Montreal, Quebec

Her dreams were different, now.

They changed suddenly, and without warning, like an epiphany. It always began the same, the images mostly sensory – the feel of his body, warm and hard beneath her hands; the taste of him achingly familiar, with the residual tang of a fine red wine; the sound of his breath in her ear, his moans as they moved together, his fingers trailing lightly over her skin, making her shiver.

She wasn't prepared for it to change. For the familiar ring of shots fired, or the hot rush of blood over her hands, startlingly bright and red. His blue eyes stared at her in shock and a dawning accusation, before he slumped away from her, ineffectually trying to staunch the pumping of blood from his chest. His mouth shaped words, but no sound emerged. Horrified, she shouted denial, tried to grab him and hold him upright, desperate for him to be all right. It was only when the gun fell into her lap, metallic and heavy, and smelling acridly of gunpowder, that she realized she had been the one to fire, that her hand had pulled the trigger and taken his life. She had betrayed him, betrayed them, shattered the crystal strands of the illusion woven so carefully around them these past months…

"No," she breathed, a broken sound as she watched the life drain from his features, his blue eyes dimming and glazing with death. She lurched forward, the gun spilling from her lap, and grabbed his shoulders with blood-smeared hands. Tears filled her eyes, choked her voice. "Sark, no! No, no, no, no, no, no…please, God, I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to do it…please don't leave me!" The words dissolved into sobs.

She woke to the sound of her name on his lips, spoken forcefully and laced with a concern he could not hide.

"Sydney." His hands were on her shoulders, gently shaking her awake. "Sydney, wake up! You're having a nightmare."

She opened her eyes, felt the dampness of tears on her face, and found herself staring up at his intensely blue gaze, familiar, and thankfully alive. Relief flooded her limbs, left her trembling and weak. She buried her face against his chest, grabbing him forcefully enough to bruise flesh. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut as she tried to force away the vivid image of him, naked and splattered with blood.   Dead.

Troubled, alarmed even, he held her gently and stroked her hair until the fine trembling in her body ceased. They'd been seeing each other for nearly a year now, stealing moments whenever they could find them, on missions, with clandestine meetings in foreign places, like this one, and nothing like this had ever happened before. He tried to think how he should proceed.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly. "You were shouting, and crying in your sleep." He thought it best to omit, for now, that she'd screamed his name in a voice filled with fear and anguish. The sound still rang in his ears. It unnerved him, badly; in fact, he couldn't remember the last time anything had unsettled him so much.

Her voice was muffled against his chest. "It's nothing," she said, "just a bad dream." Her hands tightened slightly on his arms as she said it, and he frowned, sure there was more to this than a mere nightmare. But something told him not to press, so he didn't.

"Must have been some nightmare," he said, his tone intentionally bland and noncommittal.

She lifted her head, looked into his eyes, and brushed the hair from his forehead with light fingers. She was finally relaxing, her death grip on him easing, but he could see something lurking in the depths of her green eyes, something haunted and fearful. It was unlike Sydney to be afraid. He'd seen her face down men armed with submachine guns without blinking an eye, and yet something as simple as a nightmare had her shaken. He couldn't decide whether he was more irritated or concerned, both by the emotion, and her lack of explanation for it.

Rather than say anything else – he knew, somehow, that more conversation would invite an argument, and he didn't feel like arguing with Sydney in their last hour together – he leaned in and kissed her lightly. It was meant to be soft, and maybe even comforting. Her instant, intense response surprised him. She made the kiss something more, something hungry and passionate, and stirring, her mouth moving over his in a way that felt almost desperate. For a moment, he kept the feelings she roused at bay, hesitant to respond, and allow the events of a few moments ago to drift away. But Sydney was insistent, and she was leaving in an hour, and she obviously didn't want to talk about it…her body pressed against him as her tongue entangled his, and after a brief second, Sark consciously let go of rational thought. He grabbed her waist, rolling her over beneath him as he returned the kiss, nipping at her mouth lightly.

He mentally filed away the strange incident for closer inspection later, gone for the moment, but by no means forgotten.

* * * * *

Her limbs were heavy, her mind and body tired as Sydney boarded the flight back to the States. Part of that was the pleasant languor of really good sex, but it was also the tension left by her disturbingly real dream. At least Sark hadn't asked any more questions.

