Inevitable
by Celli Lane Feedback: Please? Thank you. :) celli@fanfic101.com
Category: Slash, mission, angst.
Rating: NC-17. R-rated verion available here.
Pairings: Vaughn/Weiss, Syd/Vaughn.
Spoilers: Through the second-season finale "The Telling." Not AU-- quite. Let's just say "pre-jossed for your convenience!"
Summary: Bristows come back from the dead, Rambaldi's last invention is used, and through it all, Eric Weiss waits for the inevitable.
Archiving: CM, Alias Slash, Omega-17. Otherwise, please ask.
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various other people with lawyers. Sadly, this means that neither Vaughn nor Eric belong to me. JJ, sweetie, can you take them back then? Acknowledgements at the end. For Shelley, who all but cowrote this, and Thorne, who I promised it to a year ago.

---

The phone rang just as we were finishing breakfast. I could tell as soon as Mike answered that it was Los Angeles. I took the dishes to the sink and made enough noise so I couldn't listen in.

I could just hear him giving his clearance code, and rattled the plates louder. I hated these phone calls; every time life settled down a bit, every time Mike relaxed and forgot he wasn't allowed to be happy, there would be a new lead or a new question or something and we would be thrown right back in it again.

The sun was warm through the window; the traffic report for the Beltway area was burbling from the radio on the counter. I tried to concentrate on those rather than the glimpses of Mike's profile I could see out of the corner of my eye. Dammit, I thought at the phone. Leave him alone. Jack Bristow beat all his cooperation out of him two years ago. Leave him alone.

He hung up the phone, so I stopped playing with the dishes and turned to him. "What is it this time? Tippin in town for a meeting? One of Marshall's gadgets blew up in his face? Or did they just miss you in L.A.?"

"They found her."

Cliches can come true. For a moment there, I was sure my heart had stopped beating. Then it kicked in again, and I could hardly hear myself over the pounding in my ears. "Sydney?"

He nodded.

"For real this time?" I sounded so...normal.

"She called in. Kendall talked to her himself. She's in Hong Kong."

Hong Kong. Well, sure, why not. Where else is a kickass superspy going to turn up? "When are you leaving?"

He just stared at me.

"Mike." I tried to laugh. "This is Sydney. What did you think I was going to say? You have to go."

"I...I don't know..." He ran a hand through his hair. He'd just gotten it cut; I realized suddenly that he looked exactly as he had two years ago, when Syd had disappeared. "I don't know what to think. I don't know what to do."

I crossed the kitchen and took his hand. It was shaking in mine. "Well, the first thing you need to do is take this ring off," I said briskly. "You don't need to freak her out before you're even in the door."

He looked me full in the face for the first time since the phone call. "I'm not taking the ring off, Eric."

"Vaughn--"

"Don't call me that!"

"I'm sorry. Mike, just--just pack a bag. Are they sending someone for you?" He nodded. "Okay. Get to Hong Kong first, and find out what happened. We'll worry about the rest later."

He stared at me for another moment, then leaned over and kissed me hard. Before I could think enough to kiss him back, he was gone. I heard the bedroom door slam.

I sat down hard on the nearest chair and stared at the gold band on my left hand. It hadn't even been there a year. "Sydney Bristow," I said under my breath. "Damn you and your whole family to hell. Why can't any of you just stay dead?"

***

In the days after Sydney disappeared, our roles became clearly defined. Will Tippin's job was to lie in a hospital bed and moan "Francie" and "Allison" when he was feverish, and demand Sydney whenever he woke up. Mike spent nights at his bedside and days tracking down any possible lead with Jack Bristow. The two of them covered every square inch of Los Angeles--I'm pretty sure they were walking down the street shouting her name when other ideas failed them. Allison Doran lay in a hospital bed a floor up from Tippin and refused to regain consciousness, the bitch.

And me? Well, in theory, I was on the Bristow case. I spent hours on the phone. More hours searching the apartment, the restaurant, and any vehicle involved. The forensics guys still send me Christmas cards. I was the one with a metal detector in the back of the restaurant the day we found Francie's body. She was--I was really glad Mike wasn't there that day.

But, of course, my real job was to keep one Michael Vaughn from imploding. I took his shift by Tippin's bed when he and Bristow had an overseas lead. I dragged him to the building cafe twice a day, and I do mean dragged. I cracked jokes until even Marshall asked what was wrong with me. I started clipping my cell phone to my pillowcase at night, so I wouldn't have to move as far when he called.

So it stands to reason I was the one who found him in the men's room, retching violently.

"Mike! What the--whoa." I caught him as he fell back from the toilet. "Jesus, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm fine." He pulled himself to his feet using my arm and the stall door, and stumbled to the sink.

"Fine?" The bathroom door opened, and I gestured violently at Marshall. It swung shut again. "This is not fine. How long have you been throwing up after lunch?"

"It's not so bad any more." He had his face practically buried in the sink. His voice echoed oddly out of it. "It's just--it's been three months, Weiss. We're looking for her. The FBI's looking for her. Interpol, Scotland Yard, the Mounties for Christ's sake. If we haven't found her by now--"

His voice cracked, and I took a step towards him, but just then the door slammed open. Both Mike and I came to attention.

Jack Bristow had never been a cover model--thirty years of spying had left its mark--but it would be easier to recarve Mt. Rushmore than to erase the new lines on his face. He gave me one quick, cool glance, then focused on Mike. "You all right, Vaughn?"

"Yes, sir." Mike swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Some bad seafood at lunch, that's all."

"There's been a report that one of Sloane's associates was seen in Cyprus."

"When do we leave?"

"Now."

Bristow stalked out, and Mike turned to me. "Uh--"

"I'll take care of Donovan. Go."

