Planning to meet at the park had seemed like a good idea two days ago. That was before the weather shifted drastically, turned into muggy and a temperature hovering somewhere just above a hundred degrees. Two days ago, they had both felt like a good, long run. Today, it is hard enough to walk around with the heat pressing in on you — stifling breath, inspiring sweat at the slightest movement — much less jog.

He does it anyway, because that is the plan. Feet pounding across the dirt path, kicking up clouds of dust, feet a little lazier than usual. It is beginning to get dark here, thick trees hiding what is left of the sun, but the beginnings of night are not bringing any relief in the temperature.

Sweat dripping down his face by the end of the first mile, he is detesting every aspect of this meeting place by the second. They should meet in the frozen foods section of some grocery store next time, he thinks, or perhaps the CIA could invest in a nice ice cream truck. But the end of the second brings the small clearing with the drinking fountain, beside that a rotting-wood bench.

She is not here yet, thankfully, and he stops at the fountain. Extreme relief when he discovers it is working — because this is not always the case — and he tries to force himself to drink slowly, even though the water is lukewarm at best. Footsteps from deeper in the forest, and he assumes it is her; this area of the park does not see much traffic, which is why they often meet here. He splashes some of the water on his face, replacing the sweat, and runs his hands through his hair once before moving to the bench.

He leans over there and pretends to be a winded runner, which is, he thinks, pretty damn accurate today. It is her, and she also stops at the drinking fountain first before heading to the bench. A few seconds after she sits down, he rights himself, tries to calm his breathing some more.

"Next time, Vaughn, maybe we should check the weather forecast." Her face is flushed, bright red, and he thinks his must look the same. She yanks the ponytail holder from her hair and works at pulling the strings of sweat-soaked hair away from her face, back into a new ponytail. "Did you get the files I sent you? There should have been five."

"Yes. Everything came out okay, but it's all still in analysis." He almost has his breathing back under control, and he keeps his eyes focused on a distant tree as she bends down to retie her shoes. "Anything new on your end we should know about?"

He waits for her answer, which should come from somewhere below him, but there is no answer, only —

— her hand, which jumps from the top of her Adidas to a spot just above his ankle. It is hot outside, and he is already exhausted, senses dulled, but he still jumps at the contact. Certainly, she must notice that his muscles tense under her hand as she wraps her fingers around the bottom of his calf.

She holds her hand there for a moment, squeezes, and he wonders if this is some sort of bizarre expression of friendship, comfort, or perhaps the heat has really gotten to her, and then the hand moves. Slips up his calf, to his knee, and Sydney, what the hell are you doing?

Her hand drifts slowly past his knee, hits the edge of his shorts and keeps going. Hotter, even, than the air around them, along his skin, and he is back to uneven breathing. She is not going to stop, he thinks, just keep drifting, drifting, drifting until she touches — there.

It is growing dark, he thinks, and it's likely no one would see them, but it is still wrong — so wrong. Wrong to even think it —

"Just the usual. Sloane is obsessed with some new Rambaldi device, and they're trying to narrow down a location on it. I'll let you know when there's something more substantial."

She is sitting upright, both shoes freshly laced. Both hands in her own lap.

———

The weather has broken by the time they meet again, and she enjoys the chill of night around her as she walks up to the warehouse door. The sky stays fairly clear in this area, few lights on at night to disrupt the view, and she appreciates the speckled stars, crescent moon, before she walks inside.

The place is mostly old, rusted metal, which she hates almost as much as the musty smell. Only one light on, and she can barely see to navigate through the crates. Cold and clammy, but she doesn't allow herself a shiver, remembering how she cursed the heat earlier in the week.

He is seated on one of the crates, seems to have watched her entire entrance, and continues to stare at her as she walks up. She pulls a diskette out of her pocket, smiles through the dim light, hoping to break the intensity. The smile works — he glances down and then back up at her as she hands it to him.

"I'm sorry you had such a difficult time with this one, Syd."

Difficult time, she thinks, doesn't even begin to explain it. Every muscle in her body — in addition to the myriad gashes on her arms and legs — ached even before the plane trip back. Now the sorest parts of her scream in protest, and what she really wants is to go home. Take a hot bath if she can stay awake long enough, crash on her pillow and hope it feels better in the morning if she can't. She sits, fighting the discomfort, on a crate in front of him.

