SEQ CHAPTER h r 1 This is my first Alias fic, written to get myself out of a rut of unfinished Stargate fics.

Genre: Slightly pointless romance and angst.

Summary: A mission with Vaughn proves slightly more difficult than usual for Sydney. S3.

I value all feedback, good, bad or ugly - as long as it's constructive, it's welcome. Please let me know what you think.

Table for Two

His hand on my back, the slightest of touches, sends my nerves tingling. He does this well, this acting. His smile is genuine as he looks down at me. His touch is sure, his walk the close, possessive stance of a man taking his girlfriend out to dinner.

I almost believe it.

I instantly dislike the restaurant. The lighting is too dim. The tables are small, separated from eachother by expanses of floor that suggest most of the patrons are couples, wanting privacy and personal space. Some of them are dancing on the open dance floor towards the back. Soft music. Flowers.

I feel exposed in the black dress. It's a useful item of clothing, short enough to allow me to run if I need to, but long enough that the slight bulge of the holster strapped to my thigh is almost imperceptible. My arms are bare and I can feel every time he steps close enough for the fabric of his shirt to brush against my skin. The warmth I feel is not only from the central heating - which is turned up far too high, in any case.

I pull away slightly, unable to bear it. He frowns but knows better than to chastise me out in the open.

I scan for the exits instinctively, and studying their accessibility helps to keep me focussed on the job. The waiter leads us to a table in the corner. Vaughn gets in before him to pull my chair out for me and it's then up to me to make it look as if I expect it. Smiling.

As Vaughn sits opposite and the waiter assures us that everything on the menu is delicious, I pick up the folded card and flip through it. Trying to avoid his gaze.

Leaning across the table, he says softly. "We've done this before, Syd."

I flick idly through the menu. Anything not to look at him. "Of course." I say. "It's a standard op."

"No." A slight pause. "I mean masqueraded as a couple."

Of course I know what he means. I push my hair back out of my face and run my eyes down the menu.

"You've had better training in this than I have," he goes on, low-voiced. "Holding your cover with Sloane. You know you have to make it believable. Right now, Syd, you're not doing a very good job. We don't want to attract attention. If there's something wrong, you need to tell me, so that we can reconsider doing this tonight."

I look over the tables of men and women enjoying a Saturday night out. It's cold outside, but that hasn't stopped the flow of restaurant-goers from braving the night air. Most of the tables are full.

"Im fine." I say.

"Syd -"

I look up from the menu and put on my best ready-for-anything smile. "Im fine. Really."

Vaughn sighs. I make an effort to look like a girl on a date. Like Vaughn said, one of the best ways to maintain cover is to believe. Some actors, I've always thought, become their characters - even if it's for the short time they are on camera or stage. I suppose that's the same thing we've been trained to do. It scares me, sometimes, how easy it is to slip into a role - to play a high-flying party girl, a nerdy technician or a loyal agent of SD-6. But now what frightens me is that I can't find the persona that is me dating Vaughn.

He's married, forgodsake.

Fortunately, the waiter appears to take our orders. I order the first thing on the menu, which turns out to be stir-fried vegetables in an Asian sauce. Then I remember that I don't like Asian food.

I concentrate miserably on the small flower-arrangement in the centre of the table and try to stop my thoughts from wandering. They do anyway and I find myself wondering if he's thinking about her now. Lauren is beautiful, I'll grant her that. Intelligent. She obviously loves him. I'm pretty damn sure he loves her. They're happy together, and I'm over blaming him for moving on with his life after my disappearance. My death.

Having ones own funeral occurring is a disturbing thing. When I learnt about it, it chilled me to the core and left me sleepless for two weeks. I had begun to wonder who had attended. A morbid fascination, perhaps, yet a fascination nonetheless. Were there flowers? Where exactly on the beach had my ashes been scattered? Had it rained that day, or been fine?

"Sydney."

"Hm?" I reply vaguely, picking at the tablecloth.

"Can you see our target?"

He's staring at me now. I remember with a start that that's why we're here, and look over his shoulder at the crowd of talking, laughing, eating, drinking people. I scan the crowd leisurely. "Over there, near the fountain." I say. "Grey suit. Blonde accompaniment."

He shifts his chair slightly to put him in easier view of the man we're scoping. My gaze drifts easily from the man I'm supposed to be observing to the man sitting opposite me. Caresses his cheek, moves across his chin, lingered on his lips. I know exactly how those lips taste, how they feel beneath my own. His eyes - his eyes are incredible. Had he ever thought it strange that during the brief time we were a couple that I would sit there across the table from him, or on the opposite end of the couch, or propped up on an elbow in bed and hold his gaze for fifteen minutes at a time so that I could just stare into his eyes?

Does Lauren see in those eyes what I see?

"He's got a bodyguard near the back wall," Vaughn says. "And another one near the door."

Good for him.

"Sydney. You're really not yourself tonight," he turns back to look at me. That's exactly what I don't need right now. "Tell me."

