By Rhien Elleth

The French Countryside

Sleeping wasn't something she did anymore. Not if she could help it, and not for long when she couldn't. She slept when she could stay awake no longer, when her eyes finally drifted shut in the small hours of the night, and exhaustion pulled her under, like a swimmer drowning in the depths of the ocean.

And every time, she dreamed.  

Usually, it was her mother she saw first. Not as she most remembered her. Not as the woman in the CIA cell, her face free of make-up, her eyes calculating and hard, and always aware of the cameras recording her every move. Sometimes, she would look at her daughter through the glass separating them, and those eyes would soften, and a memory would stir in the back of Sydney's mind. It was that memory, that other woman, who haunted her dreams.

The mother she thought she'd forgotten. The woman who tucked her in at night, who made her cheese sandwiches with the crusts cut from the bread, who sang her quiet lullabies in a language she hadn't understood. She knew it to be Russian, now, but couldn't remember the words.  It was that Irina she saw when she closed her eyes. And for a time, she was four years old again and feeling the warmth of her mother's lips pressed against her brow.

And then, she would hear him.

"Get away from her, Sydney. Irina Derevko doesn't deserve your love or forgiveness."

The hate in Vaughn's voice hit her like a physical blow, stabbed her where it hurt the most, and shattered the dream into nightmare. She stood on a pier in Tangier beside her mother, on a day so hot and humid that the air had a weight all its own.

Sometimes after waking, she wondered if she would always remember that last confrontation between them with cruel, perfect clarity. 

"I'm her mother, Agent Vaughn," Irina said carefully, shifting slightly, so she stood decisively between Sydney and the gun Vaughn held. "I may not deserve her forgiveness. She may not love me. But I have a right to love her, whether she reciprocates or not."

"Michael, stop this," Sydney heard herself say, but neither he nor her mother paid her any heed.

Vaughn sighted down his CIA issue Beretta 92 FS at the woman who'd killed his father, his arms steady, his aim unwavering. It was, Sydney would always think later, something she should have seen coming.

"If I bring you back in, you'll just escape again, won't you?" he asked her mother, his green eyes harder, colder than Sydney had ever seen them. 

In answer , Irina raised an eyebrow, smiled in that knowing, unconsciously sensual way she had. She lifted a hand, brushed her hair back over her ear.

"If you bring me back in?" she asked, amused.  "Come, come,  Agent Vaughn, we both know that isn't why you're here. It isn't what you really want to do." She nodded toward his gun. "I can see it in your face, in your eyes. If Sydney wasn't with me, I'd already be dead, wouldn't I?"

"Enough!" Sydney commanded, attempting to step between them. Her mother lifted an arm, held her back. "Stop it, both of you. Michael, put down the gun. Mother, stop baiting him. You are coming back in." She paused, injected her voice with extra force. "With me."

But Vaughn didn't lower the gun, and Irina turned and looked her daughter in the eye, sadness flickering across her face. 

" Sydney ," she said softly, "I know that's what you wanted, but I can't. I love you. I'm sorry."

Those were to be the last words her mother spoke.  In a move too quick, too decisive to be anything but planned, Irina went for the gun holstered at the small of her back, beneath her shirt. Vaughn could see it as her hand closed over the grip, even if Sydney could not. And that was all the incentive he needed.

She woke with the sound of gunfire still ringing in her ears, the twin smells of gunpowder and freshly spilled blood filling her senses. The dream had happened so many times now, that she no longer woke screaming.

Thank God.

"Are you all right?"

The question, offered quietly in the darkness of the train car, reminded her that she wasn't alone, that her traveling companion sat in the seat across from her, and that he was watching her too closely for comfort. She straightened in her seat, resisting the urge to scrub a hand over her face. She couldn't allow him to see her being weak.  It was exactly the sort of advantage Sark would be looking for.

"Fine," she managed steadily, and looked down at her hands, her seat, and finally out the window into the night. Anywhere but at him.  Somehow, she couldn't quite meet the familiar intensity of his gaze, and lie.

But with his usual doggedness, Sark refused to let it go.

"I think not," he said, his voice taking on a steely quality she knew all too well. Whatever else he was, Sark could be a stubborn bastard.