"Your back still bothering you?" That particular soreness stems from a fall during her previous difficult mission, and it had mostly dissipated until this one.

"That and everything else."

"Turn around." A process common for them a few weeks ago, when the pain had been worse. One she had hoped would continue, but "What's my countermission?" just doesn't segue well into "Can you rub my back again, because I like the way you touch me?" She shuffles her feet along the concrete until her back is to him, and braces herself for the first contact.

There are no cuts on her back that she knows of, but it always takes her a moment to adjust to the heat, the feel of his hands, since they can go weeks without touching, when there are no injuries or crises to warrant it. Then they are there, thumbs digging between her shoulder blades, and she concentrates on breathing normally. Down her spine, now, and she wonders how he got to be so good at this. Perhaps the CIA trained him — but no, that would be absurd — and concludes he must just be good with his hands. Good with his hands. Damn it, Syd. She puts more concentration on her breathing, then stifles a moan as he works at a particularly tough knot. Some insane percentage of back rubs end in sex, she remembers, and then —

— he shocks her, kissing her neck. So light she almost can't place the sensation, but those must be his lips, wet on her skin. His hands, trailing around to the front of her blouse, starting on the buttons. Each one allots him a little more space, to work further down her neck, reach her shoulder. Last button, and his hands are nearly in her lap, but he moves them back to her shoulders, slips the shirt from her body.

Vaughn! she thinks she should exclaim. What the hell are you doing? she thinks she should ask. But she is speechless as his lips slide lower and his hands slip back around, just above her bra, and start to move down. She abandons the idea of trying to stifle her moans.

Then his hands slip lower, deeper, dragging across her stomach, until they reach her hips. He pulls her backward now, sliding across her crate and onto his, until she is resting up against him — no distance between them, and it becomes obvious now — if it wasn't before — what the plan here is.

She tilts her head, ignoring the pain in her back, and he obliges, shifting to kiss her lips. The angle is all wrong, she thinks, but it is still wonderful — the way he only brushes her lips at first, as if he needs to ask permission when she is already shirtless. It deepens then, and his hands drift again, this time to the clasp at the front of her bra. And then it is gone — chilly, musty warehouse air on her bare chest, until his hands replace it. His hands feel so good on her, she thinks, so good he needs to touch every inch of her, and —

"Sydney?" He asks, but his voice is not aroused, and her shirt is not on the floor. "That feel any better?"

She wonders if she moaned, and if so, how loud.

———

She always takes the window seat. Eyes seemingly focused on the nighttime city lights flashing past them. Or so he thought until the day he realized she might, in fact, be watching his reflection. He sits kitty-corner from her, back to her unless the train car is empty. In that case, he will turn to face her, but the seat backs will still be between them — a visible, physical wall instead of the imaginary ones he conjures in most of their meetings.

She is returning from a shopping trip, him a Dodgers game. Or so they'll say, if anyone asks. In his case it is the truth. He's not sure about her. She does carry a shopping bag, but for all he knows, it is full of books and she has spent the last few hours in some quiet corner of a mall studying. He forces his mind back to his college days for a second, tries to figure out if midterms are coming up, or if they have passed. He could ask — they have five more stops before hers, and they are finished with work. Countermission detailed, CIA device — lipstick tube, how original — passed over the seat-back wall.

Instead, he says nothing and they lapse into silence. He tries to catch her reflection in the window, but the angle from his seat is all wrong for that. He decides to turn, face her. The young couple that had been necking in the back of the train and were ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine percent not a threat left at the last stop, and so they are alone — this maneuver is safe.

She smiles, gives him one of those sweet, soft Sydney things, slides down a few seats until they are almost back-to-back. Still the wall between them, and he finds himself thinking — strangely enough, and history minor aside, because this is not the time or place — about other walls. Fortresses and defenses. Great Wall of China. Maginot Line. And then —

— she snakes a hand up, rakes it through his hair and it sends chills straight down his spine. Fingers massaging his scalp, tousling his hair, for a moment, before the hand slips around to his chin. Her fingers lock, then, on his jaw, pull insistently until he turns it. Closer to her — to her face, which is suddenly there because she is leaning over the wall — so close he can feel her breath on his face. And then she closes the distance, lips soft for a second and then passionate, eager.

