wood panelling was cool beneath her feet, and she stood there feeling as if more than just the weight of clothing had been removed from her shoulders. Before Sark could do more than unbutton and shrug out of his expensive shirt, she was upon him.
His belt buckle made a cold indentation on the pale skin of her abdomen. Traveling destroyed her appetite, and in the past few weeks she'd lost weight that she didn't have to spare. She knew he felt it, could feel his fingers assessing the gaunt bones of her hips and shoulders even as they kissed.
"Sydney. I need you to take care of yourself." The heat in his voice was borne of frustration. She shuddered and pressed closer anyway.
"I will. I will." His pants dropped cooperatively once unfastened, and his steps out of them brought them closer to the bed.
It was almost like vertigo, falling back onto that mattress. Like falling into the past. As if she had to consciously make space among the memories for the here, the now, the warm press of Sark's body without the power play of captor and captive. Because they'd put that behind them. Right?
"I love you," she whispered, and her strange labyrinth of thoughts melted away. Here. Here I am.
Sark buried his face against her throat and moaned. Desperate, hopeless, helpless. He never said it but she had always known. If it wasn't quite love, it would be cruel to ask for more. She had everything he could give, and she supposed that was more than he'd want to give if he had the choice.
She flipped their positions, bracing herself with her hands on his shoulders. Tonight there didn't need to be anything more than the heat of him below and inside her, the quiet stuttering gasps of their breath. Tonight it was only them, together. Tomorrow be damned.
When Sydney joined him in the kitchen the next day, Sark gave her an appraising look. "Julia. Good morning."
She acknowledged the observation with a small smile. He could never tell how much of the transformation was consciously done, but the differences were always palpable if one knew what to look for. The slight swagger, the intensity of her gaze, the propensity for wearing leather— it was all part of Julia Thorne. And he knew that fully inhabiting her alias was the best way to avoid raising Simon Walker's suspicions. Still . . .
He found himself missing the real, honest Sydney, the woman who liked comfortable clothing and rarely wore this much eyeliner. Normally Sark was intrigued by Julia, but the strain of separation was beginning to settle inside him like an odd dull ache. Even now, together, each moment was harshly delineated by deadlines and schedules and meeting times. Promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. Exhaustion had to be setting in if he was quoting third-rate American poets.
Then Sydney smiled more widely, and the façade of Julia crumbled. "You're in big trouble, by the way."
"Am I. And what is my crime?"
She shook her head and set about the task of pouring herself some coffee. "I can't believe you thought it would be a good idea to hire Simon."
"I have no doubt he'll perform admirably."
Either her sense of humor had improved, or she was getting better at realizing he was teasing. "That is not the point," she said, grinning again. The day and night spent together had done wonders for both of their spirits, and Sydney looked far healthier after spending twenty-four hours in the same place.
Before Sark could make further inquiry as to what, precisely, the point was, she leaned over and kissed him. Having taken care of that, Sydney leaned back against the counter facing him and wrapped her long fingers around her mug. "The problem," she continued, "is that Simon is going to expect a lot more than some help getting into the facility. And the last thing I want is to be in a room with both of you at the same time."
"Noted," said Sark, and gave her a look just suggestive enough to make her laugh and shake her head. "Sydney, seeing you re-establish your relations with Walker for the purpose of maintaining an alias is hardly likely to send me into a jealous rage. In fact—" he hesitated "—you might say it would address a certain proclivity of mine."
"And here I thought we 'addressed' all of those already."
This seemed adequate excuse for another kiss, so he tugged her closer and gave up smirking to more fully experience the softness of her lips against his. He thought that this house would always be theirs, even if they never truly lived in it: an oasis of isolated happiness from which memories of her had become inextricable.
"So you like to watch," she mused once she'd stepped back and perched on one of the other stools.
Sark raised his eyebrows. "Are you surprised?"
"No," she admitted, with another you are hopeless sort of smile, "not really."
"Good. I'd start to wonder if you really know me at all."