She smiled mechanically at the flight attendant she passed on the way to her seat, stored her small bag in the overhead compartment, and sat by the window. Going home made her feel…depressed. Back to the CIA and SD-6, back to the double life she led. Sometimes, now, she felt like it was actually a triple life. For almost a year, she'd lied to everyone about this development with Sark. Only Francie knew anything about it, and that was a version full of half truths and omissions. She kept telling herself it would end soon. He would stop calling, they would stop meeting each other, and their missions would go back to professional rivalry, instead of trying so hard to figure out how not to be at odds. Business was something they didn't bring up, ever, in their private moments together. But she knew both of them made special effort in the field, not to confront one another. It made the game of winning and losing much more difficult to play, but Sydney didn't mind. She preferred it this way. Her hands curled together in her lap. What else could they do?

She rested her head against her seat, closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep on the flight home, but feared the nightmare would return. She spent a restless seven hours until the plane finally touched down in L.A., sleeping only fitfully, not heavily enough to dream. She collected her bag, wondered briefly if Francie was home yet – her friend had attended a wine tasting weekend in Napa Valley, and as far as Sydney's work and family knew, so had she. I'd better make sure I ask her some details, she thought as she smiled, again mechanically, at the flight attendant on her way out. So I can use a few in conversation with everyone. It was strange, how natural the lies had become.

Her mind was already on work when she exited the gate, thinking about what she'd say to Dixon, to Sloane, to Weiss, and her father. She stopped suddenly, so abruptly the man behind her cursed and bumped into her. She didn't move, barely even heard him as he swept by with an irritated, surly comment. Her mind had gone blank, her hands so numb her carry-on slipped from her fingers.

He stood waiting for her, his hands in the pockets of his long gray trenchcoat, his expression as grim and serious as she'd ever seen it. Her heart began a painful pounding in her chest, and her stomach twisted, churning. He knows, she thought dully. Why else would he be here? She forced her lips, stiff and cold as they suddenly were, to move.

"…Dad."

He took a step forward, his eyes never leaving hers as he bent down and picked up her dropped bag, straightened. He didn't speak for a long moment, just stared into her eyes. She had to resist the urge to look away. She felt like she was ten years old again, and caught in the act of doing something horribly, terribly wrong.

"Sydney," he said finally, with perfect calm. "We need to talk."

Los Angeles, yesterday afternoon

He knew something was wrong, had been wrong, for months now. Call it a father's instinct, or maybe just so many years of training and constant suspicion of everyone and everything. Whatever it was, his daughter was hiding something from him.   He'd caught her in lies on several occasions, but had yet to say anything about it. He'd wanted her to come to him, to trust him enough to tell him whatever it was, personally. But six months later, he was out of patience. She'd lied to him again, told him she was attending some wine tasting thing in Napa Valley with Francie over the weekend. She was trained to beat the most sophisticated lie detector, but she couldn't defeat him. He'd had the same damn training, and he was her father.

He had suspicions he wasn't yet ready to voice.   Little inconsistencies in the tone of her reports that set alarms to ringing in his head. He only hoped no one else had noticed -- was reasonably sure they had not.

He made some calls, called in a few favors, did a lot of digging, and now even owed certain people; people previously indebted to him. He was almost sure, finally; just one thing left to do for complete confirmation.

He made sure Francie got the message right before her plane's departure time, waited a day, and then went to see her.   He rang the doorbell to his daughter's apartment with a heavy heart.

"Mr. Bristow," Francie greeted him, opening the door with a slightly puzzled expression. "Sydney's not here."

The leaden weight he felt around his heart grew heavier.

"Yes," he said slowly, "I know. Actually, I'd like to talk to you, if I may."

He could see her puzzlement increase as she nodded and shrugged, opening the door wider to allow him entry.

"Come on in." She closed the door, walked into the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow. "Did you want something to drink? Something to eat? I was just making myself a snack."

Always so courteous, he thought. Even back when he'd had no relationship with Sydney, Francie had always treated him with courtesy and respect.

"No, thank-you. I won't take up much of your time." He didn't even remove his coat. "I was wondering...weren't you supposed to be at wine tasting this weekend?" He felt, for a moment, like a disgruntled parent, trying to track down the recalcitrant teen who'd lied to him about her whereabouts. Weren't those the games children always played?