She tastes smoky, he thinks, like the night outside the little train car that reeks of too many people, too much graffiti all over the plastic-and-vinyl. Not the right place to be doing this, not the right time, never the right time for them — and the Maginot Line, he thinks, didn't work, because they went around...

Sydney goes over. Kicks her legs and then the rest of her body up over the wall in some sort of spy-karate-acrobat move and lands just to the left of his lap. And then her lips return to his as if there was nothing unusual about it — nothing unusual about anything that is happening here. She shifts, mouth still covering his, tongue still sending waves of sensation through him, until she is in his lap. Hands rubbing his shoulders, chest, and he barely has time to wrap his own arms around her before she pushes him back. Back into the vinyl, and her mouth is as insistent as ever — ever! as if you have anything to measure this against — but her hands begin to roam.

Down his t-shirt, up under the edge and her hands are shocking-hot on his stomach. He takes a deep breath, tries to comprehend this all as she slides them up to his chest, then back down again. Past the edge of the t-shirt and down to the rough denim of his jeans. She drags them over his thighs, seems to be on a mission to touch all of him before the next stop.

And then she pulls back, eyes dark, even in the harsh fluorescent lighting here. He reacts to this, has been reacting to all of this, and she must be able to feel it, he thinks, with her body pressed against his. She does — of course she does, because that was her plan all along, for who knows what reason, who knows why — and she grinds her hips into him.

Circular, he thinks, everything is circular. His mind, dizzy from all of this. Her tongue, swirling in his mouth. Her hands, tracing ovals on his thighs. Her hips, around and around and around on top of him.

She stops the circles — all of them, all at once. Moans his name around his mouth and moves her hands between them. Nimble fingers on the button, zipper, and then the motion is all vertical, better than the circles, because her hand is —

"There's nobody here," she whispers, still on the other side of the wall. "Figured I'd move."

Right. Move there, not cross the wall. Not jump in his lap and do — all of that.

"So, how was the game?" she asks.

He hopes she doesn't follow baseball. Because he cannot for the life of him remember what the final score was. Maybe, if he can settle his brain long enough, he can manage to cough up who won.

———

She requested the brush pass, wanted it at night. A few hours after she returned, enough time at home to appease Will and Francie, and then out into the crisp cold air. Get these damned documents out of her hands and into Vaughn's, because she has enough to worry about without having to hide some Rambaldi scribblings under her bed.

Her pace is quick — five blocks to cover before she hits commerce, a place busy enough now to make the pass without arousing suspicion. Certainly not the speed of someone "clearing her head," which is what she told Francie. But then, she thinks, she darts out of the house so often that Francie must be convinced she has some sort of bizarre fear of confined spaces.

Vaughn lives somewhere around here, she knows, although she has no idea specifically where. He told her once that they had him move, two months after he took on her case. Standard Agency policy, he said. Made it less suspicious if they happened to frequent the same convenience store, walk past each other on the same semi-crowded street.

Standard. Sometimes, she thinks, usually right before she calls him to meet her, that they both sleep alone somewhere within a square mile of each other. Correction. She thinks he sleeps alone.

Her target is in sight now — a stretch of sidewalk, outside said convenience store. Beyond that a bar, two restaurants, an insurance firm. A crowd milling outside the bar, talking, smoking, enjoying the night, she thinks, and feels a pang of jealousy. She could walk in there, perhaps, sit and have a beer. Ignore the fact that she has to be back at work tomorrow, that she has two essays to finish when she gets home.

She doesn't see him, but that is the point. She will not see him until she is almost on top of the convenience store — a place named "Sam's" that should be homey but isn't, the items inside as generic as any chain. He will emerge, then, and pass her, the tube beneath her overcoat into the paper bag in his hands, and then him past her. She'll walk an extra block, find a way to turn around, and head home — head cleared, apparently. He will continue on his way home — wherever that is — and what happens beyond that she is not sure.

She reaches the curb now, light spilling out of the store windows onto her feet. A few more steps, and there he is. Bag. Tube. Success. But —

— he talks. And that is not part of Standard Operating Procedure here. That is not standard at all. Five words. "Meet me in the alley," in a low voice, meant only for her before he continues walking.