I have spent far too much time telling Mike to leave me.

***

Donovan and Allen went for a lot of walks while Mike was in Hong Kong. Poor guys. I went for the leash every time the house started closing in around me. After three days, they probably had the doggie equivalent of shin splints.

Mike called dutifully every night. Kendall had insisted upon a full debrief, so both he and Sydney had to sit through endless repetitions of the standard questions.

"She doesn't remember a thing," he said sometime in the middle of the third day, his voice hoarse and raw. "That's all she can say, over and over. 'I can't remember.' As far as she's concerned, she was...taken...two days ago."

"I know. It'll be okay, Mike." I felt even more inadequate, trying to comfort him from thousands of miles away. "She's back now. You'll make the rest work."

"I wish I had your faith. I told her about her father today." There was a clatter behind him. "Shit. I have to go back in."

"Give her a hug for me." I forced myself to smile into the phone. "Tell her Weiss sends his love."

There was a long silence.

"Eric--" he started.

"Talk to you tomorrow." I hung up on him. And headed straight for the liquor cabinet.

*

"It's not that I'm being noble," I told Donovan that night. He licked my chin happily. The dogs were in heaven with Mike gone; they never got to sleep on the bed. "Well, I suppose I am. But what am I...do I scream and call her names and wave the wedding photos under his nose? Not really my style. Well, the calling her names maybe. She never did forgive me for calling her Spy Barbie that--never mind."

Need I mention that I'd had more than my share of a bottle of Scotch before bed?

"I can't think of a single thing that would make him stay. Too bad I can't get pregnant, huh?" I flopped back and stared at the ceiling. "Do you know, this is the first time we've been apart since the wedding. God, I'm a whiner."

Donovan plopped his snout down on my shoulder and blew snot all over my neck.

"Thanks, buddy, but it's not quite the same."

The doorbell rang. I groaned and dragged myself out of bed. "It's eleven at night," I told the boys, who were barking and jumping like the horrible excuses for watchdogs they were. "The neighborhood better be on fire this late. Oh, stop yapping. What?" I yelled through the door.

"Pizza!" The kid looked really freaked through the peephole. He'd look worse when I was done with him.

"Look--" I yanked the door open. "I'm in bed, moron. I obviously didn't order any--"

There was a red blur, which my foggy vision resolved into the pizza kid being shoved into the porch railing. I whipped my head around just in time to see Jack Bristow's fist headed for my nose.

***

It had been fourteen hours since Mike and Jack Bristow had returned from...where had they gone again? Lima? Milan? Xi'an? Oh, I don't know. All I remember is that wherever they'd gone was faraway and exotic and not where Sydney had been. Again.

I was falling asleep in front of the TV when the phone rang. I fumbled for it. "Mike?"

"It's Jack Bristow. There's been an...incident at Vaughn's residence."

"A what?" I was already on my feet, fumbling for my car keys. "What happened? Is he all right?"

But he'd already hung up. I threw the phone onto the nearest flat surface and headed for the door.

*

"Jesus Christ, Mike, what happened?"

"Nothing."

I blinked. Mike was lying on the floor next to a shattered TV and an overturned chair. Blood was streaming from his nose. "Is this your usual kind of nothing, which requires a 911 call, or will a first aid kit and a cleaning crew do instead?"

"Maybe an icepack?"

I found one in his freezer, grabbed a washcloth from the sink, and was back in record time.

"Here."

"Ow!"

"Sorry. How bad is it?"

"Hurts like a sonofabitch. Nose isn't broken. Maybe a couple of cracked ribs. I've gotten worse playing hockey. You didn't ask who."

"Oh. I figured it was...work-related," I said, for lack of a better term.

"Jack Bristow."

I could feel my jaw drop. "But he's the one who called me!"

"I know. He did it from my phone. Then he kicked me one more time on his way out the door."

"Why?"

"Because he lost his mind?" Mike's gaze drifted to the side. "Oh, is that my TV? Dammit, I liked that TV."

"Vaughn, focus," I said sharply.

"Don't. Hate my name. Hate it. Sydney used to say it--"

I cut that off at the pass. "Okay. Mike. Pay attention here."

He smiled up at me dreamily. "Hey, Eric. Boy, my head hurts all of a sudden."

"Your concussion's probably kicking in." I leaned down to check his eyes, which were very--eye-like. I'm not a damn doctor. "I'm sorry, Mike, but you're gonna have to see--"

He kissed me.

Pay attention here. He kissed me. All right?

I licked my lips. They tasted mostly like his blood. "Let's get your nose stopped up and you to the hospital."

"'Kay."

*

"How are you today?" I asked the next morning at the hospital. He was sitting up, wearing little more than bandages, which kind of answered my question.

Mike held his head. "Hungover, without the fun drunk memories."

"'What's so unpleasant about being drunk?' 'Ask a glass of water,'" I quoted randomly.

"Ha."

"Work's crazy. Has anyone been in to talk to you?"

He shook his head. "Ow. Whenever anyone in a suit comes by, I fake unconsciousness until they're gone. Present company excluded, of course."

"Lucky me."

"Will was here all night, though. Paying me back." He shrugged. "We talked a lot between medications kicking in."

"I haven't talked to him outside work in, well, four months. How is he?"

"Physically, he's fine. Emotionally, he's just as much the walking dead as some of the rest of us. I think he wants Allison to wake up--to tell us where Sydney is, yes--but also so he can look her in the eye and really know she's not Francie. He can't get past it."

I had absolutely nothing to say to that. We weren't any of us getting past this. Bristow, Tippin, Mike all tied to Sydney, and me to them. Or honestly, him.

I hadn't looked him in the eye since I got there. I made myself do it and smiled weakly. "So, did Jack Bristow tell you why he rearranged your face?"