She'd known this was coming, of course. Ever since Sloane had decided, for some ungodly reason, to pair her more often with Sark than with Dixon , she'd known it would only be a matter of time. When you worked with someone in the field, they tended to notice little things like constant insomnia and chronic nightmares. In some ways, Sloane's penchant for Sark had come as a relief.  Dixon would have forced the issue much sooner, always more the concerned parent than her own father.

But Sark was less polite about it.

" Sydney , during the last six weeks we've gone on eight separate missions together. Nine, if you count that single-day jaunt to Mexico . Sloane tells me you requested more mission time, and he's given it to you. But if you'll pardon me being blunt, you've hardly been at the top of your game."

She knew it was true, but she stiffened indignantly, nonetheless. She'd thrown herself into work ever since her mother's death, taking no time to grieve.  Because if she took the time to think about it, she wasn't sure she'd ever recover.  This job had already cost her so much - Danny's life, Will's innocence - she couldn't stand to think of Tangier for very long. Every day, she worked herself into exhaustion, hoping not to dream at night. And every night, the nightmares worsened.

"I've done nothing to jeopardize any of our mission objectives --" she said defensively. He didn't let her get any further.

"Of course," he interrupted. "Remarkably, you've held up very well, and done everything expected of you with very few mistakes. But one of these times, the mistake you make will be a detriment, and may cost us more than merely the mission objective."

He leaned forward, the dim glow of the overhead light illuminating his face, touching on the impeccably pressed lines of the gray suit he wore, the silk of his charcoal shirt and tie.

"Everything you do in the field puts your life - and mine - at risk. I've been patient, waiting for you to work out whatever your demons are all on your own.  But you haven't done that, and I can no longer afford to wait. Avignon will hardly be a walk in the park, Sydney ."

She grit her teeth, sure he was using her given name just to irk her.

"I know," she said shortly. "I promise you, Sark , you don't have to worry about me. I'll do my part."

He stared at her for a moment, his gaze lingering on the shadows beneath her eyes, on the wan color of her skin. She felt a flush heating her face. She knew she looked tired, exhausted even. But a liberal application of cosmetics could hide all of that. She'd learned that much in the past several weeks.

"Will you?" he said, challenging her, and leaned back in his seat, his hands steepled before him.  "I'm sorry, but your assurances are no longer good enough."

She stared, shocked. He'd never argued with her quite so resolutely, before. He was usually more subtle and sly.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You're having trouble sleeping - and when you do sleep, it's fitful, plagued by dreams. You need a good, solid, unencumbered night of rest. Preferably, before we attend the fête at the Pope's Palace.  Their security is quite daunting."

Unable to find the words to argue with him, she folded her arms over her chest and glared, instead. He remained utterly unphased, a fact which only irritated her further.

"I know your aversion to medication, Sydney ."

She arched an insolent brow. Just how, precisely, did he know that? His lips quirked in a slight smile, as if he could read her thoughts. He raised an eyebrow right back at her, and it was she who looked away. As if the pitch-black night they were traveling through was truly interesting to watch.

"But I do think this instance calls for drastic measures. There are other forms of releasing tension to combat insomnia, but I rather doubt you'd be amenable to any of them."

She barely kept her mouth from dropping open in shock. Surely he wasn't...he couldn't be referring to...Good God, no! His comment had drawn her gaze away from the window and back to him. 

He was watching her, and that quirk of lips slowly spread into a full-fledged grin. He said nothing, but he didn't have to. Her mind had jumped to its own conclusion as to his meaning, and she could feel the flush burning her  cheeks.

The worst of it was, this wasn't the first time sex with Sark had occurred to her.  But then, she told herself, any woman with a pulse couldn't help but be attracted to the man. Especially if the woman in question had gone without sex for almost a year, and continually accompanied him on life threatening missions.  It was a fairly simple physiological response.

He cocked his head, his blue eyes laughing at her, and embarrassment quickly gave way to anger.

"You're damn right I wouldn't be amenable," she said caustically. "No offense, Sark , but an assassin who sells his loyalty to the highest bidder is hardly my type."

There was a long pause, and when Sark spoke, his eyes never left hers. 

"I was referring to hypnotherapy, Ms. Bristow, a fairly routine cure for insomnia these days, though not the best solution for anyone in our line of work."