There was a look in Sydney's eyes, precious for its rarity, in the moments when he made an effort to let his guards down. And it was an effort, make no mistake; Sark had not made friendly, 'normal' conversation since he was a teenager. But now, when he did, there was that expression on her face — happiness, acceptance and something like pride — like a flare in the darkness. "I'm getting to," she said, and her voice was like an embrace.
"On an unrelated subject," said Sark, standing up and retrieving a few slices of bread, "and at the risk of sounding like McKenas Cole, I must admit I enjoy what you've done with your hair. But I thought Julia Thorne was a blonde."
Sydney shrugged. "She was. But I'm not going to bleach my hair again, and for a mission like this extensions will be easier than a wig." She carded her fingers idly through some of her nearly waist-length hair as she spoke. Sark, unfamiliar with the intricacies of female disguises, decided to simply take her word for it.
They remained in what he assumed was a companionable silence while the bread toasted, and only once Sark had placed toast, butter and jam on the counter and resumed his seat did he discover evidence to the contrary.
He looked across the counter and saw that Sydney had frozen, butter knife in hand, staring down at her plate without seeing it.
"Something's wrong," she blurted out. "Something Dixon isn't telling me."
It startled him a little, though it probably shouldn't have. Sydney tried not to internalize every issue — a wise decision, given her career — and her number of available confidants had hit an all-time low. It was simply difficult to relate. Sark had been internalizing for more than twenty years and believed it had served him quite well so far.
"Are you sure about his?" he asked. It seemed odd for Director Dixon to withhold from Sydney, given their history together. Unless, perhaps…
"I think it might be something to do with Vaughn," said Sydney, echoing his own suspicions. "I don't know, maybe he's being investigated again by the NSC."
Sark considered this for a moment. "From what I know of Michael Vaughn, he seems an unlikely suspect for conspiracy and treason."
"Try telling that to Lauren's father," she said with a humorless smile. "Ever since she was caught he's been obsessed with finding some way to prove her innocence, and with the ear of the President he's got enough influence to make all our lives miserable. Between Senator Reed and Robert Lindsay . . ."
He reached over and took her free hand. "Perhaps this isn't the best time to concern yourself."
There was the slightest upward twitch of her lips — a frequent response of Sydney's when he showed concern. Quickly repressed disbelief and amusement. Purely unintentional, he was sure, but whenever Julian started to believe that she really did love him, that reflex was what haunted him.
She was nodding nevertheless, albeit with some reluctance. "Right." She glanced up at the clock. "I should be going. My flight leaves soon."
Her bag, left almost entirely untouched since her arrival, had been efficiently repacked and was waiting in the entrance hall. After wolfing down her toast with a look that suggested it was for Sark's benefit, Sydney stood and placed one last, lingering kiss on his lips.
"See you in Estonia," she said quietly, and was gone.
Vaivara Parish
Not every location came stocked with conveniently empty warehouses or dimly lit storage facilities, so Sydney was meeting Simon in a small country cottage in the Ida-Viru county of Estonia. It was quite lovely, actually, though typical February weather had coated the forest clearings with a layer of frost unmelted by that day's sunlight. The fog of her breath was just visible in the afternoon air, and as she walked toward her destination she saw a few hopeful early flowers crystallized in ice.
The cottage was quaint in an almost storybook way, neatly landscaped and resting beneath the long bare branches of maple trees. She didn't look for the surveillance equipment as she approached the front door, but she knew it would be there. If Simon hadn't cleared her for entry, she had no doubt that she would have been dead before she got anywhere near the house. With that in mind, it seemed silly to bother knocking.
Simon was standing in the foyer, arms patiently crossed, wearing one of those berets he loved so much and a great deal of black.
"Here I am," she murmured, shrugging out of her coat and leaving it with its brethren on the rack. She gave Simon a sideways smirk. "Miss me?"
He grinned and moved casually into her personal space, because they'd never had a lot of boundaries with each other. Other than the emotional ones.
"Julia," he greeted her, slipping his hands onto her hips, and leaned in for a kiss.
It was like a reminder, that kiss. Oh yes, hello, we were quite good together, weren't we? And it was a bit of a shame, she thought, to have false pretenses between them when she was genuinely glad to see him again. Especially now, before Sark arrived to complicate things even further.