Francie shrugged, pouring herself a glass of milk.   "Supposed to be, but the tasting was cancelled, due to a family emergency at the vineyard." She smiled.  "I'm not too disappointed. This gives me a free weekend, and I haven't had many of those since opening the restaurant."

He nodded automatically, carefully phrasing his next question.

"Wasn't Sydney thinking of accompanying you?"

"To Napa?" Francie laughed. "I don't think so. She -- "

He saw the moment it occurred to her, the way the laughter died from her face, her eyes going dark and serious. She stared at him for a long moment, silent. Sydney, he thought, a brief, reflexive admonishment, always brief your cover before the fact, not after.

"Where is she, Francie?" he asked, and more importantly, "Who is she with?"

She shook her head, her eyes going from wide and alarmed, to narrow and guarded. "I don't know, Mr. Bristow. But I really don't think it's any of your business unless she wants to tell you."

He'd never been able to fault Sydney's friends on their loyalty. He shrugged, both impatient and a little sad. "It doesn't matter," he said quietly. "I'll talk to her when she gets back, but..." He looked at her, allowing his eyes to warm with concern, to fill with a wordless plea.   "I know she talks to you, more than she does to me. Do you think she's making the right choice with this man?"

She hesitated before replying, but the look, and the worry in his tone, swayed her as he'd known it would. She relented, just a bit.

"She's happier than I've ever seen her," she allowed carefully, "since Danny, anyway."

He nodded, but instead of reassuring him, her words filled him with fear for his daughter.   "Thank-you," he said, and left to track down Sydney's travel information. Sometimes, working for the CIA had its advantages.

Los Angeles, present day

Sydney didn't say anything for the longest time.   She was fighting between dread and relief; dread because her father finding out about Sark had been one of her greatest fears for so long, and relief because someone finally knew the whole truth. Lies were wearing on the soul.

Her father didn't speak, either, his face set in grim lines that boded ill for their future conversation. Sydney chose to look out the car window, rather than at him. He waited until they reached their usual rendezvous point, out in the middle of the industrial area of the city.   At least a private conversation meant it was unlikely he'd turned her in, yet. She was thankful for that. A confrontation with Weiss, or worse, the agency shrink, bore little appeal.

"How did you think this would end?" he asked finally, turning off the engine. Sydney winced at the sharp tone, looked down at her hands. She didn't say anything, and he continued,   "How did it even begin?"   

She looked up, frowning, involuntarily defensive.   "It's complicated."

"Complicated!" His eyes had that narrow, irritated look she knew so well, and it made her back stiffen.   "Sydney, no one knows more than I do about sleeping with the enemy. It's always complicated. But that doesn't excuse it, doesn't explain it, and sure as hell doesn't absolve you of guilt."

The tumble of words spilled out before she could stop herself, deliberately antagonistic. "Don't try to compare this to you and Mom. This isn't even close to the same thing. Sark isn't using me, Dad. He isn't stealing sensitive information from me, or lying his way…" she hesitated, darted a quick glance his direction, "…into my bed." If possible, his face shut down even more, his eyes going cold and hard, burying the hurt she'd just inflicted behind an impenetrable wall.  

She paused, her voice going quiet and hesitant as the urge to lash out drained away, leaving regret in its wake. She didn't want to hurt her father; she just wanted him to understand.

"It's...it's hard to explain."

He looked away from her for a long moment, staring out the windshield of the car. When he spoke, his voice was even and measured.

"You think Sark hasn't been deceiving you?" he asked. "Everything about that man is a deception, Sydney." He looked at her, his eyes glinting. "I know the type."

"The type? Dad--"

"He's not what you think."

The words, spoken with such calm conviction, stilled her arguments, her defensiveness, and filled her with a dull, throbbing dread. Her father knew something, she was certain, and she was equally certain she wasn't going to like whatever it was. She cleared her throat, moistened her suddenly dry lips.

"What?" she asked, her voice sounding uncomfortably weak, to both of them. Her father answered slowly, reluctance in his eyes, his face, his voice.