Practicing hypnotism and its ilk left the mind too vulnerable to suggestion, and was generally frowned upon for agents of both SD-6 and the CIA.

"However, if you'd prefer another method, please don't hesitate to suggest it."

There was no doubt about it - he was smirking at her.  The bastard.  She looked away  again, sought refuge in silence, in trying without success to ignore his presence. She could still feel his eyes on her, and the sensation left her unsettled. The heat embarrassment and anger had brought to her skin didn't fade as it should have.  In fact, it seemed to warm beneath his gaze, and she found herself shifting restlessly in her seat.

"Are you all right, Ms. Bristow?" he asked, and this time there was definitely a mocking tone to the question.

Sydney 's jaw clenched; she refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Then, with a feeling of grim resolve, she stilled her fidgeting and closed her eyes. If she couldn't actually sleep, she decided, she could at least pretend to sleep.  Not only would it prevent any more attempts at conversation, but it might just succeed in getting Sark to leave the insomnia issue alone, too. Or so she hoped.

Unfortunately, he was more observant than she'd given him credit for. After the first hour, he suddenly gave an explosive sigh and leaned forward. She could hear the cloth of his suit whispering across the leather seat.

" Sydney , I know you aren't really sleeping," he said, his tone exasperated. "For one thing, you haven't slept so peacefully in months.   Please don't insult my intelligence by attempting to make me believe you're suddenly cured. It won't work."

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, to find him much closer than she'd thought, leaning across the aisle to look down at her. The blue of his eyes was brilliant enough to make her breath catch in her throat, his legs near enough to hers that she could feel the warmth radiating from them. But he frowned down at her, his expression all business, his eyes almost cold.

"Here," he offered, holding out a small white packet of something. "If you truly want to sleep, take some of this. It's merely herbal, so you needn't fear any nasty side effects."

When she didn't take it immediately, he shrugged.

"It isn't habit forming, I assure you. The Chinese have been using it for centuries with excellent results."

Reluctantly, she took the packet from him, opening it to stare at the little capsules of herbs. It was true; she hated all forms of medication. But to truly sleep for once, without any dreams to haunt her...she only hoped her hand didn't tremble too much as she shook one of the pills free. Sark was right.  She'd been running on empty for too long, and she couldn't risk making a mistake that might get them both killed. 

"Thank-you," she said softly, and swallowed the capsule with a mouthful of water.

He merely nodded. No more words passed between them in the time it took before Sydney felt the velvety edges of slumber close in around her. It wrapped her in a warm, dark, and thankfully empty embrace.

She slept for the rest of the train ride, and didn't dream once.

Avignon , France

They were booked at the Hotel La Mirande, chosen for its proximity to the Pope's Palace rather than for its amenities, though it had plenty of those. Especially in the suite they were using as part of their cover.  It was by far one of the largest, most luxurious rooms Sydney had ever stayed in.  She imagined Sark felt quite at home.

Furnished with antiques from 18^th century France , it epitomized elegance in every line of dark wood, every piece of velvet or embroidered upholstery. Sydney was afraid to sit on anything. She stood in the center of the room, terribly self-conscious about everything, even the plush carpet beneath her feet, and held her single bag in both hands as she stared.

"Merci," Sark said to the valet as he pressed a note into the man's hand. "Ma femme et moi ne souhaitons pas être deranges."  My wife and I don't wish to be disturbed.

"Bien sûr. Bonsoir, Monsieur." The valet turned to Sydney and gave a little bow. "Madame."

She nodded, and he left, pulling the door shut behind him. Sark immediately turned and strode past her, across the room to the door leading into the bedroom. He was unbuttoning his suit and loosening his tie as he went.

"Eight bloody hours on a train," she heard him mutter under his breath. Then he raised his voice, called over his shoulder, "I'm going to take a shower.  Make yourself at home."

The7 door shut in the bathroom, and a few moments later, the water turned on. Right, she thought, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Sark had called her his wife.

She'd known, going in, what their cover story involved. Monsieur Chevalier had, after all, expected the rather wealthy Mr. and Mrs. Lucien Évariste to attend the fête, at his express invitation.  Since he'd never met them, and Sloane had substituted pictures of Sark and Sydney for those of the happy couple in Chevalier's intel, they would need to appear happily married. The real Évariste's were newlyweds, and therefore quite besotted with each other, by all reports.