She broke the contact by pulling back her chin, resting their foreheads together. "Simon," she replied, and was sure to sound slightly breathless.
"Hn. Y'even changed your hair," he observed. "Did get yourself into some trouble, didn't you?"
Julia shrugged carelessly. "Better safe than sorry and all that." The smile they shared spoke of many past actions to the contrary.
"C'mon." Simon grabbed the crook of her elbow and steered her deeper into the house. "Want you to meet the team."
'The team' was familiar to her, but she smoothly projected the air of a woman who'd never heard of these men and didn't particularly care to meet them now. Javier Perez, Laszlo Bogden and Avery Russett were all introduced to her in turn. Perez, the Cuban arms dealer, looked even less excited to see Julia than she was to meet him.
"When's the meet?" she asked when pleasantries had been dispensed with.
"Our employer's representative will arrive this evening at seven," said Bogden, the grey-haired man in charge of security.
"And until then?"
Javier glowered. "We wait."
"And we plan," Russett interjected smoothly, his eyes flicking back and forth between their matching glares. "Simon, I've got the gear you asked for . . ."
Sydney, who'd been disliked by far bigger fish than Javier Perez, didn't particularly care what he thought so long as Simon was on her side. So she and the others settled in around the dining room table with an assortment of maps, blueprints, and equipment, preparing to infiltrate Novgorod 21 in less than forty-eight hours.
The doorbell rang at exactly seven o'clock and Sydney had to work very hard not to roll her eyes. There was precision, and then there was showing off.
She lingered at the table, where they had been watching Sark's approach on the security feed and (in the case of Bogden and Russett) throwing out a few comments about pretty-boy rich kids who thought they could run things. She'd snickered at that and got an appreciative glance from Russett. At least they didn't all hate her.
Simon was the one who answered the door, and his voice projected through the little cottage. "Evenin', sir. Cold night?"
"No colder than usual," Sark's voice replied. "I must say," he added, like an afterthought, "I'm not sure security protocols are necessary in an area like this."
"Well, y'know, can't be too careful, can you."
"I'm sure my employers would appreciate the caution." There was a brief silence, and Sydney imagined him offering a handshake. "Julian Sark."
"Ah, yeah! Yeah, I heard a' you. You can just put it over there on the rack wi'the others."
"Mr. Walker, I believe you've worked for the Covenant before?"
"Right. Someone here you should meet, I guess— Julia, c'mere for a minute?"
As she stood up reluctantly, she saw Javier's eyes narrow. "Why her?" he growled to no one in particular.
Russett grinned and jerked a thumb in her direction. "She's the prettiest."
"And one of the Covenant's best assassins." Bogden spoke quietly and didn't even look up from the lens he was polishing. "You two should really pay more attention," he sighed at the mute stares of his colleagues. "When I first saw her coming up the path I thought we were all dead."
Interesting.
Sydney left them to it. A little gossip about her old reputation could hardly hurt the mission at hand. She stalked out to the foyer with the expression of someone who really did not have time for this, stopped next to Simon and crossed her arms over her chest. "What?" she demanded, jutting out her chin.
"Mister Sark, meet Julia Thorne. I s'pose you've heard of'er."
"Naturally," Sark replied, casting a critical glance over her clothing. "Miss Thorne, your reputation precedes you. I've been told you've served our cause admirably . . . if not consistently."
Sydney felt her jaw twitch slightly in irritation, because really? This was how he wanted to play it?
"The Covenant wants me for more than my inheritance, Mister Sark," she tossed out while ostensibly inspecting her fingernails. "I guess that makes it a little more important to keep me out of harm's way." Simon, in her peripheral vision, was laughing behind his hand; he'd always enjoyed her careless insubordination.
Sark's eyebrows rose. Half-annoyed, half-entertained. "Is she always this pleasant?"
"That's my girl," Simon answered, pulling her against him for a deep, forceful kiss. It was more of a display of possession than anything else, as he had a tendency to get into pissing contests with men who had some kind of authority over him. Given the greater nature of Sydney's fraud, she wasn't going to complain.