"Sark is a sharp shooter, Sydney, the kind of natural shot with a rifle, or a pistol, found in nine, maybe ten people throughout the world. I called in a lot of favors to get the information I'm about to disclose to you." He looked away again, took a breath. "It's the sort of thing people die for, or kill to protect. Ten years ago, he was young, frightfully intelligent, quick to learn languages, and equally gifted in picking up physical training. He has a nearly photographic memory. He joined the British SAS three years after falsifying his age to get into the Navy a year early. He served in the Special Forces for three years, before someone in British Intelligence took notice of his talents, and recruited him as an agent.   He was twenty-three at the time.   He showed up on your mother's payroll less than six months later. Only three people in British Intel even know of his existence, and now, the two of us."

Sydney stared at him, open mouthed with shock.   She tried to speak, found she couldn't, and shut her mouth, instead. Her lips trembled. Her father waited, letting the seconds tick by, but she still didn't speak.

"He's MI6, Sydney," he said finally, softly.   "A deep cover operative that only the very top brass know about, and keep tabs on. He's been a mole in Irina's cartel for almost five years."

British Intelligence. She couldn't believe it, couldn't fucking believe it. A year she'd been with him, tossing aside her own loyalties, her family, her friends, to be with a man who was her enemy...only to find out, now, that he wasn't; that he never had been, really.

And he'd never told her.

The rush of anger was hot and sharp, piercing through her with the bitter, acidic taste of betrayal. A small, rational part of her mind whispered that he'd had no choice but to let her believe the worst of him. She thought back to all of the vile things he'd done, helping Khasinau, helping her mother, torturing innocent people, and killing others. It hadn't been difficult to believe; the truth was, she'd never even questioned it. She blinked back tears, held tight to the anger. I can't believe he never told me.

"He let it happen," she said bitterly.   "Let me walk right into it without a fucking word."

Her father looked at her strangely, arched a brow.   "I know he lied to you, Sydney, but think about the situation -- you would have done the same."

Unbelievable. Her father, defending Sark! She glared at him.

"It's inexcusable," she snapped, wounded by her father's apparent, inexplicable defection.

"You aren't...happy, to discover his affiliation?" he asked. "But all this time, you've been with him, meeting him in secret, thinking him a mortal enemy of the United States..." He didn't say the words betraying your country, even though he meant them. Sydney wrapped her arms around her body, digging her nails into flesh.

"Exactly!" she said. "He should have told me, before, given me a chance to get away before it was too late." She could feel a vile headache behind her eyes, and pressed fingers to her temples. She shook her head, trying hard not to cry.   "Damn it, he should have told me! I never would have--"

She bit the words off, flung open the car door and threw herself out into the crisp autumn air. She started walking fast, ignored her father's voice calling after her.   He wouldn't understand; no one would.   She waved him off when he would have followed, managed to choke out a few words for the wind to carry back to him.

"Just leave me alone, Dad. I need...I need some time."

Paris, France

Sark knew something was wrong the moment he entered his flat in Paris. At first, it was an intangible knowing. The apartment appeared normal, exactly as he'd left it more than a week ago -- neat, clean, and with everything rigidly in its place. Yet, his spine prickled with an almost preternatural unease. It might have been paranoia, but Sark preferred to think of it as reasonable caution.

He was holding his Sig and clearing rooms before the first real evidence of wrongness presented itself. In his kitchen, one of the canisters on the counter sat just slightly off from the others, the latch for the lid not lined up precisely forward with military perfection. It was enough to tell him someone had been here, inside his apartment, looking for something. Enough to have him searching every nook and cranny, though he could feel the emptiness of the place, the distinct lack of another human presence. Nothing else was out of sync, nothing else appeared disturbed, but Sark wasn't fooled. He searched meticulously, itemized everything, and what he discovered sent a surge of icy alarm through him.

Only one thing was missing. One, incongruous item was gone, pulled from its secret cache by unknown hands. By most estimations, it wasn't valuable. Whoever had taken it had searched very carefully, and almost managed to avoid detection. It might have been weeks before anyone else would have noticed, but Sark's memory was practically infallible, and his senses honed by the dangerous people he often worked with and for.   And he couldn't afford any mistakes.  

Too late for that, he thought bitterly, replacing the Sig in its holster. Far too fucking late. Not that recriminations would help. Someone had been here, already suspicious enough to search for evidence of his duplicity, and that someone had found, and taken Sydney's scarf. The one he'd sentimentally pocketed on his way out of her hotel room last April. He sat down on the edge of his bed, put his head in his hands.   Only one person he could think of would be that obsessively concerned about his relationship with Sydney Bristow.   Only one person would dare to search his belongings and only confiscate that scarf. Irina knows, he thought, and I've compromised myself.   Bloody hell.