"I told him I didn't want to look for Sydney any more."

Well, holy flying pigs, Batman. "You. Uh. Did?"

He worried at the bandage around his chest. "I told him Sloane's not giving her back until he's good and ready, assuming she's still alive. She's a good agent. If she could escape, she would. There's nothing we can do for her now."

"You--I--wow. And his reaction?"

"From what I heard while getting my ass kicked, he thinks I know where she is. That this is some sort of collusion on my part, and I've been leading him astray all this time."

"Christ."

He nodded. "Also, he's insane," he said, sounding more like his old self than he had in four months. "Did I mention that?"

"I think you did."

"I tried to fight back, but it's Jack fucking Bristow. He's got some moves for an old guy."

"You heard he was reported dead this morning," I said. Even if he'd avoided direct conversation, I was sure he'd heard.

"Will told me." His eyes were cold. "Do you believe it?"

"Not for a second."

"Me either. This is such bullshit. Eric, let's get out of here."

"Out? I think they want you under observation--"

"No, I mean out. Away from all this. You liked Virginia when you were posted there. You're always talking about the beauty of a place with more than one season."

My brain refused to translate his words into concepts. "You want us to take a vacation in Virginia?"

"No. Which of us got hit on the head? I want us to move to Virginia."

"Who's this 'us,' Kemosabe?"

He grinned. My heart flipped over in my chest. Damn it. "You kissed me back."

"I was..." Going to pretend that never happened. "Being kind to a friend with possible brain damage."

"Come on. You know you want to."

It was all a dream, I decided. Considering how melodramatic my life had been lately, a quirky little dream was just what I needed to keep my spirits up. "Fine, I'll run away to Langley with you."

***

As soon as I was conscious, I made a break for the door. Bristow had me flat on the floor in two moves. "Son of a bitch!" I rubbed the back of my head. "Are you trying to give me front and back matching bruises, you sadist?"

"Try again and you'll have side-to-side ones, too."

"You know, Jack, I'd forgotten what a joy it is to be in your company."

"I'm sure. So how long have you been fucking Vaughn?"

If looks could kill, he would have been sliced, diced, sauteed, and frappeed from one blink to the next. "Since shortly before I married him," I said through gritted teeth.

"Hm. I should apologize to Tippin. I didn't believe him when he told me that. Hawaii?"

"Vermont. Would you like to see our china pattern?"

He ignored that--well, it was kind of weak--and went back to cleaning the pistol in his hand. "I take it you didn't believe I was dead."

"Well, I didn't see the stake through your heart personally," I muttered.

"What was that?"

"No, sir."

He set the pistol down and picked up another. "I always thought you showed a certain amount of basic intelligence."

"Wow. Thanks. What am I doing here, Bristow?" Not that I knew where "here" was. I shook my head--damn, my nose hurt!--and focused on my surroundings. It looked like the inside of a van, although we certainly weren't moving. I was half on top of a bedroll that stretched into one corner; two suitcases were stacked neatly not far from me, and Jack was sitting at a card table with a laptop and lots of firepower on it. Jesus, did he live here?

"You're here because, while I trust no one within the CIA, you're the one person who has enough of a vested interest in this mission that you'll do as I say."

"Mission? Interest?" It dawned on me. "You've finally cracked, Bristow. If you think I'm going to help you get Sydney out of CIA custody--"

"As of a few hours ago, she is no longer in CIA custody." Bristow's voice was clipped, and the knuckles holding the gun were white.

"What?"

"A faction of Sloane's organization headed by Sark--"

"Fuck!"

"Precisely--infiltrated the safe house and killed everyone present, except for Vaughn and my daughter. I'm waiting to hear their destination."

"And you have a plan?"

"Break in. Kill Sark. Get Sydney out. And Vaughn, of course."

"Of course." I took the pistol out of his hand. "You have more of these, I assume? And maybe a Stinger or two? This is Sark we're talking about."

"I have a few ideas."

"Do any of them involve clothing? I don't want to storm the castle in my pajama bottoms unless I have to."

***

After a couple of months, I was pretty sure that conversation had been at least partly a dream.

We did move to Virginia. Devlin was indecorously eager to give us transfer recommendations--with SD-6 and the Bristows gone, we were just reminders of bad times. Langley was only too happy to put my MBA and Mike's law degree to good use. He did a lot of the endless coffee-filled meetings the CIA calls "analysis," and I was hip-deep in Russian financial statements most of the time.

We even moved in together. Mike bullied me into buying a house in Alexandria. We each took a bedroom and converted the third into a joint office. It was a nice place, all family photos and sports memorabilia and dog toys. Donovan and Allen settled in nicely and devoted their lives to getting each other in trouble.

But it was the rest of it I thought I'd dreamed. Mike and I worked. We watched TV. I talked him into an Orioles playoff game; he flashed his badge at a stupefied park ranger and made me walk up all 897 steps of the Washington Monument. We didn't talk much about our lives before we moved, and we never referred to our one-and-only kiss.

Every once in a while, Mike would invade my personal space in a way that just made me nervous. Or I'd look up from a book at night to see him leaning against the nearest doorframe, giving me a look that...I can't describe it. Considering? Challenging? Sad, definitely. But when I looked back, he'd fake a smile, unwrinkle his forehead, and go back to whatever he'd been doing.

Other than that, everything was normal. Normal for us.

It was a Thursday night in October, seven or eight months after Sydney's disappearance, when it all changed. I let the dogs into the house, sorting through the usual tangle of leashes and tails and herding them into the living room.

"It's getting cold at night," I said cheerfully to Mike.

He didn't look up from the report in his lap. "You wanted seasons."