It all made Sydney 's stomach jittery just thinking about it. Dear God, she was going to have to pretend to be in love with Sark. It didn't bear dwelling on.

Her wedding ring was even one of Marshall 's nifty gadgets. 

Diamonds are a girl's best friend, right Syd? I mean, a spy's best friend, in this case. Just twist the wedding circlet one hundred and eighty degrees,  and voilá, we have the world's smallest, best glasscutter. Well, essentially, it cuts through pretty much anything. But look, see the diamonds are actually real. We can't have anyone looking at your wedding ring and thinking they're fake, right?  So...two carats for the center stone, another for the accent pieces... Um...you're bringing this back, right? 'Cause I'm pretty sure Sloane will take it out of my paycheck if you lose it, and it was really expensive...

But it had hit a nerve, somehow, to hear Sark 's voice say "my wife" so smoothly in French. She had to take another breath, let it out slowly.  Just pretend it's Dixon, she told herself.

And she almost laughed out loud at the thought.  Dixon had always been a father figure to her. They had, when necessary, masqueraded as a married couple, but never in circumstances such as this, probably because they couldn't have pulled it off if they'd tried.  Sydney tried to imagine Dixon kissing her passionately for the benefit of those who might be watching, and failed utterly.  Her mind superimposed Dixon with Sark , and her heart immediately began to beat faster.

She expelled a breath.

"This is never going to work," she muttered, and hefting her bag, strode into the suite's spacious bedroom.

It was dominated by the king sized bed, but Sydney refused to even think about that right now. She began opening drawers, the closet, and putting away her things. She noticed that certain items were already there, unpacked by the valet from the Évariste's heavier luggage.  Things like the tux and evening gown she and Sark would need to wear for the fête.

She was actually looking forward to that.  The sooner they went to the fête, the sooner they could validate, and if necessary, steal the Rambaldi pages Sloane believed were on display at the famous Palais des Papes exhibition.

The sooner they could go home.

Of course , they had to survive tonight and most of tomorrow before the celebration began. Two nights total, and then with the pages in hand, they could leave.

Two nights couldn't possibly be that bad.

* * *

The shower felt heavenly. Train travel, Sark had always felt, was highly overrated, and not at all the charming experience it was marketed as.  Give him a private jet any day.  It covered the same distance in a third of the time. Unfortunately, the Évariste's loved to travel by train, and Chevalier had catered to their whim.

As the water pulsed down on his head, washing the stiffness and kinks out of his back and legs, Sark mentally reviewed everything in Sloane's file on the newlyweds. Lucien was from old money, his family's wealth going back several generations.  He would wear a formal tux as naturally as some men wore jeans. He was a shrewd businessman, even at thirty, and Chevalier hoped to use the fête to convince him to invest in some of his business ventures.

Unfortunately, two of the ventures in question dealt in the research and development of certain stolen plans for United States military arms, something that a dozen countries would pay top dollar for, given the chance. Sloane wanted his cut, of course, though ostensibly, they were to use the opportunity to get close enough to Chevalier to "get the plans back" for the CIA. Not tomorrow night. But Sloane wanted Sark to accept the investment proposal, write a check, and use the connection forged at a later date.  Sydney would be using his meeting with Chevalier as her opportunity to steal the Rambaldi pages, if, in fact, they were real.

For a second, Sark wondered what Sydney 's CIA counter mission to all this would be. He grinned, sluicing water through his hair. She didn't know he knew, of course. But then, she didn't seem to realize just how observant he was.

Like that bit of foolishness on the train. If he'd had to, he'd have force-fed her the damn pills when they reached the hotel. His patience didn't include allowing her to get him killed, and she'd very nearly done so on their last covert operation together.

If your head wasn't in the game one hundred and ten percent, you didn't play. Sydney was good, one of the best operatives he'd ever worked with, but no one was that bloody good.

Of course , it was always amusing to bait her. He grinned, turning the shower off , and grabbing a towel as he did so. She never failed to respond, and getting under her skin had proved an entertaining pastime. At least she'd taken the pill, and actually rested. Sark felt much more confident in her ability to pull off the mission.