He wasn't sure how much time passed as he sat utterly still, his eyes closed, berating himself for that solitary moment of weakness. I know better, I fucking know better than to let sentiment interfere with business. And yet, he'd wanted something of hers, something tangible he could hold in his hands when she was gone, something that carried her scent, her presence. He'd taken the scarf on impulse, and that impulse would cost him dearly.

His digital phone rang, shattering his reverie, sending a surge of carefully controlled adrenaline though his body. Only three people had this number. He was expecting Irina's coolly mocking tones when he answered. He flipped the phone open, put it up to his ear. "Yes?" he said without inflection.

"Mr. Sark." To his shock, the voice was not Irina's at all.   It was familiar, male, and the person it belonged to should not have had his number.

"Mr. Bristow," he responded, unconsciously raising an eyebrow. "What a surprise."

"Is it?" asked the other man, his tone similarly calm and emotionless. "We need to talk, you and I. I'll name a place and a time, you tell me if it's acceptable."

"All right."   At this point, Sark had nothing more to lose. He was reasonably sure that his first instinct was still correct, that Irina had the scarf, and Jack Bristow's phone call was a disturbing and remarkable coincidence. Mostly because he knew Jack Bristow had remained in L.A. this past week; he was one of the agents Sark kept regular tabs on, for obvious reasons.

"I know of your fondness for good wine, and I've chosen accordingly. Vienna, the Schlumberger Winery, two days from now at ten o'clock in the evening."

"I can accommodate that," Sark agreed cautiously. "Though it seems to me you're taking an incredible risk, trusting me, Mr. Bristow."   It was a probing statement, a quest for answers. Silence followed for perhaps five, six seconds, before Jack Bristow responded.

"For your sake, Mr. Sark, I certainly hope not."

The line went dead immediately after, and Sark snapped the phone closed again. He stared off into space for a long moment, debated making the call that would change his life as he knew it now, utterly and irrevocably. He decided to wait for another few days, just to see how things played out, and told himself he wasn't being foolhardy.

It was just possible something could be salvaged from this situation he'd so carelessly created.  

Vienna, Austria

It was raining in Vienna. It pleased her, obscurely, for the weather matched her mood. She dashed from the airport to a waiting taxi, wished she'd thought to bring an umbrella, or at least a coat with a hood, instead of the three-quarter length cashmere blend she pulled tight around her, ducking inside the car. Her hair was drenched, her face cold and wet as droplets dripped down her neck, trickled inside her collar. She shivered.

Her father, she bet, had brought an umbrella. But then, he hadn't decided on this trip at the last minute, impulsively following someone halfway around the world to spy on them. Instead, he'd gone behind her back, arranged a meeting with Sark without telling her. If she hadn't mistakenly overheard the phone call, she wouldn't have known about it at all.

He should have told me, she thought resentfully, wiping at her damp face and neck with a handkerchief not quite up to the task. This isn't any of his damn business.

The city's lights reflected through the unrelenting black of the night, off rain slicked roads, and the still-falling torrent. At least the rain would help to hide her better, though it would also make conversation more difficult to overhear. And it was cold.

"Hier sind wir, Fräulein," the driver said, stopping as she'd asked him to, a block down from the winery.

"Dank," she replied, handing him double his fee. "Bitte wartezeit hier." In this weather, she doubted that he would actually wait for her, but she hoped he would. She didn't relish a long walk, and she was hoping to remain undetected by both Sark and her father.

The driver smiled, and to her surprise, handed her a folded and well read newspaper. "Dies dürfte helfen," he offered.

She thanked him profusely, smiling in relief.   It might help, indeed. It was certainly better than nothing, and she held the folded paper over her head as she dashed from the cab and down the street. She approached the Schlumberger from the eastern side. From studying pictures, she had a relatively good idea where her father and Sark would meet, and she'd found the best direction to approach, and hopefully to hide herself to observe them. She grimaced as the rain quickly soaked her paper, completely drenched her coat, her hair, her legs, and trickled in tiny rivulets down her spine. Maybe, she thought with a wry smile, the weather is more of a hindrance than I thought.

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