Oh, it was going to be one of those nights. "That's why God made leather," I said, tossing my jacket on the back of the sofa. It landed right next to his head. He still didn't look up. I was surprised his glare didn't incinerate the paperwork.

I took myself and a good book to the office. No need to clutter up his bad mood with my disgustingly good one.

I'd probably been in there twenty minutes when I heard Mike's voice. "You should come running with me and the boys tomorrow."

As olive branches went, it sucked, but I accepted it with my usual graciousness. "What is it with you and physical activity? Running and mornings, my two least favorite things."

"Wuss." He was laughing.

"You know my idea of the perfect morning? One during which I'm unconscious the entire time."

There was a charged silence, and I knew before I looked up what I'd see. Mike, leaning against the wall, giving me that look. I knew I was an idiot to let him get to me, but God, that expression made my heart hurt.

This time, though, I got to my feet. He didn't move at all as I walked toward him. I stopped just inches away and mimicked his stance exactly.

I'm not sure how long we stood there staring at each other. I fully expected him to walk away, so you can imagine my shock when he moved forward instead.

His lips were firm and tasted like the spaghetti sauce he'd made for dinner. His fingers dug into my shoulders, and when I lifted my hands to push his away, I could feel the pulse going like sixty in his wrist.

"Mike, don't do this." My body politely requested that I shut the fuck up. I ignored it. "It's not fair."

"Why not? I want you, Eric." I felt the impact of his words all the way down my spine.

"There are some very good reasons. Why not. I'm sure." My hands dropped away from their hold on him and fisted at my side.

He seemed to take it as permission; he kissed me again. "Give me...three," he murmured against my lips.

"Well, for one thing, our bosses wouldn't like it."

"Fuck the CIA."

"Right. Um...this one's better. You're straight."

His hands dropped to my belt buckle. "Check again."

I was getting really desperate. Really, painfully desperate. "Sydney."

His eyes went flat. His lips went white. He backed away. "This is not about Sydney."

"Everything is about Sydney."

"Shut up!"

"You're just marking time until she gets back." I was talking so fast I don't know how either of us understood me. "If you have to get off while you wait, hell, might as well be with good ol' Eric, right? Poor bastard's been in love with you for years, he'll jump at the chance. And then you can tell Syd it didn't count, you never really cheated on her--"

At that distance, I'm lucky he didn't aim for my nose. It would have broken for sure. His fist caught me solidly where my jaw hinges, and I was on my ass on the floor before I could even register the blow.

The only sound for quite some time was the two of us breathing heavily. Not in the good way, sorry. Mike from anger, and me--

look, he hits hard. It was either pant or whimper.

"I'm not sorry," he said finally.

I shrugged. "I'm not wrong."

"You are." He shifted his weight. "Mostly."

"Uh-huh." I checked to make sure my jaw was still attached.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Of course you hurt me, you dipshit. You punched me in the face!"

He crouched down next to me. "I'm sorry."

"You said you weren't."

"I lied."

"Fine."

"I really am sorry."

"Mike. Thanks to you, I'm now really pissed off and really turned on. Go away."

"Eric."

"What?"

"I've waited--I didn't want to say, to do anything, because I knew what you'd think."

"Nothing's changed."

"I have." He ran a hand through his hair. "Months of lying in bed, replaying every moment with Sydney. Plotting insane rescues and imagining a hundred different reunions."

"I understand." Which was why this was killing me.

"Then...I don't know. Right around the time I realized I wasn't going to be able to rescue her--give me a minute. This part is really hard to say. I loved her, Eric."

"I know. Didn't I help the two of you get together?"

"I remember." The ghost of a smile appeared on his face. "You're too good to me, you know."

"Probably."

"I loved her. I loved having her in my life. But I didn't love my life. You know?"

No, not really. "You seemed happy."

"Time stopped when my dad died. One of the things I've realized since I've been away is how everything in my day-to-day life in Los Angeles was tied up with him. Mom. Work. SD-6. Irina. Sydney was--having her there made the rest okay. I would have stayed like that forever, for her, but not without her. So I took the best parts of my life and I ran like hell."

"The best parts?"

Definitely a smile this time. "Donovan. Hockey. You."

How romantic. "I'm touched, really. But you don't have to fuck me to keep me any more than you have to fuck Donovan. We're both already here."

"Number one, never talk about my dog like that again. Number two, all that was just to explain why I'm not fucking anyone in Sydney's place."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He leaned forward, but this time I wasn't going anywhere. "I just want to...well." He smiled very wickedly at me.

I swallowed.

"I dream about it." He was close enough now that his voice vibrated along my skin. "I watch you all the time. When you're eating, when you're reading, at the ball game, walking the damn dogs. Trust me, Eric, I'm at least as turned on as you."

And then he kissed me. Hard. My jaw twinged in protest. I really didn't care. If Saint Sydney herself had walked through the door, I would have shot her cheerfully. This was my mouth under Mike's, my body under his, my hands tangled in his hair. My chance with him. And I'd let enough chances go. No more.

We rolled across the office floor, stopping when somebody's leg (probably mine) banged into the corner of my desk. Mike was still on top of me. He kissed me with a single-minded focus I'd never imagined from him, as if kissing me was all he was allowed to do, and he'd have to arouse me only with his lips. Even his hands were flat on the floor under my shoulders.

I had my eyes closed, and I could hear the suction of our mouths separating when he shifted angles, and the little grunt he made when I slid my hands down to his back and pulled him more tightly against me. He ground his hips down into mine. I suppose I was making some embarrassing noises myself at that point.

He stopped to--I don't know--breathe. "Wow," he said.

"Thank you." I looked up at him. He was flushed, and his hair was sticking out at all angles, and I really wanted to do about seven illegal things to him. I grinned as it occurred to me that now I could. I pushed him off me until he was sitting on the carpet. "Lie back."