Though she was certainly tempted, with the way Sark's eyes seemed to be burning a hole straight through her.
Looking at them, Julian was struck once again by just how good Sydney Bristow could be. It was all there: the desire, the exasperation with Walker's juvenile display and the complete disregard for what anyone else might think of the display. Only one of which, he suspected, she actually felt.
Sydney hadn't quite gotten it right. It wasn't simply that he liked to watch — nothing so common as that. It was watching the exquisitely executed deception as her hands framed another man's face, the conspiracy of witnessing a false seduction, the careless certainty that she felt nothing. It was feeling his complicity in her lie, the faint echoes of her heat on his body even as he saw a counterfeit of the same kind of passion.
And yes. This was satisfying that particular proclivity quite nicely.
She drew back first, casting a lazy glance in his direction and wiping carelessly at her lips. "I'll leave you two alone," she said in a husky voice that Sark suspected had the same effect on them both. "You probably have things to take care of. Mister Sark." She nodded her farewell. "Simon."
They watched her strut back into the room she'd come from. When Simon turned to look at him again, completely smug, Sark forced a bored, impatient tone.
"If you're quite finished, there are some last-minute details I'd like to go over with your team."
He ended up addressing most of his instructions to Javier Perez, the resident tactical expert who looked at Julia as if she were a virulent plague. Halfway through their discussion, Sydney and Simon left the room. Sark wondered, in a rare lapse into vulgarity, if she was going to fuck him.
He wondered if they'd be able to hear it.
Novgorod
They left Vaivara the next day, packing the stolen military vehicle with all their gear while the morning's frost crackled under their feet. One of the last things they brought from the house was a thermos of coffee large enough to be passed between the whole team— the old van's heater barely worked, and they were still waking up.
Sark had left around nine o'clock the night before, leaving behind some extra equipment and what scraps of intelligence the Covenant had been able to gather about this particular bunker. Apparently it had been primarily used as a laboratory, though whatever experiments had been conducted were abandoned by the new Russian government in the early 90s. They were counting on the military's current lack of interest to make their task easier.
After long hours of driving on a carefully selected string of back roads, they arrived at Novgorod 21 by late afternoon. With the short winter days, the sun was already beginning to set. Sydney traded with Russett to take the driver's seat and drove smoothly to the entrance checkpoint.
The bunker's security was fairly minimal, all things considered—nothing some fake identification and Sydney's excellent Russian accent couldn't handle. When the guard appeared to hesitate, she did her best to imply he was an idiot farmboy with a few well-placed sighs and drawn-out Muscovite vowels. He let them through.
As she pulled up next to the building they needed, Simon was torn between laughing at her performance and a tremendous need to gloat. "What did I tell you?" he asked Javier in a victorious almost-whisper. "She's fuckin' brilliant."
Perez just glared at him and growled, "Job's not finished," and at any rate none of Julia's purported brilliance was necessary to get them into the laboratory. The bunker was more deserted than they'd dared hope, and just as empty of surveillance equipment as Bogden's reconnaissance had indicated.
The color of the liquid they were after was also helpful. Sydney had encountered a lot of nasty chemical compounds with SD-6 and the CIA (her mind helpfully supplied the deadly chemicals sprayed on her by Sark) but none that she recalled had such an intense green color. She tried to come up with some idea of the ingredients necessary to give it that striking appearance, but she'd studied literature, not chemistry. Perhaps Marshall would have a theory.
She and Simon opened the empty cases Sark had given them for this specific purpose and made short work of loading up the vials. Halfway through, they heard the distinct sound of silenced gunfire in the corridor and Perez stepped back into the room. "Guards on patrol," he said shortly. "Dead."
After that, he and Bogden actually seemed more at ease—when men with their experience encountered no resistance at all, they immediately suspected a trap.
Then the vials were packed, and they were getting ready to leave the lab when a few dusty VHS tapes on another shelf caught Sydney's eye. She wondered if there was anything useful on them, anything that could help the CIA figure out what Sloane and the Covenant were after. Maybe if the others were distracted—
"Problem, Miss Thorne?"