Not that he was worried about her playing her role.  Elise Évariste, unlike her husband, was entirely new money. She'd married into it. It was like one of those movie-of-the-week things -- the wealthy businessman falls for the young American woman on holiday in France . Uses extravagant gifts and whirlwind courtship to sweep her off her feet. So Sydney had far less of a stretch, acting wise, than Sark .

No , his concern lay with the Rambaldi pages. Security was tight; if she were caught, Sark would be too.  And that was entirely unacceptable. 

He wrapped the towel around his waist, pleased to note that the hotel stocked real towels, not those terrycloth excuses one usually found. The shower had made him feel human again, thankfully, and he felt far more up to handling the difficult Ms. Bristow than he had twenty minutes earlier. 

He looked in the mirror, grinned, and decided to bait her a bit more, purely for his own amusement. At least missions with Sydney were never dull.

* * *

Sark came out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. Sydney was fairly certain he did it on purpose. Not that she could prove anything. It just seemed like the kind of thing he would do, knowing it would make her uncomfortable. He'd been pushing her buttons since the day Sloane brought him into SD-6.

"Shower's yours," he said, crossing over to the bag he'd placed on the bed. Which just happened to be the same side of the bed she was standing on.

She tried to ignore him, concentrating on the dress she was trying to brush free of wrinkles and hang in the closet. She wasn't going to let him unsettle her. If he wanted to parade around half clothed, fine, that was his problem.

Still, Dixon had never done anything like that. He'd respected her too much. Sark , evidently, wasn't burdened by such things.

"Which side of the bed do you prefer?" he asked suddenly. Sydney looked directly at him before she could stop herself.

"Excuse me?" she said, when she found her voice. 

He'd turned around to ask her the question, and she found herself staring directly at the smooth expanse of his chest. It had been a long time since she'd seen that much of a man's body, naked, and still damp from the shower. Since Noah. And Sark had a very nice body.  Beneath all of those expensive suits, his torso and arms were clearly defined muscle, his abdomen flat and tight.  As she watched, a drop of water fell from his hair to his shoulder. It rolled down his body, trailing over the hard planes of his chest, down the ridges of his abs, until it disappeared behind the towel. Her throat went dry, her mind went blank, and she couldn't remember for the life of her what they were talking about.

She tried, rather feebly, to remind herself that this was Sark , that he was her enemy, that she hated him. But her libido didn't care. Her heart was suddenly pumping a thousand beats per second, and she had to inhale a deep breath of cool air and take a step back. He was standing a good four feet away from her, but it didn't feel like enough.

"The bed?" he prompted, a trace of something like irritation in his voice. 

It snapped her right back to reality. She looked up, met his eyes, and was pleased when she managed not to blush. After all, he was the one who'd chosen to wear the towel and nothing else.

"The right side," she said coolly.

He shrugged .

"Very well. I'd offer to take the divan, but..."

"I know the drill, Sark. The hotel staff needs to believe we're married, which requires both sides of the bed to be slept in. I get it.  I think we're both professional enough to share."

After the train, she was waiting for him to make a comment about her insomnia, but it never came. Instead, he stood staring at her for a moment, not moving. He arched an eyebrow.

"Are you going to take a shower, Ms. Bristow, or should I change in the bath?"

Now she did flush. He was waiting for her to leave so he could change, and she'd just stood there, staring at him like...

She turned on her heel, stalked over to her still open bag, and grabbed her own change of clothing. There was no way she was coming out of the shower in a towel, whatever his prurient fantasies might be. She didn't glance at him again as she went into the bathroom, and firmly shut the door between them.

However calm and cool he appeared on the outside, she was somehow sure he was laughing at her on the inside.

* * *

Fully clothed in a black slacks and a cobalt silk shirt, sans tie, Sark ordered room service while Sydney took her shower.  It fit the profile for the newlyweds to stay closeted in their suite rather than make a public appearance.  For the sake of the roles they were playing, he ordered caviar, lobster, and a bottle of Perrier-Jouet, to be served at an intimate little table by candlelight. He dismissed the waiter with a substantial tip as soon as the initial glasses of champagne were poured, and waited for Sydney .