Mike looked very confused. He did lean back, though. I moved until I was leaning over him. "You're not the only one who's been watching, you know." I started on the top buttons of his dress shirt, undoing them by feel, never taking my eyes off his. "Dreaming." He licked his lips. "Spending way too much time in the shower."

He actually laughed at that one. "So it's not just me!"

"Hell no. My average shower takes me five minutes."

"Oh really." His hands moved up; after a moment I realized he was unfastening his belt. "I wonder what you were thinking about in there."

"Oh, lots of things."

I finished unbuttoning his shirt and smoothed the sides back. Then I helped him unfasten his pants and tug them and his boxers out of the way. When he worked his cock loose, I looked up at his eyes, checking one last time to make sure that this was real and he really wanted...

He took my hand and laid it on his cock. "Show me, Eric."

I took a deep breath, hoping my shaking wasn't as obvious as it felt, and lowered my mouth to his stomach. The muscles clenched as I ran my tongue over them. I traced the lines of bone and muscle--too much of one and not enough of the other; he still wasn't eating well--and ran my thumb very gently along his cock at the same time. His breathing was very audible in the room. He worked his hands into my hair and urged me lower and lower.

I licked a spot just beneath his hipbone. He tugged on my hair again; I grinned and bit the side of his hip in punishment. He groaned. "Eric! Fuck."

"I'm getting there."

"Get. Faster."

"So impatient." But I let him guide me down. I moved my hand away and licked up, slowly, where it had been. Then I slid my mouth down over his cock. There was a very satisfying thump as Mike's head fell back against the floor.

How do you describe a blow job? It's as impersonal as a scene in a porn movie, and as intimate as, well, sex. I've had it both ways. With Mike, it was all about the details: his skin against my lips, his hands twisting in my hair whenever I swallowed against him, the hair at the base of his cock brushing against my hands when I slid them lower.

He tensed when I slid my hand beneath him. I slid one finger in his ass, and he bucked straight up into my mouth. It only took a few moments of that before he came.

I wiped the corner of my mouth and looked down at him. He was splayed pretty much every which way on the floor, looking completely relaxed and very happy.

"You know," I said, "we do actually have two beds in this house. And a couch."

"Yeah?" He eyed me without moving. "You have any plans once we get to that bed?"

"I took more than one shower."

"Give me a sec." He grinned at me. "I need to get feeling back in my feet."

*

Things changed once we landed on the bed. I suppose Mike associated beds with real sex or something, I don't know, but although he participated as enthusiastically as before, he was nearly silent. It was painful to wonder what he was thinking about, what was behind his eyelids when he turned his face into the pillow.

I did all I could think of to do; anything to keep his attention on me, remind him that this was a whole new experience. At least I could be fairly certain he'd never done most of this with Sydney.

"Come on, Mike," I said, and nudged him over onto his stomach. We were both long since naked, and the smooth line of his back seemed to draw the moonlight entering my room. I ran my hands up and down it, smoothing them over every inch. Then I dropped one hand down beneath him and rubbed it against his cock until he was rocking back against me.

Lube and condoms were right to hand, which was why I had suggested my room instead of his. I had learned my lesson this time, and didn't ask Mike if he was sure. I just slicked my fingers and slid them in carefully. That, finally, elicited a groan. Thankfully.

Pushing inside him was--you know, they really don't make words for that. It was hot, and impossibly real, and Mike. I almost couldn't believe it even as I bit down on his shoulder to steady myself, as he sucked a breath in and said, "Fuck. Eric...God," in a low voice that made me insane, as he spread his knees farther to let me in more, as--

He came right before me, which was good because my brain just stopped working around then. I was vaguely aware that I was babbling.

After we caught our breath, I found myself sitting up for some reason, watching Mike fall asleep on the far side of the bed. To be fair, we had sort of made a mess in the middle. He blinked up at me once, almost shyly, looking about six years old. When I smiled, he smiled back and closed his eyes.

It took me a long time to convince myself that he wouldn't wake up, realize where he was, and run screaming from the room. Still, I slept lightly that night.

I slept lightly a lot of nights.

***

Jack grunted into the phone. "You're sure? You've seen her? All right. I have a plane nearby; we can be there in under five hours. Find me the nearest airstrip, and I'll contact you for a flight plan." His voice softened. "I know you will. But don't let him see you." He hung up and headed for the front of the van. I followed.

I weighed the benefits of knowing our destination and the cost of wading through Bristow sarcasm to get it. "Well, where are they?"

"You'll know when we get there."

"I'll know now. Do not play games with me, Jack."

I sat through his stony silence. Just when I was about to scream, he said, "South Dakota."

"Huh?"

"Sark's people have fortified an old Forest Service cabin at the base of Mt. Rushmore. He's taking Sydney and Vaughn there while he prepares."

I searched my brain for information on Mt. Rushmore. All I could remember was seeing it a couple of times as a kid. My father loved to stand where he could see Lincoln and recite the Gettysburg Address. It embarrassed me terribly at ten. But it had never struck me as a good place for a terrorist hideout. "I don't believe it. Your source has to be wrong."

"Likely why Sark chose it."

"Hmph." Then I sat up straight. "Prepares for what?"

"The exchange. Sark has contacted the CIA and offered to trade Vaughn and Sydney for Allison Doran."

"You mean Allison Doran's body. She's been in a coma for years."

"Sark knows."

"What the hell is he thinking?"

"I have my suspicions."

Which he wasn't going to share with me, of course. My brain was about to explode. None of this made fucking sense.

"What does Sloane think of your rescue attempt?" I asked suddenly.

Dead silence.

