a/n: thanks to sallene for her advice!

Missing You

            "Geez, Julian, put the gun away," Ilene scolded. "I thought you'd want to see Sydney."

            Sark sighed and tossed his gun on the kitchen counter. He spun around and shut the damaged front door. He started pacing back and forth, running his hands through his hair. He watched the two women, in particular Sydney, who looked . . . stunning.

            He stopped abruptly. "Sydney, don't misunderstand me—I'm glad you're here—but I may end up accidentally killing someone if I am summoned like this again." He shot a reproving glare at Ilene, who held up two hands.

            "I knew you'd want to talk," she said defensively.

            "Ever heard of using the blasted phone?!" Sark shot back. He shed his jacket and tossed it over the couch's back.

            "Oh, get over it. We've just been catching up, and here you barged in rudely on our conversation," Ilene said. Sark rolled his eyes. He pulled out his cell phone.

            "Fine. You can call Mom, Dad and Calvin and explain the false alarm," he said, tossing the phone to her.

            She caught it and left the room, but not without shooting a glare at her brother. Sark sighed heavily as he plopped down on the couch next to Sydney.

            "Well," she began, "I can see you've kept on your toes." Sark shot a look at her. His anger hadn't settled down, nor his relief, at both situations.

            Anger won out.

            "How could I relax?" he nearly spat out. "I haven't heard anything from you. I didn't know if the CIA's been appeased, or if your father sold my information to the highest bidder."

            Sydney held up a hand. "I know, but things have been—"

            "Busy? I hand-delivered the Retract files and eliminated Strachen, and we both know your mom is losing speed," Sark said. His chest was heaving from the emotions flowing through him. "Besides, I thought you had given up on us."

            That hit home.

            Sydney stood and Sark couldn't help but notice how beautiful she really was. Her hair . . . the casual jeans and black sweater . . . and then her eyes.

            He felt her pain as he looked into them, and instantly felt like the lowest being on earth for yelling at her.

            "Sydney, I'm—I apologize, I shouldn't have gotten angry," he said quickly. He closed the distance between them, but stopped short, realizing he may have crossed a line. He reached out a hand to tuck her hair back, but she caught it mid-air.

            Sark stared at the action, then looked into her eyes. They were moist, and fierce.

            "Don't act like I haven't been in just as much agony," she said between clenched teeth. "I wasn't sure how this would work."

            "Does that mean I'm still on the CIA's list, or that you have had a change of heart?" He braced himself for the pain. But Sydney shook her head, and started her own pacing.

            "You're not on the CIA's list anymore," she said. Sark sat back down. "My dad told them about your visit."

            "And?"

            "Well, his exact words were that you were in his apartment, and that you were no longer a threat," she said. A shy smile started to form on her lips as Sark realized the meaning.

            "Everyone assumed that meant he killed me."

            Sydney laughed, but shook her head. "Not everyone bought it. A select few know you're alive, and they're fine with letting you go."

            "With some convincing on your part," Sark guessed. She nodded, holding her hand over her mouth to hold back a laugh.

            An awkward silence settled between them. Sark finally brought it up.

            "So have you had a change of heart then?" he said. His voice was low. He was trying to be nonchalant, strong, but Sydney always had a way around that.

            "I stayed away," she started, "because I'm . . . I don't know how we can make this work." Sark swallowed. "That doesn't mean I don't want it to work—I do—but how can our lives work together?"

            That silence settled over them like dust. Sark leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He cradled his head in his hands.

            Her question resounded in his mind. "We could . . ." He started to speak but didn't know the answer. "I'll . . ." What? Meet you at a hotel for secret getaways?

            What about here?

            But he couldn't ask her to do that. Not to give up her father, her friends. And I can't make do with sporadic visits.

            "Sydney," he said, looking up at her. "I don't have the answer. But I can't not have you with me."

            Sydney sat down by him.

            "Sark, you know I can't . . ." She let herself fall silent as Sark put a finger to her lips. His fingertip brushed her lips, stroking down. Their eyes followed it as he lowered his hand.