The alley, she assumes, next to the bar. Maintains her pace through the crowd, their smoke and revelry, and turns the corner. A narrow space, little brick fortress, she thinks. It reeks of urine and features only a dumpster and a pile of old cardboard boxes, deeper in, right before it empties into another street. She stands at the front of the place, tense, not sure why he felt the need to do this. Wondering if something is terribly wrong.

It takes him a few minutes to swing around and walk past the dumpster, the boxes, approaching from the other end of the alley. He stands beside them, paper bag still in hand, and stares at her for a moment. "Come here."

She can't think of a good reason why she shouldn't.

Her steps are quick, businesslike, mindful of protocol and SOP, and that this isn't it. "What the hell are you doing?" she hisses, coming to a halt a few feet away from him.

"This." He drops the bag and its random convenience-store items and Rambaldi documents next to the dumpster and takes a purposeful step toward her.

And then his hand is wrapped around her neck and his lips are all over hers, shifting, twisting. She flails her arms for a second, shocked, and then wraps them around him. Traces his back with her hands and decides that it feels as strong, muscular, as she has always thought it would.

He leans into her, and she steps backward backward backward until she feels the brick wall against her. Rough, scratchy on the back of her head, catching strands of her hair. But she does not care, because his mouth is hot — so hot — on hers she thinks she can sense every last fragment of his need.

She has no idea why he decided to need her tonight, to this degree — to the point where they would have to meet in this back alley, where he could shove her back against the bricks and attack her mouth with a feral intensity she's never felt before out of any man and never could have expected from Vaughn. But there they are, his hands, pulling at her overcoat, running up and down her thighs. Finding the edge of her pants, inching further, and he'll stop now, she thinks, because he couldn't possibly continue, he couldn't possibly let this go on. He'll stop and he'll realize and he'll say he's so sorry.

He does stop. But he says nothing. Withdraws his hand, shifts slightly against her lips and takes a half step closer, pushes her further into the wall, and his need, she thinks, is somewhere just beyond the nth degree. She wants him to push harder, anchor her to the wall, push her up against the scratchy brick and —

He is gone. Somewhere on the way to wherever it is he lives, and she is still standing in the middle of the sidewalk outside the convenience store. No furtive words, no alley, no feeling of his body pressed against hers.

She has no idea how long she has been standing here. Realizes she needs to cover and pulls at the sleeve of her coat until her watch is visible. Makes a small show of checking it, seemingly contemplating the time.

She thinks maybe she will go into the bar and have that beer.

———

The library is two hours to closing and nearly empty, he notes, strolling quietly through the front doors. He considers — not for the first time — that perhaps he should buy a backpack. That maybe it would help him fit in here, make him feel less out of place. He's dressed casually enough — tennis shoes, jeans, t-shirt, and a sweater for the evening chill. But it is still not enough to shake the sensation of being obvious, of being too many years from late-night beer runs and all-nighter research papers to fake it properly.

A backpack, he thinks, the icon of college. Enough to make super-spy Sydney Bristow seem like someone's future lit professor. He could buy one, replace his briefcase. Use it to hold classified folders, take it to work and wait for Weiss to comment. Or he could get on with his damn brush pass already.

He glances at his watch, makes sure the time is right, and walks silently across the first floor until he reaches the door to the stairs. Through it quickly, and the stairwell is barely lit, dim light coating the gray concrete floor and white cinderblock walls. He listens for the sound of footsteps that could possibly not be hers, but likely are, given the sparse population here tonight.

They are there, swift and purposeful a few floors up, and he begins his ascent, equally quick. Steps two at a time until he reaches the landing on the third floor, and he can see her coming down.

The stairs are empty, and they could probably stop to talk, but this is not the plan tonight, not open for deviation. A simple brush pass — her down the stairs, him up, diskette from her hand into his and then he will continue on his way up the stairs. Pretend to get lost in some book for a half hour or so, and then head back to work to get the thing in analysis.

She does not look at him as she descends the stairs, diskette in hand, covered mostly by her fingers, and he wonders why they bother with the pretense. Five steps away from him, four, three, two, and his hand is out, waiting for the diskette —

— but it never comes. She reaches up, places her hands on his shoulders. Halts his momentum and then pushes him backwards — back back back until he hits the wall, feels the handrail dig into his spine. He opens his mouth to speak, but what is he supposed to say? That this isn't anything close to proper technique for a brush pass? That the big group of nobody here at the library might see them?