"Come on. Tell me I'm wrong. You went to work for Sloane after kicking the crap out of Mike, right? He's the only one who could have helped you fake your death so well."

More silence. I sighed. "Fine. I'll keep guessing. Sloane showed you proof he had Sydney." Hopefully not his traditional severed body part. "He said she was safe, and if you went to work for him she'd stay that way. Am I close? At all? You know I am."

"It couldn't have been faked that well--my death. You knew about it."

I laughed. "Everybody forgets that I was there the day Sydney walked into the CIA. I've known about SD-6 for a long time. Part of my job was to read all your reports. I know your style, Jack, and I know Sloane's."

"Kendall and Devlin--"

"If Devlin didn't know, he chose not to." I thought about it. "Kendall's dumb enough."

Bristow's laugh was immensely creepy.

***

It's not a coincidence that we got married a year to the day after Sydney went missing. It was a bit too symbolic for me, but Mike was insistent, and my pushover nature is probably obvious by now.

"I have to admit, most couples who take part in this ceremony are more...upbeat than the two of you," the Justice of the Peace said as we stood in the hall outside his office, watching our mothers watching us. They looked slightly bewildered by the whole thing. I didn't blame them.

"We're just properly sobered by the momentousness of this occasion," Mike said.

The JP looked at him oddly; it was the first time he'd spoken since we got there. I looked at him oddly because that was a damned odd thing to say.

"Well, let's get started then, shall we?"

"You know," I said under my breath as we walked in, "we don't have to go through with--"

"Stop trying to talk me out of it. I proposed." A dimple flashed in his cheek. "You don't need to play hard-to-get any more."

"Really, we don't have to--"

"Eric. Can we just do this, goddammit?"

"Fine."

*

We came back to Virginia that same night, even though it didn't get us home until nearly midnight. I drove, watching the map light reflect in the windshield as Mike read what looked like a book of poetry. I didn't ask, and he didn't tell. Sometimes, when he turned a page, the ring on his left hand would catch the light. I always looked over when that happened. He almost always smiled.

I came out of the shower at home to find him sprawled across the still-made bed, the book open on his chest. I set it down still open on the nightstand and worked his shoes and tie off. Then I stood there arguing with myself for a few minutes. Finally I picked the book up and read the first lines on the page.

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,

But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing,

In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,

In vowing new hate after new love bearing.

"Mmm. Turn the light off and come to bed," Mike said.

I closed the book and crawled in beside him. "You're going to be really uncomfortable in the morning if you sleep in those clothes."

"Don't care. G'night."

"Good night."

*

He woke me up very unsubtly, by kissing me until my eyes popped open.

"Hmm?" I thought I was dreaming until I brought a hand up and it bumped into his head. "Mike?"

"Hey." He went back to kissing me. He was a damn good kisser, I'd noticed that...well, a long time ago. My brain was stubbornly refusing to kick in, so I just closed my eyes and went with it.

It was surreal, lying in the dark, his nose bumping against mine and his teeth scraping my bottom lip. I moaned, and he pressed even harder against me.

His hand slid down to rub against my cock. He made a satisfied sound. "You're naked," he murmured against my lips, as if he hadn't been lying on top of me for ten minutes.

"You noticed," I managed to say. I grabbed handfuls of whatever was near--his hair and the back of his shirt, I think--and tried to remember to breathe. He was really good with his hands, too, did I mention that? He'd found a rhythm, with the long strokes that he knew drove me crazy. "Please don't stop."

It took an embarrassingly short time for me to come. I opened my eyes and blinked at Mike a couple of times. "Um. Hi."

"Hey," he said again, and kissed me one last time.

"That was...a fun way to wake up," I said. "Is it morning?" I peered up at him. "I'm not going for a run with you."

"No." His voice was soft and amused. "I thought you deserved a slightly more memorable wedding night."

"Civil union."

"Whatever. Of course, you could still go running--"

"I don't think so." I yawned. "Then you'll expect me to do it every time you get married."

I fell asleep in the middle of his laughter. Not very polite, but hey, I'm a guy.

***

The flight was fucking endless. I dressed in the clothes that had somehow been waiting for me. Either the pilot was my size or Bristow had planned a little too well ahead for my taste. We finished preparing all the weapons, and then Bristow napped. Napped! I booted up the computer and read everything I could about Mt. Rushmore. Here's a hint. North by Northwest? Not all that accurate. I fell asleep on the keyboard and dreamed about Mike's dad reciting the Gettysburg Address.

A hand on my shoulder woke me in the middle of the word "consecrate." "Hmph?"

"Pilot says we're landing in twenty." He had refused to tell me where the plane came from or who was flying it.

"Oh, okay." I pulled myself upright and rubbed my cheek. I probably had QWERTY imprinted somewhere.

"Strap in."

"Jack? You never did tell me what you did for Sloane."

He made an unidentifiable noise. "Killed people, mostly."

"Anyone I know?"

"Yes."

...oh. "And who's your source in Sark's faction?"

"Will Tippin."

"The fuck? He works for the CIA."

"Mostly."

My stomach twisted. "Did he have to kill people, too?" I remembered Will, delirious in his hospital bed, begging Francie to come back.

A noticeable hesitation this time. "Not directly." That was the last thing he said to me before we landed.

*

A car was waiting when we touched down. A familiar figure leaned against it, squinting into the sunrise.

"About fuckin' time," he said as we approached. "Hey, Weiss."

"Hi, Will."

"Planes only go so fast." To my immense surprise, Bristow opened the passenger side door, leaving the driver's side for Will. I clambered into the back seat. Ooh, more guns. "Do you have a map to the cabin?"

Will tapped his temple. "Right here."

"Does Sark know you're gone?"

"Not yet. By the time he does, well, one way or another, it won't matter any more, will it?"