            "Don't," he said, whispering. "Don't say what will hurt us both." His eyes felt moist, which was foreign to him, but he wasn't ashamed. Sark, the emotional void, gave in.

            He leaned in. His lips brushed hers, and he felt a sigh escape her mouth. She met him the rest of the way.

            Her arms wrapped around his chest, and Sark held her tightly to him. He ran his tongue over her teeth, and adjusted his kiss. She was so warm, something he knew stemmed from the passion that fueled her, that made her Sydney.

            And there was no way he was going to let that passionate woman slip away.

            Sark pulled back, even placing his hands on her shoulders to give them a breather.

            "Sydney," he started, panting a bit, "will you have dinner with me?"

            Well, more than dinner was planned. It was a date, something that also sounded odd coming from him. Sydney even giggled when he formally asked her out. But she agreed, and crashed at Ilene's for the night.

            Sark went back to his apartment, and Calvin didn't miss the dreamy look on his brother's face.

            Sark picked Sydney up late the next morning.

            "It's an all-day date," Sark explained, eliciting another giggle from her.

            He took her to the sights.

            "When do you ever have time to sight-see on ops?" Sark asked somewhat rhetorically.

            He took her to a movie.

            "I thought a romantic comedy might be better," he said.

            "Better than what?" Sydney asked, sensing some cryptic answer.

            "Better than spy movies," he replied with a grin. "Trust me—they're disappointing."

            He took her to a carousel.

            That might have treaded on something personal to her, but she assured him it was nothing. Sark nodded, and figured it must have been something from her childhood. They laughed like kids and attracted stares from envious people looking for someone to share life with.

            He moved on and took her to dinner.

            The venue of choice was a ranch. It was far from the city, far from everything. On the back of the ranch was a quaint little pond.

            And waiting on a perfectly checkered picnic blanket was a feast that put any country meal to shame.

            The sun started setting. Sydney stared at the orange and pink sky. Nothing interrupted her peace, not even the cork of the wine bottle popping and nearly killing a nearby duck.

            They ate in silence, munching on grapes, ham and croissants. Fine cheeses, fresh jams, and even warm soup.

            Sark gauged her reaction somewhat nervously. She kept looking at the sky, watching the sun as it set lower and lower. The expression on her face . . .

            Is that a smile? Not that he was unfamiliar with it, but he took it as a good sign. Sark grinned to himself.

            "I don't know if you noticed, Sydney, but there's a little boat on that pond," Sark said, standing up. He brushed off stray crumbs from his jeans, and offered her a hand. She smiled, that tight, nervous smile that said she knew something was up.

            The boat was creaky and old, but Sark knew it was sea-worthy. He tested the boat early that morning. Even so, Sydney held out her arms to balance herself. She shot Sark a look.

            "Trust me," was all he had to say.

            They sailed to the middle of the pond, sitting closely to each other. Sark felt her snuggle closer to him. He smiled as a felicity came over him that he hadn't felt since . . .

            Have I ever been this happy? He almost laughed and shook his head. Irina was right about that. I can't be happy without Sydney.

            Sark kissed the top of her head, and disentangled himself from her. She started to object, but he shot her a reassuring look.

            The sun was gone, and darkness fell quickly. Sark reached into his pocket and flicked on a lighter. With a proud glance at the woman of his life, he threw the lighter toward the shore of the small pond.

            Sark heard it hit the shore, and then the hissing whoosh of a chain reaction. The flame connected with the trail of torches he placed around the pond, and in just a few seconds, the water was surrounded by the glow of contained fire.

            Sydney gasped. The surprise turned to awe, and she just stared at how beautiful everything had become in the night.

            Quite pleased with himself, Sark sat down on the boat's wide bench. He straddled it, and leaned back, pulling Sydney to him. He whispered to her ear.

            "I don't know about you, but I'll do anything to make this work."

            Sydney laughed and kissed him. Her eyes teared up and she kissed him again. Two, three, four pecks, each time with a wider smile that grew on both their lips.

            Finally Sydney pulled back, and her face and eyes were still bright.

            "Okay."

            That's all Sark needed to hear.

The End

(for now—look for a follow-up from Syd's POV)