The hand with the disk darts behind him, slips it into the back pocket of his jeans, and then returns to his chest. She stares at him for a brief moment, hands trapping him against the wall, before stepping closer, hips into his, and grazing his lips with hers, parted just slightly. He responds, doesn't stop to think of anything beyond shock and sensation, and the sensation is unbelievably good. Her lips are so soft, so perfect, he thinks, slipping his tongue slowly between them, perfect enough to ignore the wrongness of all this. The place and time and protocol — all wrong and all paling in comparison to her fingers, firm and tracing winding lines across his cheek, neck, shoulders.

She pauses for a moment — to tell him this was a bad idea, a mistake, he thinks, although he's never seen anyone make a mistake with this kind of determination before — reaches to her own shoulders and shrugs off her backpack. It hits the concrete behind her with a loud thud, reverberating throughout the stairwell, and then her hands are on his chest, lips back to covering his. She moves her hands again, slowly slipping down until they reach his jeans, fingers fumbling at the button and Sydney, that can't be what you want to do here, now.

It is, he realizes. It is as nimble fingers work through button, zipper, boxers, desperate and aggressive as she pulls everything down, abandons his lips and takes him in her hand. He rolls his head back at the contact, at her firm fingers, and it slams against the cinderblock as he watches her head descend. Sydney, Sydney, Sydney, you can't possibly...

His knees begin to buckle when her lips make contact, and he locks his hands tight around the handrails, uses them to keep himself vertical. Forces himself to stop questioning this chain of events, to believe that this really is Sydney Bristow, really her mouth hot and wet around him. He snaps his head back again as she starts to move, and his death grip on the handrail almost isn't enough. Somehow, he forces himself to look back down, to meet her eyes, dark and drinking in his reaction. Enjoying the fact that he's been whispering her name like some sort of fucked-up mantra for he doesn't know how long now.

She increases her pace — just slightly, just enough that he's reeling even more, that he's not sure if he can handle any more of this. Closer now to shouting her name, shouting it so it echoes up, through to the top floor. So close, too close, too much, because there's never been another woman that's done it like this, that's made him feel like this, and —

He can hear her footsteps, somewhere between the first and second floors, now. The diskette is firm, tangible, in his hand, and he slips it — instinctively, almost — into the back pocket of his jeans. Forces himself to stop standing there, to ignore sensations, reactions, and begin to walk up the stairs.

One at a time, he takes them, reality clear and physical as the disk in his pocket. Reality doesn't stop him from feeling the need to reach up and rub the nonexistent bump on the back of his head. It isn't enough to keep his legs steady on their journey to some higher floor.

He'll give himself a little more than half an hour this time, he thinks.

———

It's a good thing no one can see them, she thinks, because they must look absurd. It is nearly midnight, and she is exhausted, wanting only to get home and get some sleep before she flies out again in the morning. Still wearing her suit from work, black jacket, long black skirt that necessitates the pumps that are currently killing her feet.

Vaughn is also still dressed for work, she notices immediately, and so they are two people in business suits meeting in the weeds beneath a highway bridge at midnight. There is not even a fragment of normal in that, she thinks, walking around the front of his car.

He has been leaning against the driver's side door, but straightens at her approach. Notes her clothing, she thinks, which must tell him a lot about her day. And her his. She looks at the suit, the tie long since loosened, and stifles a smile as she imagines him tugging at it in frustration — wants, just once, to actually catch him doing it, instead of just seeing the end result. She wonders if he has been at the office all this time, or if he went home — to the place somewhere around their convenience store — and never bothered to take the suit off. If he wears the uncomfortable things so much they feel comfortable.

"Sorry to call you out here this late," he says, interrupting her reverie. "I have something for you."

He takes a few steps toward the rear door of his car, opens it slowly and —

— puts his hands firmly on her shoulders, leans in to kiss her. She responds instantly, instinctively, to the feel of his lips pressed against hers, wonders what prompted this, and tries not to think about the repercussions.

It seems the kiss is over before it begins, so quick her mind is reeling, trying to process it and drawing a blank. He pulls away. To apologize, she thinks, to say he never should have done that because there is all this protocol and danger and of course that's why they can't do the things she wants to do.