It was a tempting thought, but futile. She wasn't going to get away with anything under the watchful, suspicious eye of Javier Perez.
But that didn't mean she felt the need to explain herself. She easily caught up with Simon in a few long strides, not sparing Perez so much as a glance. She knew his type, and as long as she did nothing (beyond the crime of existing) to provoke him, there would be no reason to worry. He had prejudices, but not a speck of evidence.
They moved swiftly and silently from the building, and had they not been professionals they would have been half-giddy with the ease of their success. As it was, even they were less on their guard than they might have been. Javier and Laszlo scanned every corridor for signs of movement or active surveillance, but no one noticed the sharp dark eyes watching them from a cracked office doorframe. No one saw the figure withdraw, and draw a cell phone from her pocket.
"Это я," she murmured. "Они его взял. И должна знать . . . Сидней здесь была."
It's me. They took it. And you should know . . . Sydney was here.
Seville
The team went to one of Simon's usual haunts in Spain, and after a night of exhausted sleep they were packing up and preparing to go their separate ways.
Sark had come by earlier in the day to retrieve the cases of green fluid and deliver their payment — enough cash to make even the most inquisitive of hired thieves forget their curiosity. In the case of Simon and his team, who were far too good to ask questions, it was almost insulting; but they hadn't risen to the top of their business by making a fuss about overpayment. Between the perfectly executed operation and the expensive bottle of wine they gave Sark in the hopes of being overpaid again someday, it seemed that Simon and Sark were on their way to getting along famously.
Sydney made herself relatively scarce during the transaction. It was professional paranoia, she knew, and something she should have outgrown, but she couldn't shake the feeling that Simon was paying too much attention to her and Sark when they were all in the same room, and she had no interest in inviting that particular disaster.
She had just finished putting together her minimal gear and was checking the place for any items she might have forgotten when Simon called her into what he called the sitting room. It had the furniture for it, admittedly; the place was just too damn big to have rooms like a normal house.
"Julia," he said from his relaxed position on the chaise lounge. "Wanted to talk t' you, if you got a minute."
"About what?" she asked, perfectly demure, settling in next to him with her legs across his. The position brought their heads close, as she'd intended, and Simon was all too willing to close the slight gap between them and kiss her. But when he pulled back, the look on his face was more speculative than lustful.
"How long've you been shackin' up with Mr. Sark?"
The bottom dropped out of Sydney's stomach, and for a moment that stretched on for far too long she could only gape at Simon like an idiot.
Apparently it hadn't been professional paranoia after all.
He grinned. He'd always enjoyed moments when he managed to get the drop on her. "Oh, come on, love," he chided, nudging her shoulder with one hand in a very self-satisfied way. "You're good — you're very, very good — but I know you. I could see it in your eyes, couldn' I?"
"If anyone could, it'd be you," she admitted, sagging back into the chaise.
"'f'it's any consolation, you're better than he is." When she gave him a look that probably expressed more than a little disbelief, he cocked an eyebrow at her. "Couldn't take his eyes off you for a second, could'e?" Simon teased, clearly enjoying her discomposure. "Are you blushing?"
"All right, all right," she sighed, gesturing her surrender. "I'm sleeping with him."
"Could'a just told me, you know."
Oh. Well, when he put it that way, it just seemed stupid. But as mixed as Sydney's feelings were about her past relationship with Simon, she really had liked him on some level. Cared about him, even. It just hadn't seem right, to flaunt her connection to Sark. "I— I didn't want you to think . . . ."
He shot her a look. "Touched, love," he assured her with a smile, "but I'm really not that sensitive."
"Right," she nodded, and tried not to laugh. Apparently my days of sleeping with sensitive men are long behind me.
"I reckon you'll be headin' out soon, then?"
"Mm, in about an hour." Simon poured himself half a glass of scotch and raised his eyebrows, but she held up a hand; it was too early for alcohol.
"Suit yourself," he said cheerfully, and knocked back most of it with a single swallow. "We should do this again sometime."