*

The plan was simple. In the immortal words of Brendan Fraser: "Rescue the damsel in distress. Kill the bad guy. Save the world." (Yes, but who was the damsel?) Sark had six people, but at least two would stay to guard Mike and Syd, and we had the element of surprise.

Will walked up to the guy guarding the back perimeter. "Marcus, good to see you!"

"Tippin, what the hell are you doing out here?" The man whipped his head around to glare at Will. "Sark sent you to--"

His head turn brought him in line with one quick, silenced bullet from Bristow's gun. He fell with an audible thunk in front of Will, who dragged him back into the shrubbery.

"That was the easy one," Bristow muttered to me.

I nodded and tightened my grip on my rifle. This was not the time to remind anyone, me included, that I hadn't seen active field duty since Irina Derevko shot me in the neck nearly three years earlier. "Bring it on."

Will appeared near the cabin. Blood was smeared across the lower part of his shirt. He waved Marcus's weapon at us and started around the side of the house. We headed out, too.

The next guy came around the corner. There was no time for stealth. Will brought the rifle almost into the man's stomach and fired three short bursts. The bad guy's gun went off as he fell, catching Will on the arm.

"Shit!" was all Will said.

I started for him, but Bristow grabbed me and shoved me back the way I'd been heading. Two more men burst out the back door, and a third opened fire from the window.

There wasn't time to worry about anything but the guy closest to me. I dove for the ground, firing as I went. The world was full of guns barking, bullets whistling, men shouting.

I rolled and came back up, bracing for a bullet. Nothing happened. My guy was down, writhing; Bristow's had just fallen out of the window, and a third was a lump on the ground near Will.

"Holy shit." I kicked my guy's gun far away from him just in case. Then I looked at Will, who was still standing, although he looked like he might not be in a second. "How many was--Sark!"

Too late.

My last three memories were the blood blooming on Will's chest, the feel of a rifle butt being slammed into the back of my neck, and Sark's voice ordering Bristow to "put the bloody gun down, now."

***

Keep in mind, I can only be in one place at a time. What I know about what happened in the cabin I know from piecing together some very odd post-mission reports.

Sark and his little sidekick led Bristow into the cabin. As they passed through the front room, Bristow saw his daughter and Mike unconscious on the floor, which explained why there were two extra guys out there to take us on. In the back was a setup similar to the one in Mexico City, but there most of Rambaldi's pieces had been hidden where Bristow couldn't see them. Although they all fit together, they looked...antique, the report says. Out of place even in this rustic cabin. On each end of the now-assembled device was a hospital bed and an IV stand like the ones from Mexico, as well as a copper band that looked like a restraint, maybe two inches wide.

Bristow was stripped of his jacket and shoes, frisked, and handcuffed to one bed. "You can try to escape," Sark told him, "but I will shoot your daughter if you do." Not one to mince threats, Mr. Sark.

Sark had his man drag me, still unconscious, into the cabin and tie me next to Sydney and Mike. Then he placed a brief call to summon reinforcements. Upon being informed of some delay, he swore in several languages and threw the phone across the room.

He swore some more, paced around, and finally came to a halt in front of Bristow. "We have time for one last test, I think."

Any protest the other man made was overridden. "Get Tippin from outside."

Will was dragged in. According to the reports, he'd been shot in the right side of his chest. A lung had been punctured, and he was bleeding profusely, but he hadn't died just yet.

Sark dragged him onto one of the beds. He slid the IV needle into the back of Will's hand and attached the copper banding onto his other wrist. With another warning to Bristow, he hooked him up in the same way, with the addition of actual restraints on wrists and ankles.

"I could add the oxygen tube, but really, I don't care enough," he said as he attached a heart monitor to the nondamaged side of Will's chest. It beeped, but very erratically. "There wasn't a chance to test this on you the first time, but Sloane has studied it extensively, and I'm sure I calibrated it correctly."

"What's this for?"

"You'll see."

"Does Sloane know you're doing this?"

Sark may have told him, but by this point, whatever he'd connected to Bristow was kicking in. He passed out.

***

When you get knocked unconscious twice in one damn day, things get fuzzy. I came to with the presence of mind to start tugging at the ropes on my wrists, but not the brainpower to actually get loose. Mike and Sydney were nearby, tied and not moving, and three men were wandering around the tiny room getting in the way of each other's huge honking rifles.

There was a humming noise coming from the back room. It sounded like a bunch of really pissed-off bees.

I noticed Sark when the door to the back room closed behind him. "It's started," he said. "You two know how it works?"

The two guys sitting at the table looked up. One of them said, "Yes, sir," in a guttural accent.

"Good. I need to go up top and make my final call to the CIA. Wait until it's finished, kill them both, and dismantle it. Then get everything out of here as quickly as possible."

"Why not kill them now?"

Sark gave him a completely disgusted look. "Because blowing up this entire mountain would irritate me." He turned his attention to the third man. "Wake the rest of them up and keep your eye on them. They're all dangerous." He glanced my way. "Except maybe the fat one."

Bastard.

The other two were roused with some kind of injection. The second Mike was on his feet, Sark had a gun to the back of his neck. The look he gave me made it very clear that he knew all the angles of my personal triangle, and that he was prepared to take advantage of every one. "Do as I say, and Mr. Vaughn survives to break more hearts in the future."

Both Sydney and I nodded.

"I'm sorry, Eric--" Mike began miserably, but Sark poked him with the gun. He waited until Sark looked away, then mouthed backup?

I shook my head.

Sydney looked over and I managed to smile at her. What a kid. Even with her braid messed to hell and gone and bags under her eyes, she was still gorgeous. Then she looked down at my hand--

probably hoping against hope for a weapon--and her eyes lit up. "Weiss! You got married, too!"