No. None of those things, she realizes, as his hands push, gentle but insistent, on her shoulders. She staggers backwards, not sure where this is going, but sure of where she wants it to go. His hands slide around to her back before she reaches the doorframe, pulling her toward him, folding her until she is through the door. His car still has that new-car smell, she thinks, a little dizzy and irrational as her back hits the cushion, and she realizes that she is lying half-in and half-out of Michael Vaughn's backseat at his insistence.

His hands slip from her back, reappear at her ankles, just above the painful shoes. Raking up — calves, knees, and then taking the skirt with them over her thighs. It bunches around her waist, and his intentions have been obvious, but it is still a shock to her as his fingers, hot on her skin, slip beneath the elastic of her panty hose, catch that and her underpants. He drags them from her quickly, bunches everything at her ankles and pulls them off, along with the uncomfortable shoes. She is not sure where they land.

And then there is nothing but night on her. Chilly, fresh air and then his mouth, just above her knee. Tiny, delicate kisses, lips brushing her thigh as he works his way up. Farther and farther and what prompted this, she wonders, what made him decide to make her head spin?

She shudders against him when his tongue reaches its final destination, starts in a slow spiral that makes the blood pound in her ears and her body feel like it is on fire. She decides she doesn't care what prompted this. Cares only that it feels so unbelievably good she can only moan his name at regular intervals, when she can no longer contain a reaction.

She reaches down, runs her fingers through his hair, holds his head close. Like he ever had intentions of going anywhere. He is determined, perfect, she thinks, increasing his pace slightly, sending more waves of pleasure through her. And she shouldn't, but she wants more, wants to buck against him, because this is too good, too excruciatingly good, and she can't take much more. But he places his hands on her hips, firm there, and holds her still. She finds she is getting close anyway.

She is going to scream when she comes, she thinks, because she hasn't felt like this in so long it's maybe ever —

"Op-tech says there may be a flaw in the new cameras." His hand — not holding her hips still, not even close, because she is still fully clothed, and still standing beside him — reaches into the backseat and pulls out a small box. "So they said to have you take one of the old ones, just in case."

His hand brushes hers as he passes the box to her, and she tries — fails — not to tremble at the contact. Either he does not notice or he does not say anything.

"Do you remember how to use the old ones?" She puts all of her energy into keeping his mouth out of her gaze, trying not to think about it, think about his tongue, because if that becomes her focus, she just might explode. Explode, or maybe turn into a little puddle here amongst the dust and weeds. Maybe throw him up against the car and tell him he has got to make this a reality. She thinks he probably would.

She starts on a "yes," but there's nothing there. Clears her throat and tries again. "Yes."

"Okay, then. Good luck."

———

She was agitated over the phone, this is all he knows, and it could mean a number of things. Perhaps she wants to talk — her father, her mother, or both. Perhaps there is a new mission, new information, a new obsession for Arvin Sloane. Or perhaps she will come here, preparing to run for her life. Always a possibility, there in the back of his mind.

He is here, at the pier, regardless. She's interrupted nothing but the usual routine of his Friday nights — five men at a bar, too much beer and not much else. He pulls in a few deep breaths of the salt air, tries to sober up, clear his head. The moon is full and the ocean is rough beyond the railing, but he can still hear her footsteps. Slow enough, he thinks, across the wooden boards, not to be panicked —

She likes the blackness of the late-night sky, the way his silhouette looks against it, against the deep blue of the ocean. She likes little else about this night. Especially doesn't like the interruption, that everything felt normal for once, and Arvin Sloane ended that with a phone call. Urgent mission, so drop everything. Forget your life, forget your friends, and head for the airport.

And she did. Told Francie she was so sorry, but it was the bank, and urgent. Walked to her room and pulled the perpetually packed suitcase from her closet, sucked up her three margaritas and headed for the door. At least Will knows enough now not to press her, and she slipped out the door almost too easily, one more feeble, guilty "Happy birthday" for Francie before she left. She called Vaughn on her cell phone during the walk to her car, knew that somehow he would still be here before her, and he was —

"Hi," she says softly, taking a position on the railing, five feet away. "I'm sorry to call you out here." He turns his head, just slightly, to look at her. A little surprised at what he sees. A thin sweater over a red dress, one that drapes just right over too many places, hugs too many curves too well. He forces himself to stay focused on her face, because it wouldn't take much of that at the rate he's been going lately —

"What's going on?" He asks her, concern clear in his voice. In a nutshell, Vaughn, my life sucks, I'm sick and fucking tired of being a spy, and I just left my friend's birthday party so I could fly to Buenos Aires.