I lick my dry lips and contemplate sending a note of congratulations to the proprietor of this restaurant about the perfect timing of their service. I nod my thanks as the waiter places a steaming dish before me and another before Vaughn. Food gives me something to focus on that's not my partner on this mission and I take a bite of the stuff. Not bad, I guess, but not good enough to convert me to Asian food.

"This is good," Vaughn comments, motioning to his chicken teriyaki. Forcing my regard away from the safety of fried vegetables. I watch him take another bite, slipping the morsel between his lips and savouring the taste of the sauce.

This is not good.

In all truth, I think the best thing to do would be to call off the operation tonight, go back to my hotel room and have a shower. Cold shower. Watch some TV and pilfer some potato crisps while the CIA is paying for them. And have a nice, long, sleep. Preferably dreamless.

"We've got a few days here, Syd." Vaughn says conversationally. "We have got time to play around with. This operation needs to go down perfectly; if your not feeling up to it, we need to reschedule."

"No," I say, forced smiling again. "We should do it tonight. If we lose track of him again it could be too late."

He nods, accepting this, and I'm glad that he lets the silence last until he has finished his meal. He asks for the wine list while I'm still choking down my Asian, and orders a bottle of Shiraz. I watch over my fork as he pours the deep red liquid into two glasses. He gives me a vague half-smile as he hands me a glass.

I gulp it too fast.

"Listen, I know things have been weird between us for a while now."

No, please don't talk.

"Since ... everything. Lauren."

Ah. He's about as articulate as I'm feeling now.

"But we both had the choice of requesting a transfer. Neither of us did - and I'm glad for that. That doesn't mean that things are any easier. But we do need to work together, Syd."

"You really love her, don't you?"

Oh, good Lord no. I didn't just say that out loud. I didn't. I'm out of my mind!

His eyes soften slightly and he gives a little sigh of breath. "Yes," he says, fingering his wine glass. "Yeah, I do."

For heavens sake, he married the woman. Of course he loves her. What's wrong with you, girl? I can't hold my smile. It slips and I know right now I look like I've taken a great big bite out of a particularly sour lemon. I cover it up with another sip of wine and check my watch. Still another forty minutes until the call comes through. Oh, this is bad. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ask a personal question."

"S'okay," he replies. "I don't mind. Really, Syd." He laughs slightly. "I like being able to talk to you. It's not often ..."

"We get the chance, I know. Especially since all this stuff with the Covenant started happening." I return, glancing again at my watch. "I like doing what we do - I like making a difference."

"But it would be nice to have a normal life? Yeah. But then, if we had that, would we miss it?"

I nod. "You mean, miss the constant movement, the lying, the nearly-getting-killed?"

"It's been a long time since things weren't about nearly-getting-killed. But I think I could live without it."

"Me too."

Silence falls again, but of a much more comfortable variety. I sip my wine and he sips his. Suddenly he looks up, catching my eyes with his. "Do you want to dance?"

Nearly choking as I swallow, I cover my mouth. "Um," I say at last. "Maybe that's not such a good idea."

He shrugs. "It'll pass the time."

I can't argue with that. Well, sure I could. Should. It's not a good idea, not in my current state.

So why the hell do I say yes? Why on earth do I stand up and take the hand he offers? Is it because I'm trying to do my job? Or is it because I'm trying to believe that this is real?

The instant my hand touches his I know this is a mistake. The tingling is back, in my palm, where his fingers curve around mine. The sense is so sharp that it almost burns me. I fight to keep this from showing on my face, but I know that it's not working.

The dance floor is even more dimly lit than the rest of the restaurant. It means that we have a better view of the restaurant itself, and I suddenly realise why it is that Vaughn asked me to dance. It gave us a clearer view of our target and better access to the exits. Somewhat disappointed, I step in front of him and settle my hand on his shoulder as he slips his around my waist. I try not to stand too close, which is surprisingly hard when one is trying to dance.

The music is a soft, slow piece. It's easy to find the steps to it and keep in rhythm. I follow Michael's lead. He moves so easily. It feels so right to move with him.

"Sydney -" he says, looking down at me.

I can't stop my hands from clenching his shirt fabric. Brushing over it, knowing that a few flimsy pieces of cotton are the only thing between my fingers his smooth, tight skin. I hang my head so that maybe he won't see in my eyes the thoughts that are running through my head. I want him to tell me that he feels the same way about me. I want him ...

I want him to make me believe.

My eyes burn with tears.

"Sydney."

I want to hold him like this ... I want ...

"Sydney?"

I look up. His eyes are unreadable, deep, serious. He cups my cheek gently with his hand, his fingers brushing delicately across my skin. Every instinct I have urges me to reach up, to meet his lips with mine. To kiss him.

He turns my head gently, until I'm looking across his right shoulder. Across to the restaurant. Where our man is standing up, holding a hand out to his blonde attachment, readying himself to leave.

"Time to move, Sydney." he says, pulling away slightly.

I ache with the lack of his warmth.

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