"He didn't tell you?" Sark laughed. "Poor Sydney. Vaughn's been very busy while you were gone..."

Mike closed his eyes as the cruel, amused voice continued, but it seemed only fair that I watch the understanding and the betrayal dawn in her face.

***

When Bristow woke up, Will was completely still. Bristow craned his neck and saw that the monitor was still on, sending out that flat tone we all know from doctor shows on TV. Will's face was waxy, and his lips completely pale.

By his reckoning, it was at least ten minutes later when the heart monitor kicked in again, without any warning, signaling a completely normal heart rhythm, and five minutes after that when Will opened his eyes and asked what the hell was going on.

***

"Um..." I looked up at the granite slabs marking the entrance to Mt. Rushmore. "You're calling the CIA from the Shrine of Democracy."

Sark smirked. "I thought it appropriate."

"You've got some issues, don't you?" That was me again. Sydney was still a bit glassy-eyed (drugs or shock, you pick), and Mike hadn't said a word yet. Perhaps he was aware that he was in the company of several people who, at least at the moment, wanted him dead. (How could he not tell her?)

"Shut up," Sark said. He draped a friendly-looking arm around Mike's shoulders. The other hand was definitely on the gun in his pocket. "Do I need to warn you two again what happens if you try to get away?"

"Not really," Sydney said shortly.

"Look like tourists," Sark said.

Uh-huh.

We made quite the little parade down the sidewalk. Sark and Mike, both looking like someone was daring them to stand so close. Then, exactly opposite, Sydney and myself doing everything short of climbing the walls to make sure we didn't touch. Then Sark's sidekick (who I'd mentally dubbed Gonzo) skulked behind us. The few times I looked back, he seemed much less successful than Sark at concealing his gun.

I looked around a bit as we went through the Avenue of Flags. "They've done some work since I was here last. Oh, look, California!"

Sark shot me a death glare.

"Just being a tourist, man," I said.

Sydney poked me with her elbow when I turned around. I poked back.

"Hey!" Gonzo said. He kicked me in the back of the knee.

"Ow!"

"Children," Mike said, still facing forward. "If I have to stop this car..."

The three of us burst into laughter. The look on Sark's face was...well, priceless doesn't even begin to do it justice.

He guided us around and down behind the official buildings, talking us smoothly past a couple of park rangers with a flat Midwestern accent (overdone, if you ask me) and some dumbass story about a Senator's permission and a foreign delegation. Mike spoke French on cue, Syd and I smiled, and obviously the National Park Service employs no telepaths, because the "danger, Will Robinson!" vibes coming off the three of us should have knocked everyone flat.

Finally we came to the foot of a stairway. A really tall stairway. A really tall stairway reaching towards...

"You want us to go to the top of Mt. Rushmore?" Sydney asked. "Are you insane?"

Gonzo reached out and cuffed her on the back of the head.

She whirled around. I braced myself.

"You, don't do that again." She turned back to Sark. "And you. What are you thinking? That's not a defensible position. The CIA can put a helicopter up there and just wait you out."

He smirked. Again. I really, really hated that expression. "They'll leave me alone."

"No, they won't."

"You'd be surprised what a few dollars and a knowledge of geology can do for you. They won't stop me unless they want Mt. Rushmore to be a molehill." He shoved Mike towards the stairs. "Climb."

There are 507 steps to the top of the mountain. No, I didn't count them; I looked it up later. At the time, I was too busy inventing and discarding stupid plans, keeping an eye on Sydney (if she fell, I'd be a Weiss-shaped domino headed down the mountain), and wishing I'd taken Mike up on his morning runs. Oh, and mocking Sark.

It was kind of fun. It took our mind off our possible impending doom, for one thing. And for another, working together like good spies should, considering our particular fucked-up relationship, was unnerving Sark like you would believe. And the more tense he got, the more fun we had.

*

Somewhere around step 150: "You know," Mike said, "this would never have happened to Cary Grant."

"Cary Grant had Alfred Hitchcock telling him what to do," I said reasonably. "Also, there's no house up there. I checked. And besides that, which of us would be Cary?"

We thought for a minute. Then we both said, "Sydney."

*

Long after Step 200: "I've been spending all my time catching up on the events of the spy world. What's happened everywhere else since I've been gone?"

"Oh, wow." I tried to think. "Same President. New Pope. Jewel went glam. Britney went country."

"Nuh-uh."

"Well, she tried. That's about all I can remember."

"You forgot the most important one!" Mike yelled.

"I did?"

"The Kings won the Cup!"

"Oh, God, how could I forget?"

*

Step 300-ish: "So how long have you guys been married, Weiss?"

"Not quite a year. But you know I was just keeping him warm for you, babe."

Mike stumbled. "Careful, Vaughn," Syd said. She actually giggled. "You need to be in one piece so Weiss and I can duel for your hand later."

"Only if I get to choose the weapons," I said.

"Pistols at dawn?"

"Ha."

"Shut up, Mike. I was thinking arm wrestling at high noon."

*

Step four-hundred-and-God-help-me: "I'll never look at a Stairmaster the same way again," Sydney moaned. "I'm either going to have killer thighs or my thighs will kill me."

"No comment," I said. Or gasped. Or wheezed. Something.

"Why not?"

Mike called back, "He's afraid you'll prove the killer thighs by killing him with them."

"Don't you people ever shut up?" Gonzo sounded a bit winded, too, which cheered me to no end.

"Only when we're dead," Sydney told him.

Mike said, "And even that's not a guarantee."

***

The mistake the goons in the cabin made was waiting too long for the machine to shut off.

Oh, and sending only one of them in to shoot Will and Bristow.

Now that I think of it, being there in the first place was the defining mistake.