It wasn't his drink of choice.  He much preferred a fine red wine, but he had to admit, for a champagne the Perrier was superior in both quality and flavor.

He paced over by the terrace, leaned against it with one arm while he stared out the window. His face was expressionless, his mind going over every possible problem that might arise during their mission tomorrow. All in all, he felt they had an excellent chance at succeeding brilliantly. Provided Sydney did her part correctly.

She came into the room behind him, a whisper of silk and chiffon rustling over skin. He turned around, ready to hold out her glass of champagne with a suitably sardonic smile, and the gesture died before it had a chance to begin.

He'd never seen Sydney look quite like this.  The dress was black, but glittered with hundreds of tiny crystals that caught the candlelight and blazed like stars. Strapless, it clung to her bodice tightly, and flared over her hips in a form-fitting swirl of fabric that swayed with every step she took. It was slit up one leg, revealing a tantalizing length of firm, tanned flesh.

He had to force himself to continue forward, to keep his movements smooth so she wouldn't notice the brief hesitation in his gait, or the way his expression froze the instant he saw her.

"Your champagne, Madame Évariste," he heard himself say.

His voice was just slightly deeper than normal.  Because his response irritated him -- damn it, she was hardly the first beautiful woman he'd worked with -- he barely spared her a glance before turning sharply away. He offered her no compliments on her appearance, surely an unmistakable insult to a woman who looked as she did.

"Shall we dine?"

This time, the irritation in his tone was obvious, and Sydney glanced at him curiously as she took her seat at the table. Her hair, he noticed, hung freely about her shoulders, somehow only adding to the allure of her look.

"I'm sorry, were you waiting for me?" she said, her eyes on his face. "I thought we were dining downstairs."

He didn't look at her, merely shrugged, topping off his glass.

"The Évariste's have just returned from their honeymoon, Sydney , and by all reports, still spend an excessive amount of time behind closed doors. It would be out of character for them to eat below after eight hours on a train."

His tone made it plain he thought this was all too obvious, and resented her question. She frowned at him for a moment, but finally dropped her eyes down to her plate. He was deliberately provoking her, and yet she didn't rise to the bait, didn't snap at him or force a confrontation. Sark tried to ignore the burning in his gut, the frustration urging him to pick a fight with her. Somehow, he felt if he could do that, it might put them back on even ground. Might erase the odd sensation he'd felt when he'd turned around and seen her tonight.  

It had punched him hard and fast, knocked the wind from him. And he didn't like it. Didn't like that anyone had the power to do that to him.

"This is good," she said suddenly, and took a sip of her champagne. Her eyes watched him over the glass, wary and measuring. She knew something was wrong, was trying to keep things amiable.

He couldn't have stopped his next scathing comment if he'd tried. And he didn't.

"What a bloody relief," he said, taking an insolent swallow of Perrier. "I'm so glad the Évariste's dining preferences meet your exacting standards."

He expected a response to that, but none came. Her silence finally goaded him into looking across the table at her. She was sitting in the glow of the candlelight, utterly still, her face empty of expression. The flickering of the tiny flames sent shadows chasing across her face, gave the slightest illusion of hurt to her eyes. As he watched, she slowly reached down and placed her glass back beside her plate. She gave it a small adjustment as if its exact position were of vital importance, and then placed her hands on the table.

He felt something slide through his gut, an emotion he couldn't quite identify. It made him regret his words, just barely. They hadn't gotten him the reaction he'd hoped for, and he found this quiet, unresponsive Sydney unsettled him. 

Somehow, he'd lost his balance, and he didn't know how to get it back.

"If we aren't dining downstairs," she said finally, her words slow and careful, "I don't think I'm hungry. If you'll excuse me." 

She didn't look at him as she stood and walked from the room. She shut the bedroom door with a final sounding click.

Sark let out an irritable, explosive sigh, and pushed back from the table. Most of the meal lay uneaten. Nearly three hundred dollars of food and drink gone to waste.  He wasn't sure if he was more annoyed with himself or Sydney, but he tossed back the rest of his champagne, poured himself another glass.

He determined not to go to bed until he knew she was asleep. He wanted no more contact with Ms. Bristow tonight. In his present mood, any interaction could only be dangerously volatile.  And he wasn't sure for whom it would prove the most dangerous.

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