There was just something about Simon, Sydney thought as she grinned at him. Something about these missions with their precision planning and careful clockwork execution — it was the closest thing she had to fun these days. Or maybe she just liked the hair extensions. "We should," she agreed.
But not right away. Now it was time to go home and have her questions answered, and nothing was going to stand in her way.
Twenty hours later Sydney found herself wishing she'd stayed in Europe.
Or possibly never joined the CIA at all.
x
Los Angeles
"He what."
Dixon only watched her silently, well aware that she'd heard what he said. Her problem was that she couldn't believe it. Absolutely. Could not.
This wasn't happening, because things like this did not happen, not with someone like Vaughn, someone who—
burned his house down, and now he and Lauren have disappeared.
"Why?" she demanded. "Why would Vaughn do something like that?"
Her father and Dixon began to give her more information in a duet, in stereo, in a bombardment from all sides. Erratic behavior. Overestimated stability. Thought work would give him something (how did they not understand this was impossible?) the betrayal. No leads. No trail. No trace. Gone.
"He, he could have been forced to do it." Her tongue felt heavy; every word was a struggle. "Coerced. We can't prove—"
"No," said Jack, "we can't prove anything, but Sydney— you need to understand. This does not look good."
Understand? He needed her to understand? There was no way to understand this. This was every solid ground she'd ever found yanked out from under her, this was her angel disappeared and replaced by a gaping darkness. This was Vaughn. And she couldn't just— not with everything they'd— it couldn't be true. Could not.
Or maybe it could.
He'd wanted to kill Lauren, the night he found out. She hadn't told anyone.
Maybe she could have stopped it from happening. That look in his eyes as he sat at her kitchen table— the hate, the bottomless pit of loathing and betrayal— she might have stopped it, she could have done . . . something. Anything.
She waved off the concerned looks of Dixon and her father and just tried to breathe. In, out. In, out.
In. Get a grip, Sydney. This isn't your fault; he's not your responsibility. Out.
In. You can't let this be the thing that breaks you; you're not allowed. Out.
In. Besides, you still haven't made those pancakes for Sark.
Instead of breathing out steadily, she made a choking sound that might have almost passed for a laugh. God, what a mess her life had become. As long as this campaign against the Covenant dragged on, she couldn't escape the feeling of dangling in some purgatory between the old attachments and the new. It was a tenuous, painful position, and Sydney tolerated it because she had to. But something had to change before it all drove her fucking insane.
Those were the thoughts running through her mind when her cell phone began to ring. The direct line for Sark.
Her father and Dixon watched closely as she answered, but she did her very best to ignore them.
"What's going on?" she asked abruptly. Sydney wasn't in the mood for pleasantries and she knew Sark wouldn't mind.
"I'm afraid Sloane's operation is further along than we anticipated."
Oh, that's just perfect. Her hand clenched around the phone and she restrained the urge to kick something, hard. "What do you mean?"
"While he appeared to be underground, Arvin was using the Omnifam databases to search for an individual who matched a specific DNA profile. He found her today, and the CIA will need to work quickly if you want to reach her before the Covenant. I hacked into the computer systems here for the information."
"We'll find her. Sark, I need you to give me the name."
There was a pause, like someone checking a piece of paper, because Sark had an excellent memory but they could not afford to screw this up.
"The target is an SI agent in Argentina. Nadia Santos."
A/N: So, yeah… that. I should eventually be posting a side story about Vaughn, but be warned— it is very, very dark. Believe it or not, I actually really like Vaughn, but by the end of season 3 he was freaking scary. Torturing Jong Lee and Sark, planning to disfigure Lauren (both of which, to me, show a lot more sadism than just anger at being betrayed), burning down his own home… it all just made me wonder what would have happened if he fell into that darknes and didn't magically bounce back.
Sorry this took so long! Some of the scenes were just wildly uncooperative, but I did my best and I hope you like it.
friend9810 – I totally stole this story's title from MCR, and all the chapters are named after their songs as well. For some reason writing Rivalita involved a lot of Green Day and Rob Thomas, and this has leaned more towards My Chemical Romance and the Mountain Goats.