"SD-6 is sending Dixon and I to intercept a Rambaldi device K-Directorate is supposed to transfer in Buenos Aires tomorrow. We fly out in three hours, but I wanted to meet with you first." He stares out over the ocean, coming up with her countermission-on-the-fly. So intense, so focused on her, it makes her think, she shouldn't think —

"We don't want to risk anything on this short of notice. Do you still have the other camera?" She nods. "Okay. If you can get any shots of the device, do it. Otherwise we'll cover any observations you have at your next debriefing." Another nod, her eyes focused on the waves beneath them. Still upset, he knows, and they haven't reached the root of it —

"Are you okay?" He asks her, and the answer is no. No, she hasn't been okay in years, and tonight is just a microcosm of that. But this is not what she tells him. "It's Francie's birthday, and I had to leave her party, and I just feel horrible for doing it. I was having — I was having a really normal night. A really good night — "

"Sydney, it's not your fault," he tells her. Not sure if it helps, if it makes any difference.

"I know." She smiles, thin and sad. He can see her shiver under the sweater, knows the sadness on her face, even if there isn't enough light here to catch it, and he aches for her —

He gives her a full glance, enough for her to see the pain in his eyes as he takes a few cautious steps forward. Close enough to wrap his arms around her, to pull her into an embrace. And it isn't a good idea, she thinks, because they are out in the open, and touching, and clearly together, but it is past midnight, and she doesn't really give a damn anymore —

Hugging her was a bad idea, he thinks, bad because it's against all the rules — written and unwritten. But she looked so sad, so cold, pressed up against the railing, the breeze whipping at her red dress. And she feels so right in his arms, no longer shivering, chin pressed against his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispers, but does not elaborate. There are plenty of things to be sorry for, and he might as well cover them all. She says nothing, but shifts her chin, moves her head just enough to press her lips lightly against his —

She can feel the desire well in her at the contact, at the closeness. At the way he responds, instantly, and doesn't seem surprised in the least by the kiss. His hands roam her back slowly, keeping her close to the warmth of his body, to the softness of his lips. She steps backward until she feels the railing, solid behind her. And him, firm, comforting, in front of her, hands beginning to drift now —

He starts at her knees, just below the hem of her dress, and moves slowly, savoring the softness of her bare skin. Slowly, so slowly, he drags his fingers up her legs, waiting for her to protest, to say they should stop, to tell him this goes way beyond comfort. She leaves his mouth, but says nothing, lips meandering across his chin, down his neck, and he groans when he feels her teeth —

His hands, the large hot patches on her thighs, halt for a moment, fingers tightening, when her own hands slip behind his jacket, slide into the scant space between jeans and body. She pushes down, as far as they fit, fingers spread across the flesh of his hips and pulling him closer to her, as his hands reach her ass —

His fingers are looped around the strings of her underpants, her hands sliding around to the button of his jeans before he can even stop to think. Stop to think and tell her to stop. Because they should, because this can't be real and they can't do this here, but she's at the zipper now. This is where mistakes are made, he thinks, where the here and now is too damn good to be overshadowed by consequences and repercussions and protocol —

She is vaguely aware of her panties as they fall around her ankles, of stepping out of them. More aware of her current task, of trying to focus on jeans and boxers and the fastest route beyond them. Carefully trying not to think, to consider what a horribly bad idea this is, that it's dangerous and they'll regret it —

His fingers shake slightly as he slides them back up her thighs, brings them to a halt on her bare hips. Checks her eyes carefully, to make sure she still wants this. And she does, and he does, regardless of the details and the complications —

He kisses her once more, tenderly, before he enters her. Slow and good and deep, her back pressed against the railing, legs wrapped around him as he begins to move —

and she feels so good. So amazingly good, so wet and tight against him, her breasts and the red dress pressing against his chest. He starts slowly —

and faster, so fast she gasps, digs her fingers into his back. So fast it won't be long now —

close, so close, he thinks. So close together, because he can feel her —

I need someone in my life to be real —